The Dark Enquiry

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  I said nothing more upon the subject, and mercifully, neither did he. We fell to discussing the case again.

  “So, we have the button. We have the American reporter—Mr. Sullivan—to find, the German agent to run to ground, and it would not do us a bit of harm if we could find the veiled lady. Agathe mentioned she was a séance regular. I discounted her at first, but it occurs to me it is possible she might know something useful of the others,” I said. “What news of the finances? Have you finished the enquiries?”

  “Monk finished his enquiries. All as regular as we expected,” Brisbane told me. “The general’s purse is rather slender, but it has always been so and there are no pressing claims that would make his position untenable. Sir Henry is enormously rich, but expectedly so from his investments and less-than-scrupulous business practises. Morgan is possessed of an income from his family, as well as certain discreet payments made to a variety of accounts under assumed names, but all quite in keeping with his role as an agent of the Crown.”

  “You investigated the finances of England’s spymaster.” I stared at him in mingled horror and admiration.

  Brisbane gave me a grin of grim satisfaction. “Even the best spies can turn their coats.”

  I pondered the statement for a moment, then sat bolt upright, my mind awhirl. “Oh, I think I have it! One of the séance guests was Madame’s German connection, and it must have been the American.”

  Brisbane folded his arms over his chest and regarded me thoughtfully. “Why?”

  “Madame conducts her séances with an eye to combining the business of espionage with actual sessions. We have an assortment of players at the table the night of her death, both those involved in the spy game and those there to hear messages from the other side. I am not under suspicion,” I said, ticking off my fingers. “We know that the general, the veiled lady and Sir Henry were all there as legitimate guests seeking communication with the spirits. Sir Morgan was there to keep an eye upon his little web. That leaves Agathe and the American. Either might have killed Madame, and the American killed Agathe, perhaps because they quarrelled about the deed after it was done. Yes, the American fellow is actually a German masquerading as an American, I am certain of it.”

  I settled back onto the seat of the carriage with an air of triumph. As usual, Brisbane did not leave me long to enjoy it.

  “It does not explain where the letters are or why the agent has not yet acted upon them,” Brisbane countered. I flapped a hand.

  “Perhaps he has,” I said slowly. “Perhaps that was the cause of the fire.”

  Brisbane was swift to take my meaning. “If Bellmont’s blackmailer knew about the letters but did not have them in possession, he might have used the meeting at Highgate to lure me from the house in order to search the place, looking for some clue to their whereabouts.”

  My brow furrowed. “But we are back to the same question. Why search the house when I was sure to be home?”

  “But you weren’t,” Brisbane said, passing a hand over his eyes. “We have talked over and around what the blackmailer might have thought and we surmised that he expected you to be at home. But what if his scheme went as planned? What if he anticipated that you would come with me to Highgate? The house would be left with only the staff in residence, meaning the family rooms would be vacant, an excellent prospect if he wanted to search the place.”

  I perked up considerably. “Oh, that does make me feel better! If he knew I was not at home, then the fire could not have been set with an eye to harming me.”

  But Brisbane’s expression was grim. “It ought to chill your very marrow, my dear. If the blackmailer wrote that note intending that you should be out of the house, it means he knows us rather better than I would like.”

  I turned that over and felt slightly sick. “It means we have an adversary who knows us quite well indeed,” I murmured, and for the rest of the ride home, I could not banish the picture of Morgan Fielding’s laughing green eyes from my mind.

  The Nineteenth Chapter

  Come not between the dragon and his wrath.

  —King Lear

  We arrived at home to find yet another maid had given notice and the cook had quit after falling out with one of the footmen.

  I clucked at Aquinas. “How tiresome. Which of the maids this time?”

  “The second chambermaid.”

  I spread my hands. “I do not understand. We pay excellent wages. We are not particularly fussy people to work for. Why the devil do we have so much trouble keeping staff?”

  Aquinas gave a discreet cough. “I believe the attempt to burn down the house might have had something to do with the girl’s resignation, my lady.”

  I was indignant. “The house is almost never on fire. That was decidedly out of character for us. Besides, no one apart from us knows that the matter was deliberate. Everyone believes it to be an accident. The girl has no backbone,” I told him stubbornly. “I want nice, sturdy girls with good character and no imagination or peculiarities of personal habit or religion. Is that so very much to ask? And what happened to Cook?”

  “It appears that she has quarrelled with Swan, my lady.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I have discovered that Swan’s avocation is cooking. He is particularly interested in the new stove and spent too much of his leisure time in the kitchens for Cook’s liking. She has resigned without notice in protest.”

  I huffed out a sigh. “I suppose you ought to use the telephone to ring the agency and find us a new maid and you can send out for meals until we find a replacement for Cook.”

  Aquinas gave a discreet cough. “I can certainly do as you have instructed, my lady, but as it happens, Swan is rather accomplished in the kitchen. He feels terribly responsible for Cook’s departure. When she made her feelings known, he did apologise—quite eloquently, in fact. He has put it to me that he would be very happy to make amends by preparing meals until a replacement may be engaged.”

  I waved a hand. “Do as you think best, Aquinas.”

  He bowed from the neck and withdrew, leaving me to shake my head over the notion of letting our footman do the cooking. I felt rather a failure just then, for it seemed no matter what I tried, my household was destined to be in uproar.

  After attending to a few minor domestic details—including giving Aquinas firm instructions on the care and handling of my new dormouse—Brisbane and I bathed and dressed and he ordered the carriage brought round.

  “Where are we bound, dearest?” I enquired as I pulled on my gloves.

  He handed me into the carriage and took the seat opposite, his expression one of grim satisfaction.

  “To the offices of the Illustrated Daily News.”

  I pulled a face. “I thought you had already spoken with the editor and found him less than helpful.”

  His black eyes were agleam. “Yes, but then he was speaking to Nicholas Brisbane, private enquiry agent. Now he will be speaking to Lady Julia Brisbane, daughter of the owner.”

  I gaped at him. “I do not believe it. After all this time, you have finally begun to see the advantages to having me along on an investigation.”

  He shrugged. “Your father at last did something useful.”

  He said nothing more upon the subject, and I fell to musing that it was difficult to know whether to be annoyed that Brisbane was clearly using my title and my position to retrieve information or to be delighted that I had, in some capacity, proved useful to him.

  The newspaper offices, like those of its betters, were located in Fleet Street, and the din of the crowded street was very nearly deafening. Enormous wagons delivered great reams of blank paper ready for printing, whilst still more wagons carted off the finished product. There were news-boys shouting the latest headlines, and reporters dashing to and fro, coming and going as they broke the news from around the world. It was a maddening place, but the cacophony had a certain rhythm to it, and I could easily see why the men who worked there would find it exhilarat
ing.

  Brisbane showed none of my interest or enthusiasm for the place. He strode through the offices, scattering clerks and reporters in his wake, looking neither left nor right.

  When he reached the office of the editor, he paused as an officious little fellow trotted up and flung himself in front of the door.

  “You cannot go in there!” he said stoutly. “That is Mr. Froggitt’s private office and you have no appointment.”

  Brisbane canted his head and offered the fellow a pleasant smile. “If you do not move out of my way instantly, I will open that window and hang you from it by your fingernails.” He jerked his head in the direction of the closest window, and the fellow stood tall for a moment then fell back, clearing the way. A muted click sounded from behind the office door.

  I poked Brisbane in the ribs. “That was not at all nice.”

  He cocked a brow at me. “I like to think I have many sterling qualities, my dear. ‘Nice’ does not number among them.”

  Without another word, he lifted one booted foot and drove it hard just below the doorknob, shattering the door.

  “Brisbane, really! Was that necessary?” I demanded.

  He pointed to the doorknob, still attached to the jamb. “He locked the door against me. Most inhospitable.”

  “And bloody useless,” I muttered.

  He raised a finger. “Julia, do not swear.” He stepped over the splintered remains of the door and offered me a hand.

  “Mr. Froggitt?” he called. “You might as well come out from under the desk. I can see your shoes.”

  I glanced down to find Brisbane was quite correct. From underneath the desk protruded the tips of two exceptionally scuffed shoes.

  After a moment, there came a heavy sigh and a scraping noise as Mr. Froggitt emerged from under his desk, his clothing askew and his hair sadly disarranged. Or at least I hoped it was disarranged and not his habitual coiffure. He was balding, but three very long hairs had been draped over his greasy pate as if to simulate a full head of shining locks. The front of his waistcoat bore the traces of ink and the remnants of various meals, and I repressed a little shudder. The man did bear an unfortunate resemblance to a toad.

  “How do you do, Mr. Froggitt?” I began. “I am happy to make your acquaintance. I am Lady Julia Brisbane. I believe you know my father, Lord March.”

  He swallowed hard, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “I have met his lordship, yes.”

  “Lovely. That will make this easier. You have some information that my husband requires.”

  Mr. Froggitt set his jaw mulishly, the wattles at his neck shaking from side to side. “I have already told you I do not know anything more about Sullivan.”

  Brisbane smiled, the same bland smile that he had shown the official clerk in the outer office. I hurried to divert the coming storm.

  “Mr. Froggitt, my husband is in no temper to be crossed. Now, if you would only be reasonable and give us the information we want, we could be on our way at once and this entire interlude will be over and I would have no reason to discuss it with my father.”

  Froggitt opened his mouth and closed it with a resounding snap. He threw himself into his desk chair and opened a desk drawer, rummaging through various bits of paper and ledgers. He opened one of the black-bound books and copied out a piece of information, fairly throwing the paper at us.

  “There. That is all I know,” he said flatly. “I have a paper to run. Leave me be.”

  I read the address he had copied out and handed it to Brisbane.

  “Thank you, my dear.” He handed me back over the wrecked door and turned back to Froggitt with a nod.

  “Do send me the bill for damages.”

  Froggitt swore fluently as we left, and while Brisbane took exception to it, I could not. “Really, Brisbane, you frightened the man to death. Did you not see his hands trembling?”

  Brisbane snorted. “Doubtless the effects of his morning dose of Mother’s Ruin. Did you not see the signs of habitual drink upon his nose and smell the stink of it upon him? Your father has a drunkard in his employ.”

  “Will you tell him?”

  “Absolutely not. His investments are his own business,” Brisbane said coolly, and I knew better than to press the point. He was still mightily annoyed with Father’s high-handedness.

  He gave the address to the driver and we settled in for a lengthy drive. We discussed the various aspects of the case, and I thought of the wager we had placed. I could like Mr. Sullivan as the German agent if he had murdered Madame. It would mean one hundred pounds in my purse.

  “Do you really think he is in the pay of Bismarck?” I asked.

  Brisbane shrugged. “It is difficult to say. He is American, and one never really knows where they come from. Ah, here we are.”

  Mr. Sullivan’s lodgings were in a disreputable street in an unsavoury part of town, and I was rather glad that Pigeon was perched on the back of the carriage should we have need of him. I was also quite happy to have finally perfected the self-igniting gunpowder I had laboured over for so long. I carried a small container of it in my reticule with an eye to surprising Brisbane should he have need of a rescue. In fact, I could not wait to use it.

  We drove on, at length arriving at the lodging house where Mr. Sullivan lived. Next door stood a fish-and-chip shop, and the heavy, oily smell of it filled the air. My stomach gave a sharp growl as I followed Brisbane from the carriage and up the steps. He flicked me a glance and rapped smartly upon the door.

  Whilst we waited, he gave me a look of admonition. “You did quite well with Froggitt, but this one is mine.”

  “Agreed.” I was happy simply to be allowed to come along, and I smiled broadly at him as the door bounced back on its hinges.

  The woman on the other side was a testament to artifice. Everything about her that could have been enhanced had been. Her hair had been hennaed a brilliant shade of orange and her brow was almost entirely covered by an elaborate frizette. Her slender bosom had been padded out to improbable dimensions, as had her backside. She was heavily rouged and her false teeth clacked as she talked.

  “Well, hello to you both! I’m going to guess you aren’t looking for a room, the pair of you, unless it’s to get up to something you oughtn’t.” She leaned close and gave us a conspiratorial wink. “I don’t let rooms for such goings-on, but my friend, Bet, up the street will. Just tell her Nell sent you.”

  She made to close the door, but Brisbane put out a hand.

  “Miss Nell, if you don’t mind, a moment of your time.”

  He coupled this with an expression of such forthright sweetness that she gave a little sigh and stepped back. “Of course, sir. Whatever I can do.”

  I smothered a roll of the eyes and followed him in as she showed him upstairs. He had merely murmured Sullivan’s name and slipped a banknote into her greedy hand and she was halfway up the stairs before the money was even tucked into her bosom.

  She paused at the first landing and nodded towards a closed door.

  “This one.”

  Brisbane nodded and retrieved another note, a far larger one. “I am afraid there will be a little damage to the door.”

  She whistled soundlessly at the size of the note. “Not to worry. My boy, Bill, will have it fixed up in a trice for less than half of this.”

  “Then keep the rest with my compliments.”

  She giggled then, and gave him a little push. Suddenly, concern crossed her face. “You won’t hurt him too badly, will you? He’s quite good about paying his rent on time, and he’s a nice enough lad.”

  “I promise to return him as good as new,” Brisbane vowed. “Well, almost.”

  She giggled again and left us. I sighed, knowing what was coming, and stepped back as Brisbane kicked down his second door of the day.

  “Honestly,” I murmured under my breath. “You might have knocked.”

  “I do so enjoy the element of surprise,” he called back to me as he vaulted over the broken door.<
br />
  And surprised Mr. Sullivan certainly was. He was stretched out upon his bed in his underclothes, eating fish and chips from a twist of newspaper. He dropped them as soon as the door broke and scrambled upright, attempting to cover himself with the bedclothes.

  “Oh, do not worry on my account,” I assured him. “I have five brothers, Mr. Sullivan. I am not easily shocked.”

  He did not even pretend not to know me, and I certainly recognised him.

  Brisbane took up the clothes that had been discarded upon the floor and flung them at Sullivan.

  “Get dressed.”

  Sullivan slipped his hand beneath the pillow, but before he could finish what he had begun, Brisbane’s hand darted out and clamped over the fellow’s wrist. A quick twist, and Sullivan cried out, dropping the tiny revolver.

  I went and retrieved it, shaking my head. “Really, Mr. Sullivan. You couldn’t shoot a cat with that. You will want to invest in something more powerful.”

  He glanced in disbelief from me to Brisbane, who stood looming over him like a rather menacing god from antiquity.

  “Let’s try this again. Get dressed. We are going for a drive.”

  This time, Sullivan did as he was bade. I turned my back, but Brisbane did not, and in a very short time we had quit the house and were comfortably arranged in the carriage. At least, Brisbane and I were comfortable, but I suspected Mr. Sullivan was less so. His initial terror seemed to have abated, but his eyes still rolled and his knees were trembling.

  I leaned forward. “Mr. Sullivan, you must calm yourself. We do not make a habit of abduction. You are quite safe with us.”

  I could feel Brisbane smothering a sigh, but I did not care. I firmly believed we would gather more flies with honey, and intended to make this experience as sweetly profitable as possible.

  Brisbane instructed the driver to proceed, and he did so, leaving us to our interrogation. Mr. Sullivan’s eyes flicked to the window to gauge our direction, but Brisbane instantly closed the shades. “For privacy,” he told our captive, baring his teeth in a predatory smile.

  Mr. Sullivan jumped a little, and I decided there was no point in frightening the fellow to death if only because he would be vastly more difficult to question in that state.