A Song Unheard

by Roseanna M. White

  The wind whistled through the silence. Brown stepped backward again. “You had better not be lying to me. Either of you. If you try to slip out of Wales with Mr. Pearce without giving me what I have asked for, Miss Forsythe, one of you will end up dead. Do you understand?”

  She folded her arms too. “I liked you better before, when you spoke of the reward instead of the punishment.”

  “Deliver the goods, and you will have the reward. Do not, and perhaps I’ll see if that Belgian thief scurrying about on De Wilde’s errands would like a shot at this job instead—once you are out of the way.”

  A few choice words sprang to her tongue, but she bit them back. At least until the man had dissolved back into the darkness. Then she muttered a few.

  Barclay tugged her up. “How about somewhere without ears?”

  “The Davieses’. They were dining with friends tonight, so the house ought to be empty still.”

  Theirs was a family that knew the value of holding one’s tongue about important things in public, so they said little on their brisk walk—they’d dismissed the chauffeur as soon as they reached the Belle Vue so that he could ferry the sisters to their engagement. Barclay filled her in on the goings-on of the family, the latest update from Rosie with all the little ones, how Pauly had tried a new recipe for his meat pies and almost started a riot.

  On a normal day, the tales would have made her laugh. But with the feel of that gun to her neck still lingering, she had a hard time doing so. Once the house came into view, she hurried even more, using the key they’d lent her to open the door. The servants would have the evening off, since they were all supposed to be out.

  She led Barclay into the cold parlor and slid the door shut. The lights she could turn on with a twist of the knob, but they’d have to lay a fire if they wanted heat.

  Barclay just shoved his hands into his pockets. “That wasn’t all that was in his bag.”

  Willa had no trouble backing up her thoughts to his answer to Brown’s question. “What else?”

  “A sheet of paper with a few paragraphs on it. Retta copied it.” He pulled a folded sheet from his inside pocket and handed it over.

  It was in French. Of course. “Very helpful, Barclay.”

  “She copied it again and is taking it to V. Or probably already has, today. Maybe it’ll tell him something.”

  Willa sank onto the couch. It creaked and groaned and protested and filled her head with dreadful silence. She rubbed at her temples. “So basically, you accomplished more within five minutes than I have my whole time here.”

  “Now, don’t be stupid, Will. If that was some sort of message he was sending through that newspaper, he wouldn’t have had it when he was here, right? And we certainly wouldn’t have known to look for it without your instruction.” He sat beside her and bumped his shoulder into hers. “Besides, it wasn’t the key. Maybe a message coded with it, but not the key. So how could it do them any good?”

  She blustered out a breath and handed the sheet of paper back. Leaned over to rest her head on his shoulder. “I don’t know what to do about Mr. Brown. Or Fido. Or whatever we want to call him.”

  “We’ll let V handle him. He expects me to go back to London soon anyway—I’ll get word to him.” He reached up to pat the side of her head. “Just stay safe, Willa. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me.”

  “You can’t know that, can you? With Fido and Cor Akkerman and . . .” He shook his head.

  She lifted hers. “He’s planning something—Cor. Wouldn’t say what, but I have a bad feeling.”

  “I’m sure. But you’re right—you’ll be fine, like always. Whatever he has up his sleeve, you’ll handle it. We will.” He tugged on a piece of hair that had slipped out of her chignon as usual. “I’ll go back to London tomorrow. Catch up with the girls and with V. But I can come back to tell you anything we’ve learned. I wouldn’t trust that information over the telephone lines.”

  It was awfully expensive to keep going back and forth—though if those paragraphs they’d copied were at all useful, Mr. V would probably be willing to pay for the tickets, like he had over the summer when he wanted Willa to go to Cornwall to check on Rosie.

  There were benefits to a patron with deep pockets. Of course, there were also drawbacks. Who carried guns.

  “I’ve some film I’ll send with you—I don’t know that there’s anything helpful on it, but there could be. V can get it developed, I assume.”

  “I assume. You can fetch it in a moment.”

  Another beat of silence descended. Another sigh gathered in Willa’s chest. “I’m glad you came, Barclay. Even if you are a pain.”

  He chuckled and pushed himself up. “You know . . . he’s serious. Lukas. About you.”

  Willa shook her head and let her gaze rest on the sleeping fireplace. “He won’t be, if he ever realizes who I am.”

  “People can surprise us, sometimes. Just look at Peter.” Barclay ambled over to the window and looked out at the street. “He appreciates you—Lukas does. Your talent. Your soul. He called you miraculous.”

  “He’s an idiot.”

  “No. He’s not.” He spun on his heel and squared his shoulders. “I’d better get back to his hotel and claim that sofa. Get to know my future brother-in-law. Or cousin-in-law, as he thinks we’ll be.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “Am I? Way I see it, Will, you have a pretty nice score dangling before your nose, and you’re snubbing it.”

  Her skin went prickly all over, pushing her to her feet. “You think I would marry him just because he has money?”

  “Why not?” The gleam in his eyes bespoke a jest. Sort of. “It’s the ultimate job, really. Ongoing. And you’d get everything you want out of the bargain—food, clothing, shelter, music. A man whose poster you’ve had on your wall for the past five years. A family.”

  “No.”

  He met her stubbornness with raised brows and folded arms. “Because you’re afraid he’d hurt you?”

  “Because . . . I’d hurt him.” She wouldn’t be able to help it. The doubts would eat her up from the inside out. And it wasn’t like she had a warm and cuddly personality to begin with, so if it went colder and pricklier . . .

  Barclay’s breath slid out, slow and loud. “You’ve been thinking about it. I don’t know if that makes me happy or terrified. Look.” He lowered his arms. “When this job is done, just . . . stick around him for a while, maybe. Give it a chance. Don’t rush into anything. I don’t think I could survive it if another sister got married without telling me. But give it some thought. Make sure you don’t want it before you throw it out with the rubbish. All right?”

  There was nothing to think about. But he wouldn’t let it go until she agreed. “All right.”

  “Good.”

  She spun away, ready for a break from his gaze. “I’ll get that film for you.” It was a quick trip up to her room and only took her a minute of fumbling to remember how to get the film out of the camera and put it in its protective canister. Not nearly long enough to make the words stop echoing in her head.

  Barclay was waiting in the hall when she came back down, and he took the canister she held out, slipped it into his pocket.

  Then he stepped close, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and turned for the door. “Pauly said to tell you the pub’s too quiet without you, and he’s waxing the stage for when you get home.”

  Weak as it felt, she smiled. “Tell him I miss him. And the girls.”

  “I will. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

  Impossible advice. She didn’t know what to do but ignore it.

  Twenty

  Lukas set down his fork when the entryway door was thrown open with enough force to bang against the wall. He’d been in the middle of telling the Davieses and Willa an anecdote about Margot when she was three—and already too smart for her own good—but the words dried up in his mouth. He couldn
’t see through the walls to know who was gusting inside the Davieses’ house along with the wind, but he could hear panic in the fast, heavy steps.

  A man burst into the dining room, the pale-faced butler a few steps behind but not attempting any excuse for the interruption. He must have recognized, as Lukas did, the orchestra’s program director.

  The roast that had tasted like perfection a minute ago churned in his stomach now. He darted a glance down the table. Willa’s brows were knit—perhaps she hadn’t met Mr. Rees. Gwen and Daisy Davies had both risen to their feet.

  “Mr. Rees. What is it? Please, sit down.” Daisy motioned to a chair.

  Rees didn’t sit. Instead, he set on the table a metal box with a clasp. “It is gone. I brought it home today after our return, as usual. Counted it out, sealed it in my safe with what we have earned for the fund before. But it is gone.”

  The women drew in a collective breath. No one had to ask what it was. Rees had gone with the orchestra to Cardiff for the weekend, just returning that morning. He would have been the one with the concert’s ticket money and donations in hand.

  Gwen pressed her fingers to her lips. “How did you realize?”

  Rees winced. “When I returned from a visit with my sister, I noticed my study door ajar. I went in and . . . the portrait over the safe was off the wall. The safe door open. They took everything, everything I had in there, though none of it matters as this does. I have failed you, Miss Davies. Failed them all.”

  “Now.” Though her hand shook, Daisy placed it on Mr. Rees’s arm. “It is not your fault. You did as much as any of us would have done—you are not the one responsible for the theft.”

  Lukas sealed his lips. Part of him wanted to scream that he would have put the money in a bank—the money from the concerts here, at least, even if he wouldn’t have been able to deposit that which they had just earned.

  But then, banks didn’t guarantee anything either, did they? Especially in times of war. Lukas had plenty of money in a bank, and it might as well have been stolen too.

  “Sit,” Gwen urged, going so far as to pull out a chair for him. She motioned to one of the maids who stood against the wall. “A cup of tea for Mr. Rees, please. Quickly.”

  “Tea.” Rees sank into his chair, swiping his hat off his head but then clutching it rather than handing it over. “Tea will not set this to rights. It was everything, Miss Davies. Everything the orchestra has brought in for the three concerts given, the donations that have come in for the relief fund. Over three thousand pounds, gone.”

  Lukas’s gaze found Willa’s and knit with it. Three thousand pounds would buy a lot of bread. And given that the British government still had not given that American ship permission to leave port with the aid for his country, they would need that bread. Soon.

  “We will recover it.” Her words may have sounded decisive, but Daisy’s voice shook. Hands clasped, she turned to the butler. “Ring the police straightaway, Mr. Morgan, if you will. Or have you already, Mr. Rees?”

  “I did, yes, of course. They were dispatching men to my home—my wife is there to welcome them and show them what we discovered. I let them know I was coming here. No doubt they’ll be soon behind me.”

  “Then we will trust the law. They will find the thief, and they will find the money. Whoever did it could not possibly have spent it already. It is still there.”

  Willa dabbed her mouth with her napkin and set it aside. Lukas didn’t know how to classify the expression she wore. A bit distressed, a bit confused, a bit worried . . . But then the more he looked, the more he thought all those things but an illusion. Underneath was a strange blankness. Or perhaps that calculation he had noticed that first day. She was filing it all away, a step removed.

  She stood. “Lukas and I will get out of your way. Though do let us know, of course, if we can be of any help.”

  “Oh.” Rees jerked up, his gaze flying to their end of the table for the first time. “My apologies! Miss Forsythe, Mr. De Wilde, I scarcely noticed you there.”

  “Quite understandable, sir.” Willa offered a tight smile. “I am so sorry to hear this has happened.”

  “Don’t go too far, Willa.” Daisy smoothed her skirt, though it had no wrinkles. “The police will likely want to speak to all of us who have an association with the orchestra. Perhaps you noticed something at one of the concerts that we did not. Someone suspicious.”

  An excellent point. If anyone in the crowd had noted anything not as it should have been, it would be Willa. Lukas saw nothing beyond the glaring stage lights and the usual backstage clamor before and after.

  She dipped her head. “I will try to remember anything that could be helpful.” Then she caught Lukas’s eye. “The parlor? It will give them some privacy to discuss this.”

  Gwen’s eyes lit. “Perhaps, Willa, your . . . benefactor . . . could be of help. Are you in touch with him regularly?”

  Benefactor? Lukas pushed to his feet. Of course—the scholarship for her schooling could have come from a private benefactor. He must be someone well connected.

  “Not recently. But I can get in touch with him, of course, if the police cannot resolve this for you quickly.”

  “Thank you.” Gwen looked near tears and averted her face to sniff and blink. She rubbed at one hand with the other.

  Lukas rounded the table, barely keeping up with Willa as she dashed out the door. He trailed her into the parlor, where she halted beside the fire. And went still. So still she could have been a Grecian statue.

  He eased up behind her and rested his hands on her arms, bared by the fashionable cut of her evening dress. In the week since Barclay had left, he’d convinced her to take tea with him twice. They’d had her lessons.

  She didn’t jerk away or even jump at his touch now. She was getting used to him. But was obviously upset. Why else would she close off like this? Knowing he pressed his luck, he dipped his head to press a kiss to her cheek. “They will find the culprit. He cannot have gone far.”

  Stiff, not just still. Like a Grecian statue. “He stole cash, Lukas. The easiest thing in the world to take and hide and use without anyone knowing where you got it. He won’t get caught. Not for that. Their only hope is that something else in that safe is more notable—unique. And that he tries to fence it, and they can catch him then.”

  She said it in a way that indicated she knew. “Have you been through this before? Had someone steal from you?”

  “No.” Hard and cold and forbidding, that word. “But I’ve seen it. I know how it works.”

  It wasn’t fear that kept her so stiff. He ran his hands down her arms, over the satin of her elbow-high gloves, until he could clasp her fingers in his. They were tense, but they curled around him and held tight. No, it wasn’t fear. It was . . . something more sizzling. “You are angry.”

  “Well, of course I’m angry.” She turned her head, just enough that he could see her blazing eyes. “This isn’t money they were raising to pad their own pockets—it was all going to feed starving children!”

  “I know.” Children like Margot and Claudette and . . . no, not them, they were better off than so many, even with their homes destroyed. But the communes. The cities. They were swarming with families who lived from one payday to the next. And with all the factories shut down, the rail lines halted, normal industry at a standstill, they would have nothing left with which to purchase food. Even if there was food aplenty to purchase. Given the shortage, prices had probably soared.

  It was his contribution, all of theirs in the orchestra—their way of resisting, supporting their home. And they had all been robbed of it.

  He squeezed her fingers and rested his head against hers. “I will never understand why people do things like this. Hurt others for their own gain.”

  She pulled away, broke her fingers from his. “I can understand when it is the starving child stealing to eat, or a parent to feed them. But taking from them—no.” Her face granite, she spun to face him. “Everyone in Wa
les knows every cent brought in by the orchestra is going to the relief fund. There’s no excuse.”

  The front door’s bell buzzed. The police, no doubt. Willa’s eyes flickered, the fire in them banked, and she shrugged out of her anger like she would a cloak. In its place was the mix of masking emotions from before, all jumbled together.

  But she’d let him see, just for a moment. She’d let him see her real reaction.

  Before the butler could walk by to open the door, Lukas leaned down to kiss her. This woman really was all he could ever want. And maybe, maybe he actually stood a chance of convincing her of it.

  Willa let her bedroom door slam shut, knowing well that no one downstairs would even notice. The house was swarming with investigators and detectives and uniformed bobbies, with orchestra personnel and musicians and even stagehands. If another person came through the front door, the whole house might explode from the crush of bodies.

  She’d had her fill. More than. It had taken everything she had and then some to answer all the questions of the police as if she were just another upstanding citizen and not someone they would be more than happy to slap cuffs onto, in another situation. Never mind she hadn’t been the one to commit this particular theft.

  She was still a thief.

  She turned on the light. And jumped when she spotted the figure lounging on her canopied bed. He had his dirty boots propped up on the Davieses’ pristine yellow counterpane, a satisfied smirk on his face—and her violin, which she’d left out on the mattress when she’d gone down for supper, in his grubby paws.

  “Cor Akkerman! You have some nerve showing up here now.” She marched to the bed and reached for the instrument.

  He held it away from her, far enough that if she tried to reach for it, she’d end up sprawled over him. Not a position she fancied.

  No matter. He’d put it down eventually. And she had bigger things to deal with just now, so she settled for leveling a finger at his chest. “Where did you put it?”

  He didn’t wear innocence well. It sat on his face like a joke. “Put what, pretty Willa?”