Their two captors were different from regular infantry. Both men appeared to be higher-ranked persons of authority. She didn’t quite know how or why she surmised this, but it seemed to Fanny there had been more ordering about than carrying out of commands. She wondered, frankly, if there were mostly chiefs left and only a few remaining Indians. It rather pleased her to think that she and Rafe had actually managed to deplete their resources. It might even be comical if these blokes weren’t so horrid.
Determined to make their lives as difficult as possible, she did the one thing she knew worked every time. “I’m going to vomit.”
She began to choke and her captor’s fingers loosened around her neck until—“Stop the carriage and let me out.” Fanny coughed. “I’m afraid I’m prone to the traveling sickness.” She produced a gagging sound and a convincing spasm of dry heaves.
The grim bearded man checked the roads before stopping the carriage. Shoving her out the door, he followed after, pistol drawn. “Toss it up now, or get back in the carriage.”
Fanny traipsed out into the field and uttered the most god-awful retching noises she could muster. If Rafe were conscious he’d stop at nothing to come after them. Dear God, let it be so.
Her captor approached from behind. “Back inside now.” She whirled around and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Suddenly, she actually did feel a bit queasy. She lurched forward, spewing her breakfast of tea and toast on the ground—some of it on the natty bloke’s boots.
Excellent, another delay while he cursed and wiped off his toes. Fanny gripped her knees—and scanned the road that ran alongside the grain fields. Nothing more than a few slow-moving carts and a single rider on horseback.
Long, thin fingers gripped her arm and turned her back. “Inside, miss.” Stepping into the carriage, she stole another glance at the lone rider. The man on horseback wasn’t flying after them, but she could swear it was Rafe. Something in the way the rider sat his horse, like a prince among men.
She took her seat quietly even as her pulse raced. So what was keeping him? Fanny tasted bile and wet her lips. She took heart in the fact that he was with them in spirit—biding his time, perhaps. Outnumbered and out-gunned, he waited for the right opportunity for a rescue. She looked at brave little Harry and winked.
Wretched men. No matter what happened, she and Rafe would see every last one of them swing from the gallows at Newgate. Fanny turned to the bearded menace beside her. “If you do not let me care for this child, I will scream and struggle and bite without end.” She stuck out her chin. “Let the boy sit with me and I promise to be quiet and cooperative all the way to London.” She even forced a pleasant look. “Your choice.”
The grim bloke studied her. The frown appeared to be permanent. “What makes you think we’re on our way to London?”
Fanny shrugged. “Aren’t we?”
He nodded to the man across the aisle. Fanny reached out for Harry, who jumped into her arms. She sat him on her lap and smoothed back his hair. “Much better, yes?”
The child snuggled against her but continued to stare wide-eyed. “Don’t let the awful man frighten you.” Fanny glared at the ogler. “He is going to hang by his neck until his tongue protrudes, his eyes pop, and he defecates on himself.”
The man’s gaze finally shifted off her.
She could have sworn Professor Minnow winked.
RAFE HUNG BACK far enough to keep an eye on the carriage. It had taken every ounce of willpower to keep from riding up on Fanny and one of Mallory’s henchmen. She appeared to be taking some sort of necessity break, bless her. Just like her to try to slow the blokes down, make it as difficult as possible for them. A ragged smile tugged at one side of his mouth. Headstrong, defiant, unruly—all traits Fanny had in abundance.
These last days with her had been some of the most harrowing, frustrating, and punishing days in his life. They had also been a wonder. Such wicked punishment doth God mete out when he knows he’s got you good. He could never live without her now. And tucking Harry away like he had, hiding from his family’s scorn. The rationale for his retreat from life had worked up until a few days ago. Now it seemed absurd—perhaps even cruel and cowardly.
Rafe straightened his shoulders. When this was all over and he had Fanny and Harry safely tucked in his arms, he would never let them go. He pictured both of them together in the carriage. More than likely the professor was with them. He took some comfort in knowing the three captives at least had each other. But he did not dare to dwell long on the subject. His heart jumped inside his chest. Those men held on to Harry for only one possible reason.
To keep Detective Lewis at bay.
They were nearly upon Windsor, little more than an hour to London now. He would wait to make his move until they reached town and a bloody snarl of traffic. He toyed with the idea of following them as far as their lair—directly into the hands of Bellecorte Mallory himself.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Rafe closed the distance as the carriage veered off Bishopsgate and merged into the traffic on Ratcliffe Highway. Their entry into London was perfect; the avenue teemed with traffic. As they traveled deeper into the East End, Rafe’s view was obscured by a tall paneled wagon. Without much difficulty, he maneuvered around the hulking vehicle, and caught sight of the carriage as it turned onto Commercial Road. They would soon be dead center in the middle of the Docklands.
Rounding the corner, he lost them momentarily. The carriage must have sped ahead and made a turn. Rafe pressed his borrowed mount for a bit more. The horse, a hearty chap, was tired but willing. Generally, the thicker the traffic, the more erratic—which definitely seemed to be the case this afternoon. Several carts jostled onto the road in front of him. Undaunted, Rafe wove a circuitous route through the snarl of drays and hansoms. He could just make out the battered road sign ahead, and turned onto the row of warehouses.
No carriage to be seen. He didn’t worry greatly, not at first. Cautiously, he guided his mount up and down the dead-end row. He squinted down back alleys and questioned warehouse workers. This was impossible.
“They’ve disappeared,” he muttered to himself. Even though his pulse raced, he kept his head.
The carriage had been out of his sight for fifteen, perhaps twenty seconds. Rafe recalculated those seconds over and over. How much time would it take for a carriage drawn by two horses to vanish? The doors of these great warehouses were tall and wide enough. Christ, one could easily drive a vehicle inside and lock up quickly. How much time? He sighed. Apparently, just enough.
An imposing tobacco warehouse took up one side of the street—a good five hundred feet long divided by strong partitions, each with double iron doors. A smaller storehouse, however, seemed the likelier candidate. Rafe checked every door. Locked and likely bolted from inside. The whole of the district was under the care and control of the officers of the customs. Rafe looked around. Nary a customs man be to found this afternoon.
Rafe considered his options. He was three miles from Whitehall and could use reinforcements. If he stayed, he might try shimmying up a drainpipe. He could climb into the storehouse through a skylight, or crack open a back door. But that sort of illegal entry was best left until dark.
Flynn and Zeno Kennedy had been working the case from London. Zeno had not shared much in his coded wires, but it was likely they had information and resources that could help him get to Fanny and Harry faster than lurking around Henry Street on his own. And there was the Yard dog. Rafe could not shake the idea that Alfred’s olfactory talent might be useful here. Most of these great warehouses had extensive underground vaults storing thousands of pipes of wine and spirit. Who knew what the talented bloodhound might sniff out?
“WHERE ARE YOU taking us?” Fanny lifted Harry and stepped around the fetid waters of—whatever it was they traveled through. Neither bloke answered. Some time ago, they had passed through acres of wine cellar. But the acrid stink of old port and sherry had been replaced by something far worse. A sewer, or at lea
st it smelled like one. And it looked like what she would imagine a sewer to look like: crude and cavelike.
Fanny hitched the boy up on her hip and he pinched his nose to block out the stench. She dipped her head. “Could you hold my nose as well?”
Harry reached out and placed a thumb and finger to each side of her nose. “Ah, what a relief—so much better,” she said. He snickered softly at the nasal sound of her voice.
Minutes passed like hours as the group trudged through pools of fungus and nameless sludge. They halted at last before an iron door. The grim bloke rapped on the metal plate with the butt of his gun. The small hairs on Fanny’s arms and neck rose as they entered yet another dark, unwholesome cavity. A single sputtering lantern hung from a chain in the center of the room and shadows loomed in every corner.
The heavy door slammed shut behind them with a clunk.
Fanny hugged Harry close and waited for her eyes to adjust. She made out a group of men: their two abductors and two more—one very short, the other somewhat portly—all of them standing near a wall of sturdy tea chests. Her nose twitched at the strange scent of moldy tea leaves—oolong, she thought.
The very short man leaned forward for a better look. In the gloom, his only discernible features were a horrid sprig of red hair and ruddy cheeks. Fanny squinted before leaping back in shock. “Mrs. Tuttle!” she exclaimed. The man let loose a sinister chuckle.
“How is this possible?” Her speech rasped from a scratchy throat, no doubt caused by the wretched foul air.
“Come closer, Miss Greyville-Nugent.”
Her heart jumped erratically as she inched forward again. She pictured the odd, disagreeable creature in a frowzy gray apron and dress from the farmhouse. She stared at the small man—a dwarf, she supposed. He leaned across a stack of tea chests and smiled. Nothing very amusing about that sardonic grin. “Spent many years performing in the most degrading sort of theatricals. I find it simple enough to change my gender in the course of an operation—for the cause.”
“How wonderful to be so . . . talented.” Fanny hesitated. “Might you explain something about this cause of yours, Mister—?”
Less amused, the dwarf shook his head. “The cause is our business and none of yours, miss.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Since my own father was a victim of your cruel purge, I believe I have every right to ask the question.”
The portly bloke standing nearby cleared his throat. “Perhaps you could answer a few questions first.” He moved in beside the dwarf, who opened a red leather pocket journal complete with insignia and took out a fountain pen.
The corpulent man’s coat was ill fitting and his waistcoat buttons were ready to pop. Rather disheveled for one of the dapper minions. “The location of your warehouses here in London, for a start,” he said. The man’s fleshy lower lip protruded—a meaty sort of ledge where drool collected in corners like viscous cobwebs. He was abhorrent, all right, but far from forbidding.
Fanny studied them both before speaking. “I suppose you would have to believe your cause was righteous, to go about your killings in such a crude, sensational manner.” She fought off shudders and backed away. She wasn’t entirely foolhardy. She knew enough to be wary of them. “Perhaps you might be more specific about what you are looking for? Greyville-Nugent Enterprises has several manufacturing facilities about the greater London area.”
Fanny raised her chin and stared back at the not-so-very natty blokes. Whatever these two wanted, they wouldn’t be getting much from her, not if she could help it.
A wooden stool whined and creaked as the largish gent settled himself on the smallish seat. “Your company’s entry in the London Industrial Exposition, miss. Just tell us where it is and we will leave you and the boy”—his beady eyes shifted to Harry—“unmolested.”
Her pulse raced but she answered mildly. “Be delighted to, gentlemen.” Fanny hiked the child up her hip and hugged him tighter. “I shall tell Mr. Mallory whatever he wishes to know—in trade.” She paused to take in the gobbler’s belly and the ink-stained sausage fingers of the dwarf’s pen hand.
“Do you act as secretary for the cause? If so, please note my willingness to negotiate.” She tried for a demure smile. “Surely one of you is brave enough to deliver my offer to your master?”
“Negotiate?” A weary sigh, like a rush of wind, escaped the shadows of the cavern. “I’m afraid I do not listen to offers, miss.” The voice was deep, even gravelly, and yet as low as a whisper.
All eyes shifted to a break in the rock wall. Someone moved—or rather descended down a crude set of steps. Fanny strained to see this new apparition. A man of normal size and build, perhaps taller than average. She wondered how long he had been standing there on the stairs spying on her.
The dark figure prowled closer. Flickering lamplight caught the prominent angles of cheekbone and jawline. The light above sputtered to brighter life and haloed the top of his head. Fanny blinked from the startling sight—he was completely bald, and there was a ghastly zigzag scar that ran down the side of his skull.
Her knees knocked as she edged backward.
Dark eyes smoldered like glowing coals. He gazed at her with suspicion and no small amount of curiosity. “Tell me, Miss Greyville-Nugent, what terms did your father make with the steelworkers in Motherwell?”
Unlike her previous inquisitors, this was a man to be reckoned with. In the weak lamplight he appeared almost handsome in a macabre sort of way. And he moved like a panther after prey—fierce and muscular. The word devil popped to mind, an accurate description of those savage eyes that never left her.
Fanny met his fire and ice gaze. “Who am I addressing, sir?”
“Oh, I think you know very well, miss.” The firm-set mouth twitched slightly. “I am Mallory.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Rafe stumbled inside the office, ushered to a chair by Melville himself, director of Special Branch. The headman nodded to Mr. Quincy, his secretary. “Would you collect Mr. Kennedy? I believe he’s in the lab with Mr. Bruce.”
Rafe coughed up a bit of road dust as Melville settled into his old leather chair with its familiar squeak. “We’ve been expecting you for days, Mr. Lewis.”
“Sorry to take so long.” Rafe cleared his throat before continuing. “Ran into a bit of trouble on the road.”
Melville leaned back and pulled absently on a bushy sideburn. “Is that your blood or someone else’s on your jacket sleeve?”
Rafe glanced down. “I was grazed by a bullet earlier this morning.”
Melville grunted. “And where is Miss Greyville-Nugent?”
“Abducted, along with my son.”
“Christ Almighty.” Rafe hunkered down, ready for an onslaught of invectives. “The last I heard,” Melville went on, “you and the heiress were on your way to London by some sort of underwater craft. When did this all happen?” Melville puffed himself up. “And what about the other chap, the inventor of the submersible?”
“Missing, presumed kidnapped.” Rafe rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “You didn’t receive a wire from Henley?”
“Some sort of backlog in the telegraph room.” Melville slumped in his chair and stared. “In your absence, we’ve rounded up the lot of them: magnates of industry, inventors—an uncommon bunch—rather extraordinary, really. Got them sequestered in a safe location. I’ll be glad when this damned industrial exposition is over.” Melville halted suddenly and blinked. “You have a son?”
“Who has a son?” Zeno Kennedy stood in the doorway with Melville’s secretary.
“I do.” Rafe shot up out of his chair. “I tailed the kidnappers to London. Lost them off Commercial Road.” Rafe tried to slow down—he knew he appeared wild-eyed and raving. “They disappeared into a block of warehouses on Henry Street. We must go after them. Is Flynn available, by any chance?”
“I believe so.” Zeno eyed Rafe. “Have you eaten anything all day?”
He shook his head.
Zeno pivoted
toward Mr. Quincy, who had already anticipated his every request. “I’ll have Flynn Rhys called in.” The secretary exited with a bow. “And order a plate and pint from The Rising Sun for Mr. Lewis.”
“Very good, Mr. Quincy.” Melville’s signature scowl eased. “Mr. Lewis, you’ll eat a bite of roast beef and get that arm looked at before you leave this office.” The cracked leather of the director’s chair whined as he settled in. “Sit back down. I’ll have the whole bloody story—and make it a good one.”
Zeno turned to Rafe with brows raised. “Might be wise to debrief, perhaps do a bit of strategizing—formulate a plan?”
“A plan.” Rafe almost smiled. “I daresay Fanny would approve.”
Zeno pulled up a chair, opened a file, and shook down his pen. “Take us through the last few days, Rafe. We need to know what you know.”
Between bites of roast beef and gulps of ale, Rafe went over the high and low points of the past few days, beginning with his investigation and the chase through the streets of Edinburgh. He recounted his and Fanny’s trek from Broxburn to Bathgate, leaving out the bath in the loch. A picture of Fanny tramping through the heather came to mind. Then he detailed their capture and subsequent escape from the mine-shaft outside Coatbridge. How could he ever forget the look on her face as she pedaled the old Rover down the lane—and their crash of bicycles?
Images of Fanny barraged his mind until someone cleared his throat. Rafe snapped back to reality. He realized both Zeno and Melville were waiting. “Sorry,” he said, continuing on with the tale of their chance meeting with Professor Minnow and their brief respite at the safe house in Dundas.
Zeno looked up from his scribbling. “The last wires I received were from Glasgow, one from you and one from Agent Curzon.”
“Good man. Saved my life in the Glasgow train station.” Rafe ended his story in Nettlebed, with the tale of the sunken submarine and his chase after the kidnappers.
Zeno closed one file and opened another. “How old is your boy?”
A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis Page 24