A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis

by Jillian Stone

  The fat man turned shellfish red and the dwarf stopped swinging that huge ring of keys long enough to slam the door.

  She looked down at her charge and winked. “Soon, Harry.” She kissed the mop of hair on his head and waited. She wasn’t a very good judge of time passing—not in this small dungeon. It seemed like eons before there were footsteps in the corridor and another jangle of keys.

  The door burst open and Mallory stepped into the room. He set his stance wide and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’ve taken me away from important business.”

  “Like killing people?” Fanny bit her lip. The moment the words left her smart mouth she regretted them. But she met his gaze and did not falter.

  Mallory angled his chin and narrowed his eyes. “In the interests of preserving our agreement . . .” He sauntered farther inside the small chamber. “How may I be of service?”

  Fanny swallowed. “You must deliver the boy to Scotland Yard.”

  Mallory stopped and stared. “I do not run errands.”

  “And I do not trust your men to see the boy safely to his father. They would just as soon toss him over Westminster Bridge and call the errand done.” Fanny sucked in a breath of air. “I trust you, and only you, to see the boy returned.”

  Mallory, of all people, blinked. “Why?”

  His dark, angry eyes continued to stare, forcing her to look away, collect her thoughts. “You suffered terribly—needlessly—as a youth. Even though your rage is misdirected and your remedies cruel beyond measure, there is something in your cause that deserves respect. I pray God I will find some sort of honor amongst thieves—or anti-progressives, as it were.”

  Fanny steeled herself. Her gaze met and held his with as much composure as she could muster. “I trust you will not harm the boy, but see him safely returned to his father.”

  Mallory stepped closer and lifted the child from her. Harry whimpered quietly.

  Fanny stroked his cheek. “Be a good boy.”

  Mallory examined the child in his arms. “Can you ride a horse—if I put you in the saddle in front of me?”

  The wide-eyed boy looked to her. She nodded. “It will be all right, Harry.”

  RAFE STOOD BY the desk as Finn examined the sapphire under a jeweler’s magnifying glass. “A wheel within a wheel—any reasonably talented artisan could craft the stickpin.” He turned it over. “Ah, we have a motto. Actus Reus neatly engraved along the edge of the larger wheel.”

  “Wrongful act,” both Zeno and Rafe translated the Latin simultaneously.

  “I see we all stayed the classical course and made it to university,” Finn teased gently. “The terms actus reus and mens rea are covenants of English law, derived principally from the axiom actus non facit reum nisi mens sit rea.”

  Rafe nodded. “An act does not make a person guilty unless his mind is also guilty,” he translated.

  “The general test of guilt as recognized by the courts is one that requires proof of culpability both in deed and thought.” Zeno sat back and removed a cigar case from his inside pocket. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Please do.” Finn left his chair at the desk and perused a wall of reference books. Rafe and Zeno had gone over every detail of the case—twice. Rafe’s patience this last hour had dwindled to somewhere between little and none.

  Zeno offered a smoke to Rafe.

  Rafe shook his head. “Quit tobacco. Fanny hates it.”

  Zeno’s thumbnail flicked over the match head. “Over the course of these last days together, did you manage to reconcile with the lovely young heiress?”

  “I believe so. Partially.”

  Zeno puffed on his cheroot. “Partially?”

  Finn’s mouth twitched. “If constant bickering is a sign of affection, I’d say they are fully restored.” He plucked down a leather-bound volume. “Here we are.” He thumbed through pages and stopped. “Royal Horse Artillery. Lieutenant Colonel Bellecorte Valour Mallory, 17 Regiment Royal Artillery—there’s your BVM initials, Rafe.

  “The man was cashiered out after an explosion in his unit caused a volley of accidental returned fire—killed several men. Blew half his own skull off . . .” Finn shook his head. “Odd, wouldn’t you say? A man so gravely injured is dismissed in disgrace?”

  Rafe shrugged. “Fratricide and negligence are serious charges.”

  Finn raised a brow. “Well, it appears you’ve identified the right man.” He snapped the book closed. “And very likely the leader of this . . . Utopian Society.”

  Their consultant sat down and flipped the pin right side up. “The gold work is simple, unexceptional, but the sapphire may be rare, indeed.” He invited them both to view the stone under magnification.

  Rafe and Zeno each took a turn hunched over the man’s desk. Finn leaned back in his chair. “I am acquainted with a jeweler in Hatton Garden—Eastern European chap, goes by the name Nandor Fabian. A skilled cutter who specializes in sizing down stones from much larger, rarer gems.” Finn paused, an amused look on his face. “Shall we pay him a visit?”

  Rafe straightened. “By all means—that is—” Rafe looked him up and down. “If you feel up to it?”

  Finn grimaced or flinched, perhaps both. “You won’t have to ask—you will know very well when I am not ‘up to it.’”

  Zeno snuffed out his cigar. “I’d like to get back to the office. Mind if we pick this jeweler up and take him in for questioning? A trip to Scotland Yard will loosen the man’s tongue quick enough.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Rafe folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the bleak walls of the interrogation room. He listened rather intently as Finn sifted through Nandor Fabian’s story.

  “The stone is one of seven matching sapphires. All in the four-carat range.”

  Finn languished in slat back chair, legs crossed. “And what of the original?”

  The jeweler’s gaze darted about. “The original?”

  Finn lowered his chair so he might loom over the interrogation table. “The mother of all mother sapphires.”

  “Ah yes, of course.” Fabian wiped perspiration off his upper lip. “The original stone was a gift from a maharaja to an actress who shall go unnamed. Less than a year ago, she sold it to me for a very good price.”

  Finn stared interminably. “Would you say . . . too good a price?”

  The jeweler shrugged. “I had no choice but to cut down the stone.”

  Rafe grinned. Phineas Gunn had a way of using his deep voice and unhurried manner to prod the man in mysterious ways. Rafe not only admired it, he studied it. If he’d been the one doing the questioning, the jeweler’s jewels would be roasting over a meat pit right about now.

  “And once the pins were completed, who returned for them?” Finn asked.

  Fabian sat in a cold sweat. “Why, the very same gentleman who placed the order.”

  “Bear with me once more. Might you describe this man as—?” A strong rap at the door halted Finn midsentence.

  “Yes, what is it?” Rafe answered, impatiently.

  A guard pressed the door open. Melville stood in the entry, holding the hand of a much smaller figure standing beside him.

  Rafe blinked, hardly able to trust his own eyes. “Harry?”

  His heart did a somersault inside his chest. He launched himself off the wall. Melville released the boy, who ran toward him.

  “Father!”

  Rafe caught his son in his arms and held on tight. He kissed the soft hairs of his head. His eyes blurred—hardly able to control his emotion. Vaguely, he was aware Finn and the jeweler had stepped out of the room, into the corridor.

  “Thank God you’re safe.” The part of his life he had tucked away in his heart and hidden from the world for years hugged him with all his little might. The overwrought father in Rafe released all the fear and uncertainty—the abject terror of the last day and night. He could not stop the tears that flowed.

  A bit light in the head, he sank to his knees and settled aga
inst the wall. Harry’s little arms around his neck never felt as precious as they did in this moment, nor his child’s soft whimpers of relief. As soon as he could see clearly, Rafe swept his hands through the boy’s bangs and examined his arms for bruising. “You’re all right? They did not touch or hurt you in any way?”

  Harry shook his head in that energetic way of his, dislodging a few tears. “She—Fanny—told them no.”

  Rafe swallowed. “And how is Fanny?”

  Zeno opened and closed the door softly. “Do you mind? I’ve a bit of news.”

  Rafe waved him inside.

  Zeno lowered onto his haunches and smiled at Rafe’s son. “Hello, Harry.” He held out his hand. Somewhat hesitant, Harry removed an arm from around Rafe’s neck and shook hands. “Quite a brave lad.”

  Rafe hugged his son. “Brave, indeed.”

  Zeno removed a pocket square from his waistcoat and offered it to Rafe. “Finn thought you should know that one of ours chased after the man who dropped Harry off—a gentleman riding a fine hunter. A dead ringer for the customer described by the jeweler.”

  “I take it we didn’t catch him.” Rafe dabbed his son’s cheeks and eyes. Harry’s stomach growled. “You’re hungry.”

  Harry nodded. “And I need to use the water closet.”

  Zeno stood and offered Rafe a hand up. “What about a bit of fish and chip?”

  Harry nodded. “Yes, please.”

  “Right, then.” Zeno patted Rafe on the back. “Melville wants a briefing—nothing too taxing. Collect yourself, see to the boy’s needs. We’ll meet in his office.”

  The walk upstairs from the lockup and interrogation rooms took them past a number of department offices. Several of Rafe’s colleagues popped out to say hello to Harry.

  “My word, you are quite the celebrity,” Rafe said to his son.

  Harry looked up. “What’s a celebrity?”

  Rafe managed a tense smile as he guided his son into the director’s office. “In your case, Harry, a celebrity is a kind of popular hero.” Melville stood near the library table with Finn, who swung around and held out his hand. “Hello, Harry. Phineas Gunn.”

  The boy reached up to for a shake. “Do you like guns?”

  Finn nodded. “Nothing grandiose, more of a selective arsenal.”

  Zeno arrived at the door with a stack of file folders. Rafe sometimes wondered if Special Branch would have any records but for Kennedy’s hurried scratches.

  “Have a seat, gentlemen.” Melville gestured to a smattering of chairs around the table. “As you all know, a rather splendid exhibition of machines is set to open in the Royal Polytechnic Institution tomorrow morning.”

  Melville paced behind Rafe’s son. “As I speak, one of our lab teams is combing the Hall of Manufactures, top to bottom. We’re looking for all the usual types of hidden explosives. We also have most of the competing inventors and engineers assembled. Each man shall inspect his entry—check for evidence of tampering.” Melville pulled out his pocket watch. “Mr. Bruce is late. I expected him here to fill you in on the specifics.”

  Zeno looked up from his file scribbling. “I caught a glimpse of Archie downstairs. He should be here any moment.”

  Melville’s gaze shifted from man to man. “Even though the hall will be guarded this evening, I have added additional police patrols.”

  At the end of the table, Harry forked a large chip into his mouth. The potato wedge fell back onto his plate. Rafe stood up to help, but the director had already taken up a knife. “Tomorrow we’ll have over a dozen plainclothes officers milling about in the crowd. I plan to personally brief these men before the doors open.” Rafe could not quite believe his eyes when Melville sliced a fillet of fish and several chips into smaller pieces. “What am I going to tell them?” Melville groused as he returned Harry’s fork. “Might I give them a description of our culprits? I’m told we’ve got one—finally.”

  Rafe shrugged. “The followers, or Mallory’s Minions, as we’ve come to call them—”

  “Better than natty blokes.” Finn shrugged off Rafe’s glare.

  “They’re dark-suited, and wear plain waistcoats. I’m afraid they’ll blend in to a crowd of spectators.” Rafe leaned forward. “And they do appear rather dapper, actually.”

  “What about the latest man?” Melville asked. “The one who delivered the boy.”

  Zeno read aloud from a file. “Tall, well built, stylishly dressed in riding attire. Midthirties, dark hair—neatly trimmed beard.”

  Melville grunted. “Doesn’t sound much like one of your Utopian Society militiamen, Rafe. Conducts himself more like a peer of the realm than one of the proletariat.”

  Finn leaned back in his chair. “Pure speculation, but it may have been Mallory himself.”

  Harry jerked upright. “Mr. Mallory let me ride his horse with him.”

  Rafe’s gaze moved from his son to Finn. “Are you saying that man walked my son into Scotland Yard?”

  Finn exchanged a grim look across the table. “Right in the front door.”

  Rafe analyzed the audacity inherent in the act itself—a thumbing of the nose. “Bollocks.”

  Harry finished his milk and set the glass down. “Bollocks.”

  Rafe’s glare moved to Harry. “You’re not allowed to say bollocks.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I say so.”

  Rafe leaned closer to his son. “You and Fanny were held somewhere—together?”

  Harry’s eyes grew big and he nodded. “A very scary place.” He forked a piece of fish into his mouth and chewed slowly. “Fanny made a dress into a blanket to keep me warm. And she brought back food.”

  Finn angled his chair. “She went away for a while?”

  The child nodded. “When she came back, she made roast beef on a bun.”

  Rafe didn’t like the way Finn avoided eye contact. Of course they were all thinking the same thing. Where had they taken Fanny and what had they done to her? Once again Rafe’s heart thumped wildly inside his chest. “Did she—did she tell you something, a message possibly—for me?”

  Beaming, Harry quickly swallowed a piece of chip. “She can hear the sailors’ songs from a Yankee ship. And there is a cooperage—lots of hammering and empty casks rolling. . . . along the cobbles.” His rote recitation rang true.

  “I imagine she made you practice?” Finn prodded gently.

  He nodded and ate another piece of fish.

  “Good lad.” Finn turned to Rafe. “Obviously somewhere under the docks—St. Katharine possibly?”

  Melville opened a large cabinet. “We’ve got several good charts of the Docklands.” Searching through cubbyholes and flat drawers, he pulled out two maps and spread them out on the tabletop. Rafe traced the aboveground route from the warehouse on Henry Street to the nearest mooring. “Has to be St. Katharine Docks. But where, exactly?”

  Finn rubbed beard stubble and shook his head. “Won’t be as simple as finding an American merchant ship and a cooperman.”

  Rafe nodded. “The dock is teeming with both.” He recalled the old man outside the warehouse last night. “When Flynn and I were under the warehouse, just before the explosion, we found a passage that took us below the level of wine cellars—much older. Once we got ourselves back aboveground, I nearly stepped on an old sea dog lying in the street. I asked if he knew anything about the lower levels. The old sot rambled on about ancient underwater passages and river pirate caves.”

  “I heard water.” Harry licked a finger. “Like the river at Henley.”

  Rafe inspected a near empty plate and glass of milk. “An order of fish and chip and Harry is restored.” Rafe marveled at the resilience of children. Honest and always in the moment. No guile, and very few judgments. “I take it you enjoyed supper?”

  Harry exhaled. “Better than Mrs. Coates’.”

  “I would not mention that to her, if I were you.” Rafe gave him a wink and leaned back in his chair. “All right, even if we could locate
the Yankee ship and the cooperage, who’s to say we’d find a passageway down into the caverns?”

  “Blimey, I have just been inside the most amazing vessel.” Archie Bruce, Scotland Yard’s crime lab director, poked his head in the door. “Sorry I’m late. Got delayed dockside with Harbor Patrol. A Mr. Roger Spottesworth just towed in a twenty-four-foot submarine. Left your name, Rafe, and a Henley-on-Thames address.”

  “When Professor Minnow went missing, I asked Spottesworth if he might tow her into town.” Rafe bolted upright. “If there are indeed underwater passages leading inland from the docks—we could use the submarine to get to the caverns.”

  “Bloody hell you will!” Even with the office door closed, Melville’s bellow carried down every passageway on the third floor. “I’ll not send the best men I’ve got off half-cocked—into an as yet unknown underwater passage—in an experimental vessel.” An angry finger pointed to each man in turn, while a red flush climbed the director’s neck.

  After that blast, Rafe sucked in a bit of air. “It is imperative we try for a rescue tonight. Tomorrow may be too late. We have no idea what kind of machine or contraption these blokes are planning to use for their ghoulish executions. And they have three more coming, by my calculations,” he addressed his superior.

  Finn tried another tack. “As we are well aware, the signature Utopian Society murder theme is ‘the master’s demise by his own machine.’ The bittersweet irony of Dr. Frankenstein done in by his own creation.”

  Melville snorted. “You make it sound like Shakespeare.”

  The Yard’s cocky consultant grinned. “More of a nineteenth-century aesthetic—Mary Shelley with a bite of the Bard’s own wit.”

  Rafe rolled his eyes. “Let’s assume, for a moment, that the sapphire stickpins are medals—job well done, lads, that sort of thing.

  “Fabian confirmed the pins,” Finn added.

  “Mallory’s men have thus far been awarded four out of seven. There have also been two failed attempts—Fanny and Minnow.” Rafe grimaced at the thought.