by Mark Eller
"Break," Patton said. He propped himself up a little straighter on his supporting elbow, causing Aaron to bite back a quick reprimand. Patton insisted he was in better shape than was the strict actual truth. Convincing the man he wasn't permitted to rise from his cot just to correct the angle of Aaron's wrist had been all Aaron could do.
Harvest Patton, Aaron reflected, was a strangely driven man. He had fought almost to his death when the manor was attacked. He had killed at least one and injured or killed two others, and yet he had called for Aaron from his sickbed to beg Aaron's forgiveness for failing. Aaron didn't understand it. What more could the man have done? Besides, the blame for this debacle lay at Aaron's feet. He had not thought to hire more security for the house when he knew trouble loomed.
Because of his guilt Aaron went through these exercises while his daughter was lost and those who murdered his employees were free. He did his forms to make Patton feel useful and needed.
"I hate to interrupt. " Missy came quietly into the room. She stopped, paused by Patton's cot, leaned over to give him a quick kiss, and rose again. "Haven't decided yet," she said. "It won't be long now."
"Decided what?" Aaron asked.
She reached down to run her fingers through Patton's hair. "Never you mind. It's private between me and Harvest. Aaron, there's something you need to see. A letter came through the post. A ransom demand."
"But we already got one," Aaron protested. "The meet is in two days."
"Well you got another, and I think we need to check this one out. It's in your study."
She led the way, Aaron close at her heels.
"There you are," Rising from behind Aaron's desk, Jeffries held out a folded sheet of paper. "The detectives already looked at it. Half the Saffrage agency raced out of town on top of anything that could move. The other half is working on the ransom drop."
Aaron took the letter from Jeffries. Unfolding it, he gave it a brief look and raised his eyes to the letterhead before giving the letter a more thorough perusal.
Elizabeth's House of Eternal Rest
Turner we has yer dawter and we want 8ty thosand solvereins or as muc as yu hev for her saf return. Giv us th monee by fryday or we wil kil her.
He refolded the letter and handed it back to Jeffries.
"What do you think?" Jeffries asked.
"I think we have a copycat or a falling out in the ranks. Either way, the people who wrote this letter aren't among the world's brightest."
"I didn't think so either," Jeffries said. "Did you notice the letterhead at the top? Normally I'd think this was meant as a bad prank. This time I don't think that is the case. The letter was written by someone who isn't used to holding a pencil, and the spelling is horrendous. The letterhead is script, not print. I wonder if the person who wrote this didn't realize the script was the name of an establishment. They might have thought it was a fancy design."
Aaron ran a hand through his damp hair. He felt shaky, but a cold ball formed in the pit of his stomach.
"They demand the money and told us when they want it, but nothing tells us where to drop it off."
"As I said, not the brightest."
"There are a lot of funeral homes," Aaron noted. "Which city is this one is located in?"
Smirking, Jeffries reached down to pick up an envelope. He turned it so the front faced Aaron. "Do you think the postmark might help?"
"They couldn't be that stupid," Aaron said, disbelieving. "They couldn't."
"I think we have dissention in the ranks," Missy said. "I think the people holding Autumn are starting to wonder if they're getting a fair shake out of this. The One God knows, if these people have Autumn, they can't be the brains behind the operation. Like you said, they didn't even tell us where to deliver the money. Mind you, I still think the Flintlows are somehow involved."
"We haven't found a hint of their involvement," Jeffries pointed out. "I thought of pushing matters harder, but now isn't the time. Amel Bearden died in her rooms yesterday. She wrote out a full confession on embezzling your money."
"I've been to Londanary," Aaron said. "I can be there hours before the detectives. " The coldness in his belly began to grow. His mind felt clear. His thoughts ran fluid. He felt his shoulder holster to make sure his gun was seated.
"You're not leaving without us," Missy broke in.
Ignoring her, Aaron nodded to Jeffries. "Thank you."
Flicker
* * *
"Tubes in a sock. I got your tubes in a sock right here. Better eating than you get at home."
"So I told her she could just go ahead and mind her own business because what went on between me and my mister in our own bedroom was none of her never mind. I tell you Mildred, the woman is the nosiest…"
"Hey, Mister, you going to block the sidewalk all day? Some of us have to get by--Lord! All right, I'm sorry. Take all the time you need."
"His eyes. Like to burn a person they was so fierce."
Frowning, Aaron took in his surroundings. The streets were crowded with pedestrians and runabouts and wagons hauling cargo. He did not see a taxi anywhere. The lack no longer surprised him. Cabbies were an example of how his good intentions always went bad.
No taxis but there were plenty of wagons. Ignoring everything around him, he stepped off the curb and out into the street. He grabbed the bridle of the first horse he encountered.
"I'll whip your face off if you don't take yer hand off my horse!" the angry driver shouted.
"Elizabeth's Home of Eternal Rest," Aaron demanded. "Where is it?"
"Nowhere as far as I'm concerned," the woman snarled. She raised her whip, but Aaron released his hold to lunge at another horse.
"Do you know where Elizabeth's House of Eternal Rest is?"
The driver's scowl immediately smoothed over. "Lost someone have ya. I'm terrible sorry. Yeah, I know about where it is. On the other side of the city. Mulberry or Stafford, somewhere in that area."
"Good enough. " Releasing his hold on the bridle, Aaron propelled himself into the seat beside the driver. "Take me there."
"Hey, now," the driver protested. "I can sympathize with a fellow what's lost somebody, but I never said--"
His mouth snapped shut when Aaron fished a wad of sovereigns from his pocket. The outside bill was a fifty. "Be my driver for the day and this is yours."
"I have a load that needs--aw to heck with it. They can wait, or I can flag down one of my buddies. Ya got yerself a deal."
The driver's memory proved to be faulty. The funeral home was on neither Mulberry nor Stafford. Instead, it was located on a street running between those two. After bidding the driver to wait, Aaron strode through the ornate doors. He entered a plush room filled with overstuffed chairs and subdued paintings of brooks and farmsteads. Nobody stood at the desk located near the door, but Aaron's eye lighted on a small stack of writing paper. A quick inspection showed a familiar letterhead. Seeing nobody nearby, he strode deeper into the building, looking briefly into two viewing rooms. Less than half a dozen people were in each. In the second room a woman leaned over a tiny casket. Her shoulders shook.
"May I help you?"
The man who spoke was dressed formally in a dark double breasted suit. Aaron had to crane his neck to look up at him.
"Tell me the name of everyone you gave your letterhead to in the last five days."
"Excuse me?"
"I want," Aaron repeated,"to know the names and addresses of everyone who has used a sheet of your letterhead. Include the names of all your employees, everyone who has attended a recent funeral, and everyone who came in to investigate your services."
The man drew himself up. "Sir, the information is privileged. I will not break my client's trust."
Aaron tightened up inside. The man could make two or more of him, but that didn't matter. Aaron had training, and his training told him this man had none. He used his height and bulk to emphasize his steadfastness, but he would be easy in a fight.
Aaron te
nsed, allowing his anger to build to a crescendo. Fury burned his blood and fired his mind. Nobody would stop him from finding Autumn. He would pull his gun and shoot this son-of-a-bitch.
"It is a matter of principle," the man explained. "I can't keep the respect of my clients or my self-respect, if I were to break confidences."
About to explode, Aaron pulled back his anger and clenched his hands into fists because fists could not hold a gun.
"I," he said, tight voiced,"will pay you five thousand sovereigns. " His pulse pounded. His fists trembled. He could barely keep from screaming.
Sweat ran down the man's forehead. "No-no, sir, I cannot be bribed or threatened. No."
"Fifty thousand," Aaron said.
The man's mouth twitched. His upper lip curled. Aaron knew he would take the money. He knew it--but the man stepped back.
"Sir, I-I have wives and children. I could use the money. I need the money, but I have to look in their faces every day. No, sir, not for fifty thousand. Not for any amount. I will not compromise my integrity."
Aaron growled. The muscles in his neck quivered, but he took a step back. He could not do it. He could not force this man to break his personal code.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. It's just that my daughter's been kidnapped, and the ransom note was written on your paper. " He backed away, fighting tears, but not even for Autumn could he break a decent man. "I am so sorry," he said again before turning away and stumbling for the door.
"Sir," the man called out. "Wait!"
Aaron turned back.
"Is it true about your daughter?"
Aaron nodded.
"I won't break a confidence, not even for that. Still, a couple people have borrowed paper off me who aren't clients. George Leeson, the butcher, got some, but that's not unusual. He's a cheap sort who frequently runs out before he thinks of placing a new order. A woman I never saw before asked if she could borrow a sheet so she could run off a quick note. She wrote it out while she was still here. She asked me how to spell 'consideration' if that is any help."
"It isn't," Aaron replied, feeling anger ease out as grief filtered in. "Consideration was not in the letter."
"Helen Hanpass came in too. I only know her because my first wife went to school with her. She lives a ways outside of town, out near the old mines if you know where those are."
"I don't," Aaron said. "Tell me, this Helen, does she drive a cab?"
The man rubbed his chin. "I think she used to. Her father did, and at least one of her sisters does. Driving was sort of the family business. She hasn't run a cab for some time though. Not since her mister died and she came into the insurance about five years ago."
Pushing aside a small part of his grief, Aaron allowed a smaller part of hope to enter. "Thank you. Others will come by asking the same question. Tell them what you told me. " He gave the man a searching look. "I'll give you the money I promised."
"I will tell them," the man replied,"but keep your money. I'll be more than happy if Helen Hanpass can lead you to your daughter. Anyone engaged in such a dirty business deserves what they get. As to the money, I won't take a reward for doing right."
"Thank you," Aaron said again and left. He felt somewhat cleaner knowing decent people still existed.
"Did ya get what ya wanted?" the wagon driver asked when Aaron climbed up beside him.
"Maybe. Do you know where the old mines are outside of town?"
"I ought to. I don't live so far from them myself."
Aaron gave him a long look. "Do you know a woman named Helen Hanpass?"
The man snorted. "I should. That harridan and my missus have been at each other for the last three years. A busybody she is and a suspicious one too. Everyone gives her plenty of room because it's easier that way."
"Has she been acting different lately?" Aaron's hope grew to something more than a sliver.
"Don't pay enough attention to know," the driver admitted. He paused. "Then again, the missus mentioned Hanpass has visitors. Is that different enough? Isn't often people visit her, let alone stay with her."
Leaning back, Aaron released a long breath. "Yes. That just might be different enough. "
Chapter 26
Jerry Flintlow rode with a grace that spoke of an easy gaited horse. He was not a natural rider, nor even a frequent one, but his family could afford the best.
He rode down the open road, sitting high on his papered black gelding, sporting a tailored buff jacket which perfectly matched his pants. White cuffs poked from his sleeves, and a gentleman's hat sat at the exact correct angle on his head. His ensemble was finished off with a dueling sword hung by his hip. In short, he was the picture of a dapper gentleman, and he knew it.
Gods, Jerry thought, I am a handsome devil.
He settled deeper into his saddle and removed his hat to run a hand through his hair. It wasn't a particularly warm day. In fact, the temperature was rather cool. Despite the coolness his skin felt warm and prickly.
Replacing his hat, he turned his head to the side and lowered his gaze. A small, contemptuous smile touched the corners of his mouth. Vel, on a short legged pony, made an entirely different picture from his own near perfection. An attractive roustabout, she was a neer-do-well the family had hired on several occasions. Despite her unusual skills, she was just common clay, someone easily replaced, never missed.
"Mister Flintlow," Vel started,
Jerry interrupted her. "From now on call me Baldich. I don't want any slip ups."
Vel nodded. "Right. Mister Baldich. Anyway, I don't think this is a good idea. I've been their only contact. It's a mistake for them to see you. They might recognize you later."
Jerry shrugged. "My father wants it this way. What father wants, he gets."
"But what if somebody else recognizes you?" she protested. "You've made yourself conspicuous."
Jerry allowed a small chuckle at her expense. He gave his arm an expansive wave, taking in the entire image of himself. "Do you think people will believe I'm Jerry Flintlow? Come on, Vel, look at me. I like navy, not weak brown, and when did you last see me wearing a hat when it wasn't winter or raining. Besides, I have a perfect alibi. I'm sequestered and in mourning for my dear sister. Amel's only been dead since yesterday. I couldn't be safer."
"I suppose. " Her tone sounded doubtful.
Jerry turned his attention back to the road. He would rid himself of this gadfly when they reached the house. Vel had been useful for far too long. She knew too much. Given time, even the best tools wore out.
"Trust your betters to know what they're doing," he said. She released a low snort he chose to ignore. Her opinion no longer mattered.
Fifteen minutes later, he stood at the kitchen table of Mistress Helen Hanpass, setting two bottles of his father's best Runeburg White and a rucksack on the table. The bottles were old, stored away more than fifteen years previously. A patina of dust still speckled their surfaces, and the cork was discolored with age. As imported wines went, the Runeburg was only middling fair, but it was likely better than anything these people had tasted before.
Jerry rolled his shoulders to loosen them while studiously keeping his cheerful expression in place, though they were giving him glares hot enough to melt glass. Since he cared nothing for them, he comforted himself with the knowledge he wasn't alone in their disfavor. Vel received her share.
"I know I should have told you he was deeper involved than just handling the money," Vel said. "He asked me not to, just like all the other times I worked with him. This here kidnapping thing was Mister Baldich's idea. I just kind of pushed it toward you because he suggested it."
"You duped us," Milt accused, his face red with anger. A vein pulsed across his forehead. "The money was to go to our brother and sister drivers."
"I didn't dupe you," Vel insisted,"or maybe I did. I don't know. All I know is this wouldn't have happened without Mr. Baldich's help. He came up with the idea, he handled the money side, and now he's here to tell you the
results."
The man called George pulled himself further erect in his chair, a position patently difficult for him to maintain. His shirtless torso was wrapped round with bandages. Thick padding covered his belly. Jerry was slightly impressed the man was not in his sickbed. According to Vel, Turner's poisonous little beast had bit George's ankle after the Patton fellow had broken a couple of his ribs. George probably would have died from the beast's poison if he had been wearing low top shoes. As it turned out, the animal had to bite through a high top before striking flesh. Most of the poison had run down the inside of George's shoe.
"I got messed up on this job," George said, rough voiced. "There ain't going to be no further split."
"Ask me how we did," Jerry said evenly. "If you don't like the results, I'll give you the amount you originally wanted."
"You better just give us--" Milt began with a shout.
The younger woman, Selma, stopped him with a raised hand. "Let's hear him out."
Jerry nonchalantly flipped back the rucksack's flap. Stacked and banded sovereigns peeked out of the opening. Vel's gasp was only a moment ahead of the others.
"Three hundred and sixty two thousand," Jerry said evenly. "We wanted to ask for more, but it would have taken too long. Ten percent is my share."
He enjoyed the greed in their eyes. The older woman, the cousin of the younger woman, was the perfect picture of a grasping witch. Her face grew tight. Her eyes turned wild, and her fingers clenched, reaching out toward the money.
"We need to talk about fair shares," she said. "This is my house. If something bad happened the rest of you would have drifted off with nobody the wiser, but Turner would know who I was. How could he not?"
"I bled for my share," George complained.
"Please," Jerry held up a hand. "Shares can be worked out later. For now," he clinked a manicured nail against a dusty bottle,"let's celebrate. Mistress, do you have cups?"