by C. J. Archer
"We're going to speak to your uncle and get some answers." I grasped her hand and gave it a squeeze. I wanted her to know I appreciated her seeking me out to apologize. It meant more than she would ever know. "Would you like to come?"
"Not particularly," she said. But when Jack and I walked off, she followed.
Jack went to barge past Bollard as he opened his uncle's door. The servant put out his arm to stop him, but Jack simply squared up to him, smiled, and politely said, "Move, or I'll set your shirt on fire."
"Let them in," Langley said with a frustrated sigh. "What is it, Jack? I thought we already discussed the rebuilding arrangements."
"Is that where you went this morning?" Sylvia asked.
Jack nodded. "I've contracted a builder from the village. He's going to work off the original plans for Frakingham and replicate the destroyed section."
She pulled a face. "Perhaps he could make it a little less Gothic. Arches and gloom are out of fashion."
"That's not why we're here," Jack said to Langley. "We need to talk about what Patrick said."
Langley must have had a spare wheelchair stored somewhere because he sat in another, smaller one, the first no doubt having been reduced to ashes. He had wheeled around to face us when we entered, but now he turned away. "It's none of your business."
"It bloody well is!" Jack grasped the handles of the chair and pulled it around so that his uncle faced him. Langley's nostrils flared, but his gaze didn't flicker as he glared back at his nephew. "Who is the one-armed man?" Jack ground out. "Who hired Patrick to burgle you?"
"It's all in hand—"
"Tell us!"
Langley folded his hands in his lap. "I appreciate your concern for me—"
"I don't want to pursue this for you." Jack straightened and closed his fists at his sides, but not before I saw the glow of his fingers. He was furious, but controlling it. Barely. "I want to get to the bottom of this for Hannah's sake. The theft may have something to do with her abduction."
"What makes you think that?"
"The timing is too coincidental for the events not to be linked. Since you orchestrated her kidnap, and I suspect you know who the one-armed gentleman is, you must know why there's a connection."
"Jack," Langley said on another sigh. The wrinkles around his eyes folded in on each other and his shoulders slumped forward. "The man is dangerous and shouldn't be trifled with. I contacted the constabulary after I realized who it was from Bollard's account. Let the detective inspector do his job."
"The inspector is incompetent. He didn't question all of the staff after the burglary."
"He has the man's name. All he needs to do is arrest him." He lifted a hand and waved Jack away. "Leave me. I have work to do."
Jack muttered something under his breath then stormed out. Sylvia, chewing her lip, followed him. I remained behind despite Bollard looming beside me.
"For an intelligent man, that was a very stupid thing to do," I said.
"You're still here?" Langley said without turning around from his work.
"Jack is far more capable than the constabulary. If you want this man punished, you should give Jack some information."
"Are you quite finished?"
"Now you've riled him, which is something you seem to like doing to the people who live with you."
"Hannah," he said, finally looking at me over his shoulder, "Jack has a job to do here. Training you. He can't go gallivanting around the country."
"Then perhaps he needs a new job."
***
Jack and I trained in the bare room for the rest of the day, and the next. He was edgy and frustrated, and it was difficult for us both to concentrate. I made painfully little progress in learning to willfully produce the fire within me, and therefore absolutely none in dampening it. It wasn't surprising since it required me to be angry, something I couldn't simply turn on at will. The eventual aim, Jack said, was that I would be able to set things alight with a mere thought, and quell the heat at times when my temper got the better of me.
On the morning of what would have been the third straight day of training, Tommy gave us some startling news over breakfast. Or, I should say, he gave Jack the news. The two of them exchanged whispers in the corner before Tommy took up his position near the sideboard.
"Bloody hell," Jack muttered, thumping the solid surface of the sideboard with his fist.
"What is it?" I asked.
"There was another break-in last night. Tommy scared the man away. He and Olson kept watch for the rest of the night. You should have woken me," he said to the footman.
"Yes, sir."
"Stop with the sirs when it's just us, will you? You know I hate it."
Tommy's usually dour expression lifted. "Yes, sir."
Jack gave him a withering glare, and Sylvia covered her giggle with her hand.
"Was anything taken?" I asked.
"No."
"Was it Patrick?"
"No, Miss Smith," Tommy said. "It wasn't anyone I recognized."
"Dear lord," Sylvia said, sitting heavily on a chair. "What if he intended to murder us in our beds?"
"I'm sure that wasn't his intention, Syl," Jack said.
Tommy puffed out his chest. "I'll protect you, Miss Langley."
"Thank you," she said. "I can rely on you if not my own cousin."
"Have the police been notified?" I asked.
"Yes, Miss Smith," said Tommy.
Indeed, the inspector and constable appeared just before luncheon. It was the same ones who'd come the first time, and I was surprised to see them. Weren't they supposed to be arresting the one-armed man? I was dying to find out more, although I doubted Langley would tell me anything. Jack and I watched the policemen leave from the window, our lessons having been abandoned early because neither of us could concentrate or stop speculating about the intruder.
"I hope they spoke to everyone this time," I said as the policemen climbed into their carriage.
"I'm more interested in what they said to August about the one-armed man. And what he said to them. Come on, let's find out."
We went straight to Langley's room where we found him reading in bed. Neither Bollard nor the wheelchair were in sight. The room was much smaller than the previous one in the burnt out eastern wing, and there was little space for anything other than the bed, a writing desk, a wardrobe and a few chairs. Langley had filled up much of the remaining floor space since our last visit. Singed papers piled up near the desk, and broken or burned pieces of equipment filled boxes and crates. Microscopes, tools and jars that had escaped the fire covered the relatively small surface of his desk.
"I suppose you wish to resume your questioning," Langley said without looking up from his book.
"You suppose correctly," Jack said. "We saw the police leave. What did the inspector have to say? Have they arrested the one-armed man?"
Langley closed the book and set it down on the bedside table. "They couldn't arrest him."
Jack went very still. "Why not?"
"He claimed not to know anyone named Patrick in London. He said the thief must have lied to you to protect himself. He said he has no interest in my papers."
"And they believed him?"
"You have no idea how convincing he can be."
"Do you believe him?" I asked.
"No. But look at it from the inspector's perspective. He cannot arrest a gentleman based on the word of a criminal. Not without other evidence."
"What a farce," Jack muttered.
"What are we to do?" I asked. "He cannot be allowed to get away with it."
Jack nodded. "Patrick's life is in danger, and by extension the lives of the charges he cares for."
"Charges?"
"He takes care of orphans using money I send him."
"My money," Langley said.
Were the children linked to Jack's past? I suspected they were, but I wanted him to tell me of his own accord, not because I peppered him with questions, but because
he wanted to.
"Let me confront the one-armed man," Jack said.
"No," Langley said. "What good will that do?"
"If I can get him to admit it, I'll be another witness."
"And when it's discovered that you know Patrick? No jury would convict him."
"What if he admits it in front of witnesses?" Jack said. "Or the police?"
Langley picked up his book and flipped it open to a page near the middle. I could have sworn when he first set it down he was at the beginning. "You're not going," he said.
Jack stepped up to the bed, but there was nothing threatening about his stance. He did ooze a kind of self-assuredness and power, however. "I'm twenty-two, August. I have able legs and a voice. Let me use them."
Langley stared down at the book in his lap. The knuckles holding it were white, the thumbs digging into the pages.
"I can find out who this man is without you telling me," Jack went on. "There can't be too many gentlemen matching the description Patrick gave. So why not just make it easier and tell me."
Langley closed his eyes.
"With or without your help, August. You have a choice."
Langley's eyes opened. I was surprised to see worry in their depths. "It doesn't sound like it." When Jack didn't answer, he added, "I could hire someone privately. I've done it before."
"To do what?"
"To find people."
Did he mean me? Jack?
"I see." Jack stood again. "I had no idea. I thought Bollard was your only lackey."
"I can't always spare Bollard. I am a businessman, Jack, and businessmen hire people from time to time."
"And here I thought you were a mad scientist," I said.
Langley's lips stretched into a strained smile. "Very amusing."
"I am involved whether you like it or not," Jack said. "If you wanted to hire someone to confront this man, then I suspect you would have done it instead of sending those incompetent policemen."
"I'd hoped to solve this in a legal manner."
"We still can. I want to confront him."
"He's dangerous."
Jack seemed to notice what he'd said at the same time I did. Or rather, what he didn't say. He didn't say 'no.'
"Give me a name, August. Trust me for once."
"I do trust you."
"Then prove it."
Someone cleared his throat behind us, and we all turned. Bollard stood in the open doorway, his unreadable gaze on his master. The small sound was so peculiar coming from the usually silent servant that I gasped.
"Very well, Jack," Langley said. "I'll tell you everything you need to know about Reuben Tate. You'd better sit down. Both of you."
I sat in the armchair near the window and Jack pulled a separate hardback chair closer to the bed. Bollard shut the door and came to stand beside the bed like an obedient dog.
"Reuben Tate and I were partners," Langley said.
"Partners in what?" I asked.
"Don't interrupt. We owned a laboratory together and shared research. It seemed the sensible, economical thing to do since we were both in need of funds and our research interests were the same. It was our joint efforts that led to the development of a drug."
"A drug to cure what?"
"That is not your concern, Hannah. Reuben and I had a falling out over it. I wanted to sell the remedy to a large company with the facilities to manufacture it on a grand scale, but Reuben wanted to borrow money to expand our laboratory and produce it there. I won."
"I'm sure you did," I muttered.
"We both benefitted financially from the sale. I bought this house and investments then sold off my portion of the laboratory to Tate. We parted ways after that and haven't seen each other since."
"So why is he stealing your papers?" Jack asked.
"I can only guess that he's in financial straits again and needs a new cure to sell." He waved his hand, as is if his one-time friend's difficulties were no longer of concern to him.
"He stole your research?" I asked.
"Some of it. I had Bollard bury the important formulas that weren't taken during the first burglary."
So that's what he was doing in the woods the day I tried to escape!
"Reuben always did have a gambling problem," Langley said. "I suspect his debts have piled up again."
"But didn't you sell the other drug for a fortune?" I asked. "If your half bought this house, he must have gotten a sizeable amount too."
"I received more than half since I'd invested most of the funds in the first place. We had an agreement drawn up to reflect the proportions early on." He thrust out his chin. "It was another thing Reuben resented."
"Did he resent anything more?"
"The fact that I'm a better microbiologist than he is."
"And you think that's why he's thieving now? Money difficulties?" Jack asked.
"Perhaps. Whatever his reasons, I doubt it has anything to do with Hannah's escape from Windamere."
He was calling it an escape now, was he? It still felt like an abduction to me, but I let the comment pass.
"It's purely a coincidence," Langley said. "It must be." When neither Jack nor I spoke, he added, "Knowing Reuben, his debts have become unmanageable and he is desperate for money. Selling a new drug, my drug, will alleviate the pressure."
"If you haven't seen him for some years," Jack said, "how would he know you were working on a remedy?"
"Because he knows me very well, and I'm always working on something."
Langley dictated the address of Reuben Tate's laboratory to Bollard who wrote it down and gave the piece of paper to Jack.
"Hackney Wick," I said, reading it. "Is that far from here? I confess, I've not heard of it."
Langley grunted. "I'm sure there are many places you've never heard of, Hannah. It's not your fault."
"I may not have been to many places, Mr. Langley, but I can assure you I was given access to maps and books. I know where most villages in England are."
Indeed, I had often spread out maps on the floor of our parlor and studied every detail. I'd imagine what each village looked like, what the people did there. When he could, my geography tutor provided books about the places that described the landscape and history of a particular area, and I would study them as if I were leading an expedition. It was silly now that I think about it, but I would imagine myself as an explorer finding undiscovered lands. Every piece of England was like a foreign country to me, having seen nothing further than the Windamere estate boundary, but in truth, there probably wasn't much of the exotic about Derbyshire or Hampshire, Cornwall or Yorkshire.
"Hackney Wick isn't a village," Jack said. "It's part of London, albeit on the edge." He pocketed the paper. "I'll head off today."
"So soon?" I said. "But you won't get there before nightfall."
"I'll spend a night in an inn along the way. Don't worry. I can take care of myself." He was looking at me when he started the sentence, but by the end, he'd turned to Langley.
Langley picked up his book and began to read. "I'll see you in a few days."
***
Jack left in the carriage with Olsen driving. I found it difficult to settle to any task, but considering most of the tasks available to me involved needlework, it wasn't surprising. When I couldn't focus on a sensation novel that I'd borrowed from Sylvia, I decided it was time to get out of the house. I suggested a walk, but she had other ideas.
"We could go into the village," she said. "Mrs. Moore said the smoky smell won't come out of some of our clothes. I'm sure Uncle will give us money for new garments."
"He's probably in need of some himself. Most of his personal belongings would have been destroyed."
"Bollard has already been into the village on his behalf."
"He's very devoted to your uncle."
"Very."
"Do you know how long they've known each other?"
"A very long time." She pulled a face. "Let's not talk about Bollard. He's so dreary." She
put her embroidery back in her sewing basket and grasped my hand. "Let's go this minute."
"But Jack has the carriage and Olsen."
"Tommy will drive us in the brougham. It's smaller than the clarence, but it'll suffice for the short journey."
We sent Tommy to give word to Langley that we were going shopping in Harborough then asked him to prepare the brougham, Langley's second carriage. Fifteen minutes later, we were about to climb into the cabin when a rickety farmer's cart pulled by an old nag lumbered up the drive.
"Who could that be?" Sylvia asked, squinting into the sunlight.
Tommy greeted the farmer and patted the horse's nose as two young lads hopped off the back of the cart. "Bloody hell!" Tommy said. "What are you doing here?"
One of the lads dropped a coin into the farmer's palm. The farmer nodded at Sylvia and me, then turned his nag around and plodded off the way he'd come.
The two newcomers looked up at Frakingham, holding their caps to their heads as they leaned backward to take it all in. They were a grimy couple. Dirt seemed to have set up residence in the creases of their hands and faces, and their filthy clothes were covered in patches. The taller lad's toes stuck out of the end of his boots and his sleeves reached halfway up his arms. The shorter boy sniffed incessantly. I recognized him as the one who'd peered out of the window of the house where Jack had met Patrick in London. Whatever was he doing here? Where was Patrick?
Oh no. Dear lord no. Horror twisted my gut, and I was glad when Sylvia hooked her arm through mine. I clasped her tightly and shushed her with a raise of my finger when she began to speak.
Tommy bent down to the sniffly lad's level. "What's happened?" he asked.
"'E's dead," said the boy, his bottom lip wobbling.
My stomach dove. I gripped Sylvia tighter and she sidled closer. Tommy swore, a sure sign that he was deeply affected. He took his footman duties very seriously, and swearing in the presence of Sylvia and me was a serious offense in his own mind, if not in mine.
"Paddy knew somefing was going to 'appen to 'im," the lad said. "That night Jack came, Paddy told us to come to Freak 'Ouse if the worst 'appened. 'E told us 'ow to get 'ere and gave us money for the journey. 'E said you'd take care o' us, Tommy. You and Jack."
"Of course we will," Tommy said. "You'll be safe here. But what about the others?"