by Karen Odden
I swallowed past the tightness in my throat. “Poor Felix. When I saw him a few days ago, to ask for Lewis’s address, he was . . . difficult. And when I went to his rooms, I knew straightaway that . . . well, I wasn’t sure if they were disordered because someone had searched them, but there was a valuable pocket watch that a thief would have stolen, and my guess was Felix hasn’t been taking proper care of himself. His flat was positively squalid.” I paused. “It’s only the sheerest luck I saw Edwin’s letter.”
Matthew put out a hand. “Can I see it?”
I went to the rack where Celia hung my coat and fished in the pocket. For a panicked moment, I thought I’d lost it, but there it was, flush against the lining. I handed it to Matthew and he read the few lines. At last he looked up. “You said this letter told you where to find the papers, but this message says nothing about looking in the leg of his easel.”
“It took me a while to realize what he meant,” I said. “Caesar was his dog when he was a boy. He used to spend hours under Edwin’s easel.” The memory of it caused a tightening in my chest, and I felt my eyes begin to burn. “There are things from my childhood that I hardly remember—happy things.” I gulped and blinked the tears back. “Like when Edwin and I could still laugh together. And it doesn’t feel fair that it’s more difficult for me to remember those things than the times that were awful and frightening. It’s a rotten trick.”
My voice shook, and Celia reached out a hand to hold mine. “I think it’s human nature,” she said gently.
A sob burst from me. “I was so angry with him for what he’d done—all the times he’d leave, and—and—well, you’d think your heart would get used to it, or the worry would diminish, but it never did. Not ever. I was always just as scared, every time, that he’d die.” I knew I sounded incoherent, and the tears spilled over onto my cheeks as fast as my words, but I rushed on. “Because under it all were memories of a brother I knew. The kind of boy who would laugh when a dog knocked over his painting, instead of kicking him. I hate that I never told him I forgave him—or at least that I mostly had. He never knew I was just waiting until I was sure. That I had never given up on him, and I’d always just been waiting for him to come back.”
I was sobbing too hard to speak another word, and Celia held my hand in both of hers while Matthew passed me a handkerchief in sympathetic silence. Eventually the tears slowed. I wiped my cheeks once more with the sodden square of linen, and tried to steady my breath.
“For what it’s worth, Annabel, I think he knew,” Celia said softly.
“I do, too,” Matthew said. “Just from his letter.”
I sniffed, an ugly rasping sound at the back of my throat.
“He knew he could trust you with something important,” Matthew said. “Otherwise, he’d have told Felix, or Lewis, or even the vicar. But he sent it to you.”
The very reasonableness of his words forced itself into my consciousness. Yes, Edwin had chosen me. The realization surprised me out of any more tears, and by the time Peggy called us for dinner, and I slid the letter into my coat pocket, the fierce knot of self-loathing I’d had in my chest since Edwin’s funeral had loosened. Not much, but a little.
Because, though I had disappointed my brother in many ways, I had not failed him in this.
IN THE AFTERMATH of my outburst, dinner was a quietly cheerful meal, for which I was grateful. Celia embraced me warmly before she left, and I watched from the window as Matthew handed her into a hansom headed to her sister’s. She peered through the cab’s side window and smiled, and as I waved goodbye, I remembered what she’d said about Matthew being afraid.
He entered the house, and I felt the cold outdoor air come in with him. He stood at the threshold of the parlor, taking up most of the doorway. “You’re all right?”
I moved away from the window and toward him. “Yes. Thank you.”
He was silent for a moment, and then he shifted his weight, as if he might excuse himself to go upstairs—
“Wait.” The word burst out of me. “Matthew, I’m sorry I worried you.” He didn’t move or speak, and I hurried on. “I know Boulter is still out there. And perhaps I should have been more cautious, but . . . well, London is enormous, and I didn’t think he’d find me.”
Slowly he came into the room and approached a table. On it stood a carved jade box, and idly he shifted the lid, his thumb making it flush with first one side and then the other. “No,” he said at last. “I don’t think Boulter knows this house, although men like that do have ways of ferreting out information. Still, I shouldn’t have been so angry with you. It’s just that I knew he couldn’t have dragged you out of here, and I couldn’t imagine where you’d have gone, or why. Peggy had no idea, either. You simply . . . vanished.”
At that word, a wave of remorse flooded over me. “Matthew, I’m sorry. It was stupid of me. I truly thought I’d only be gone for an hour or so, to see Mary, and I’d be back hours before you returned.”
His hand dropped away from the jade box and fell at his side. “I understand.”
I stepped closer. “I didn’t think about how especially unsettling it might be for you, finding me gone with no explanation, and I should have.”
He looked askance. “That’s asking a bit much, don’t you think? For someone you’ve known only a matter of weeks?”
I shook my head slowly. “No. In fact, I don’t think it’s too much to ask at all.”
Perhaps it was the aftereffects of the brandy, or the turmoil of the past weeks, or the knowledge that I’d waited too long to speak truthfully to my brother, but the words rose from somewhere inside me and I let them fly out: “Naturally, no one can be expected to know all of another person’s fears and—and—experiences and sensibilities in a short time. But your mother vanishing without a word?” His expression altered, but I rushed on. “Surely I can remember that much of your experience, and avoid doing something similar to you, if you matter to me in the least—and of course you do—”
One swift step toward me, and his arm was around my waist, and his mouth was silencing mine with a kiss that was at once fierce and tender. The brutal beat of the day’s anxiety and sorrow was stilled, and in its place came a race of feelings that I couldn’t even name, like a river fed by half a dozen streams and tumbling full tilt down a hill.
When he finally drew away, we were both taking ragged breaths. His forehead dropped to mine. “Next time, leave a bloody message somewhere, all right?”
Mutely, readily, I nodded.
A spark of humor came into his eyes. “Next time, that is, you decide to go running off and doing my police work for me.”
My laugh was shaky. “I think it’s time I went back to the Slade. At least there’s less risk of bodily harm.”
His hands held both of mine, and his eyes darted briefly to the wound on my head. “How is it?”
“Better. I hardly feel it.”
“That may be the brandy.”
I touched my thumb to his mouth. “Or this.”
His lips curved, and he pulled me close again. This time his kiss was slower and deeper, and when at last he let me go, he took my hand and drew me to a settee, pulling me close beside him.
His arm around me, I rested my head on his shoulder, and for that precious hour, time stopped its demands, the world dropped away, and it was just the two of us speaking in murmurs and watching the flames dance. Was this the beginnings of love? Not having seen any notable signs of it with my parents, I couldn’t say with any certainty. But if blithe contentedness and a feeling of expansive possibility were signs of it, well then, perhaps it was.
I began to feel drowsy, and eventually the clock struck. It was late, and I felt him take in a breath, as if he were preparing to speak.
Before he could, I said, “Matthew, I’m coming to the market Tuesday. Celia and I can be there together.”
I felt his shoulder tense, but I forestalled his protest by sitting up and pulling away so I could see his face—and he co
uld see mine. “There won’t be any danger,” I promised. “We’ll stay exactly where you tell us, and there will be dozens of people about.” He still appeared dubious. “Remember, I am one of the only people who knows what both men look like.”
He rubbed roughly at his face. “I know. Every instinct I have is to keep you away from there, but you’re a valuable pair of eyes.”
He stood and went to the window. At last he turned back, and his tone was decided. “Celia and you can’t separate. And if at any time you see either of the men, you don’t go near them. You find a plainclothesman.”
“Agreed,” I said. “And tomorrow I’d like to go see Felix.”
“Let me send a message to the hospital. If he’s awake, I’ll take you there myself. If the doctors say he can’t be seen, I’d rather you stay here.” He frowned, as if I’d objected. “I mean it. As you said, Boulter is out there, and if his plan is to go to the market, we’ll find him there. It’s only a day to wait.”
I nodded. “Fair enough.”
The fire no longer danced but had diminished to a few orange-edged coals, and the room was full of shadows.
“It’s time we went to bed,” he said softly. He took my hands in his, drew me to standing, and pressed his warm lips to my fingers.
He left the room, and I went to mine. Leaning against my closed door, I felt my heart beat an unsteady rhythm against the solid wood behind me. I touched the fingers he’d kissed to my mouth and felt the lingering heat. The floors in this house were old enough to creak, and I could follow his steps up the stairs and along the hall. It was only when I heard his door close that I pushed myself away from my own and began to undress.
Brandy or no, it took a long time for me to fall asleep that night.
Chapter 23
Monday was rainy and cold. Matthew’s message to the hospital had received the reply No change. We regret Mr. Severington is not available for visitors. I remained indoors the entire day. Matthew was away until after I retired for bed, but I left a message beside the coat rack for him to wake me when it was time to depart for Islington. Half suspecting he would leave me behind, I slept anxiously, waking nearly every hour. When his knock came at my door at three o’clock, I was already lying awake, waiting for it.
In the foyer, I found Celia looking pale but wide awake. I felt grateful for the closed carriage, as well as the blankets and hot water bottles that kept our feet from freezing. Two lanterns hung on the outside of the cab, one by each window, swaying and sending their light against the cobbles and catching the metal fastenings on the gates and doors as we passed. Celia and I sat facing backward, and by the light from the lanterns, I could glimpse Matthew well enough to see that he was unshaven. I wondered if he had slept at all.
“I studied the map,” he said to us both. “The market is roughly triangular; it comprises a grid of barns and booths. The west side is primarily for livestock, as there’s a railway station nearby for the loading of cattle and pigs. The east side includes booths for everything else—candles, food, vegetables, potatoes, bread, clothing, soap, and the like.”
“Is Boulter required to have a booth in order to sell the painting, or can the transaction be done anywhere?” Celia asked.
“He must have permission from the owner of a booth, if he hasn’t taken one himself. If Mr. Pagett leaves the market, the transaction will be considered finished.”
Celia shifted beside me. “Are there established entrances and exits?”
“There are several ways in and out.”
“How on earth are we going to manage?”
“I’ve thirty policemen meeting us,” Matthew replied, his voice breaking as we bounced over a rut in the road. “I had a copyist at the Yard make versions of Annabel’s sketch yesterday; everyone will have one.”
I felt sorry for whoever had been given that task.
The carriage bumped again over a ridge in the road, throwing Celia and me sideways. I felt the hard edge of the wall against the bruised part of my shoulder and winced.
“At our back, time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near,” Celia muttered.
“What?” I asked.
Celia’s voice was wry. “I feel like we’re in a race against the sun.”
“We’re not,” Matthew said easily. “The gates don’t open until half past four. We’ll be there in plenty of time.”
Was he genuinely as tranquil as he seemed? I found my stomach knotting, but at last we arrived at Islington and drew up to the market. Matthew was right. The church nearby was only striking a quarter past.
We dismounted from the carriage, and the driver pulled away, leaving us in the shadows of an enormous cattle shed by the gate. From the darkness came the sounds of animal rustling, an occasional grunt, and the unmistakable smell of cows and swine. But so far as I could tell, we three were the only humans here.
“I thought you said . . .” My voice faded as men began to emerge from around the corner of the shed. Some carried lanterns that dropped puddles of gold against the dirt. The light sparkled in the eyes of a few cows that surveyed us with a mild, silent curiosity.
Not one of the men wore the usual buttoned blue police uniform. Indeed, they might have been farmers or laborers or costermongers, although all wore caps that could be pulled down low over their faces if need be. They gathered around Matthew, and as he began to speak the murmurs and whispers went silent. They all studied Celia and me but seemed to accept our presence without question.
“We’re looking for two men with a painting,” Matthew said. “You’ve seen the sketches of them both.”
Briefly I wondered where they’d seen a sketch of Mr. Pagett, but then I realized his image would be easy to find in the society papers.
“How big is the painting?” one man asked.
“About so big”—Matthew’s hands sketched a rectangle—“but it most likely won’t be in a frame; it will be rolled, or concealed in something roughly a yard long.”
“Something like the size of a quiver for arrows, then,” one man spoke up.
“Are those sold here?” another asked.
“I’ve seen them in the past,” came the reply. “I’m just trying to think how they might smuggle it out.”
With relief, I realized that these men were already anticipating the difficulties. Though clouds hung heavy, a dim light appeared behind the stock building, and Matthew said, “It’s time to scatter. We’re here until dusk, or until we find him.”
The men with their lanterns melted away, leaving two behind. Matthew kept one for himself and handed one to me.
“What can we do?” Celia asked.
“Shop,” he said with a small smile. “Stay together. Remember, don’t approach either of the men. It isn’t worth it. If we don’t catch them here, we’ll find them somewhere else.”
I wished I felt as certain.
“I wouldn’t bother with the livestock pens. Spend your time at the booths.”
“How will we know if someone’s a plainclothesman?” Celia asked. “I couldn’t see most of their faces in this light.”
“They’re wearing the same brown caps.” Matthew touched his own. “We’ve used them before to help identify each other. And if you’re in doubt, look at his shoes. Most of us wear these boots. They stand up to a chase.”
Celia and I peered at his footwear, then she linked her arm in mine and watched as he set off. The sun pierced the morning clouds enough for us to see where we were going, and we both paused by the livestock. The cows were clustered together, and I could feel the bovine warmth emanating from the pen. The metal trough of water had a gleam of thin ice near the edges.
“Poor things, standing about,” Celia murmured. “Though I think they’re warmer than we are.”
I shivered and made a sound of agreement. “Do you think Matthew is correct, and Boulter wouldn’t try to sell the painting somewhere near the pens? It seems to me that it’s precisely where he would sell it—just because no one would expect it.”
; “The transaction must be done at a booth,” Celia reminded me. “Besides, I don’t think they’ll feel the need for that much caution. You forget that they have no idea we’ll be here.”
“It’s only because of you that we are,” I said.
“Well, if I’m right,” she amended with a grimace. “If I’m wrong, I’ll have wasted time for all these men.”
We started down one of the rows of booths, which were tables nominally separated by wooden posts and the occasional lattice. Most were still unoccupied but here and there, the proprietors began to set out their wares. The sun remained hidden behind gray clouds.
Celia and I wandered up and down the aisles, surveying the displays. She exaggerated her limp to justify her keeping her hand tucked in my elbow. Every so often we saw one of the men in brown caps, but he took no notice of us, and we kept our gazes elsewhere. There was plenty to see: soaps and candles, scarves and woolens, carrots and peas, linens and quilts, mourning bands and veils, ceramics, copper goods, glass, knives and scissors, brooches, books and maps, harmonicas and zithers, pillows, onions and potatoes, umbrellas and walking sticks.
“Have you ever seen such a miscellany?” Celia asked under her breath. I didn’t bother to make the obvious reply. “What are you thinking?” she murmured idly as we paused by an array of soaps in the shape of flowers and turtles and bumblebees. The pale yellow ones looked almost like butter, and I resisted the urge to reach out and touch them.
“I’m looking for boxes or bags large enough to hide a painting,” I replied under my breath. “But so far, aside from some boxes for long knives, I haven’t seen any.”
It seemed an unending day, damp and raw and unpleasant. The apprehension and suspense of the morning had worn off, and now I was beginning to feel the queasy fatigue that follows upon a poor night’s sleep. We rounded the end of the sixth row for what must have been the fourth time. It was nearly two o’clock, and we paused to watch as a railway train drew up to the station. We covered our ears to dull the shriek of the braking wheels and the lowing and squealing of cattle and pigs, shifting uneasily in their pens.