by Liz Carlyle
“Christ Jesus,” whispered Napier under his breath.
Quartermaine pushed away what was left of his pastry. “And you,” he said, turning a dark look on Ruthveyn, “you will remember, I hope, our little understanding? You are never, ever permitted at my tables.”
Ruthveyn merely smiled. “About that hand-chopping business, old chap,” he murmured. “Now that I think on it, I maybe have confused the Berbers with the Arabs. The Berbers, I believe, go straight for the throat.”
Quartermaine sneered, proposed to Ruthveyn a rather vulgar—and anatomically impossible suggestion—then stalked from the dining room. But his color had faded just a trifle. Quartermaine was far from a coward, but only a fool backstabbed Belkadi. It would have made, Ruthveyn thought, for an interesting fight.
He shrugged and picked up the last bite of Quartermaine’s makrout. “Now a good Scot, Napier, would not let this go to waste, would he?” he said, then popped it in his mouth.
But Napier was still staring at the list of debts. “How long have you known about this?” he asked, his voice a little hollow.
“The specifics?” said Ruthveyn, chewing round the pastry. “About three minutes.” He swallowed the last and stood. “And now I think it’s time for a little jaunt across the river.”
Napier rose and followed. “What?” he said vaguely. “To where?”
“Rotherhithe,” said Ruthveyn, heading for the stairs. “To the Surrey Commercial Docks. I should very much like to make a closer acquaintance of Josiah Crane.”
Napier caught his arm on the landing. “Damn it, Ruthveyn! You are interfering in a police investigation again. I won’t have it.”
Ruthveyn bit back his temper. “With all respect, Napier, you would not have an investigation—not this part of it, at any rate—were it not for me. A man like Quartermaine wouldn’t talk to the police if he were hanging by his nails from Blackfriars Bridge, and you were the last chap walking past.”
“Damn you, that is not—”
“Now, I’m going down to Rotherhithe,” said Ruthveyn, speaking over him. “I am a private citizen, and I have every right. You cannot stop me. I would advise you do not try. I suggest, in fact, you come along.”
Napier’s jaw hardened. “You will do anything, won’t you?” he gritted. “Anything to protect and deflect attention from that woman.”
“Yes,” said Ruthveyn tightly. “Anything. Are you coming? Or not?”
“Is that an order, my lord?” Napier snapped. “If it is, simply say so. I do not need another visit from Sir Greville Steele to tell me how to do my job—particularly when I’m already standing in the middle of the magistrate’s court with my papers in order.”
“Took it that far, did you?” Ruthveyn fought down his sudden shaft of fear. “In any case, you waste your time, Napier. Mademoiselle Gauthier is innocent.”
“If you think that, Ruthveyn, then you are being a fool for a woman,” he said. “Never would I have believed it of you. I’ve always heard you were heartless.”
“I’ve heard that, too.” Ruthveyn smiled thinly. “Now, shall we go by river? Or my carriage? You will find it far better sprung than a hansom, if I do say so myself.”
Napier snatched his coat from the waiting footman. “I daresay I’d better go,” he snapped. “Lest you bollix this up beyond saving.”
Ruthveyn motioned Napier toward the door. “After you.”
They went out into the peculiar London air—a dense, yellow-white fog that reeked of burned coal, horse manure, and the effluent of the nearby river. He would never, Ruthveyn thought, grow used to this oppressive haze, which could all but burn the hair from a man’s nose. And yet it was a part of London’s inscrutability, the veil that cloaked a thousand sins, and gave up her secrets but reluctantly. How ironic that they were going to call upon Josiah Crane to lift the veil on a few of his.
“The river, I think, would be most unwise,” he remarked, peering across the street in a futile attempt to see Quartermaine’s front door.
Napier grunted his agreement, and Ruthveyn waved for his carriage. They waited patiently on the curb, the silence between them deepening even as they climbed into the conveyance.
“I just want to know one thing,” said Napier, as they swung round the corner into St. James’s Street.
Ruthveyn lifted both eyebrows.
“How did you know?” Napier turned to glower out the window. “How did you know Quartermaine was trying to steal Belkadi’s chef?”
But Ruthveyn merely settled back against the banquette and said no more.
In the Surrey Commercial Docks, maritime London surged and shouted with life, from the deal porters who darted from the fog with their towering shoulder-loads of lumber, to the lightermen plying back and forth from ship to shore. Brogden deftly edged Ruthveyn’s carriage along busy Rotherhithe Street, squeezing past a dray laden with sacks of grain and a pile of staves that had spilled out into the cobbles.
According to Grace, the offices of Crane and Holding were located at Thirty-five Swan Lane, just above Albion Yard and the main dock, but in the wretched brume, Brogden very nearly drove past, then turned at the last instant, tossing Napier against the side of the carriage. He cursed beneath his breath, then shot Ruthveyn another black look as if holding him personally responsible.
So far as Ruthveyn could make out in the fog, the offices looked like every other establishment in this part of London, which was to say weathered and practical in construction.
Inside the small antechamber, several callers waited, one carrying a roll of drawings under his arm, the other two in warm work clothes—yard foremen, Ruthveyn guessed.
Beyond a narrow counter, a pimpled young man sat at a tall desk, ticking off what looked like receipts in a green baize ledger. Ruthveyn stepped up and cleared his throat, but he was soon to learn his journey was in vain.
“M-May I h-help you?” The lad slid off his perch, his face reddening.
Ruthveyn smiled and extended his thick ivory calling card across the counter. “I should like to speak with Josiah Crane,” he said. “This is my associate, Mr. Napier.”
To Ruthveyn’s exasperation, however, the lad would not lift his gaze nor even take the card from Ruthveyn’s hand. “V-Very s-sorry, milord, but Mr. Crane is out, and n-not expected back today.”
The little speech had the ring of recitation about it, and Ruthveyn wondered vaguely if the lad was compelled to give it often. Just then, a door behind the counter opened, and a lady in black swished her skirts through sideways. She carried a basket over one arm and a light cloak tossed over her shoulders.
“I believe I shall take the ledger up, Jim,” she asked before turning, “and the post.”
It was Fenella Crane, dressed for the out of doors in a light cloak and her usual black veil.
“Good morning, Miss Crane,” said Ruthveyn.
Her head turned toward the counter. “I beg your pardon. I did not see you there. Lord Ruthveyn, is it?”
Ruthveyn tucked his hat beneath his arm and bowed. “It is indeed. How lovely to see you again.” He stepped to one side. “Have you met my acquaintance, Mr. Napier?”
“Who? Oh, yes. How do you do, sir?” She seemed to wither a little, and Ruthveyn felt instantly like a cad. Of course she’d met Napier—on the night of her brother’s death and probably many times since.
The shy lad with the stutter closed the ledger and handed it off as she passed. Her color, Ruthveyn noted, was high, and she looked vaguely unwell. It was the strain, no doubt.
“Is there a place we might speak privately, Miss Crane?” Ruthveyn asked quietly, when she approached.
“Why, certainly.” She tucked the ledger under one arm and shot a little bolt under the counter. “Just lift that, if you please, and do come through.”
They followed her into what looked like a small, unused office, the few furnishings layered with dust and the shades drawn.
Ruthveyn opened himself to the emotion of the room, fleetingly closi
ng his eyes, but he felt nothing save that thrumming urgency he’d felt before. There was not, thank God, any flash of dead rabbits or bloody snow. He wondered again if his vision had been an anomaly of some sort. Was Miss Crane in danger? And if so, from whom?
Miss Crane did not sit, nor offer them chairs, but her face turned to Napier’s as soon as the door was shut. “Has something happened?” Her voice was low and breathless. “Has Ethan’s killer been caught?”
Napier shook his head. “Not yet, but—”
“But we had hoped, actually, to speak to Mr. Crane about it,” Ruthveyn interjected. “We had a question about the business finances. I collect he is out?”
As Napier glowered at him, Miss Crane turned to Ruthveyn. “Yes, he is ill,” she said, turning to set her basket down on the desk. “My poor cousin suffers from—eeekk!”
On a shriek, she leapt away from the desk, just as something darted from beneath it and ran over Napier’s shoe.
“What the devil?” Napier leapt back.
“Oh!” Miss Crane set a hand to her heart.
“Merely a rat, I believe,” said Ruthveyn, kneeling down to see where the creature had gone, but there was nothing.
“I shall never get used to that,” said Miss Crane. “The hazards of working in the dockyards, I daresay.” She dropped her hand from her chest and kicked a rectangular white tin under the desk. “Josiah tells Jim he must keep the poison put out, and have the rat catcher in once a month, but I wonder if he listens?”
“Perhaps a cat?” Ruthveyn suggested. “I find them indispensable, myself. In any case, you were saying?”
“Oh, yes, about Josiah,” said Miss Crane. “He suffers terribly with a bilious liver, but really, he has not been himself since…well, since so much additional responsibility fell upon his shoulders. Perhaps you might call again in a day or two? I shall tell him to expect you.”
Ruthveyn glanced at the basket. A glass jar of what looked like beef tea was nestled between a rolled newspaper and a great lump wrapped in cheesecloth—fresh bread, from the smell of it.
“You are going to visit him?” said Ruthveyn.
“He asked if I would,” she said, “so I thought I might take up his post, and perhaps the monthly ledger, in case he felt up to…to whatever it is he does with it.” Here, she made an airy gesture with her hand.
“Is that safe, ma’am?” asked Napier.
She turned to look at him. “I beg your pardon?”
Napier exchanged a wary glance with Ruthveyn. “Perhaps, until this is all settled…”
“Surely, sir, you do not suggest my cousin had anything to do with this dreadful business?”
“We have eliminated no one from suspicion,” said Napier.
“What nonsense!” Miss Crane seemed to quiver with outrage. “My cousin doesn’t have it in him, sir. Really, did you come all this way with such preposterous drivel?”
“We understand he disapproved of Ethan Holding driving a competitor out of business by underbidding contracts,” Ruthveyn suggested. “Perhaps that was the cause of their quarrel on the night of Holding’s death?”
“A quarrel?” said Miss Crane with asperity. “They had words, perhaps, but no more. What, precisely, are you two suggesting?”
Ruthveyn and Napier exchanged glances.
“Oh, wait, I see the way of things.” Miss Crane’s voice arched. “You have hired that woman, haven’t you? I suppose she has turned your head, too. Really, I cannot think this is any of your business!” Then she wheeled on Napier. “And you—you are the one who suggested to Mrs. Lester and to me that she was the killer! My God, have you seen the article in today’s Chronicle? Perhaps Ethan did a foolish thing, but you are doing nothing. At least our losses will be made up eventually.”
But not, perhaps, before Crane suffers a personal bankruptcy, thought Ruthveyn.
“We understand Mr. Crane has some outstanding gambling debts,” Napier snapped, apparently having given up all efforts at diplomacy. “That suggests, ma’am, a certain amount of financial desperation.”
At that, she fell fleetingly silent. “Josiah has weaknesses,” she finally agreed. “What man does not? But he will be fine now. I shall take care of him. Ethan never quite knew how to manage such things.”
“The business could simply be sold,” Napier suggested, “and Crane’s creditors paid off.”
Ruthveyn did not need an unobscured view of Miss Crane’s face to feel her bristle. “Josiah would never agree to that!” she said. “Our grandfather died building this business. It is a family treasure.”
But the truth was, Josiah Crane would have had little say in the matter. Fenella Crane now owned the controlling interest. Was she so naïve, Ruthveyn wondered, that she did not realize that?
But the lady had picked up her basket and was sweeping toward the door. “Now, I bid you both good day,” she said over one shoulder. “Kindly do not come back, Mr. Napier, until you can talk sense to me.”
It was on the tip of Ruthveyn’s tongue to insist they would take her up in his carriage and call upon Crane with her, but she would obviously have refused. They went back out into the sharp autumn air, both of them a little deflated.
As soon as the door was closed, Napier turned to him. “Really,” he said, cleverly mimicking Miss Crane’s voice, “I cannot think this is any of your business!”
“You could not resist, could you, Napier?” In the thinning fog, Ruthveyn lifted a hand to signal Brogden. “Yes, I have fallen under the sway of a regular she-devil, I collect. Perhaps Mademoiselle Gauthier will stab me in my sleep after all and make your dreams come true.”
“It really is too much to be hoped for,” said Napier. But his voice was morose, and for the first time, Ruthveyn sensed that he was rethinking his position with regard to Grace.
“Perhaps Miss Crane could be persuaded to do the job for you instead?” Ruthveyn suggested, opening the carriage door. “She seems to have taken a strong dislike to me.”
“Awfully fond of her cousin, though, isn’t she?” Napier remarked, as they climbed back in.
“Perhaps he has taken pains lately to make himself agreeable,” Ruthveyn murmured. Then he told Napier the story of how Holding had once hoped for a marriage between the pair.
Napier’s gaze had narrowed considerably by the time Ruthveyn was done. “Rum!” he said pensively. “Never thought of that. And if they were to wed, ownership of the company would be…”
“You begin to see my point, I collect,” said Ruthveyn.
“But there’s no proof Josiah Crane was in the house,” Napier mused, as the carriage lurched into motion. “And your notion about his having a key came to naught, according to Holding’s butler. Still, one does get the feeling Crane was simply avoiding us today. After all, she took us into an empty office—and she seems naïve enough to protect him.”
“I think it far more likely the man is avoiding his creditors,” said Ruthveyn. “And a sickbed is the best place for that.”
Napier slumped against the seat as Brogden lurched the carriage forward. “You are likely right, of course,” he said on a sigh.
“Ah,” said Ruthveyn softly. “Music to my ears!”
CHAPTER 12
The Enchantment
Just a few nights after his strange trip to Rotherhithe, Ruthveyn dreamed again of the Jagdalak Pass, and of the brutal slaughter in the snow. Then the snow became the endless sand of the desert, and somehow it was all tangled up with rabbits, and with the corpse of Fenella Crane lying in a field of white poppies. The poppies undulated as if caught by the wind, and it was no longer Miss Crane, but Grace. She lay deathly still among the flowers, a bloody knife in her hand, her eyes open but unseeing.
He awoke in a sweat, flailing across the mattress in an attempt to find her.
Nothing.
He jerked upright in bed, gasping for breath.
She was not there. She was not there because he had convinced himself it was unwise—for both of them. But what if by n
ot being with her, he had doomed her to a worse fate? Was that what the dream meant? He could still hear his heart thundering in his ears. He could taste the fear in his throat.
Bloody hell. This was insane.
He dragged a hand down his face, and then, by sheer force of will, stilled his breathing, drawing it deep and slow until his body relaxed, and his fist let go the wad of counterpane he’d been clutching. Then he drew up his knees and breathed some more, until his mind cleared and became one with the air flowing in and out of his lungs, and all the rational reasons why Grace was not in his bed came back to him.
Still, in that dark and uncertain moment of awakening, her absence had felt intuitively wrong, and the fear had been real. But it had been a dream, he reminded himself, not a vision, and unlike his friend Alexander, never had his dreams been prophetic. Horrific, yes, but portending nothing save a miserable night.
At least he had slept for a time—had been sleeping, really, for the last several nights. It likely would not last. Always the sleeplessness returned, and with it the scraps of horrors remembered, edging round his memory like assassins in the night. Before, he had stilled them by any means at his disposal—opium, alcohol, gratuitous sex. His list of sins was long.
Absently, Ruthveyn picked up Satin, who slept curled at his feet with her sister, and set her fur to his cheek. She began to hum happily. He was oddly glad to be in his own home, in his own bed, with his own cats. And yet he felt incomplete.
As if to soothe him, Satin rumbled drowsily for a time, but after a while, her feline patience was exhausted.
“Leaving me, old girl?” he murmured, just as she slipped free and slunk round him to snuggle in the warm hollow on his pillow.
It was a sign, perhaps. Or perhaps his infamous self-discipline was failing him. Heartless, Napier had called him. But now, in the gloom, he slipped from the sheets, then padded naked across the floor to snatch his robe from the chair. Drawing it on as he went, he strode out through his study into the corridor.