Distrust curdles the food in my stomach. I’m afraid something happened to Robin on the Riviera and he never came home.
The maid removes our plates and serves lemon pound cake with white icing, topped with lemon slices. Sir Gerald waves away his dessert and tosses his napkin on the table. “Anything else to report?”
Hugh and I avoid looking at each other as we shake our heads.
#
“Why didn’t you want me to tell Sir Gerald about your theory that something was wrong with Robin?” Hugh asks.
We’re standing beside the rectangular pool, just beyond the light from the house. The fountain tinkles, and the rippling water reflects a pale moon snared in a net of clouds. The statues and topiary trees are dark, indistinct shapes, and I can barely see Hugh’s face.
“Because if I’m correct, then Sir Gerald is in on the cover-up.” And I’m afraid to confront him, afraid of his reaction, afraid of what we might learn. Shivering, I clasp my arms against my chest. The night is cold and damp, but now that we think we’re under surveillance, we can’t talk inside the house.
“Right,” Hugh says. “Woe betide us if we look under rocks that he doesn’t want looked under. But here’s a more immediate problem. We’ve collected bits of information that don’t add up to anything. Sir Gerald is disappointed.”
“I know.” The thought of disappointing him upsets me. “If this keeps up, he’ll fire us.” In addition to losing the money and our chance to rescue Robin, I would mind lowering myself in Sir Gerald’s estimation. I don’t want to make matters worse between Hugh and me, but I have to say, “You shouldn’t have cut me off when I tried to talk to Sir Gerald about Tristan.”
Hugh’s response is quick and defensive. “I didn’t want him to think Tristan shot me because he kidnapped Robin and doesn’t want me finding out.”
“But maybe he did! Besides, Sir Gerald has a right to whatever information we collect. He’s paying us for it.”
“Well, if that’s the case, then you should have told him your theory about Robin’s photograph.”
His rejoinder stings. “But it’s just a theory.”
“So is your idea that Tristan tried to kill me. You weren’t there.”
“So tell me. What really happened?”
“Nothing.”
Our harmony is disintegrating. Aware that I must be careful of what I say next, I hesitate before I voice my suspicion. Knowing about Hugh’s sexual inclination doesn’t make it easier for me to talk about. “Are you attracted to Tristan?”
Hugh expels his breath in an angry snort. “Do you think I’m that stupid?”
I’m angry too—at his resistance to sharing facts that might be critical to our investigation and to protecting himself. “Are you?”
“I draw the line at falling for someone who has nothing but contempt for me.” Hugh speaks with injured dignity. “Give me some credit, Sarah.”
Although I want to believe him, I’m doubtful. I’m also afraid Tristan will try to hurt Hugh again. “You shouldn’t be alone. I’ll ask Mick to sleep in your room.”
“For God’s sake, I don’t need a baby-minder!”
I can’t force Hugh to exercise caution, but I can offer a reason that might persuade him that he should. “While you were asleep, I discovered that someone has broken into my trunk and found the photograph I took in the dinosaur park.”
Hugh is silent for a moment as he absorbs the news. “You think it was the kidnapper.”
“Yes. And whoever it is knows we were there the day the ransom was collected and Noel Vaughn and Ethel Norris were murdered. It could be Tristan. You have to be careful!”
“The best way to protect ourselves is to solve the case,” Hugh declares.
“Well, I’ve made some progress.” I tell him about my conversation with Tabitha in the infirmary. “I don’t think she and DeQuincey kidnapped Robin.”
Hugh jams his hands in his pockets and stares at the rippling water in the pool. He obviously doesn’t like that I’ve narrowed our list of suspects, increasing the probability that Tristan is guilty. I don’t like the growing strife between us, the disunity that’s undermining our investigation. The sooner we solve the case, the better—and not just for Robin’s sake. I broach my idea of going to Clerkenwell.
Hugh turns to me, and his smile flashes in the dim moonlight. “Sarah, that’s a marvelous idea. I knew that creative mind of yours would come up with a plan.”
“Then you think I should go?” I’m reluctant to leave him and Mick at Mariner House.
“Take the first train tomorrow. If Sir Gerald asks where you are, I’ll tell him you’re following a lead on the mystery witness from the dinosaur park. It would be the truth.”
I’m about to ask if he wants me gone so that he needn’t listen to me harp on Tristan, but the sound of light, rapid footsteps interrupts me. Hugh puts his finger to his lips. A woman in long, full skirts runs gracefully down the right-hand set of marble stairs that lead from the upper terrace. Light glints on her fair hair. It’s Lady Alexandra.
Hugh pulls me behind a conical topiary tree. At the bottom of the stairs, Lady Alexandra walks to a bench that’s set against the stone retaining wall that supports the upper terrace, about thirty feet from us. She looks around, paces back and forth, and then sits on the bench. A minute later, John Pierce saunters down the left-hand flight of stairs and perches on the bench beside Lady Alexandra. Gas light from the terrace shines on his sandy hair and her piled blonde tresses, but their faces are in shadow, and they’re both dressed in dark clothes. This gives the eerie effect of two disembodied, featureless heads floating in the mist. Their voices are clearly audible.
“To what do I owe the honor of this meeting?” Pierce’s tone has a sarcastic edge.
“I just wanted to talk to you, John.” Lady Alexandra’s voice is softer, uncertain. “It’s been so long.”
“Two years, eight months, and five days since you told me it was over.”
I look at Hugh; he raises his eyebrows. We’re both surprised to learn that Pierce and Lady Alexandra were once a couple.
Lady Alexandra reaches toward Pierce. “You’re still bitter.” Her inflection mixes sympathy with reproach. “I’m sorry.”
Pierce slides farther away on the bench. “It’s a little late to pretend you care about my feelings.”
“Of course I care! We once meant everything to each other.”
“Once.” Pierce utters a hard laugh. “Until I introduced you to Gerald.”
We’re even more surprised that Lady Alexandra jilted Pierce in favor of Sir Gerald. Hugh whispers, “Why didn’t Sir Gerald tell us?”
I shake my head, disturbed to think that Sir Gerald deliberately withheld the fact.
“It wasn’t like that!” Lady Alexandra protests. “You and I had been growing apart before I met Gerald. It was just a matter of time until—”
“You’ve a talent for rewriting history,” Pierce says. “We were still engaged when you met Gerald, but you saw a chance to do better.”
Lady Alexandra’s head bows in apparent shame. “You make me sound so mercenary.”
“I’m just calling a spade a spade. You’ve never been in love with Gerald. All you wanted was his money and a title.”
“That’s not true!” Indignation raises Lady Alexandra’s voice.
“He’s never been in love with you either,” Pierce says. “All he wanted was a trophy, like those animals from his hunting trips. Neither of you mind hurting other people as long as you get what you want.”
His grudge against Lady Alexandra obviously extends to her husband; he’s not the loyal servant he seemed.
“John, I’m sorry I hurt you.” Lady Alexandra sounds plaintive, contrite. “It’s been weighing on my conscience all this time. I asked you to meet me so I could beg for your forgiveness.” She leans toward him and presses her lips to his cheek.
Pierce violently shakes her off. “Save the act for the stage. What is it you really want?”<
br />
Lady Alexandra’s manner undergoes a swift transformation. “All right. I’ll spell it out.” Her voice is harsh, imperious. “I want Robin back.”
“What are you talking about?” Pierce demands.
There’s a flurry of motion as she grasps the front of his coat. “Take me to wherever you’re hiding him. Let me bring him home.”
“But I haven’t got him.” Astonishment inflects Pierce’s voice.
“Please! I won’t tell Gerald. I just want my child!”
Pierce pulls away from Lady Alexandra and says in disbelief, “You think I kidnapped Robin.”
“John, you’ve punished Gerald and me enough—you’ve gotten your revenge. Now it’s time to give Robin back.”
“I didn’t kidnap Robin.” Pierce sounds offended by the very idea. “I don’t know where he is.”
I don’t know whether to believe him. His grudge is ample motive for the crime.
“You’d be smart to give Robin back before it’s too late.” Lady Alexandra’s manner turns hostile, aggressive. “Haven’t you figured out why Gerald hired those private detectives? It’s because he thinks someone in this house is responsible for the kidnapping.”
“Of course I figured that out.”
The suspects are onto us; they probably were from the start.
“But if Gerald thinks Lord Hugh and Miss Bain can find out who took Robin, then he’s fooling himself,” Pierce says. “They couldn’t find their own behinds in the dark.”
Hugh bristles at the insult.
“Even if they were competent, I’ve nothing to hide. I’m innocent.” Pierce’s shadowy hand points at Lady Alexandra. “But I’m not so sure about you.”
“What are you saying?” Her voice is cautious.
“Maybe you took Robin yourself.”
“How can you suggest that?”
“Don’t play ignorant,” Pierce says. “You never wanted children. You told me so when we were engaged.”
Lady Alexandra hurries to object. “But I changed my mind when I learned I was expecting.”
“You said children would interfere with your acting career. I think you got tired of playing the devoted mother and wanted to go back on stage, so you sent Robin away.”
A cry of indignation bursts from Lady Alexandra; she jumps to her feet. “I love Robin! All I want is to have him safe in my arms. How dare you?”
“But he couldn’t just disappear. There needed to be an explanation. So you pretended he’d been kidnapped.” Pierce rises, the better to throw her accusation back in her face. “The mother of the famous kidnapped baby—your best role.”
“You bastard!” Lady Alexandra flies at Pierce, beating him with her fists.
He grabs her wrists, forces them down. As she shrieks and fights him, he bends his head and kisses her. They struggle together. Then he shouts, releases her, and touches his mouth; she’s bitten him. As Lady Alexandra staggers away and runs up the stairs, Pierce mutters, “Bitch!” He stalks past us, then vanishes into the darkness of the garden.
“I’d say either of those two is a likelier culprit than Tristan,” Hugh says with smug satisfaction once they are both gone. “Either could have broken into your trunk and seen the photograph. Or it could have been Sir Gerald himself.” Hugh strides toward the house, calling over his shoulder, “I’m for bed. Have a good trip to Clerkenwell tomorrow.”
I’m disturbed to realize that whether Tristan is guilty or not—and whatever happened before the shooting—Tristan has come between Hugh and me. He’s a threat to more than just the future of our detective agency. Now I’m all the more afraid of finding my father. If it leads to proof that Tristan is responsible for Robin’s kidnapping and the murders, it could destroy my friendship with Hugh.
15
After breakfast the next morning, Mick carries my satchel out the front door of the mansion while I hobble on my crutch. My ankle is better today but still sore. I’ve requested a carriage to take me to Hampstead Heath station, and we wait for it under the columned portico. The weather is cloudy, and a cold drizzle chills me.
“Sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Mick asks.
“I’d rather you keep an eye on Hugh.”
Mick nods, then turns to greet someone who has come out of the mansion to hover near us. “Hullo, Lottie.” He says to me, “This is the nurse I was tellin’ you about.”
Lottie is perhaps sixteen years old, with light-brown hair cut in a fringe across her forehead and wound in a braided roll at the back. She wears a white apron over a gray frock, and her face is wholesome rather than pretty. She smiles at Mick, and her pink cheeks turn pinker. When Mick introduces me, she curtseys.
“I understand that you took care of Robin at night,” I say.
Before I can ask any questions, Lottie’s smile vanishes and her eyes take on a hunted look. “I’m not supposed to talk about Robin. I better go.” She scurries into the house.
“She’s hidin’ something,” Mick says. “I’ll keep after her, but I’d hate to get her in trouble.”
“Maybe I’ll find my father soon, and he’ll tell me something that will lead us to Robin, and we won’t need to get Lottie in trouble.” The new day has revived my hopes.
A carriage draws up. Mick helps me in, hands me my satchel, and says, “Good luck.”
When I board the train to Clerkenwell, I begin a journey that I’ve avoided for twenty-four years. Apprehension solidifies like a cold, malignant weight in my stomach. While the train rumbles toward London proper, the moist air congeals with smoke from the factories into fog so dense that I can’t see beyond the warehouses that border the tracks. I feel as if Hugh, Mick, and Mariner House are part of a world I only imagined.
When I emerge from the train at Clerkenwell station, the fog is saturated with a familiar smell—yeast and sugar from the breweries. Nostalgia pierces my heart. With my satchel in one hand, gripping the crutch with the other, I cross the Green—a misnamed long, paved expanse through which carriages and wagons roll. I recognize the Palladian structure of the Middlesex Sessions House and the pointed tower of St. James’s Church in the distance, but much else I see has altered since my childhood. Small ancient houses have given way to large, modern brick buildings. The cardboard factory has been replaced by a lodging house and tobacconist’s shop. Many clockmakers’, jewelers’, and cabinetmakers’ workshops are gone, their sites now occupied by warehouses, a glass company, and a saw manufacturer. A new establishment—the Red Star Coffee and Cocoa House—has sprung up next to the Crown Tavern, where my mother sent me to fetch my father on the day he went missing.
Since that day, so much has happened that I couldn’t have imagined then. The child I was wouldn’t have believed that eventually she would learn that Benjamin Bain wasn’t dead, that he was a suspect in one crime and a possible witness to another. Even less would she have believed that she would become a private detective hired to solve a famous kidnapping case.
I walk to the drinking fountain at the center of the Green. I once stood here to watch the thousands of people who gathered to hear speeches and demand reforms. I remember raucous shouting, lit torches, waving banners, and burning effigies. Now the Green is quiet on this foggy day, populated only by shoppers and tradesfolk. My memory of Clerkenwell is like a photograph that I tried to preserve by never returning, as though storing a fragile print between sheets of tissue paper. All these years, I’ve dreamt of returning home to happier times, and now I’m faced with the fact that it’s impossible. Too distraught to take photographs with my miniature camera, I walk through the Green, my head down, afraid that someone will recognize me even though I’ve grown up and many of my former neighbors must be dead. I try to convince myself that no matter what my father may or may not have done, I’ve nothing to be ashamed of. In Clerkenwell Close, my heart pounds as I near my family’s home.
Instead of the small terraced houses I recall, here are blocks of brick tenements. I’m like a girl in a fairy tale who’s found he
r way back to an enchanted land where she once lived, only to find the magic spell broken. All trace of my family, my past, has been obliterated.
I don’t know for certain where Ellen Casey’s body was found, although I have an idea. The day after my father disappeared, my mother and I walked along Farringdon Lane, looking for him. We passed a road construction site, and I saw a bouquet of flowers laid on a pile of earth. I went to pick it up, but my mother said, “Don’t touch that!” Now I find the site covered by buildings and railroad tracks. I picture a red-haired girl lying lifeless on the dirt. I feel as though by excavating the past, I’m betraying my father, but he instructed me to look for the truth.
How will I know when I see it?
Feeling faint and parched, I trudge back to the Green and enter the Red Star Coffee and Cocoa House. The room is fragrant with steam from the coffee urns. As I approach the counter, where two women are serving customers, a girl runs out from behind it and stops short of me. She’s about twelve years old, freckled, with red-gold braids and calm gray eyes. My heart stops.
It can’t be Ellen Casey, but the likeness is astounding.
One of the serving women comes to stand behind the girl. Her rusty hair is piled atop her head, her gray eyes are framed by crow’s-feet, and her freckled skin is chapped. Another chord of recognition strikes. I speak a name I didn’t know I remembered.
“Meg?”
Ellen Casey’s younger sister looks wary, then flabbergasted. “Sarah?”
Meg smiles, as if she too remembers how we used to dress up in costumes and my father would photograph us. Dismay immediately erases her smile, and she puts her arms protectively around the girl. No matter that we were once best friends; the memory of her dead sister is between us, personified by her daughter, who looks just like Ellen.
“I’m sorry,” is all I can think to say. Sorry for her loss, sorry for springing myself on her.
“There’s no need to apologize.” Meg’s voice still has the Irish lilt I remember. “You did nothing wrong.”
I feel worse, not relieved. She bears me no ill will, but she thinks my father is guilty.
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