Banquet of Lies

by Michelle Diener

  She shook her head. “We switched their focus to Goldfern. Hal Boots stopped watching Dervish’s house when he found out Dervish was away, and since he seemed so interested in Goldfern, I had the lads take up position there instead.”

  Jonathan’s mouth was full of bun, so he nodded for her to continue.

  “Firstly, it seems your butler dismissed one of your maids last night, and someone gave her a new job at Goldfern.”

  “What?” Jonathan swallowed the last of his bun down the wrong way and thumped himself on the chest to get his breath back. “Who did he dismiss?”

  “Someone called Mavis. The question is, who gave her the job at Goldfern?” Lady Durnham tapped her foot. “I thought you might have arranged it with Goldfern’s caretaker?” She gave him a quick look, and he shook his head.

  “Oh. Well, the girl isn’t saying—not that she’d have cause to tell my boys. They were lucky to get what they did out of her, pretending to collect the ash bins. I wonder who it was, then?” She took a sip of tea, then looked across at him again and leaned forward. “But that isn’t the exciting bit.”

  “It isn’t?” What on earth had been happening at Aldridge House? He’d only been gone a day.

  “Indeed.” Lady Durnham watched him now, and there was something in her face that made Jonathan sure this was about Madame Levéel. Not only that, he was sure Durnham had discussed Madame Levéel with his wife, discussed his unease at Jonathan’s relationship with his cook.

  “Your butler has been a busy man. As well as dismissing the scullery maid, he called round the constables from the Queen Square station and accused your cook of theft.”

  Jonathan thumped the plate back onto the table, petits fours forgotten. “What did he say she’d stolen?”

  “He went through her trunks while she was out and found some rather good jewelry there. He was certain it couldn’t be hers, and called the officers. According to one of your other maids, who is spitting mad at the arrest, which is why my lads got so much out of her, the constable said nothing like it had been reported stolen, but he took your cook in anyway. He’ll only release her to you.”

  Jonathan rubbed both hands over his cheeks, then shoved his fingers into his hair. From the way Lady Holliday looked at him when he finally dropped his arms, he guessed his hair was standing on end. “What the devil is Edgars up to?”

  Lady Durnham leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, and shrugged. “I suppose you’ll have to go home and find out.”

  He stood. “I came to tell Durnham that Greenway took the same boat as Dervish. He and Barrington had put a warning system in place for Miss Barrington’s safety in case Barrington was ever arrested. It went into effect when Barrington was killed, and all it took was the news of the break-in at Goldfern to send Greenway haring off. He’s gone to find Miss Barrington and bring her home.”

  “But he doesn’t know where she is, specifically?” Lady Holliday asked.

  Jonathan shook his head. “All he’s got is the Barringtons’ last address, same as Dervish.”

  “Daniel is usually the calmest, steadiest person I know.” Lady Holliday was looking into the distance, her hand fisted tight around a white handkerchief. “This case has him shaken up. If Miss Barrington is dead, he’ll feel he’s failed a good friend.”

  Watching her, Jonathan had a quick flash of insight.

  Lady Holliday and Dervish.

  Well, well, well.

  She tilted her head up to look at him, and there was quiet desperation in her eyes.

  “There’s still the mystery of who at Goldfern hired Mavis.” Lady Durnham played her fingers over her lips.

  “It could have been the caretaker at Goldfern House, Jones, or his wife. They probably know my staff—our houses are close enough to each other. They may have taken pity on Mavis.”

  Lady Durnham sighed. “That makes sense. A very practical explanation.”

  “Speaking of practical, it sounds as if I have some domestic issues to deal with.” Jonathan gave a bow of farewell. “Like getting my cook out of jail.”

  31

  “. . . And the little girl, all alone in the deep, cold wood, knew that the stallu needed a shadow to jump to, or he could never get close enough to her to kill her. So she put the small carving of a mouse her grandfather had given her upon the snow-covered ground. She shone her lantern so that the carving’s shadow was the only one touching the shadow of the tall old tree where the stallu was hiding.

  “And thinking she was a silly little girl, and forgetting that she had outwitted him so far, tricking him into leaving the village and following her out into the wood, the stallu slipped from the tree shadow to the mouse shadow. And just as he did, the little girl moved the lantern again so that the mouse shadow was by itself in the small clearing, surrounded by light.

  “The stallu was trapped. He couldn’t jump to anything else. Now the little girl had to move quickly—faster than she’d ever moved before—to give the stallu no time to attack. She shot out her hand and grabbed the mouse, snatching it up and holding it close to her chest. Its shadow disappeared, leaving the stallu with no shadow to cling to, surrounded by lamplight. With a shriek of rage and disappointment, the stallu vanished into nothing. And the little girl, lamp in one hand, small mouse carving in the other, began her long walk home.” Gigi’s voice was husky by the end of the tale.

  There was a long moment of silence.

  “Is that an old fireside tale from Lapland?” Gertrude asked at last.

  Gigi shook her head, finding it hard to speak again. “There are tales of stallu in Lapland—that’s where I learned of them—but no. This story is one I made up.”

  “So a stallu is someone evil who can use the shadows, become the shadows, and attack you?” Violet tightened her hold on her knees.

  “Yes, he can use the shadows, slip between them and take on another shape.” Gigi could bear the cold floor no longer and stood up, rubbing at her arms. She realized the men must have been listening in their cell, too, because only now that the tale was over could she hear them moving and murmuring to each other again.

  She gripped the bars of the door with her hands and accepted that she might have to spend the night here. At least she had good company.

  “When do you get out?” She released the bars and turned to Gertrude. “Or are you here for the night, too?”

  Gertrude shook her head. “We been in nearly a full day—since yesterday evening. They’ll let us out at shift change, round six o’clock.”

  “  ’Cause keeping us off the street for a day is a blow against crime.” Violet’s sarcasm was so bitter, Gigi could almost taste it. “We lose a day’s earnings, and a starving whore’s so much better for society than one who’s made enough for a crust of bread. Our kids are alone while we’re in here, and we have less money to feed ’em with. It’s a fine day’s work all round.”

  “How do they catch you?”

  She shrugged. “Hailing to clients or when we’re negotiating terms. Once caught me busy up against an alley wall. Gent’s John Thomas was already docked, right and proper. Does he get nicked? No. Only me. Didn’t get paid that time, neither.”

  “They do it once a day, at dusk, when we first come out. When people are still around to see ’em. Makes it look like they’re cleaning up the streets.” Bess spoke quietly. “But it’s just for form. We were the unlucky ones yesterday. Tonight it’ll be someone else.”

  Unlike Violet’s, her voice contained no bitterness—only resignation.

  From behind the door at the end of the passage Gigi heard the sound of voices, and Georges stood up, anticipation in every line of him.

  She leaned closer to him and lowered her voice. “What was your plan? I was so busy telling the story, I didn’t ask you.”

  Georges turned his face to hers, looking like the very devil himself, delightedly watching the world come to a bad end. “I took so long getting here because I had to find the duke. He was still at his club, playing cards.
Right through the night he played, and into the morning. But I hunted him down, and impressed upon him the urgency and importance of the situation, and he agreed to go home, bathe, change and eat a light repast, and then come here to get you out.”

  “But why did you stay, then? You didn’t need to get yourself locked in here with me.”

  Georges shook his head. “Though I impressed upon him the severity of the situation, the English nobility . . .” He puffed out a breath. “They are sometimes like the eels, no? They wiggle out of their responsibilities, unless it is clear the alternative is much more unpleasant. The duke, he will not stir himself unless his own comfort is compromised—he is far too lazy. But with the best chef he has ever had locked up, and the prospect of no good lunch or dinner, or any food at all of my standard until this matter is taken care of . . .” He smirked. “Well, then. I think I can safely say we can expect the duke at any moment.”

  Gertrude chuckled. An earthy, sexy chuckle that clung stubbornly to a few tattered scraps of innocence and happier days. “Monsieur Bee-say, you are a devil. The kind of devil a girl would be lucky to have on her side.”

  Georges smiled back and gave a deep bow. “Merci, madame.”

  A key scraped in the lock and the door opened. Gigi moved back a little, watching along with everyone else as Peterson and then Gilbert stepped through. Someone was behind them, but until they were a few steps into the passage, she didn’t see who it was.

  The shadow man. The dark, compact stranger who had followed her through the market this morning.

  The sight of him froze her. She moved her lips with difficulty. “Georges, please tell me that is not the duke.”

  “That is not the duke.” He frowned, then seemed to notice her fear. “This isn’t—?”

  “The stallu himself.”

  “You know this gent, Madame Levéel?” Gilbert was watching her with his sharp, clever eyes again, the broken light from the far window catching the red in his bushy sideburns. “Seems very keen to get you out o’ here and take you into his care.”

  “He’s the man who was standing on the corner as you drove me out of Chapel Street.” She took another step away from the bars. “The man who is trying to kill me.”

  “Yes, I thought I recognized him.” Gilbert turned sideways. “You were wearing a black coat earlier, but you’re the same man.” He tapped just under his left eye. “Never forget a face, me.”

  Gigi finally saw the shadow man properly for the first time. Well-made, clean-cut features, a pleasant face. Hiding in the shadow of earnest decency.

  “How did you find me here?” Gigi asked.

  “I’m afraid Lord Aldridge’s butler doesn’t like you very much.” The shadow man’s lips quirked at the edges. “He was only too happy to talk about how you got your comeuppance.”

  “Get his name and his office, Mr. Gilbert.” Gigi forced herself to retreat no further. She would not cower back. “There are sure to be men in Whitehall who will be very pleased with you if you do.”

  “Come now, Gilbert. Are you going to be bossed about by a suspected spy?” The shadow man clicked his tongue. “Manipulated by a pretty face?” Some of his ugliness leaked out from beneath the shadow cloak. His countenance had a twist to it, as if he were struggling to control his temper.

  Gilbert was a hard man to read. He was touchy. She couldn’t be sure if he’d rise to the shadow man’s taunts or turn against him for trying such an obvious ploy.

  “If I let you take her, it will only be on receipt of your name and office.” He crossed his arms. “And you’ll give me those details even if I don’t let you take her.” Gilbert’s voice had turned decidedly cool.

  “You’re insolent, Gilbert, and out of your league.” The shadow man drew himself up and stepped into Gilbert’s space.

  Gigi shivered at the ugly rage she saw in his face. Gilbert seemed to shrink back, and the shadow man sent her a sidelong look of triumph. “Hand her over now, or you will be lucky to work on the street watch.”

  Gigi forced herself to hold his gaze, and then Georges pushed forward in front of her. “You will have to go through me to get to her.” There was no give in his tone. She stepped to the side and saw the shadow man recoil at the sight of him.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Georges Bisset.” He spoke as if no further explanation were necessary.

  The shadow man turned away from them, his face tight. “You’re being played by a couple of Frenchies, Gilbert. I’m with the Foreign Office, and I am perfectly within my rights to demand you hand them over.”

  “Both of them?” Gilbert had straightened again, and his tone was sly. “What’s the Foreign Office charge against Monsieur Bisset? You never mentioned him when you came in.”

  The shadow man struggled to stay calm. “I didn’t know he was here then. But all right. Just the woman will do for now.” He narrowed his eyes at Georges. “What do you have him in for?”

  “Oh, Monsieur Bisset isn’t a prisoner. He requested to wait with Madame Levéel until she is released. Seems quite concerned for her welfare.”

  “Not a . . .” The shadow man took a nervous step back.

  “That’s right. He’s within his rights to follow you out of here if you take his friend, and I don’t think you’d be easily rid of him.” Gilbert seemed to be enjoying himself, pitting two men he clearly did not like against each other. “Now, before we go any further, your name and office, please, sir.”

  The shadow man hesitated, then shrugged. “John Miller, Department of Foreign Trade.”

  “Well now, that was easy wasn’t it?” Gilbert jerked his head at Peterson. “Run down to the Department of Foreign Trade and ask after a John Miller. Be sure to get a physical description.”

  For a moment, in the space of the blink of an eye, she saw the shadow man’s face blanch.

  “You calling me a liar?” Miller, if that was his name—and Gigi doubted it—leaned into Gilbert again.

  And just like that, she could see he was desperate. He reeked of it.

  Coming here, openly trying to pry her from Gilbert’s grasp, was a desperate act. Even if he never gave his true name, his face had been seen. If he did manage to bully Gilbert into giving her to him, Gilbert would remember him. Remember everything if her body was found somewhere. And he hadn’t even factored in Georges.

  That would have come as a nasty shock.

  Georges was someone who would cause a fuss about his taking her, demand a search, hunt him down in whatever department he occupied in the Foreign Office, under whatever name, and point the finger.

  She wondered why he was taking the chance.

  Either it was critical that there be no delay in getting the letter, or the shadow man’s cohorts did not accept failure.

  By coming into the station he’d put his career in jeopardy, and if he were caught, he’d hang. She could only imagine they’d threatened him with a painful and more immediate death if he did not succeed.

  Whether it was the French, or some faction of the Russian court, they would make him wish he was dead before they killed him—and if he hadn’t thought of that before he took on their dirty work, he must surely be thinking of it now.

  Peterson gave a nod and left the room, and Miller looked after him. Gigi couldn’t see his face.

  “Just good procedure; I’m sure you understand.” Gilbert spoke gravely, stroking his left sideburn with one finger.

  Miller rallied, gave a cool smile. “Well, while he checks it, perhaps you can release the woman to me and get the paperwork sorted.”

  He would grab her and run, the moment she was within his reach. She could see it in the way he began to ready himself for a fight, tensing, his expression going still and flat, his arms loosening.

  A commotion from the front office froze Gilbert’s reply, and they all turned.

  “Where is my chef?”

  The man at the end of the passage was tall, elegantly dressed and slouched against the doorframe. He looked in his
early thirties, and there was a dissolute charm and slightly seedy handsomeness to him that he wore with careless arrogance. He had dark circles under his eyes, and when he walked forward, Gigi got the sense he was not quite sober.

  “Now that,” said Georges, “is the duke.”

  32

  As Jonathan’s coach drove swiftly toward Queen Square Public Office, he cursed Edgars.

  She’d been willing to tell him her secrets yesterday morning, he was sure of it. The way she’d nodded to him in the kitchen doorway had spoken of a decision made, no matter the consequences.

  The thought that she had been so close to trusting him, only to have her come to harm under his own roof . . .

  Damn Edgars!

  The coach pulled up outside the building and he told the driver to wait, not knowing how long he’d be inside. He pushed through the door hard, and it took him until he was halfway across the main reception area to realize everyone’s attention was on an elegantly dressed man propped up in a doorway at the back of the room.

  The man had his back turned, looking down a passageway, but Jonathan knew him immediately.

  The Duke of Wittaker.

  When they’d had their shouting match in the duke’s kitchen, Georges Bisset had promised to take Madame Levéel back to Wittaker’s mansion. And here Wittaker was—the duke had stirred himself to fetch her personally.

  With a sinking dread that slowed every new step he took, he thought of the threat he’d made to Bisset that day, about calling the Alien Office to investigate, and wondered if Bisset thought he was behind this arrest.

  If the burly cook had convinced Madame Levéel that he was, he might never see her again.

  “You’ve locked my chef up!” Wittaker’s voice rose to a shout. “On what charge, sir?”

  There was a murmur of response, and Wittaker took a step deeper into the room.

  A clerk jerked in surprise to see Jonathan standing right beside him. “Can I help you, my lord?”

  “I’m here to fetch my cook. I’m told you’re holding her here.”