Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 0]

by The Spy

  Underneath and out of sight, her fingertips encountered a loose thread. “Ah, yes.” She reached further and discovered several more. Then she found it. A slit in the damask, as straight as a razor’s cut. Only the dangling threads had alerted her.

  The sofa was raised on turned legs of undistinguished wood. She rolled onto her back and stuck her head under in order to see the hole. The slit was large enough to slip her entire hand into. She did so, feeling upward for that promising crackle.

  Beneath the sofa abounded rolls of dust. “Mr. Stubbs, you’ve been neglecting your duties,” she murmured, fighting back a sneeze.

  “I’ll be sure to tell him for you,” rasped a voice from above her. “For I doubt you’ll be seeing him again.”

  Bloody thieving-traitor hell. She ought to have realized that the reason Jackham’s office had been unlocked was that Jackham was still in the club.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Phillipa’s room was empty. Her bed stood untouched with her nightgown laid carefully across the pillow and her only two dresses hung from the pegs on the wall. James stood in the middle of the silent room, too stunned even to curse.

  He’d come to talk to her—in all honesty, to touch her, talk to her. He had found only this. She was abroad in the middle of the night, dressed as Phillip, for some hidden reason of her own.

  He tested his emotions. He felt no suspicion. No doubt.

  Only worry.

  He went back out into the hall. His candle guttered in a draft. When he shielded it automatically with one hand, it cast a shadow down the hall toward the hidden door to the outer club. In that shadow shone a narrow but unmistakable line of candlelight from the other side.

  Upon investigating, he discovered the door propped open very slightly. On the public side, Jackham’s office was open and lit from within.

  James entered carefully, but there was no one there. What he did find were obvious signs of struggle. Ledgers were knocked from the desk. The sofa was out of place and the cushions were scattered.

  He knelt to retrieve a toppled candlestick from the floor before the flame had the opportunity to ignite the entire club. The candlestick was the dented one from Phillipa’s room—on its side, the small puddle of wax beneath it was still warm. The scuffle had not been long ago.

  James walked around the back of the sofa, pondering what it all meant. Why pulled out, into the room? A fight in the room might possibly push it askew, or to one side, but it was obvious the piece had been pulled out apurpose.

  Dark apprehension twined through him. Phillipa had been here, he had no doubt. What had she been doing? Where was she now?

  As his gaze traveled downward, James spotted a small white triangle protruding from beneath the sofa. Sofas did not ordinarily come stuffed with paper.

  He bent to retrieve it carefully, feeling beneath as he pulled. Several sheets came with it. James went to his knees to investigate further and found more items stuffed within. Pulling them out, he moved to the desk to look them over by the light of the two candles.

  One was a message, threatening and vicious. “Remember, thief, who they will blame!” Another, cajoling. “You thought the payment generous when you gave me the first list of names.”

  More of the same, many of them. And all, even when read in shaking hands by the light of guttering candles, unmistakably in the florid and looping script from the hand of Lady Lavinia Winchell. The same hand that had written the other letters, the twisted sexual messages that James now began to suspect had been meant expressly for him.

  And at the bottom of the stack of evidence now in James’s hands lay a confession. “If you are reading this, Simon, I am likely dead. Being as how Lady Winchell probably killed me, I hereby make full confession so I can take the evil bitch along with me to hell.”

  It went on to tell a tale of betrayal and regret that made James’s chest burn with mingled revulsion and sympathy.

  Jackham. The limping man.

  He had known deep down that something was not right within Jackham. Simon had rescued the man from his life on the streets and had given him a position of responsibility within his club, yet had never taken Jackham into the inner circle.

  For that matter, neither had James. He’d been more than willing to consider Phillip as a recruit, but he had always been careful to keep his cover intact around Jackham.

  Jackham.

  For a moment, James sat quite still, too stunned by the implications to react.

  It was not I who betrayed the Liars.

  James nearly dropped the documents, so great was the weight that rose from him. I betrayed no one. And with that, the veil of darkness and guilt rose from his vision. He saw it all so clearly.

  That was why Lavinia had imprisoned him on that boat. Because she couldn‘t break him.

  How had she bought Jackham? Was it the man’s lifelong weakness for diamonds?

  All the while James had searched for evidence, or a single witness, there Jackham had stood, watching him. Slow fury twined through him. Then he remembered.

  Phillipa.

  With horror, he realized what she had been doing in Jackham’s office in the dark of night. She’d known somehow, had cleverly discerned what the most experienced Liars had been blind to and she had been searching for evidence.

  Why hadn’t she simply come to him? Why hadn’t she come forward with her suspicions—

  Because he would never have believed her and she’d known it. Pain knotted in James’s chest. His mistrust had sent her into danger.

  And now Jackham had Phillipa.

  • • •

  Standing before the club, James dug in his pockets for coins. ‘Take this to Etheridge House.” The boy nodded and ran off down the street, one fist clutching the message, the other wrapped tightly around the money. His feet made bird-wing sounds on the cobbles in the predawn quiet. James watched him run. He was a trustworthy lad used often as a messenger for the Liars, one of the many invisible street children of this district.

  It wouldn’t take long for Dalton to respond, or for Clara to come to care for Robbie. Still, James could scarcely bear the anxiety within him. Phillipa was in danger and he had no idea where to look for her.

  Except that he knew—all roads led back to Lavinia.

  Should he go to Lavinia’s now? Lavinia had been cunning enough to keep him imprisoned on a fishing boat. Surely she wouldn’t slip now and confine Phillipa in her own home, would she?

  Damn it, was he a spy or wasn’t he? Sudden certainty filled him, washing away the confusion and self-doubt of months. The brash anticipation and objectivity that had marked his past missions filled him once more.

  He nearly laughed out loud at the sheer relief of it.

  Hello, Griffin. You’ve been missed.

  He had decided to take a chance on invading Lavinia’s house when another child ran up to him.

  “Got a message for someone at this club, sir.”

  The boy was breathless and weary. Absently, James dug for more coins as the boy gasped out the message. “ ‘The limping man is headed west. The Scarlet Hart. The carrottop is with him.’ ”

  Feebles.

  ‘Thank you, God,” breathed James. Then he sat the boy down on the steps of the club. “A gentleman and a lady will be coming shortly. Tell them what you told me and you’ll get a full quid.”

  The child nodded and sat willingly. James eyed him. He didn’t know this lad. “The lady is very generous. Be sure to stay for her.” He hoped that would be enough to keep the boy, for he could bear to sit still no longer himself. Liar protocol required that he wait for reinforcements, but he couldn’t.

  With a last admonishment to the boy, James was off, hailing down the first hired carriage he saw. He should be close behind Feebles.

  If only Feebles didn’t lose Jackham again.

  Phillipa felt quite lost, for she didn’t know London well enough to recognize precisely where Jackham had brought her. They stood in an empty house in what had ap
peared to be a shabbily genteel area of town. Jackham held her by one arm, as he had all the way here. He might seem infirm with that limp of his, but there was nothing wrong with the strength in his hands.

  The other hand held a pistol, which had been more or less aimed at her brain since she’d looked up to see him standing over her in the club. Had it been an hour past? More?

  The danger she was in made it very hard to determine the passage of time, and the house had no clock.

  Nor any furniture at all. The place was an empty shell, as evidenced by the echoes produced by their shoes on the bare wood. Jackham’s single candle beat back the darkness enough to see that the room they stood in was likely a front parlor. Only heavy dark draperies remained over the windows, giving Phillipa the unpleasant impression that whatever took place in this empty house was never meant to be seen.

  Phillipa cleared her throat. “What are you waiting for?”

  Jackham didn’t speak. He didn’t even look at her.

  Now that was odd. Phillipa had not had a great deal of experience with villains, but she’d always imagined them a garrulous lot, determined to tell all before they did their victims in.

  Or perhaps she’d simply read too many tawdry novels.

  Finally, something else intruded on the silence that had begun to beat on Phillipa’s ears like a drum. A click and rattle signaled the opening of the front door. A rectangle of dawn light fell into the front hall, making Jackham’s candle dim.

  It was later than she’d realized. Soon someone would become aware that she was missing from the club. She only wished she could be sure that James would understand that she was in danger. Yet surely Agatha and Clara would see to a search being made?

  Hope threatened to shrink further at the realization that there was no way for them to find her. She was a mere ant in a teeming bill.

  And Lavinia stood smirking at her from the doorway.

  Another pub, another message from Feebles. James felt his heartbeat trying to speed the cabbie’s horse on its way. Faster. Onward.

  Every slackening in speed, every slow-moving milk cart that crossed their path, every moment seemed to stretch forever.

  Another pub. Another message. “West. The Black Lion.”

  He ought to wait for Dalton, who likely would bring others. He couldn’t.

  Phillipa.

  Faster.

  Lavinia flicked a finger at Phillipa’s shorn hair. Phillipa slid her eyes sideways. “I bite.”

  Lavinia snorted but stepped away, turning to Jackham who still had his pistol aimed brainward. “What could she know?”

  “She knew enough to search my office.” Jackham narrowed his eyes at Lavinia. “I hear she came to see you earlier. What did you tell her?”

  “Nothing. You know the bargain we struck. I cannot betray you without betraying myself, and vice versa.”

  Phillipa watched this byplay carefully. So the traitor mistrusted his mistress . . .

  “I imagine this is part of the business one seldom witnesses,” Phillipa said. “Although now that I think on it, it is quite logical. After all, if he will betray his friends, why would he hesitate to betray you? And you betrayed your own lover, so why would you halt at throwing Jackham to the wolves?”

  They turned to regard her with cold gazes. “You speak nonsense.” Lavinia seemed very assured, but Phillipa noticed that the woman cast a wary glance at Jackham.

  “Do I? Perhaps that is because it is obvious Mr. Jackham doesn’t trust you any more than he trusts me.”

  “Less,” Jackham said.

  Lavinia lifted her top lip in a feline snarl. “I paid you well for your contribution,” she said to him.

  “You lied to me.”

  She laughed. “And my story touched upon your patriotic core, did it? Odd, I thought it was the enormous amount of money I paid you that convinced you to betray them.”

  Phillipa blinked. “It was you?” She looked from Jackham to Lavinia. “I thought you drugged James—questioned him and tortured him into it.”

  Lavinia smiled and turned away. A man dressed in the Winchell livery entered the room, bent to whisper something in Lavinia’s ear, then straightened and left. Her driver, no doubt. The fact that Jackham held a gun on Phillipa made no apparent impression on the man. Astounding. Truly a sterling example of the serving class.

  Lavinia turned, her eyes shining. Oh, dear. Anything that brought this woman so much pleasure surely couldn’t be good.

  “It seems we have another guest. You must excuse me, Mr. Jackham. Perhaps you might show Miss Atwater to—to the roof. It is under repair, so there is access through the attic, with a view of the street as well. You can keep watch for other arrivals. Yes, that will do nicely. Sound travels a bit too well in an empty house.” She reached a hand as swift as a striking snake to take the pistol from Jackham. “You won’t be needing that. Now, I must freshen up.” With that, she sailed gracefully from the room.

  Phillipa watched her go with nearly hysterical wonder. Of course, it was always important to look one’s best when committing murder. Apparently, Phillipa still had much to learn about being a true lady. Pity she wasn’t going to have the time.

  James nearly fell out of the hired carriage at the final pub. The message waiting there gave an address, mere blocks from where he stood. Not bothering to talk the reluctant cabbie into another leg, he tossed the man a pound note and took off at a run.

  When he neared the house, he saw a fine carriage parked outside it. The Winchell crest shone boldly in the dawning light. Lavinia.

  Of course.

  A shadow moved to James’s right. He didn’t bother to turn his head. “What have you got?”

  “I was just comin’ in to report when I spotted the limping man—”

  “It’s Jackham.”

  There was an instant of silence from Feebles. “Cor,” he said. “That clears up the lot, don’t it?” Then he continued his report. “Jackham went in with your redheaded miss less than an hour past. She weren’t happy about it. The lady went in just a few minutes ago. I think her coachman might have spotted me, for he lit off into the house.”

  “Ah.” He was expected. “Time to dispense with stealth. I’ve not the patience for it anyway.”

  He stepped out onto the cobbles, bypassing the coach and the returning coachman without a glance. He flung open the door and marched inside.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Jackham pushed open a small door at the top of the stairs and dragged Phillipa from her brief clinging grip on the jamb. Then she clung to Jackham. Struggling now was out of the question. They teetered on the sloping roof next to the gable for a moment, then Jackham hauled her higher.

  Suddenly level surface was under her feet and she was able to stand securely. She managed to ease her grip on Jackham’s sleeve, and finally even to open her eyes.

  She shut them again at once.

  The house was in an older style, large and square and flat on top. There were houses to the right and left, though she didn’t stand much possibility of being spotted since they were both smaller than this one. There was a large overgrown garden in the back but no trees grew close to the walls.

  Jackham released her once she’d caught her balance. He had no reason not to, for he stood between her and the door. That way lay only Lavinia and the pistol, anyway.

  Phillipa scuttled closer to one edge of the roof. The house was four floors in all, she knew from the flights of stairs she’d just been dragged up. She peered over the edge. The view made her sink to her knees to resist the odd pull that heights exerted on her.

  Who would have thought four little stories would put one so high?

  Yet such a height would not bother Robbie at all. If she were Robbie, she would be looking for drainpipes or trellises.

  There was a lovely wide ledge beneath the top story, perhaps a dozen feet below her.

  “Forget it,” came a raspy voice from behind her. Phillipa scuttled back from the edge, out of push-over
range. Jackham stood over her, arms folded.

  “You might land on the ledge . . . and then you might not. I know for a fact that three stories isn’t far enough to kill you for sure. Four? Can’t say. Depends on how you land. On your head, you get a nice casket and some flowers. Land on your feet like me, you might die, if you’re lucky. If you’re not, you’ll walk every step for the rest of your life in pain.” His voice was matter-of-fact as he gazed fearlessly over the edge. Phillipa guessed that he didn’t have much to fear, having already suffered the worst.

  Avoiding him, Phillipa moved back to the center of the roof and crouched next to the chimney, cold though it was. At least it wasn’t whirling in her vision. She tried to think of some way, any way, out of her predicament that didn’t involve vertical descent.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t think of a bloody thing.

  James found Lavinia waiting in the only room of the house to contain furnishings. That is, if one could call a gigantic bed and a single dressing table furnishings.

  The house must be one of her rendezvous points. Rented with treason money and kept for business and apparently pleasure. Only this room was decorated.

  Lavinia ornamented it beautifully, for she lay sprawled wantonly on the bed clad in nothing but a chemise trimmed in Brussels lace. Of course she would have black-market underthings. It made perfect sense.

  She had never been more beautiful. Her hair was artfully tousled and not a red-blooded man in England would have had the power of speech in the presence of that half-nude body. “Have you come to serve me as you used to?” she said. “Or shall I be your—what was it now?—your harem dancer?” She smiled at him and trailed her fingertips across her décolletage.

  James gazed at the bed hangings. “Give it a rest, Vinnie. I’ve come for Phillipa. I know she’s here.”

  “Do you now? And why would she be visiting me again, when she just came to see me yesterday?”

  His surprise must have shown for she smiled in a feline fashion. “Didn’t you know? Not that you would likely care, I’m sure. She’s an odd creature, isn’t she? Almost—boyish?