Mistress of Lies

by Holly West

  “As quickly as is humanly possible, sir. You have my word.”

  The captain uttered one last harrumph and left the office. I stepped up to the clerk’s desk and introduced myself. “I have an inquiry,” I said. “I hope you’re not too busy to help me.”

  The clerk smirked and said, “Oh, pay no attention to Captain Arliss. I told him I was busy to get rid of him. Every time his ship comes in he’s got a complaint.”

  Knowing the corruption that existed in London, I didn’t doubt that Arliss had a valid objection. But this being none of my own concern, I kept the thought to myself.

  “I want to find out when a specific convict was transported to America.”

  “That’s an easy enough request, I’ll warrant. What’s the name of the ship?”

  “I don’t know. The only information I have is the name of the convict—Ann Sutton. And it’s likely that she would’ve been traveling with an infant.”

  The clerk frowned. “That does make it more difficult then, doesn’t it? Do you know when, approximately, she left?”

  “In the spring of 1666.”

  He chuckled, but there was no amusement behind it. “Lady Wilde, I certainly would like to help you, but I’m no magician, am I? What you ask is impossible. Ships aren’t listed by the name of the convict, they’re listed by the name of the ship and the date it sailed. ‘Twill take me all afternoon to find it, if it’s even there at all. We lost a good deal of our records in the fire.”

  This, it seemed, would be my answer at every turn. “Perhaps you’ll allow me to have a look then?” I asked, hoping that he’d be more amenable to the request than Mr. Turpin had been.

  “If searching for convicts is your ladyship’s notion of an afternoon well spent, then I’ll not stop you. You’ll find what you’re looking for in the library, just up those stairs.”

  The library was filled with bookshelves, cabinets and chests of drawers in no immediately discernible order. Any one of which could be holding the document I wanted. I breathed in a sigh. The smell of stale tobacco smoke and mildew hung in the damp air.

  “God’s blood,” I muttered. “I hardly know where to begin.”

  But it didn’t take me long to see that the most recent records were stored toward the front of the room and the older ones resided in cabinets at the back. Only two cabinets were dedicated to records dated prior to 1666, which told me that most of those that had been recorded prior to the fire had indeed been lost.

  The individual documents were leather bound and shelved according to the date of departure from the Pool of London. The volume marked January-June 1666 was thinner than some of the others I’d seen, which further dashed my hope. Nevertheless, I pulled it off of the shelf and laid it on top of a cabinet so that I could examine it.

  I was pleased to see that there were plenty of documents pertaining to ships that had docked in the early months of 1666. I paged forward to the month I thought she would’ve left—April 1666—but a quick perusal of both April and May showed no mention of Ann Sutton. Since I had no idea of when she’d actually sailed, I went all the way back to January and carefully read each page. Finally, I saw something of interest that I’d missed in my first hasty look. The manifest for a ship called the Carolina, which set sail on 28 April, listed a female passenger named Ann Sutton.

  “Charlotte!” I said, startling her. “I think I found her! There’s no mention of Susanna, but directly below Ann’s name is that of an infant named Kitty Sutton. That’s what Tom called the girl, Kitty. It has to be her daughter.” Then my eyes slipped down the page and I saw another familiar name. I gasped.

  She hurried over to me. “What is it?”

  “Tom Clarke was on board that ship too.”

  “Were they traveling together?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. His name is listed a few lines below hers, not directly after.”

  “It’s possible they met on board, after the ship sailed.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t suppose it’s a coincidence,” Charlotte said. “How many children, let alone infants, would’ve traveled to America with their convict mothers during that time?”

  “Ann Sutton isn’t listed as a convict,” I said, reading the record again. “This ship doesn’t appear to have transported any.”

  “D’ye think they’re just not listed as such?”

  “I suppose it’s possible. But all the other manifests I’ve seen today make the distinction.”

  I realized that the circumstances of Ann Sutton’s voyage to America no longer mattered. I had the information I’d been after: Susanna wasn’t the girl’s name and she wasn’t Adam’s daughter. In all likelihood he’d never even married. Lucian had been right. It had been a trick all along.

  The discovery made me angry, of course. But I also felt a bit forlorn, as though I’d lost something important.

  There were footsteps on the stairs and a moment later, the clerk appeared on the landing. “Now then, did you find what you were searching for?”

  “I did, thank you. Do you have a pen and paper I could use?”

  “I’m not an ink seller, m’lady.”

  “Mind your manners with Lady Wilde,” Charlotte said, unexpectedly bold.

  The man gave her a tired look. “I just came up to tell you that I’ll be closing up soon. So if you’ve got what you need, I’d just as soon you be on your way.”

  I smiled and gave Charlotte a subtle nudge with my arm. “Of course, sir. Just give us a moment and we’ll be right down.”

  When the man was gone I said, “Keep an eye out.” I carefully tore the page bearing Ann Sutton’s name out of the book.

  “Aye,” Charlotte said. “Good idea, that.”

  I folded it in fours and tucked it into the top of my bodice. I might need the information later.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sam returned home shortly after I did, looking as disappointed as I felt.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve had any luck,” I said.

  “Not only that, nobody I spoke with even knew Tom Clarke was back in England. For whatever reason, he’s keeping himself scarce.”

  “He seemed friendly with some of the bystanders at the Bear Garden last night. Did you see him inside?”

  “The first time I saw him was during his fight with Lucian. What about you? Did you learn anything?”

  I removed the ship’s manifest from my bosom and unfolded it. I read him the names.

  “Well, then. That explains what happened to Tom Clarke ten years ago,” he said.

  “It also proves that Susanna Barber is a fake. Her real name is Kitty Sutton. My guess is that Tom Clarke is her father and that for some reason, he’s put her up to this ruse. The only question is, why approach me? For money? Surely they could’ve found a better victim if that’s their goal.”

  “I don’t think the choice was random, Isabel. Tom must’ve been acquainted with Adam in some way, even if it was just through Ann Sutton.”

  “So you think Adam married her?”

  “Not necessarily. Perhaps they were lovers, or even just friends. She could’ve told Tom about Adam and his family. Your association with the king is no secret, remember. Tom might’ve learned about it and decided it would be worth a trip across the ocean to get to know you—and your purse, of course.”

  “But by all accounts, he left England twelve years ago and hasn’t been back since. Why wait until now?”

  Sam shrugged. “For that, I’ve no answer.”

  Still, what he said made sense. Somehow, it seemed, Adam, Ann and Clarke were associated, which led Clarke back to England and to me.

  “Do you remember the circumstances of Tom Clarke leaving for America?” I asked.

  “I only really knew him by reputation. It took seeing him
again to remind me he existed at all.”

  “And you don’t remember a woman named Ann Sutton?”

  He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “‘Fraid not.”

  “Wait here a moment.” I went upstairs to retrieved Adam’s valise and brought it downstairs to my office, where I opened it up and reexamined its contents alongside Sam. The paper bearing Benjamin Stowe’s name and address was on top.

  “What does Benjamin Stowe have to do with this?” Sam asked when I pointed it out.

  “Do you know him?” I said.

  “He used to be friends with Tom Clarke. A couple of scheming devils, they were.”

  It was hard to believe that Benjamin Stowe, now Lord Mayor of London and among the richest men in England, had ever associated with the likes of Tom Clarke. I said as much to Sam.

  “He’s done a fine job of building himself into a respectable man, but it wasn’t so many years ago that he was just as crooked as Clarke was. Their specialty was the recovering of stolen property and collecting the reward, but it was them who stole it in the first place.”

  “Stowe is the link between Adam and Tom Clarke,” I said with excitement. “If Clarke was friends with Stowe, and Stowe was acquainted with Adam—this address proves they knew each other—then it stands to reason that Tom Clarke and Adam were acquainted as well, don’t you think?”

  Sam regarded me dubiously. “You’re not suggesting Adam was involved in criminal activity?”

  “No, of course not! But I think that Adam and Clarke met at some point, probably through Stowe.”

  “You might be right about that.”

  “It’s quite possible that Clarke has been in contact with Stowe since he returned from America. He might know where to find him.”

  “Indeed,” Sam said. “I wouldn’t be surprised at all to hear that Clarke had gotten in touch with Stowe, if only to blackmail him.”

  I peered out the window. It was nearing four o’clock and the sky was growing dark. “I reckon it’s not too late for a visit to Stowe’s warehouse. Care to join me?”

  * * *

  Stowe’s warehouse was a large building located on a private wharf on the east side of London’s port, just west of the Tower.

  Even this late in the afternoon, the area was bustling. The coal dust blackened the air with little gray puffs as workers hefted large pallets from the decks of a docked ship, eager to finish the day’s work before darkness fell. A manager directed them, yelling out orders and showing them to various bays within the warehouse.

  We entered a small office situated to the right of the building. A harried man sitting behind a lone desk regarded me over his spectacles. “Yes?”

  “I’m Lady Wilde. I’d like to speak with Mr. Stowe. Is he here?”

  “You and everybody else, m’lady. I’m Mr. Dunn, his secretary. You’ll have to settle for me.”

  “I’m not certain you can help. This is a personal matter, not pertaining to business.”

  “Mr. Stowe is a very busy man. He hasn’t time to see everyone who has a mind to do it.”

  As if to demonstrate the point, a porter came in and asked for Stowe.

  “It’ll have to wait until tomorrow, Russell,” Dunn said. “If you have a problem, take it to Mr. Brubaker.” He returned his attention to me. “You’ll have better luck if you make an appointment, m’lady, but he won’t be to see anyone for a couple of days, at least.”

  Since there seemed no chance of seeing Stowe that afternoon, I decided to “settle” for Dunn, as he’d advised. “Perhaps you can be of some help, Mr. Dunn,” I said, sweetening my tone. “A mutual friend of Mr. Stowe and mine has recently returned to London after a long absence. I was wondering if he’d been in to see Mr. Stowe, and if so, where I might find him.”

  “Mr. Stowe receives many visitors. You’ll have to be more specific.”

  “His name is Tom Clarke. He might’ve been in the company of a young girl.”

  “I can assure you that no one by that name has been in, with or without a child.”

  “Could you just check Mr. Stowe’s appointment ledger to make certain? It might’ve been weeks ago. I don’t mind waiting.”

  Dunn laid his quill on the desk and interlaced his fingers. “As much as I appreciate your patience, Lady Wilde, it should be obvious to you that I’ve no time for such a task. I suggest you make an appointment with Mr. Stowe and ask him yourself.” He took up the quill again. “Now, shall I write your name in?”

  “Yes,” I said, setting my teeth. “That will be fine.”

  He paged through the book, shaking his head now and then as though there was little chance I’d ever get in to see his employer. Finally, he said, “Here we are. Mr. Stowe is available to see you on Monday at two in the afternoon.”

  That was four days from now. “That’s the soonest?”

  Dunn sighed by way of reply.

  I need not wait for my appointed meeting time. The location of Benjamin Stowe’s current residence was no secret. His home in Piccadilly was one of London’s grandest and well known for the rumored expense it took to build it—nearly forty thousand pounds. The sum could’ve easily fed one hundred or more English families for a lifetime.

  But going to his house seemed risky. Having never met him in person, I had only the gruff picture of him painted by his stalwart secretary, Mr. Dunn. Well, that and Sam’s portrayal of him as a former criminal who might still be inclined in that direction, especially if he felt threatened. He didn’t seem like the sort of man who’d welcome a stranger on his doorstep, demanding information about his unsavory past. At the very least he’d have a guard, and Sam and I would have trouble getting past him. But none of that mattered. Stowe now seemed the person who could most help me and I needed to see him as soon as possible. I would go tonight, after the supper hour had ended, when he’d be pleasantly full, perhaps a little drunk and hopefully, talkative.

  “Yes,” I said, smiling at Dunn. “Tell Mr. Stowe I’ll see him on Monday.”

  * * *

  Of course, one’s carefully laid plans were sometimes subject to change, particularly when other more pressing matters cropped up. Before we left for Benjamin Stowe’s house that night, Elijah approached me, holding something in his hand.

  “I found this in the pocket of your brother’s jacket, my lady.” He handed me a small, flat object that appeared to be a miniature painting. Such portraits were treasured keepsakes, given to loved ones and kept close to the heart. I assumed it was the one I’d given Adam of myself shortly after I’d turned sixteen. It raised my spirits to think that he’d kept it in his pocket after I left for Amsterdam, despite the terrible quarrel we’d had before I left.

  But when I turned it over I found that I was wrong. There, staring back at me from the delicate frame, was Sir Richard Winser’s daughter, Margaret.

  “Who is it, my lady?” Charlotte asked, peeking over my shoulder.

  I didn’t reply. I was too mesmerized by the picture of my long dead friend. A lump rose in my throat. She’d been so young and pretty. But I couldn’t let sentimentality pull me away from the real question: What had Adam been doing with a miniature portrait of Margaret Winser?

  Chapter Fifteen

  As I’d expected, Sir Richard Winser’s shop was closed by the time I arrived. The windows were dark and the jewelry and other items that had been displayed during the day had been removed to ensure they wouldn’t be stolen.

  I asked Sam to remain downstairs with Elijah and went upstairs to the apartments Sir Richard stayed in during the week, when he wasn’t in residence at Bingley House. Wilson opened the door and smiled politely.

  “Good evening, Lady Wilde. Lovely to see you. Won’t you please come in? Sir Richard has just finished his supper.”

  He showed me into the drawing room, where Si
r Richard was sitting with a glass of port and a book. An impressive fire roared in the fireplace, illuminating the room’s masculine decor.

  “Lady Wilde is here to see you, my lord,” Wilson said.

  Sir Richard glanced up from his book and moved his spectacles to the top of his head. He beamed. “Two visits in one week, Isabel? I am indeed a fortunate man. Have you eaten? Sit down, Wilson will prepare a plate for you.”

  “That won’t be necessary, thank you,” I said, taking the proffered seat. Tonight, his usual friendliness made me uneasy. I had in my pocket evidence that Margaret and Adam might’ve been in love. At the very least, Adam’s possession of the portrait hinted that their relationship had been deeper than I’d ever guessed.

  Adam, Lucian and I had lived with Margaret and Sir Richard’s son, James, for four years at Bingley House. Certainly a fondness developed between the five of us during that time, and in the case of James and me, a brief, if immature, romance. But Adam and Margaret had never gotten along particularly well—he was older and serious, even in his youth. He thought her to be rather silly and she looked upon him as though he were a stuffy old man. They’d never seemed to pay each other very much mind.

  Was it possible that there had been an attraction behind their seeming disregard for each other?

  I took Margaret’s portrait out of my pocket and passed it over to him. “I found this with Adam’s things.”

  He put on his spectacles and examined the picture. The expression in his eyes softened when he realized who it was.

  “My dear Margaret,” he said softly.

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Have you seen it before?”

  “Not that I recall. You say it was with Adam’s things?”

  “Yes. I only just discovered it in the pocket of one of his jackets. I might’ve never found it at all hadn’t given it to my coachman to wear. What do you think Adam was doing with it?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  I cocked my head. “I’ll tell you what I think, Sir Richard. I think Margaret gave it to him.”