by Holly West
“How do you mean, different?” I asked.
“He wore a wig, for one thing—Adam never did, that I could recall. And he was quite thin, almost sickly looking. Much thinner than I remember Adam being. But nevertheless, before I caught myself, I referred to him as Adam. He corrected me—said his name was Sutton—I don’t recall his first name. And of course it was impossible that it would be your brother. Sir Richard had told me that he had died during that summer.”
I caught my breath when he uttered the name Sutton. It was the surname Margaret Winser had been using all these years. I wondered if they’d been afraid that Sir Richard would find out they’d married illegally and have them prosecuted.
More important, however, if the man who’d come to Wheeler’s shop was indeed Adam, it meant that he’d lived nearly six months longer than I had believed. Good God, I thought. Might he even still be alive?
“Did you ever see this man, Sutton, again?” I asked, trying to keep myself steady.
“Just that one time,” Wheeler said. “I exchanged the banknote without further question and he went on his way. But the event stayed with me, so much so that when next I saw Sir Richard, I mentioned it to him. He was doubtful, to say the least. As I said, he was convinced Adam had died months before that. When I showed him the note, he said that nothing appeared to be wrong with it—it was indeed Adam’s signature. It was issued in July 1665 and he thought Adam must’ve written it up shortly before he died. Sir Richard exchanged the note for gold and that was the end of it.”
“Did you ever question the authenticity of the note?” I asked.
“Why would I? I’d done business with Sir Richard for years. No one would think twice about exchanging a note signed by either him or Adam.”
Had it been a valid note? If so, why would Adam try to cash it whilst in disguise? And if it had been false, why would Sir Richard exchange it? Had it even fooled him? If so, had he ever learned of the deception? How would he have reacted if he had?
“How did Sir Richard’s business fare during the plague?”
“He never gave any indication that there’d been a problem. Most bankers’ investments remained intact, in spite of the devastation.”
“Would you have known there was a problem, even if he didn’t tell you?”
He crossed his arms and rested them on his ample belly. “I think I would have. Lady Wilde, may I ask why you’re so curious about Sir Richard’s financial details?”
Wheeler was a rather jovial fellow, not unlike Sir Richard in his temperament. But there seemed a point beyond which these goldsmith bankers would not freely give information. Whether it was simply a reluctance to discuss their colleagues’ business or another, more nefarious reason, I couldn’t say. But Wheeler had been forthcoming thus far and I didn’t wish to annoy him. I might need him later.
“I suppose I’m just surprised that everyone’s finances survived the pestilence,” I said.
“Why should you be surprised?” he said. “The system is quite stable. Has been for years. You’ve no need to worry about it.”
I thanked Wheeler for the information he’d given me. It had indeed been an enlightening afternoon.
* * *
Thankfully, Susanna was still asleep when I got home. I needed to tell Sam about what I’d learned from Adam Wheeler without having to worry about her. I ushered him into my office and closed the door behind us.
“I hate to think that Adam was involved in anything illegal,” I said, finishing the tale. “But if he was murdered because he’d been dishonest, so be it. I need to know, however painful it might be.”
“What do you think he was doing?” Sam asked.
“I think he was forging banknotes.”
“How could he get away with that?”
“Simple. The note was issued to someone who died, with no actual deposit of gold made. In this case, he was essentially issuing banknotes to himself, with nothing behind it. He used the note to purchase goods—say wood or coal, maybe from Benjamin Stowe—then sold off the merchandise for gold or another banknote he could exchange for gold by another goldsmith banker.”
“But how would he be certain the person would die?”
It was a good question. I thought about it for a moment.
“He wouldn’t be certain,” I finally said. “But what if he chose people who had already died? All that would be necessary would be to date the note before their death.”
It was troubling to think that Adam might’ve been engaging in such a horrid scheme. It might’ve even explained why he’d started using the name Sutton. There was, of course, no hard evidence that the man Andrew Wheeler met in his shop that day in December 1665 was my brother. But it seemed too much of a coincidence that someone who so strongly resembled Adam was using the name Sutton, the same name Margaret, who I now knew to be his wife, had been using. I suspected that he and Margaret started using aliases well before Margaret left for America. I still wasn’t absolutely certain what business Adam was engaged in, but whatever it was, he didn’t just fear being prosecuted for having a clandestine marriage. He was afraid of someone—or hiding something—and whatever it was had probably gotten him murdered.
There was a knock on the door and Charlotte entered. “I’m sorry for interrupting, my lady, but Susanna is awake. She’s asking for you.”
I found her curled up on Charlotte’s bed, looking miserable. I sat down next to her and gave her hair a stroke. She didn’t seem to mind it.
“What’s the matter, Susanna?” I asked.
“I miss my mother,” she said. “I want to go home.”
“I know you do, darling. But that’s not possible.”
She knit her eyebrows together. “It is! Tom will take me back.”
Should I remind her that even if she returned to America, her mother wouldn’t be there? It seemed like such a cruel thing to say. “Perhaps he’ll take you back if you ask him to. But I’ve only just gotten to know you. Wouldn’t you like to stay here with me for a little while longer?”
She appeared genuinely conflicted and I felt guilty for manipulating her emotions. “Yes, my lady. You and Charlotte and Alice are very nice. And I would like to meet my uncle Lucian.”
“Then I shall send him an invitation to supper tonight. Would you like that?”
“Oh yes.”
I didn’t notice the handkerchief in her hand until she held it to her nose and blew into it. It was the same one I’d found in Adam’s valise.
“Where did you get that?” I asked.
Her cheeks turned red and she inhaled audibly. “It was—it belonged to my mother.”
“You brought it with you from America?”
“Yes, my lady.”
I didn’t press the issue, but I wondered if it had been Tom Clarke who’d stolen Adam’s bag. Perhaps it wasn’t exactly the same handkerchief. It was possible that there were two, sold as a set, and Adam had retained one. Still, her possession of this handkerchief didn’t sit well with me.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
As promised, I invited Lucian to supper that night.
At first, he wasn’t certain he wanted to meet Susanna, despite the promise of a free meal. “You’ve still got no proof she’s Adam’s daughter,” he declared. “It’s like I said—she and this Tom Clarke fellow probably cooked up a scheme to get a few pounds off of you.”
“I’d be inclined to believe you,” I said, “except that I’ve now got proof that Adam married Margaret Winser and they had a child.”
His eyes went wide as I gave him a full account of my activities of the previous few days.
“God’s blood, Isabel. You’re only just telling me this now?”
“I had to be sure.” I went on to tell him what I’d learned, thus far, about Adam and Margaret, while he listened,
mouth agape. “But now that I’m convinced that Susanna is our niece, I think it’s time the two of you were introduced.”
He arrived at the appointed time of eight o’clock, dapper and charming, and I could see at once that he enchanted Susanna. Lucian had that effect on most females, whether they were young girls, wizened old women or something in between.
I’d warned him to mind his manners, and for the most part, he complied. But at one point during the meal, he said, “My, but you do resemble your mother.”
I stopped chewing and glanced at Susanna. She cocked her head, perplexed. “You knew my mother?”
I’d forgotten to tell Lucian I hadn’t yet revealed to Susanna what I knew about Margaret Winser.
Now Lucian looked confused. He turned to me and said, “Isabel?”
I swallowed the beef I had in my mouth, half-chewed. “It’s possible we did, Susanna. We’re not yet certain of it, which is why I didn’t say anything.”
“Is that why you asked me if my mother had been called Margaret?”
“Yes.”
She stared at me solemnly. “You’ll tell me when you know,” she said.
I nodded. “Yes, I will.”
“Enough of this serious talk,” Lucian said, knowing I’d appreciate a change of subject. “Did you know that His Majesty has over one hundred clocks in his private apartments?”
Susanna laughed. “He doesn’t!”
“It’s true. And they’re all set to go off at the same time. It’s enough to bring on an apoplexy!”
Later, after Susanna had gone to bed, Lucian and I sat in the drawing room drinking brandy. “You haven’t told her who her mother is,” he said. “Why?”
“I don’t fully trust her yet,” I said.
“You think she’s lying about who she is?”
“You saw for yourself how much she resembles Margaret. She’s Margaret’s daughter. Nathan Fitch and the maidservant, Lucinda, confirmed that Margaret had been with child. And of course I saw the evidence that Margaret and Adam married at St. Pancras Church. It stands to reason he’s her father. I think she believes he’s her father.”
“And yet?”
“Who is Tom Clarke? Why did he accompany Margaret to America? And why did he bring Susanna back to London? What if he’s Susanna’s real father? For God’s sake, what if he killed Adam?” I explained what I’d learned from Andrew Wheeler that afternoon.
Lucian drained his cup and held it out for me to pour more. “So many questions. Really, Isabel, I’m not suited for this. Give me a paper and quill and I’ll write you a sonnet more beautiful than Shakespeare himself, but investigating whether my murdered brother was a villain? I’ll leave that to you.”
* * *
We received two visitors at Coal Yard Alley that night, one of which was an aging harpy with brittle, saffron-washed hair and plumpers in her cheeks. She wanted to know how to keep her young lover from straying. I gave her a palm reading and advised her to keep her disposition cheerful and prescribed an exercise to tighten her quim. I also sold her a jar of cowslip wash to help smooth her wrinkles.
The woman put me in the mind of Barbara Palmer, though I couldn’t say exactly why. The two were quite dissimilar in appearance and manner. Perhaps it was the air of desperation they shared. Barbara hadn’t come around in recent days and Lucian hadn’t mentioned her, so I wondered if perhaps she’d returned to France.
It seemed unlikely. She’d been determined to rekindle her romance with Charles regardless of what I’d told her.
We returned home to find everyone in the household sleeping soundly. Alice had moved Susanna’s pallet to Charlotte’s room so I had some privacy. I washed my face and slid gratefully under the covers; I was tired and looking forward to a good, long rest. But I’d hardly closed my eyes when there came a scraping sound outside my bedroom window. I popped my eyes open and listened hard, but there was nothing else. I began to drift back asleep.
Then there was the noise again, and this time, there was no mistaking it. Someone was outside my window, fiddling with the sash.
I reached for the candle on my bedside table. The fire had not yet gone out and I used its light to make my way toward it. I bent and put the candle to one of the embers and it lit. I went to the window and pushed the curtain aside, holding the candle up so that I could see.
A face appeared on the other side of the pane.
I screamed and dropped the curtain, my heart galloping. Someone cried out, and there was a bang and a clatter. I peered out the window and saw that my would-be housebreaker had fallen back on his ladder and it now rested on the wall of the building across the street. Incredibly, he hung from one of its rungs, his legs twisting in the open air as he struggled with his predicament.
Sam ran into the room. “What happened?”
“Someone tried to break in,” I said, pointing to the window. “Quick, before he gets away.”
Sam rushed to the window to see the man dangling. By the time we got outside, the thief had fallen and lay in the middle of the street, struggling to get up. My neighbors peered out their windows and doors, wondering aloud what had happened.
As Sam approached, the man jumped up and started running. I heard someone shout, “Fetch the constable!”
The chase lasted but a moment. The man had been injured in the fall and couldn’t run very fast—and even if he’d been unharmed I doubted he’d be able to outrun Sam.
But he wouldn’t give up without a fight. He pulled his dagger from its sheath and sliced the air in front of Sam. Sam backed up a bit, then took out his own knife and brandished it at the thief.
They hopped around, swinging at each other before, finally, Sam swept forward with his knife. It grazed the man’s face and he screamed, dropping his own knife. It allowed Sam time to get hold of him.
“Everyone go back to your business,” Sam shouted. “I’ve got him.”
“Sam,” I said, “perhaps they’re right. We should call a constable.”
“No!”
I realized that he wanted to take care of this himself, the way he’d done in the past, before he’d deserted me.
The man began to struggle. “Let go of me, I’ve done nothing wrong.”
It was a laughable statement considering his broken ladder was still blocking the street.
Sam dragged him toward my door and despite the man’s wriggling we got him inside. Once indoors, Sam threw him to the ground.
“Who are you?” Sam asked.
“That’s none of your concern,” the man growled.
Sam kicked him the stomach and the man folded, groaning. “You tried to break into Lady Wilde’s room, it’s absolutely my concern. Now tell me who you are.”
“Doesn’t matter who I am, it’s my master you should worry about.”
Sam kicked him again. “Who’s your master?”
“I’ll not tell!”
Sam folded his arms and stood over him menacingly but did not kick him again. “You’re wasting my time. Tell me who sent you or I promise you will regret it.”
“You might as well get on with it then,” the man sobbed. “I’m no snitch.”
Sam kicked the man hard twice more. He scrambled to protect himself, crying for Sam to stop. I flinched with every kick, but knew that Sam had to do it if he were to get the answers we needed.
Sam took his dagger from his belt and knelt close to the man. He held the knife close to his nostril.
“Tell me or I slit your nose.”
That did the trick. The man raised his hands to his face, covering his nose. “All right, all right, whatever you want to know.”
“Who sent you?” Sam asked.
“Benjamin Stowe.”
I covered my hand with my mouth. “What did he want you to do?”
“Please, I’ve told you who he is, please just let me go.”
I bent down next to Sam, but not within reach of this miserable creature. “We won’t harm you further if you’ll just tell us the truth. What did Benjamin Stowe want you to do?”
“He wanted me to scare you.”
“Just scare me?”
“Yes, I swear it.”
“What purpose would that serve?”
“He wants you to mind your own business.”
“My investigation has nothing to do with Benjamin Stowe,” I said. “You can tell him that.”
“I’ll not be telling him anything,” the man said. “He’ll kill me for sure if I go back.”
I didn’t know whether to believe him. Stowe hadn’t struck me as violent, and as Lord Mayor he certainly didn’t have a reputation for it. Then again, as Mistress Ruby, I’d advised him to protect himself against his enemies, which he might have done with Tom Clarke. Did he now consider me an enemy too?
“What do you know about a man named Tom Clarke?” I asked.
“How should I know anything? I’ve never heard of the man.”
Now that we’d captured this ruffian I wasn’t sure what to do with him. If Stowe had paid him to hurt me, I couldn’t just let him go, could I?
“I’ve an idea that will help us both,” I said. “You go back to Stowe and tell him you’ve done your job. But instead you’ll be my spy.”
The very thought seemed to panic him. He shook his head determinedly. “I’ll do no such thing. Stowe’ll have my head. He’ll have yours too if you’re not careful.”
“Is this the sort of work you normally do for him?”
“I do stuff for him. Collect money, deliver messages. That sort of thing.”
“What do you mean by ‘messages’?”
“Like this one here,” he said. “Mr. Stowe would be obliged if you’d stop asking questions about his business with Adam Barber. If I were you I’d do as he asks—he’s not a man to be messed with.”