The Willing Game

by Issy Brooke

  He went over to a safe in the corner of the room and brought back an envelope with her name on it. “He asked me to furnish you with all the funds you needed for this investigation,” he said. “As you are here, you may as well have this now. The rest, of course, will be supplied upon completion.” He handed her the fat packet.

  She didn’t even want to peek inside. She stashed it into her bag, thanked him hastily, and dashed away.

  BOW IMPORTS WAS ONLY three streets and yet a world away from the offices of Mr Harcourt. The narrow road was just as busy, but the atmosphere was of graft and dirty hands, not leisurely lunches as money piled up in secret piles, unobtrusive and silent. Here was where the work was done. London was a patchwork of tiny areas, all dedicated to different things, and harbouring different classes of people, yet they all abutted up against one another with barely a mark between them.

  There were only low and working women along this street. Marianne walked briskly, aware that her status – though not high – marked her out, here. She held up her head and made directly for the offices of Bow Imports, and everyone got out of her way, recognising the air of intent about her.

  Everyone but one man.

  “You!” she said. “Following me again, Mr Monahan?”

  “No, not today,” he said in equal surprise. “Are you not following me?”

  “I most certainly am not.”

  “I can assure you I am here on different business. As we are now partners, I felt it unnecessary to stalk you at the moment, although I am still awaiting the promised invitation to a dinner party.”

  “Oh, it is in hand. Believe me; I have already broached the subject with Mrs Claverdon. What are you doing here, may I ask?”

  “I am here due to your cousin-in-law, of course. And you?”

  Marianne gaped. “My cousin-in-law? You know Mr Claverdon?”

  “I ... do, yes. He is well-known.” He thinned his lips as if he had said too much. She remembered her very early suspicion that he could be the blackmailer, and she glared at him.

  “If you know him, you could have come to dine with us at any time, then,” she said.

  “No. That would be impossible without your intervention,” he said, almost stiffly.

  Damn him, she thought. “Will you be welcome in the house? I shall not have you, if you will make a scene.”

  “There will be no scene. I know him. But he does not know me.”

  “Hmm.” She would have to go back to Price and press him further, before she made any accusation against Monahan.

  Marianne gazed up at the elaborate sign that hung over the double doors. They were constantly opening and closing, with clerks and office workers running in and out, clutching papers and telegrams and letters and parcels. Marianne and Jack Monahan stood to one side, out of the way. She said, “Is Bow Imports part of Harker and Bow, then?”

  “Of course it is. Goodness, you are slow, for a clever woman.”

  “I hardly specialise in trade matters. And who did George Bartholomew really work for? This place, or the other?”

  “Bow Imports, until he was sacked. But this is but a subsidiary of Harker and Bow.”

  “Sacked? But he was given a place to stay in London, through Harker and Bow. And it is Harker and Bow that my brother in law works for.”

  “Oh, they are all linked, in ways that make the most money with the least hassle and tax and duties and so on.”

  “Is there some foul play going on here?”

  Monahan laughed. “Yes – and no! It is business, that is all.”

  “What was he sacked for? And when?”

  “Bartholomew? I don’t know. I don’t really care. I am here on other business.”

  “Please – there is something strange about why he had returned to England. He came from Prussia. There is someone else here, now, also asking about him.”

  “Who?”

  “A woman.”

  Monahan’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh really? Who is she? And where is she from?”

  Marianne quickly described Anna, and he laughed as if Bartholomew had performed a magic trick right there in front of them. She did not like the edge of triumph in his voice, as if one man could celebrate the low actions of all men. He seemed to think that Bartholomew and Anna were certainly carrying on together. He told her to wait on the step, and he disappeared into the offices.

  He returned after an interminably long time, and he was still grinning. “It is as I suspected, and no doubt – in spite of your prickly sensibilities – so did you. He was dismissed for having an affair with a married woman.”

  “With Anna Jones?”

  “Indeed so, when they were in Prussia. Was it not obvious?”

  “It was a strong possibility. And what of her husband?”

  “I have no idea,” Monahan said. “Maybe he is on his way at this very moment, hot in pursuit of them both, armed to the teeth like a Teutonic knight in a pickelhaube.”

  “This is a tangled mess,” she said.

  “I would give it up as a bad job,” he told her. “The affair was conducted in Prussia – he was recalled to Britain under investigation – and they dismissed him the very night that he died. So there you go. He most likely ate those bad oysters deliberately, to avoid public shame.” And before she could speak, he tipped his hat to her, and disappeared back up the steps into the offices.

  She turned away, and headed for home, and wondered if he were right.

  No wonder his father had thrown him out that night.

  SHE WAS STILL THINKING about the affair all the way back to Woodfurlong, The train’s rocking and clattering was hypnotic and she almost dozed off. She was still feeling a little woozy as she made her way through the town towards home.

  She was glad to find Price Claverdon in his study. She had thought she might have to wait until nightfall but he had taken that day to perform his duties from home. She avoided Phoebe, and got admitted to his study unseen by her cousin or any servants.

  He looked pale and haggard, and she rushed towards him, but he turned away and sat down behind his desk, effectively screening himself from her. She stopped, and pulled the envelope from her bag.

  “Mr Claverdon – sir – how is ... it? The ... situation we have spoken of?”

  “It is as bad as ever,” he said wearily. “They ask me for money, more money, and I have to provide it. If I do not, we shall be ruined.”

  “You must stop! They will ruin you anyway, financially.” She thought that to his old-fashioned and stubborn mind, financial ruin was still better than social ruin.

  “I will bring this to an end. If I can find a way.” His eyes fell on the envelope in her hand, and he brightened. “Ah, is that...?”

  “Yes. It is for you. But I do not want to encourage this malefactor.” She kept hold of the envelope as he stretched out his hand for it. “You said that they had an amount in mind, and when you reached it, they would cease with their demands. But as I warned you, they have not.”

  “It buys me a little more time,” Claverdon said. “Please ... Marianne.”

  She shivered as he said her first name, and reluctantly let him have the money.

  “And do not lecture me,” he added, his voice hardening. “This is a difficult situation.”

  “It is an impossible one, and must end. Tell me the name of the person doing this.”

  “I cannot.”

  “Is it Jack Monahan?”

  Claverdon registered not a hint of recognition. “Who?”

  Now she was confused. “He claims to know you.”

  “I do not know him. No, you must leave me to deal with this.”

  “I am involved now. The police must be told,” she said.

  “Leave it to me, I tell you!” He dropped his voice. “If you say anything to anyone, you and your father will have to find alternate accommodation.”

  It was as clear a threat as she had ever heard. She gazed at him in wonder. He was a man on the edge, and unpredictable.

&
nbsp; He met her gaze and she saw no warmth in his eyes at all. “I will do as I say,” he warned her. “I will find a way to end this. But for the moment, you must mention nothing.”

  She nodded. She left quickly, and went a little way down the corridor before slowing down. Her heart was pounding, and she felt unsettled. She had often felt trapped by the largesse and generosity of Claverdon and his agreement to let Marianne and her father have the garden wing. But this was the first time she had felt uneasy or insecure.

  If Phoebe knew, she would be horrified.

  One day, Marianne would move out. She longed for it. She would have to take her father, and she tried hard to rejoice in the chance to be seen as a dutiful daughter. However, with most of her money currently passing through Price Claverdon and into the hands of some blackmailers, the chances of her being able to run her own household were currently looking very slim.

  Marianne heard a click from a door behind her, and she slid silently behind a tall mahogany cabinet that housed atlases and maps of many countries around the world. She felt sure that the sound had come from the door to Claverdon’s study. She heard footsteps, very light, just scuffing the carpet, and they were going away from her. She peeked out from around the cabinet and saw Claverdon was heading towards the head of the back staircase, not the main one. He was dressed in an outdoor coat and hat, and he was tucking the envelope into an inside pocket.

  She decided to follow him at a stealthy distance.

  He paused at the door at the top of the servants’ staircase, and pressed his ear to the green baize, before pulling it open and darting into the uncarpeted gloom. She followed swiftly. She was in a better position than he was – no one looked twice at Marianne walking the back passages of the house, but for the master of the place to do so was very odd indeed. They met no servants, however, and soon he was sneaking through one of the smaller doors that went past the kitchen and out into the yard. He could not go through the busy kitchen itself, but he made it out, unseen, via the narrow passageway between the scullery and a store room.

  She continued to follow him, her heart hammering. She felt uncomfortably hot and sticky. He had threatened her with the loss of her home – what would he do if he discovered that she was following him now?

  So she lagged behind at as great a distance as possible. He walked into the small town, and she kept herself hidden behind pedestrians. He didn’t look over his shoulder – but then, she thought, why would he? He walked very quickly, with a purpose etched into every swing of his legs. He was not carrying his cane, and it was obvious he had left in a hurry.

  She had a suspicion that he was going to meet his blackmailer, and she picked up the pace, trying to rush around people to catch him up without getting too close.

  He headed for a hotel. It was a classy place, catering to wealthy travellers who wanted to pause before entering London, and it also served as a little get-away for those who were tired of the city but who did not want to stray too far away. He was greeted at the door by a uniformed man, who waved him in with familiarity and respect.

  She hesitated only a moment before following him inside. The hotel servant bobbed his head, recognising her as Claverdon’s cousin-in-law. She pointed at his disappearing back, as if she were with him and simply failing to keep up. She was allowed in with barely a word.

  Claverdon was heading up the main sweeping staircase. Her cover was sparser here, and she had to wait until he had turned to the right at the top of the stairs before she took the plunge and followed him.

  At the top, she looked to the right and saw him go up another flight of stairs, narrower ones this time, and she went up after him. He turned along a corridor, and rapped a quick code on a door – three long, with a space to count to five, then three more raps.

  The door opened. Marianne risked her cover and peered around the corner. She could only see Claverdon’s back, and he doffed his hat to the person who opened the door. She could not see the person within, but she saw a very pale hand extend from the entrance. It wore a sleeve trimmed with lace, and the voice was feminine.

  The voice belonged to Anna Jones.

  And she drew Claverdon into the room, and the door closed, and Marianne sagged back against the wall.

  Anna was the blackmailer? It was not Jack Monahan at all?

  Or was it all a terrible lie – a horrible deceit being performed on Marianne, and worse – Phoebe?

  For it looked, for all the world, as if Price Claverdon was having an affair with Anna Jones. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time for her. She had shown herself to be a woman of that ilk.

  And no wonder he wanted money, if he were keeping a mistress of such unusual beauty.

  Marianne went home wearily. She could not think how she might tell Phoebe, or even if she ought to, but this was a heavy burden to bear alone.

  Fifteen

  It was almost fully dark by the time that Marianne reached home once more. She was starving. She’d missed the main evening meal, so she crept silently past the drawing-room door and into the kitchens, where she was swallowed into the warm embrace of Mrs Cogwell’s domain. Ann and Nettie, two very giggly maids, were sitting by the fire, darning socks and discussing men. They subsided when Marianne first entered, but relaxed and quickly forgot her presence. Anyway, Marianne was just a few steps up from being one of them, if rather large steps, and everyone knew it; she never even tried to put on airs and graces.

  Emilia de Souza came in from the servants’ hall with a stack of dishes, and Nettie who was one level below Ann – Nettie being the laundry-cum-scullery maid and Ann being the slightly more elevated kitchen-cum-housemaid – jumped up to take them to the scullery. Emilia caught Marianne’s eye as she passed the table, and held her gaze.

  “Is everything all right, Emilia?” Marianne asked.

  Emilia nodded, but she kept on looking, and Marianne took the hint. She thanked Mrs Cogwell for the food, and shouted a farewell to Nettie and Ann, and left by the back ways to get to the garden wing, and she was not surprised to be followed by Emilia.

  “Does something ail you – or your mistress?” Marianne asked as soon as they were alone in the cold corridor and screened by the green baize door.

  “I am perfectly well, as always,” Emilia said. “But I am bothered by some change in my mistress’s demeanour.”

  “How so?”

  “She seems – don’t laugh – thoughtful.”

  Marianne did nearly laugh. Yes, a turn for the intellectual would be a startling and concerning change indeed. “Emilia,” she said gently, “she is helping me with that most fiendish investigation. I rather think you already know about that.”

  “I do know about that, yes, but there is something else on her mind. Oh, perhaps it is the investigation that weighs heavy upon her. But she is secretive, and has taken to peering around corners, and craning her head to see what her husband’s correspondence is. I suspect that she suspects that her husband is...”

  Marianne’s laughter had gone quite cold by this point. “Emilia,” she said sternly, “what exactly do you suspect?”

  “I cannot believe it. I shall not utter it. Mr Claverdon adores my mistress. It shines from him. It always has. And he is an honest and upright man. I do not know where she got this idea from, but it is eating her up.”

  “Has she said anything at all to you?”

  “No, not a word. I think she seeks evidence first. Please talk to her. For don’t we all know that if you look for something hard enough, in another person, you will see it, eventually? Whether it is there or not?” And Emilia turned away to blink rapidly, and Marianne saw the history of a failed love affair there, and put out her hand to comfort the young woman.

  Emilia smiled slightly, and composed herself. “Forgive me,” she said. “And I do hope that I am speaking out of turn and that this is all my imagination.”

  “So do I,” said Marianne, and she knew that it was not. “I will speak with her. Go on, now. Do not worry.”

/>   MARIANNE AVOIDED BREAKFAST the next morning, and she went straight back to the hotel in the town where she had seen Claverdon visit Anna. She strode past the man on the door, and up the stairs, walking with a confidence that made people step out of the way.

  She used the same pattern of knocks that Claverdon had used. It was a while before the door opened. Anna was in a state of undress, wrapped in a long silk gown, with her hair tumbling around her shoulders, and no paint or powder on her face. Her left cheek was creased slightly, and she blinked her pink eyes sleepily. “How – what? Miss Starr?” She started to close the door but her reactions were slow and befuddled, and Marianne pushed her way rudely into the hotel room.

  “Tell me what Price Claverdon is to you. Are you aware that the man is married?” Marianne said. She stood herself squarely in the centre of the room, with her hands on her hips, taking the attitude she had seen in the governess when scolding the children.

  The room was comfortable but small, and served as a sleeping area as well as a space for day to day living. It was only intended as a stop-over for a relatively wealthy traveller, not as somewhere to stay for any length of time. It was crowded with fine clothing and books and papers. Anna stayed by the door, her hand on the knob, the other hand clutching her robe firmly closed. “How dare you enter my private chamber! I will call for help,” she hissed, keeping her voice noticeably low and in very little danger of calling for anything.

  “Tell me what Price Claverdon is to you!” Marianne repeated. “Oh, please do call for help – I shall have your evil practice exposed and you will be ejected onto the street. This hotel would not care to be revealed as a place for certain women to ply their trade, would it?”

  Anna’s eyes were shining, but Marianne thought that she was not near tears – this was an angry woman, not a distressed one. She flared her finely chiselled nostrils and stared at Marianne. Then, as she woke up properly and thought about the situation, her expression turned to one of confusion.

  “One moment, Miss Starr. You ask me about Price Claverdon – but what is this man to you?”