A Study in Silks tba-1

by Emma Jane Holloway

  Harriman shot a nervous glance at the door, as if he expected half of Scotland Yard to come crashing through the door. “I sent a note with—uh, her. Along with—what else she was carrying.”

  “The police searched her body and found nothing.” One more time, he felt the sting of the loss like something physical. He’d been counting on the treasure Grace carried—not just to bolster the family fortunes, but because there were irons in the fire besides Harter Engines, and everything required cash.

  “Then she was robbed.” It was an obvious statement, but an almost crafty look crossed Harriman’s features. It was gone too swiftly for Bancroft to give it much study, but something about it put him on alert.

  “Was it the note that brought you here? A question you need answered?” Thank the gods they used an unbreakable cipher.

  Harriman looked at the door again, clearly anxious. “The note hardly matters now. There are larger problems if proof of what we’ve done is in the hands of a killer.”

  “I hardly think a thief and murderer will turn us in to the police,” Bancroft said dryly.

  The man gave him an irritated look. Where Keating’s eyes were almost amber, his were hazel and too small for his head. “The gallery is opening soon. We need to finish up our enterprise, and quickly.”

  Bancroft’s fingers twitched, as if grasping for all the gold he’d hoped to extract from Keating’s vaunted archaeological treasures. He’d needed to recruit four others besides himself and Harriman to put the plan in motion. Simple and elegant though the plan had been, when the wealth was split among so many, the proceeds hadn’t gone nearly as far as he’d hoped. “Are we done so soon?”

  “You always knew it was time-limited.”

  Heat flooded up Bancroft’s neck. “Of course I did. I arranged everything.” Each of the six partners had received four payments so far—each lot a bar of gold and some gemstones. Nothing so unusual that it couldn’t be taken to a bank and used as collateral or sold as old family treasures. “How many artifacts are left to process?”

  “The last few crates came in two days ago.” They’d been expecting them, but hadn’t known what they contained. “Two were just pottery, but one was jewelry and plate.”

  “Did you determine why they weren’t shipped with the rest?” Bancroft asked.

  Harriman gave a slight shrug. “I suppose the sender didn’t have them packed up in time. They came by a different boat.”

  Bancroft supposed that could be true. Schliemann’s treasures were shipped directly from Rhodes to Harriman’s warehouse, where he was unpacking the crates and readying the contents for Keating’s new gallery. The direct shipping route had been arranged to prevent loss, theft, or accident, and it did—right up until the priceless artifacts reached Harriman’s hands.

  “At any rate, I was the only one there when they arrived,” Harriman added. “I never told Jasper that they came. In fact, I made a point of saying that they hadn’t.”

  “Why the hell did you do that?” Bancroft frowned. “That’s not how I planned this would work.”

  “I’d read Schliemann’s letters about what was supposed to be coming.” The crafty look was back. “It sounded like he might have saved the best for last.”

  Bancroft studied Harriman suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

  “One or two really large pieces. The crates were so late, I wasn’t sure we’d have time to make copies, so I thought if they were lost, who would be the wiser? If everyone thought the crates were lost, we could just keep the contents. So I hid them underneath the warehouse.”

  A sick feeling swamped Bancroft’s entire body. He closed his eyes a moment, summoning patience. “If something valuable goes missing, people tend to look for it. That’s a danger to us. If we supply copies, there is a reasonable chance they won’t look, at least not right away. That means less danger.”

  “So what are you implying?” Harriman asked, a touch belligerent.

  “I’m implying that you should get the workers to process these last crates immediately. If there is something that they cannot finish in time, we should simply leave it alone.” Bancroft’s tone was growing sharper. He sucked in a deep breath, forcing himself not to bang Harriman’s head on the desk.

  “Do you mean that I should tell Keating the last crates have arrived?”

  “In a word, yes. We can’t afford to have him looking high and low for his missing pots.” Bancroft leaned back in his chair, doing his best to look relaxed and in control. “Will there be time to do your business before Keating wants these new arrivals for his gallery opening?”

  Harriman shrugged, looking sulky. “For some of the items. I’ll start the workers on them right away.”

  “Now is not the moment to get careless.” The forgeries had to be meticulous, and for that Harriman had hired the finest company of Chinese metal workers. One or two were master goldsmiths who directed the others, but each one was highly skilled at some aspect of the work. They were excellent, obedient, and had been made available to work full time on the project.

  First, the craftsmen made casts of the solid gold and silver pieces Schliemann had unearthed from the dusty Greek soil and re-created them in copper. Then a thin layer of the original metal was applied over the copper using some sort of wizardry involving electricity and cyanide. Gems were replaced with glass. Bancroft didn’t understand every last detail, but when the job was done, only an observant eye could tell the real object and its twin apart. Since Keating never saw the two together—and was not nearly the expert he thought he was—the deception was seamless. The Gold King became the Gold Plate King.

  Then the originals were melted down and divided among Harriman, Bancroft, and four other investors who had bankrolled the scheme. The return on investment was staggering. Unfortunately, this particular golden goose had a short life span.

  Harriman folded his arms defensively. “But I didn’t come here to speak of the schedule.”

  There was a surliness in his tone that made Bancroft clench his teeth. “Then why are you here?”

  “To speak frankly.”

  “About what?”

  Fear flickered behind Harriman’s eyes. The man dropped his voice so low he was barely audible. “To put it bluntly, your girl is gone. This isn’t the time to break in a new courier. I need you to come and get the final payment yourself.”

  “You came today. Why not bring it to me?”

  “No. I chanced it once. That might be interpreted as a social call by anyone watching. After what happened to the kitchen maid, I’ll not risk it again.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  Harriman’s gaze grew furtive. “You’re in disfavor with my cousin. I can’t afford to be seen seeking your company. This time, I need you to do what I say.”

  Bancroft bridled, but held his tongue. On some level he knew that Harriman, always the last and least of their pack of villains, was enjoying the moment. Finally, he had the power to give the orders. It was bitter, but it was medicine Bancroft knew how to swallow if it meant bringing the forgery scheme to a problem-free close. He would lie low and wait for his moment. “When do you want me to come?”

  “I’ll send word to come when the time is right.”

  Bancroft sucked in a breath. He could feel his gut roiling with anger, but his mind was utterly clear. Let him have his moment. “Very well.”

  Harriman’s mouth tightened. “Bring a pistol.”

  The bugger has something in mind. “I shall do that, Mr. Harriman.”

  “Then I will bid you good day.” The man rose.

  Bancroft rose, reaching across the desk to shake the man’s hand. It was clammy with perspiration. Why do I bother with these cretins? But he knew the answer already.

  Gold and secrecy were both so damned hard to get. He wondered how much the bastard would make him pay.

  Chapter Thirteen

  London, April 6, 1888

  WEST END

  2 p.m. Friday

  Nick stretched h
is spyglass to its full length, balancing its end on the window frame of his fourth-floor perch. With a sense of satisfaction, he adjusted the brass tube slowly, pulling and pushing the slide until the image came into focus. There it was; the front of the tailoring shop on Old Bond Street, the tidy facade washed in spring afternoon sunlight.

  The street ambled through the West End—the section of London that was home to the finest shops, gentlemen’s clubs, and fashionable residences. A steady stream of carriages and pedestrians passed up and down the avenues, but it was a leisurely sort of bustle, and one with lots of coin at its beck and call. Looking down on the scene, focusing in on his quarry, Nick had a flash of kinship with a hawk spying a flock of lazy, overfed pigeons. Lucky for them he was there to watch, not to hunt.

  His vantage point was perfect. He crouched in an empty room in an empty building across the street and down from the tailor’s. It looked like it had been Disconnected. Dust clung to the corners; the oak floors were gritty with sand. By the few bits of furniture left, the place had once been a counting house. From its empty shell, he could see without being seen.

  “Steam for a ha’penny,” came the cry from the street. It floated through the broken window like the fading memory of a dream. “Pennies for power.”

  Nick winced. That crier wouldn’t last long if the streetkeepers found him. Rogue makers sometimes cobbled together engines small enough to move around on a wheeled cart, selling the power for everything from illegal forges and machinery to powering back-alley surgeries. Some used the steam hawkers because they’d rather buy from a person than from a company. Some simply couldn’t afford what the barons charged.

  And there were always rebellious fools. From time to time, Nick got into trouble, but he was careful about whom he made his enemy. Speak courteously and finish every fight, that was his motto. Never leave an angry man behind you.

  Two nights ago, Dr. Magnus had saved Nick from the police in return for information about Tobias Roth. Nick had spent the day paying that debt. He didn’t fancy owing a man like Magnus.

  However, in the first hours of his researches, Nick hadn’t made a lot of progress. He’d followed Bancroft for a day and found nothing of interest, so today he’d decided to focus his attentions on the son and heir.

  Nick knew next to nothing about the prat, except that he occupied the same house as her. Breathed the same air. Ate the same food. Could see her every day, the way Nick had once done. Sudden bitterness flooded him, blotting out his senses. Nick ached to find some excuse to trip him up.

  Unfortunately, today the rich boy had gone only as far as the tailor’s shop. Roth was still inside, taking so long that Nick began to wonder if they were weaving the cloth for whatever His Nobship was buying.

  Nick swung the spyglass a hair to the left. A pair of steam cycles whirred by, moving twice as fast as any horse. He followed the sight of a pretty girl until she was handed up into a freshly painted Victoria drawn by a single gray mare. She was at least worth watching.

  Although there was only one dark-haired beauty he truly wanted. Going to see Evelina had reopened wounds that were deeper than he remembered, and the fact that she’d grown to womanhood only made them throb the worse. All their history aside, the simple fact was that she had always been the only girl who’d ever made his whole being come alive just by walking into a room. He had recognized her scent like the return of spring. That alone should make her his woman. And now Evie was grown up, every curve and valley of her, and his body knew it. Even the thought of her made him ache in ways that could only lead to a hangman’s noose. Evie was right. There would be no mercy if he were caught inside a rich man’s house.

  It had been a murder that had the place in an uproar the night he’d paid a visit. He’d found that out from one of the gardener’s boys, and the news had left him worried for Evie’s safety. Not that she’d appreciate his concern, he supposed, but that didn’t matter. He couldn’t just switch his heart off like an engine, all their history disappearing in a puff of leftover steam.

  “Oy.” The voice came from behind him.

  Unconcerned, Nick turned his head just enough to see who had addressed him. The city crawled with street rats, both two- and four-legged. The rich districts were no exception. After all, they had the best pickings.

  Nick had no fear of rats. This one was big, though, built in a thick, beefy way that had nothing to do with fat. Nick rose from his crouch, snapping the spyglass shut and sliding it into the leather pouch slung beneath his coat.

  “What can I do for you?” Nick asked, polite with just a pinch of nonchalance. He was willing to bet this was one of the streetkeepers—bullies who were the lowest rank of authority in any steam baron’s organization. Like all those who worked for Keating Utility, they called themselves Yellowbacks. Others called them Yellowbellies, but usually not to their face.

  “The name’s Striker,” said the streetkeeper. “I don’t know your vile mug, Gypsy. What are you doing here?”

  “Mr. Striker.” Was that a real name? Probably not. “As you so astutely observe, I’m a stranger to this neighborhood.”

  “Don’t like strangers. What’s your business?”

  “My name is Nick, and my business isn’t yours.”

  “Fair enough,” said Striker.

  “I’m pleased to hear it.” Nick started to turn back to the window, already dismissing the man.

  “Not so fast. You picked the lock to this here building.”

  With a sigh, he turned back. “So did you, if you’re standing here.”

  “My territory, my lock.”

  No doubt the landlord of the old counting house would argue ownership, but Nick shrugged. “Just borrowing the window.”

  “No one breaks in nowhere without my say-so.” Striker’s voice dipped in a sneer. “The Gold King fines criminals who break the law.”

  Irritation prickled through Nick’s limbs. “I owe you nothing.”

  Striker clapped his hands together, making the empty room ring with the smack of his fingerless leather gauntlets. “You do if I say you do. I’m the Gold King’s law down here in the streets, and Yellow is the color a smart body fears most.” He ducked his head, shoulders rising, clearly ready for a fight.

  Sullen silence followed. Nick took the moment to examine Striker more seriously. Dark hair stuck up like a hedgehog’s spines, framing a face that had been smashed in one too many times. His skin was the brown of so many of those born around the docks, making him perhaps the son of a lascar who had sailed to the western end of the Empire and took a local woman to his bed.

  Nick’s scrutiny went on. Striker wore the thick boots of a laborer. A tattered leather coat hung to his knees, covered in metal bits and pieces, as if he’d attached every bit of iron and brass ever lost in the city of London to improvise armor. It gave him status, when raw materials for building anything were in such short supply. Plus, the coat looked like it had already deflected a bullet or two.

  Most telling were his big hands, held loosely at his sides, ready to fight. Nick was about the same age and height, but Striker had at least twenty pounds more mass.

  Nick cleared his face of all expression. If it was to be a contest of dominance, so be it. “There is no point to this conversation. We shall disagree, then fight, I shall probably win, and you’ll go home with a broken head and tell everyone how there were five of me. I, on the other hand, will be annoyed because you interrupted my work.”

  Striker shifted from foot to foot. The chains hanging around his neck swayed and rattled, the flat surfaces of charms and keys catching the sunlight glancing through the window. One key was new, and flashed bright enough to attract Nick’s eye. He wondered what a rat like this would lock up.

  “I don’t give a mouse’s fart about your work,” said Striker.

  “You should. There is poetry in the satisfaction of a day well spent. I’m willing to include breaking your head among today’s tasks.”

  Striker’s thick brows drew t
ogether. “How about you shut your gob and hand over that pretty piece of brass you had in your hand a moment ago?”

  Nick didn’t bother to reply. He’d won the spyglass at cards, and it was one of the few things he had that was of any value. It would be a long, cold night in hell before he let it go—especially to this vermin.

  He took a step to the right, just to see what Striker would do. The man took a diagonal step forward, closing the distance between them. The coat clattered as he moved, the chime of metal deadened by the heavy leather behind it. Nick’s mind cleared, calling on the same sharp, calculating focus he used when he performed. He feinted back, then went left. As he suspected, Striker was nowhere near as light on his feet. There was no doubt he could beat him with speed.

  “Stand still, Gypsy boy.” Striker glared.

  “Why should I? Are you too slow to dance?”

  “I’m no wee street sparrow and this is no light dodge. If I say I want something of yours, you don’t get to walk away.”

  Nick didn’t doubt he meant it. The street rabble fought for survival like starving dogs, and only the fiercest lived. If anyone challenged the streetkeepers and won, their master lost face. If Striker let his side down and word got out, he would be punished. He couldn’t afford to let Nick go without taking something to prove he was stronger.

  But Nick had no intention of letting Striker win. There was no way he could put his life on the line every time he performed without believing—without being—the best. Confidence was everything.

  All this flashed through Nick’s head in seconds. He had to fight and win, but there was a fierceness to this lout that made him uneasy. Tweaking his tail would be dangerous. And irresistible.

  Nick’s hand darted out, grabbing the shiny key and yanking it from Striker’s neck. The man cried out as the chain broke, his fist hammering toward Nick’s head. Nick ducked, his reflexes far faster. “A point to me!”