The third member of the household was Private Sykes. He was a young man of about nineteen with straw-like fair hair, blue eyes, and a ready smile. He was a bit slow on the uptake, according to Mrs. Johnson, which was why he was used mostly as a messenger and general dogsbody, something he didn’t seem to mind. He performed any task assigned him with a childish zeal that seemed to irritate Captain Palmer, the major’s aide-de-camp, to no end. Captain Palmer was a fastidious man in his early thirties who seemed happiest when he was alone in his study. He rarely spoke to Jocelyn or even looked at her, his discomfort obvious when they met on the stairs or when she served him in the dining room.
And then there was Major Radcliffe, whom Jocelyn had finally met at the beginning of the second week of her employment, since he’d been absent from the house, possibly having traveled to Philadelphia or West Point, Mrs. Johnson speculated. The major was something of a surprise. Jocelyn had expected a gruff middle-aged man who’d bark out orders and expect them all to carry on as if on parade, but the major was mild mannered and soft spoken. He was in his thirties and had wide brown eyes, an aquiline nose, and unexpectedly full lips. He preferred to wear his own hair, which was a rich chestnut brown, when at home or attending informal functions, but donned a curled and queued periwig when going to military events or regimental dinners. Major Radcliffe treated both Jocelyn and Mrs. Johnson as if they were ladies of his acquaintance rather than household help, always thanking them and asking politely for anything he required.
Richard Kinney had instructed Jocelyn to render herself invisible, but that became more difficult as the weeks went by, since Major Radcliffe had taken a liking to her. He sometimes invited her to dine with him when he had no other engagements and regaled her with stories of his home in Kent and the Grand Tour he’d taken before his father had purchased him a commission in the army. Jocelyn couldn’t begin to imagine a world in which someone was encouraged to travel for a full year, all expenses paid, the only expectation that they enjoy everything the great cities of Europe had to offer and come back a somewhat more polished version of themselves. She’d been enthralled by the major’s accounts of the floating city of Venice, the sprawling hills of Tuscany dotted by vineyards and olive groves that surrounded solitary farmhouses built on verdant hills, his tour of the Bastille, and his visit to the gothic cathedral of Notre Dame.
She liked the major and felt surprisingly at ease in his company, probably more so because he never spoke of the war or revealed anything worth passing on. Sometimes, Captain Palmer joined them at dinner. Jocelyn could see why someone like him had been assigned to clerical duties rather than sent into combat. He was a conscientious assistant and wrote a fair hand, but she couldn’t imagine him firing a musket at another human being, not even a Continental soldier. He was also careful of clearing his desk and destroying any documents he didn’t wish to keep, throwing them on the fire in his study at the end of every day and leaving his wastepaper basket frustratingly empty.
By the time the new year began, Jocelyn had settled into a comfortable routine. She always brought refreshments when Major Radcliffe took meetings, and listened intently, lingering as long as she reasonably could, pouring the tea, setting out plates of finger sandwiches and bowls of fruit. She also served at table when the major had dinner guests, making herself as unobtrusive as possible and absorbing all that was said. She kept an eye out for anything of importance while cleaning the major’s study, but like Captain Palmer, he never left any important documents or correspondence lying around. If she were to learn anything, she had to dig deeper and rifle through the drawers, which, thankfully, were left unlocked. She resorted to such drastic measures only when both Major Radcliffe and Captain Palmer were out, ensuring that she was never caught in the act.
Every Sunday, after attending church with the rest of the household, Jocelyn met with Thomas, a fair-haired youth who posed as her cousin and dutifully listened to everything she had to say, even the most minute of details. He wanted to know everything from where the major went to whom he met with, even asking her to repeat the personal stories he’d shared with her, which, to Jocelyn’s mind, had no relevance whatsoever to the war effort. She did so, however, not wishing to seem uncooperative.
“Am I helping, Thomas?” she asked him one Sunday in January when the weather was mild enough to allow for a longer walk. The news she was relaying was so trivial, it couldn’t possibly matter. “Is my information valuable?”
“Of course it is. You just keep doing what you’re doing. Your intelligence is gold,” Thomas assured her.
Jocelyn’s cheeks suffused with heat at his praise. Maybe he was just complimenting her to keep up her morale, but she didn’t care. She was useful. She was an integral part of the Continental intelligence network. And spying on Major Radcliffe was surprisingly easy. Richard Kinney had been right. All she had to do was go about her duties, and the rest fell into place. She was simply playing a role, but the role had become her life.
Chapter 44
March 2018
London
By the time Sunday rolled around, Quinn was on pins and needles. She’d done her level best to act normal around the children and had made sure her day out with Emma was fun and carefree, but when alone, it was impossible to drag her mind away from the case—both cases. She hadn’t heard from Drew, and working on Rhys’s case wasn’t proving any easier. Jocelyn seemed to be regaining her memory, but none of what Quinn had seen offered a clue to how Ben’s ring had come to be in Hertfordshire. The only connection—tenuous as it was—pointed to Lieutenant Reynolds, who, according to Hannah, might have hailed from Hertfordshire.
“Ben Wilder might have joined the British Army and eventually been posted to England,” Gabe suggested when Quinn shared her frustration with him over a glass of wine on Sunday evening. The children already in bed, the grownups were enjoying an hour of peace after a busy day.
“I can’t see Ben as a soldier, and he certainly wasn’t overly devoted to the royalist cause, or any cause, for that matter. He just wanted to live in peace and farm the land,” she said. “I don’t think he much cared who won the war.”
“Surely he’d picked a side,” Gabe replied. “How was it possible to live during that time and not care?”
“I’m sure there were many people who didn’t feel strongly either way, just like now. There are those who are advocating for us to leave the European Union, while others would prefer to remain. But there are those who feel their life won’t change regardless. I suppose that largely depends on their line of work and their financial standing.”
Gabe inclined his head in assent. “All right, let’s say for argument’s sake that Ben followed his lady love to England.”
“I suppose that’s possible, but Jocelyn was American born and bred. Why would she have gone to England? She knew no one there. And she had been spying for the Continental Army. I can’t imagine she would have seen the shores of England as a place of refuge.”
“Perhaps she went with her brother. You said he was an avid King George supporter.”
Quinn thought about that for a moment. “I wonder if she might have been forced to leave.”
“By whom?”
“There were many instances of royalists being dragged from their homes and forced onto a ship bound for England. Perhaps if Jocelyn’s brother was an outspoken royalist, Jocelyn might have got caught in the fray.”
“Or she may have been accused of supporting the royalist cause because she’d been employed by a British major,” Gabe suggested. “Once the British were driven from New York City, she would have been fair game.”
“That would be more likely,” Quinn said. “Jocelyn seemed reluctant to go to her brother.”
“But had she not been on the way to Virginia when the ship was caught in the storm?”
“Yes. She’d been running away from something. She was scared,” Quinn agreed.
“Perhaps she wound up in England, and Ben went to fetch her home.”
Quinn nodded. “That sounds like a plausible theory, but if he was wearing the ring at the time of his death, how is it that her memories were imprinted on it?”
Gabe took a sip of wine, his expression thoughtful. “They may have married, and she’d worn his ring for a time, which would account for her set of memories. Perhaps she’d given it back when she left him.”
“I suppose,” Quinn said. “She didn’t love him; that was obvious.”
“This is a curious case,” Gabe remarked.
“That’s only because we don’t have all the facts yet,” Quinn replied.
“Do you think we ever will?”
“I hope so.”
“I wish I could see it all for myself,” Gabe said, his expression dreamy. He was about to say something else when the doorbell rang. Gabe looked at Quinn. “Who can it be at this hour?”
She shrugged.
“I’ll get it,” Gabe said.
He returned to the lounge a few moments later, Drew trailing him. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” Drew said. “Are the children asleep?”
“Yes.” Quinn set down her glass and sat up straight. “Have you discovered something, Drew?”
“Quite possibly. At any rate, I thought I’d update you in person. I was able to locate the carwash where Brett washed the car the night Jo died. They keep a record of every vehicle they service. Of course, no one can recall anything specific, nor do they have any kind of video footage. I was, however, able to obtain an image from a CCTV camera just down the street.”
He took a seat on the sofa, pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, and handed it to Quinn. It was an image printed from surveillance footage, and it was grainy and colorless. It showed a car standing at a light at a street junction. It was clearly nighttime, but the driver was illuminated by the dim light of the streetlamp. Or part of him was.
“I can’t tell if this is Brett,” Quinn said, disappointed and relieved in equal measure. “The visor of the baseball cap is obscuring most of his face.”
Drew nodded but didn’t take the picture back. “Look at his hands.”
Quinn’s gaze slid to the driver’s hands, both clearly visible on the steering wheel. Her hand flew to her mouth.
“You recognize that ring, don’t you?” Drew asked. “It’s rather unique.”
Quinn nodded miserably. “He loves that ring. He bought it on a trip to Mexico, on Dia de los Muertos.”
“Was he wearing the ring when he came to see you the day Jo died?”
Quinn nodded again.
“This is definite proof, isn’t it?” Gabe asked as he peered over Quinn’s shoulder. “He’s wearing the ring and driving a silver Nissan Sentra. Does the registration match?”
“It does,” Drew said. “I checked with Budget Rentals, and the car is still in circulation.”
“Then we’ve got him,” Quinn said, her voice cracking.
“Not quite,” Drew replied. “As far as the police are concerned, this is a random person driving a random car. They have nothing to suggest that this car was the one that struck Jo and ultimately killed her. Everything I’ve found to date hinges on the registration number, which was provided by your anonymous source,” Drew said caustically. “Unless I can give them a reason to suspect Brett Besson, this information is of no value.”
“What sort of reason?” Gabe asked.
“Had Brett made a threat against Jo, or had they had some kind of row, the police would have a reason to take a closer look at his movements.”
“Jo had been outside, alone, at the time of the accident. Perhaps he’d asked her to meet him,” Gabe suggested.
“Or she could have been going to the shops to pick up some milk or a bottle of wine,” Drew replied, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Unless we can get proof that they planned to meet, we have nothing.”
“Well, can’t you get proof? Surely Jo’s phone records would show if she’d spoken to Brett. There might even be texts.”
Drew looked thoughtful for a moment. “Was he using his own mobile, or did he get a pay-as-you-go while he was here?”
“He was using his own phone,” Quinn said.
“Do you have his number?”
“Yes. He left me a message to offer his condolences when Jo died,” Quinn said, shocked anew by his lack of remorse. “I’ll forward you the number.”
“Well, that’s something, I suppose. I’ll have to check it out,” Drew said.
“Are you able to access Jo’s phone records?” Gabe asked.
“Legally, no,” Drew replied, his lip curling in a humorless smile.
“And illegally?” Gabe asked. He didn’t sound disapproving, just curious.
“One of my security clients can hack into literally anything. He helps me out with my investigations from time to time, and I throw lucrative contracts his way.”
“Right. I don’t think we need to know that,” Gabe said.
“You don’t,” Drew replied, still grinning slyly. His smile faded when he looked back at Quinn. “Look, Quinn, once we take our findings to the police, there’ll be no going back. Are you sure you want to poke the bear?”
“Are you suggesting I let him get away with murder?” Quinn asked, surprised by the question.
“I’m suggesting you consider the consequences. If there isn’t enough evidence to go to trial, Brett will not only go free, but he will know exactly who had tried to get the case reopened. This is a person who’s killed before.”
“Drew, I hear what you are saying, but I simply can’t walk away from this and live with the knowledge that Brett had taken Jo’s life knowingly and willfully. I also can’t ignore the possibility that there will probably be victims in the future. He’s gotten away with it. There’s nothing to stop him from trying again.”
Drew nodded and got wearily to his feet. “All right. I’m sure you understand that I had to ask.”
“We understand the risk,” Gabe said.
“Goodnight, then. I’ll see myself out.”
“Are you off to bed?” Gabe asked Quinn once Drew had gone.
“I don’t think I can get to sleep, not after that conversation. Let’s finish the bottle,” Quinn said.
Gabe nodded and poured her more wine.
Chapter 45
The summons from Drew came two days later. Quinn had just dropped off the children at the nursery school and was all set to return home and do some research when her mobile rang.
“Morning, Quinn,” Drew said. “Are you free for an hour or two?” He sounded a lot less distracted, his tone full of determination.
“Free to do what?” Quinn asked, apprehensive.
“I made us an appointment with Detective Inspector Marshall. He works out of my old station. You could say we’re mates,” Drew added with a chuckle.
“What else could you say?” Quinn asked, sensing there was a story here.
“We were bitter rivals while I was still on the Met. Never saw eye to eye.”
“And you think he’ll be receptive to what we have to tell him?” Quinn asked, dubious.
“I know he will be. Marshall is a good cop. Old school. He doesn’t care about departmental politics or projecting an image of a kinder, gentler police force to the public. He’s about getting results.”
“All right, then. Where should I meet you?”
“I’ll collect you in half an hour,” Drew said, and rang off before Quinn had a chance to ask any more questions.
Quinn tossed the phone into her bag and trudged upstairs to change. What did one wear to a police station? she wondered as she considered her choices. Her face looked pale and drawn in the full-length mirror on the door of the wardrobe, and there was a haunted look in her eyes. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t scared of what this interview would mean. If DI Marshall dismissed their evidence, Brett would walk free. Again. If DI Marshall thought they had a case, there’d be no going back, and sooner or later, Brett would find out that he was the subject of a murd
er inquiry. Or was that manslaughter?
Quinn chose a demure silk blouse in a floral pattern of pale pink and gray and a pair of charcoal-gray trousers. She looked stylish and professional, but inside, she felt like a little girl who’d been called before the headmaster. She didn’t want to do this. She had to do this. She was the only one who could do this. And she was the one who’d be making herself a target, her inner voice reminded her.
Damn you, Brett, Quinn thought vehemently as she returned downstairs. Damn you, you evil little bastard!
**
The police station was modern and bright, the décor practical and minimalist. Several people nodded to Drew as they passed by, a few stopping to say hello and ask after his leg and his life as a civilian. Drew was friendly and easygoing, no hint of unease in his manner. Quinn, on the other hand, felt sick. She should have told Gabe she was doing this. He would have insisted on accompanying her, and although she’d wanted to spare him this, she now wished he were here.
I can do this, Quinn chided herself. This is nothing but a preliminary interview. There’s nothing to worry about. I’m not the one on trial here. But I might be asked some difficult questions. If DI Marshall was as thorough as Drew had intimated, he’d want to know the source of her information.
“Drew, good to see you. And this must be Mrs. Russell. I’m Detective Inspector Dan Marshall,” the man said, holding his hand out to Quinn. “Please come this way.” He made a sweeping gesture toward the beige-painted corridor that led to several closed doors. “I’ve reserved us an interview room.”
DI Marshall was tall and lean, his physique reminiscent of a professional cyclist. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut short, the haircut stylish and expensive looking, as were his gray suit and slate-blue silk tie. Next to him, Drew Camden looked like a bear who’d just awoken from a prolonged hibernation. He lumbered down the corridor, nearly filling the narrow space.
The Lost (Echoes from the Past Book 9) Page 19