In Their Footsteps / Thief of Hearts

by Tess Gerritsen

  “Looks like most of the Havelaar’s crew,” said the captain.

  “We’ll need all hands up here.”

  The captain turned and barked out the order. Seconds later the Cosima’s crew had assembled on deck. As the bow knifed across the remaining expanse of water, the men stood in silence near the bow rail, all eyes focused on the lifeboat just ahead.

  By the searchlight’s glare Trott could now make out the number of survivors: six. He knew the Max Havelaar had sailed from Naples with a crew of eight. Were there two still in the water?

  He turned and glanced toward the distant silhouette of shore. With luck and endurance, a man could swim that distance.

  The lifeboat was adrift off their starboard side.

  Trott shouted, “This is the Cosima! Identify yourselves!”

  “Max Havelaar!” shouted one of the men in the lifeboat.

  “Is this your entire crew?”

  “Two are dead!”

  “You’re certain?”

  “The engine, she explodes! One man, he is trapped below.”

  “And your eighth man?”

  “He falls in. Cannot swim!”

  Which made the eighth man as good as dead, thought Trott. He glanced at Cosima’s crew. They stood watching, waiting for the order.

  The lifeboat was gliding almost alongside now.

  “A little closer,” Trott called down, “and we’ll throw you a line.”

  One of the men in the lifeboat reached up to catch the rope.

  Trott turned and gave his men the signal.

  The first hail of bullets caught its victim in midreach, arms extended toward his would-be saviors. He had no chance to scream. As the bullets rained down from the Cosima, the men fell, helpless before the onslaught. Their cries, the splash of a falling body, were drowned out by the relentless spatter of automatic gunfire.

  When it was finished, when the bullets finally ceased, the bodies lay in a coiled embrace in the lifeboat. A silence fell, broken only by the slap of water against the Cosima’s hull.

  One last explosion spewed a finale of sparks into the air. The bow of the Max Havelaar—what remained of her—tilted crazily toward the sky. Then, gently, she slid backward into the deep.

  The lifeboat, its hull riddled with bullet holes, was already half submerged. A Cosima crewman heaved a loose anchor over the side. It landed with a thud among the bodies. The lifeboat tipped, emptying its cargo of corpses into the sea.

  “Our work is done here, Captain,” said Trott. Matter-of-factly he turned toward the helm. “I suggest we return to—”

  He suddenly halted, his gaze focused on a patch of water a dozen yards away. What was that splash? He could still see the ripples of reflected firelight worrying the water’s surface. There it was again. Something silvery gliding out of the swells, then slipping back under the water.

  “Over there!” shouted Trott. “Fire!”

  His men looked at him, puzzled.

  “What did you see?” asked the captain.

  “Four o’clock. Something broke the surface.”

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “Fire at it, anyway.”

  One of the gunmen obligingly squeezed off a clip. The bullets sprayed into the water, their deadly rain splashing a line across the surface.

  They watched for a moment. Nothing appeared. The water smoothed once again into undulating glass.

  “I know I saw something,” said Trott.

  The captain shrugged. “Well, it’s not there now.” He called to the helmsman, “Return to port!”

  Cosima came about, leaving in her wake a spreading circle of ripples.

  Trott moved to the stern, his gaze still focused on the suspicious patch of water. As they roared away he thought he spotted another flash of silver bob to the surface. It was there only for an instant. Then, in a twinkling, it was gone.

  A fish, he thought. And, satisfied, he turned away.

  Yes, that must be what it was. A fish.

  One

  “A small burglary. That’s all I’m asking for.” Veronica Cairncross gazed up at him, tears shimmering in her sapphire eyes. She was dressed in a fetching off-the-shoulder silk gown, the skirt arranged in lustrous ripples across the Queen Anne love seat. Her hair, a rich russet brown, had been braided with strands of seed pearls and was coiled artfully atop her aristocratic head. At thirty-three she was far more stunning, far more chic than she’d been at the age of twenty-five, when he’d first met her. Through the years she’d acquired, along with her title, an unerring sense of style, poise and a reputation for witty repartee that made her a sought-after guest at the most glittering parties in London. But one thing about her had not changed, would never change.

  Veronica Cairncross was still an idiot.

  How else could one explain the predicament into which she’d dug herself?

  And once again, he thought wearily, it’s faithful old chum Jordan Tavistock to the rescue. Not that Veronica didn’t need rescuing. Not that he didn’t want to help her. It was simply that this request of hers was so bizarre, so fraught with dire possibilities, that his first instinct was to turn her down flat.

  He did. “It’s out of the question, Veronica,” said Jordan. “I won’t do it.”

  “For me, Jordie!” she pleaded. “Think what will happen if you don’t. If he shows those letters to Oliver—”

  “Poor old Ollie will have a fit. You two will row for a few days, and then he’ll forgive you. That’s what will happen.”

  “What if Ollie doesn’t forgive me? What if he—what if he wants a…” She swallowed and looked down. “A divorce,” she whispered.

  “Really, Veronica.” Jordan sighed. “You should have thought about this before you had the affair.”

  She stared down in misery at the folds of her silk gown. “I didn’t think. That’s the whole problem.”

  “No, it’s obvious you didn’t.”

  “I had no idea Guy would be so difficult. You’d think I broke his heart! It’s not as if we were in love or anything. And now he’s being such a bastard about it. Threatening to tell all! What gentleman would sink so low?”

  “No gentleman would.”

  “If it weren’t for those letters I wrote, I could deny the whole thing. It would be my word against Guy’s then. I’m sure Ollie would give me the benefit of the doubt.”

  “What, exactly, did you write in those letters?”

  Veronica’s head drooped unhappily. “Things I shouldn’t have.”

  “Confessions of love? Sweet nothings?”

  She groaned. “Much worse.”

  “More explicit, you mean?”

  “Far more explicit.”

  Jordan gazed at her bent head, at the seed pearls and russet hair glimmering in the lamplight. And he thought, It’s hard to believe I was once attracted to this woman. But that was years ago, and he’d been only twenty-two and a bit gullible—a condition he sincerely hoped he’d outgrown.

  Veronica Dooley had entered his social circle on the arm of an old chum from Cambridge. After the chum bowed out, Jordan had inherited the girl’s attentions, and for a few dizzy weeks he’d thought he might be in love. Better sense prevailed. Their parting was amicable, and they’d remained friends over the years. She’d gone on to marry Oliver Cairncross, and although Sir Oliver was a good twenty years older than his bride, theirs had been a classic match between money on his side and beauty on hers. Jordan had thought them a contented pair.

  How wrong he’d been.

  “My advice to you,” he said, “is to come clean. Tell Ollie about the affair. He’ll most likely forgive you.”

  “Even if he does, there’s still the letters. Guy’s just upset enough to send them to all the wrong people. If Fleet Street ever got hold of them, Ollie would be publicly humiliated.”

  “You think Guy would really stoop so low?”

  “I don’t doubt it for a minute. I’d offer to pay him off if I thought it would work. But after all tha
t money I lost in Monte Carlo, Ollie’s keeping a tight rein on my spending. And I couldn’t borrow any money from you. I mean, there are some things one simply can’t ask of one’s friends.”

  “Burglary, I’d say, lies in that category,” noted Jordan dryly.

  “But it’s not burglary! I wrote those letters. Which makes them mine. I’m only retrieving what belongs to me.” She leaned forward, her eyes suddenly glittering like blue diamonds. “It wouldn’t be difficult, Jordie. I know exactly which drawer he keeps them in. Your sister’s engagement party is Saturday night. If you could invite him here—”

  “Beryl detests Guy Delancey.”

  “Invite him anyway! While he’s here at Chetwynd, guzzling champagne—”

  “I’m burgling his house?” Jordan shook his head. “What if I’m caught?”

  “Guy’s staff takes Saturday nights off. His house will be empty. Even if you are caught, just tell them it’s a prank. Bring a—a blow-up doll or something, for insurance. Tell them you’re planting it in his bed. They’ll believe you. Who’d doubt the word of a Tavistock?”

  He frowned. “Is that why you’re asking me to do this? Because I’m a Tavistock?”

  “No. I’m asking you because you’re the cleverest man I know. Because you’ve never, ever betrayed any of my secrets.” She raised her chin and met his gaze. It was a look of utter trust. “And because you’re the only one in the world I can count on.”

  Drat. She would have to say that.

  “Will you do it for me, Jordie?” she asked softly. Pitifully. “Tell me you will.”

  Wearily he rubbed his head. “I’ll think about it,” he said. Then he sank back in the armchair and gazed resignedly at the far wall, at the paintings of his Tavistock ancestors.

  Distinguished gentlemen, every one of them, he thought. Not a cat burglar in the lot.

  Until now.

  At 11:05, the lights went out in the servants’ quarters. Good old Whitmore was right on schedule as usual. At 9:00 he’d made his rounds of the house, checking to see that the windows and doors were locked. At 9:30 he’d tidied up downstairs, fussed a bit in the kitchen, perhaps brewed himself a pot of tea. At 10:00 he’d retired upstairs, to the blue glow of his private telly. At 11:05 he turned off his light.

  This had been Whitmore’s routine for the past week, and Clea Rice, who’d been watching Guy Delancey’s house since the previous Saturday, assumed that this would be his routine until the day he died. Menservants, after all, strived to maintain order in their employers’ lives. It wasn’t surprising they’d maintain order in their own lives, as well.

  Now the question was, how long before he’d fall asleep?

  Safely concealed behind the yew hedge, Clea rose to her feet and began to rock from foot to foot, trying to keep the blood moving through her limbs. The grass had been wet, and her stirrup pants were clinging to her thighs. Though the night was warm, she was feeling chilled. It wasn’t just the dampness in her clothes; it was the excitement, the anticipation. And, yes, the fear. Not a great deal of fear—she had enough confidence in her own ability to feel certain she wouldn’t be caught. Still, there was always that chance.

  She danced from foot to foot to keep the adrenaline pumping. She’d give the manservant twenty minutes to fall asleep, no longer. With every minute that passed, her window of opportunity was shrinking. Guy Delancey could return home early from the party tonight, and she wanted to be well away from here when he walked in that front door.

  Surely the butler was asleep now.

  Clea slipped around the yew hedge and took off at a sprint. She didn’t stop running until she’d reached the cover of shrubbery. There she paused to catch her breath, to reevaluate her situation. There was no hue and cry from the house, no signs of movement anywhere in the darkness. Lucky for her, Guy Delancey abhorred dogs; the last thing she needed tonight was some blasted hound baying at her heels.

  She slipped around the house and crossed the flagstone terrace to the French doors. As expected, they were locked. Also as expected, it would be an elementary job. A quick glance under her penlight told her this was an antique warded lock, a bit rusty, probably as old as the house itself. When it came to home security, the English had light years of catching up to do. She fished the set of five skeleton keys out of her fanny pack and began trying them, one by one. The first three keys didn’t fit. She inserted the fourth, turned it slowly and felt the tooth slide into the bolt notch.

  A piece of cake.

  She let herself in the door and stepped into the library. By the glow of moonlight through the windows she could see books gleaming in shelves. Now came the hard part—where was the Eye of Kashmir? Surely not in this room, she thought as the beam of her penlight skimmed the walls. It was too accessible to visitors, pathetically unsecured against thieves. Nevertheless, she gave the room a quick search.

  No Eye of Kashmir.

  She slipped out of the library and into the hallway. Her light traced across burnished wood and antique vases. She prowled through the first-floor parlor and solarium. No Eye of Kashmir. She didn’t bother with the kitchen or dining areas—Delancey would never choose a hiding place so accessible to his servants.

  That left the upstairs rooms.

  Clea ascended the curving stairway, her footsteps silent as a cat’s. At the landing she paused, listening for any sounds of discovery. Nothing. To the left she knew was the servants’ wing. To the right would be Delancey’s bedroom. She turned right and went straight to the room at the end of the hall.

  The door was unlocked. She slipped through and closed it softly behind her.

  Through the balcony windows moonlight spilled in, illuminating a room of grand proportions. The twelve-foot-high walls were covered with paintings. The bed was a massive four-poster, its mattress broad enough to sleep an entire harem. There was an equally massive chest of drawers, a double wardrobe, nightstands and a gentleman’s writing desk. Near the balcony doors was a sitting area—two chairs and a tea table arranged around a Persian carpet, probably antique.

  Clea let out an audible groan. It would take hours to search this room.

  Fully aware of the minutes ticking by, she started with the writing desk. She searched the drawers, checked for hidden niches. No Eye of Kashmir. She moved to the dresser, where she probed through layers of underwear and hankies. No Eye of Kashmir. She turned next to the wardrobe, which loomed like a monstrous monolith against the wall. She was just about to swing open the wardrobe door when she heard a noise and she froze.

  It was a faint rustling, coming from somewhere outside the house. There it was again, louder.

  She swiveled around to face the balcony windows. Something bizarre was going on. Outside, on the railing, the wisteria vines quaked violently. A silhouette suddenly popped up above the tangle of leaves. Clea caught one glimpse of the man’s head, of his blond hair gleaming in the moonlight, and she ducked back behind the wardrobe.

  This was just wonderful. They’d have to take numbers to see whose turn it was to break in next. This was one hazard she hadn’t anticipated—an encounter with a rival thief. An incompetent one, too, she thought in disgust as she heard the sharp clatter of outdoor pottery, quickly stilled. There was an intervening silence. The burglar was listening for sounds of discovery. Old Whitmore must be deaf, thought Clea, if he didn’t hear that racket.

  The balcony door squealed open.

  Clea retreated farther behind the wardrobe. What if he discovered her? Would he attack? She’d brought nothing with which to defend herself.

  She winced as she heard a thump, followed by an irritated mutter of “Damn it all!”

  Oh, Lord. This guy was more dangerous to himself than to her.

  Footsteps creaked closer.

  Clea shrank back, pressing hard against the wall. The wardrobe door swung open, coming to a stop just inches from her face. She heard the clink of hangers as clothes were shoved aside, then the hiss of a drawer sliding out. A flashlight flicked on, its glow
spilling through the crack of the wardrobe door. The man muttered to himself as he rifled through the drawer, irritated grumblings in the queen’s best English.

  “Must be mad. That’s what I am, stark raving. Don’t know how she talked me into this….”

  Clea couldn’t help it; curiosity got the better of her. She eased forward and peered through the crack between the hinges of the door. The man was frowning down at an open drawer. His profile was sharply cut, cleanly aristocratic. His hair was wheat blond and still a bit ruffled from all that wrestling with the wisteria vine. He wasn’t dressed at all like a burglar. In his tuxedo jacket and black bow tie, he looked more like some cocktail-party refugee.

  He dug deeper into the drawer and suddenly gave a murmur of satisfaction. She couldn’t see what he was removing from the drawer. Please, she thought. Let it not be the Eye of Kashmir. To have come so close and then to lose it….

  She leaned even closer to the crack and strained to see over his shoulder, to find out what he was now sliding into his jacket pocket. So intently was she staring, she scarcely had time to react when he unexpectedly grasped the wardrobe door and swung it shut. She jerked back into the shadows and her shoulder thudded against the wall.

  There was a silence. A very long silence.

  Slowly the beam of the flashlight slid around the edge of the wardrobe, followed cautiously by the silhouette of the man’s head.

  Clea blinked as the light focused fully on her face. Against the glare she couldn’t see him, but he could see her. For an eternity neither of them moved, neither of them made a sound.

  Then he said, “Who the hell are you?”

  The figure coiled up against the wardrobe didn’t answer. Slowly Jordan played his torchlight down the length of the intruder, noting the stocking cap pulled low to the eyebrows, the face obscured by camouflage paint, the black turtleneck shirt and pants.