The Hummingbird Dagger

by Cindy Anstey

  Beth frowned. “You are not going out, are you?”

  “Yes, actually,” Caroline answered in an overly casual manner. “I think I need some air and a little exercise. Regent Street is only steps away. Don’t shake your head, Beth. I’ll take Meighan with me and go veiled.” She swooped her arms around as if to encompass the neighborhood. “Better to go now, while it is crowded, than later when I might be observed.”

  “Can we not get by? Make do until we are certain that we were not followed, that we are safe?”

  Caroline rose and placed a reassuring hand on Beth’s shoulder. “We are safe.”

  “But—”

  “I will keep an eye open for a bookstore or circulating library while I am out. I think you must have read and reread that book to monotony.”

  “I would rather you just got what you needed, and came right back.”

  “Very well, but if I happen upon—”

  “Please,” Beth sighed. “Just be as quick as you can.”

  Caroline tripped lightly up the stairs to change. She was being stubborn; not from anxiety or nerves but rather a pressing desire to do something. Regent Street housed many of the shops on the appointment list from the brown cloak. James had the list, but Caroline remembered that Fitzroy’s had been mentioned. It stood but a block or two from Harley Street.

  Caroline descended the main staircase to find Meighan leaning against the wall of the entrance, trying to stay out of the way of the workmen laying Italian marble. As best they could, the girls stepped gingerly to the door. Caroline pulled down her veil before stepping out into the busy world.

  The crowd and noise were a little overwhelming. Born and raised in the country, with little time in the city, Caroline had no appreciation for the urban way of life. While the press of a ball or assembly was often close and confining, she found the rush of wagons and carriages just inches from where she walked more than a little unsettling. However, by the time she had crossed Chandos Street, she was beginning to feel the rhythm of the masses and her heart no longer raced. A cautious glance behind confirmed that Ned had followed them, furthering her comfort.

  Once the two young women had gained Regent Street, Caroline dispatched Meighan with the list and a time of rendezvous. There was a slight protest on the maid’s part, but Caroline quickly dissuaded Meighan of the idea that she was needed for protection. Meighan, being fine boned and rather timid, would have been no obstacle for anyone wanting to cause Caroline an injury.

  * * *

  FITZROY’S, as Caroline remembered, was only two blocks south, near Oxford Street. The gentle tinkle of a bell announced her presence and drew a smiling merchant from his inner office. The shop was not full, but the other salesmen were busy showing customers the skill of their designs and quality of their leather.

  “Can I help you?” asked the salesman. He had calculating eyes beneath his spectacles. He looked Caroline up and down—no doubt taking in her country styles. There was an arrogant air about him; he was likely the manager.

  “Yes, indeed.” Caroline had prepared a story. It was a stretch of the truth but not enough to be considered a lie. “I was hoping to help one of your customers.”

  No surprise or puzzlement interfered with the bland expression on the man’s face. He remained motionless except for a barely perceptible lifting of his chin.

  Caroline took a deep breath. “A package of some value was left upon my doorstep by mistake.” She mentally apologized to Beth for calling her a package. “The only clue as to the gentleman to whom it might belong was a list of appointments that had accompanied the package. It was stamped with your address.”

  The manager tipped his head to the side with his eyebrows lifted. “Yes, of course, one of ours.” He led Caroline to the back of the store, disappeared briefly and returned with an appointment book. “What day would that be, and what time?”

  “Two o’clock on the fifteenth. April fifteenth.” Although even as she said so, Caroline realized that A15 had a plethora of possibilities, none having to do with a date.

  The manager leafed through his book and then ran his finger down the page at which he had stopped. “Oh dear,” he sighed dramatically. “No name.” He made as if to shut the book.

  “No name at all?” Caroline craned her neck to see for herself.

  “None.” The manager turned the book to face Caroline. “As you can see, just the initials ‘R. & E.H.’” The book closed with a snap.

  “Who might R. & E.H. be?” Caroline tried to keep her voice level, while at the same time wanting to give the man a good shake.

  “The hand is not mine but that of my wife.”

  “Could you ask your wife, then?”

  “She is not here today.”

  Dejected, disappointed, and dissatisfied, Caroline huffed. “Perhaps—” she began, then felt a hesitant tap on her shoulder.

  “Miss, Miss Ellerby? I can’t find that lavender soap what Dr. Brant’s housekeeper wanted,” Meighan said, obviously forgetting the request not to use names while they were out and about. “I just wanted you to know that I’m going to try another shop. I’ll just be a tick longer than expected.”

  Caroline felt a surge of alarm. “Yes, yes, by all means, do so.” She motioned the maid back to the door before the girl mentioned Beth as well.

  Caroline followed, thinking a general retreat was in order.

  The manager raised a curious eyebrow as he walked with her to the door. “Miss Ellerby, are you certain it is a gentleman that you seek? My wife serves only our female customers.”

  Caroline swallowed, uncomfortable with the man’s use of her name.

  The departing tinkle of the store’s bell did nothing to hide the anxiety in her voice. “No, not certain.” She closed the door and stood on the step for some moments. She chastised herself for making assumptions and wasting an opportunity. A look through the window showed the manager scribbling on a piece of paper.

  Oh dear, Caroline thought, it could be worse than a waste of time.

  * * *

  WALTER AND HENRY raced halfheartedly down the drive toward the Welford Mills Road. They felt disinclined to flaunt. Gone was Walter’s desire to create havoc; it had been replaced by a sense of authority. As the man of the house, decorum was more to his taste.

  Walter reined in his grays and set them to a more comfortable pace. Careening just didn’t have the same appeal as it used to. Besides, the task was to be seen; racing was unnecessary.

  The manor was empty; no voice of disapproval awaited, but neither did the evenings of laughter and excitement. Mrs. Fogel, tasked with his care, was not a great conversationalist. Walter’s desire to impress was rendered impotent by the lack of witnesses.

  For the past seven days, Walter gauged the town’s gossip, listening for hints of the Ellerby escape. He had been pleased to answer questions regarding Beth’s health and Caroline’s new reclusive tendency. Nothing to date had given him the idea that the irregularities within the manor had been noted.

  “A word, Mr. Ellerby.” Mr. Strickland stepped in front of the curricle. This would normally have been a dangerous endeavor, but as Walter had been paying more attention to his thoughts than his driving, the horses were barely moving.

  Walter pulled up and allowed the deputy to cross over to his side.

  “I must speak with you and Lord Ellerby.” There wasn’t even a hesitation. “Might I drop by later this afternoon?”

  Walter knew that Mr. Strickland must have news to impart and was reluctant to wait. Still, without lifting his head, Walter was aware of the many eyes that were upon them. “Yes. Of course.” He nodded and flicked the reins. “Carry on,” he called to the horses.

  The quick jaunt about town was quicker than usual and, if Henry saw anything amiss in it or the gossip they had gleaned, he said nothing. Henry was compliant when Walter recalled random duties that needed his immediate attention. He dropped Henry back at Risely and hastened to Hardwick. Once there, Walter retired to the library,
James’ desk, and his own thoughts.

  Mr. Strickland did not appear for an hour or more, and Walter had plenty of time to convince himself that the jig was up. The plan had been to keep all in ignorance for as long as possible. Seven days was not long; a new plot was required.

  Lost in thought, Walter was surprised when Robert opened the door to admit not one but two gentlemen. It was clear that Mr. Strickland and Dr. Brant had only just happened upon each other; their first words, as they crossed the threshold of the library, were in greeting. They made themselves comfortable across from Walter, and if they saw anything improper in his sitting in James’ chair, they said nothing about it.

  Dr. Brant was the first to speak. “Well, Walter, everyone knows James is gone, and there is a lot of speculation that the young ladies are gone, too. You can bet the races that those whom we were wishing to deceive have heard the rumors as well.”

  “So the jig is well and truly up.”

  “Afraid so. I heard the tale from three different patients. All very hush-hush, of course.”

  “Of course,” Walter sighed and shook his head. He turned to Mr. Strickland. “Is that what you wished to discuss?”

  “Well, Mr. Ellerby, only in part. Mostly, I wished to notify you, and Lord Ellerby, of a few … things. There be few strangers in town; most are gone. They was brought in to build that there keep up at Risely. What was wrong with our own tradesmen, I can’t tell you. Two men in particular was hanging about for, as some put it, ‘no bloody good reason.’” Mr. Strickland’s upper lip twitched as he quoted. “They was close to Miss Ellerby’s description of the blackguards who waylaid ’er and Miss Beth, but not exact-like. So I still don’t know if they were part and parcel of them troubles. They’ve been gone for two or three days now.” He looked significantly at Walter. “Enough time to have been involved in the shooting.”

  “So we are no further ahead.” Dr. Brant’s chair squeaked as he leaned back into the leathered wings.

  Walter lifted his chin, speaking with authority … Well, he tried to emulate authority. “Except, if the men only left a few days ago,” he said, “they weren’t following the carriage.”

  “True enough, true enough. Oh and that there pillow Lord Ellerby and me found on Old Risely Road … You knew about that, right?” He nodded, agreeing with himself and continued. “That there pillow were, indeed, Daisy Bartley’s. Messy though it be, the little one recognized it.” A cloud passed over the deputy’s face and he pursed his lips for a moment.

  Walter waited, twitching with impatience.

  “And lastly—” Mr. Strickland took out his pad and flipped through it. “The man what come into Welford looking for a lady somewhat like Miss Beth…” He looked up.

  “Yes, Mr. Paterson’s agent,” Dr. Brant encouraged.

  “Well, now you’ve just hit the nail on the head. It seems he weren’t working for Mr. Paterson. Mrs. Cranley says the man were hired by an uppity-up titled gentleman or so he said. Not only that, the butcher remembers him mentioning London; the feller didn’t come from Cheltenham or Pencombe.” Mr. Strickland reached into his greatcoat and, after some rooting around, produced a letter addressed to James. “I put it all down for his Lordship, but I didn’t know if you were going to join him or…” His voice trailed off.

  Walter didn’t take the letter. He stared at it.

  Dr. Brant took the note from the deputy and then leaned toward Walter, note extended again.

  Walter continued to stare. “I do not think I am going into Town anytime soon.” Joining the entourage in London would mean losing his freedom again, being ordered about by James. Walter quite enjoyed being his own man.

  Dr. Brant lowered his arm and with it the proffered note. “Not to worry, I’ll take it. I will be leaving for Town tomorrow.” He dropped the paper into his waistcoat pocket. “Now that I am no longer needed as an alibi, I will see how the renovations are proceeding in my house.” Dr. Brant raised his eyebrows. “I’m already packed; my practice is covered. I will leave in the morning.”

  * * *

  JUST BLOCKS FROM St. Katherine’s Dock, James fought the urge to open the carriage door and walk ahead. He knew Sam was doing his best to press on, but the traffic had reached a bottleneck.

  Wagons, carts, and coaches provided a steady stream of movement both in and out of the narrowing gate under the warehouses. Once through, there would be ample room to move about, but until then, patience was his only choice.

  James’ arrival in London had coincided with a short recess of the House. After a long and contentious debate renouncing the letters of marque, all parties agreed to take a break. The delay suited Lord Levry’s needs; they were inching toward James’ twenty-first birthday, when he would be able to add his vote in the House of Lords to end the privateering.

  A note from Caroline had reached James just as he had been departing for his gentlemen’s club, Brooks’s. Her request for assistance with a difficult supplier was hardly the inconvenience that she believed it to be. James was quite happy to take on the task of acquiring flawless marble; if nothing else, it kept his mind away from Beth. Was she safe? Why had someone tried to end her life? When would he see her again?

  Yes, with Beth no longer on his mind, James could concentrate on Brant’s floor—a floor that Beth walked upon daily, as she wandered about the townhouse … without him. James shook the images from his mind’s eye and refocused on the marble. He was prepared to chide the troublesome merchant who was taking advantage of Brant by furnishing inferior tiles. He was pleased to note that his sister had not taken it upon herself to resolve this problem and remained in seclusion as they had agreed.

  * * *

  AT LAST, the Ellerby carriage passed through the gates and made its way toward the warehouses. The large quays were busy with docked ships and barges of every size and description, but not nearly as varied as the humanity that surrounded them. Riverside laborers encompassed the majority of the bustle, including coopers, rope makers, carpenters, stevedores, and day workers. Cargo was raised out of the ships’ holds and directly placed in the ground floor of the warehouses. Sugar was transferred from the measured hogsheads into barrels. And there was an overabundance of noise and indiscernible smells, some rich and others fetid.

  James alit and cast about for the offices of Treviso and Ferrara Importers. With the direction of a customhouse officer, he found Mr. Ferrara on the third floor of a warehouse, sitting behind a desk that did nothing to hide his bulk. Their conversation was short but satisfying; Mr. Ferrara agreed to replace the defective marble tiles immediately.

  James had only just stepped back into the bustling fray, when he saw a figure approach his carriage. It was a stocky man with a deeply tanned face. James recognized him and quickened his pace.

  “Mr. Derrydale! Hugh, how are you?”

  The Welford Mills native turned, somewhat startled by the greeting and the person from whom it emanated. “J-just fine, Lord Ellerby,” he stammered.

  James clapped Hugh on the back, surprising him even further. “Your parents mentioned that you were working on the docks. A cooper, they said. Well done.”

  Hugh’s chest rose slightly. “I be a regular.” He jerked his thumb toward the gathering of barrel-makers behind them. “Me cousin got me the job. Ma thought it best, considering…” Hugh had a reputation for mischief that would not soon fade.

  James motioned for Sam to open the carriage door and smiled with a benevolent expression learned from his father. “Very wise of her. It will be some time yet before your adventures are forgotten … or forgiven. Every time there is something amiss, your name is still mentioned. People will eventually forget. Unless you can create mischief in two places at the same time.”

  “Some think that I can,” the cooper added with bouncing eyebrows. “I’m oft mistaken for me cousin. He be older and had the pox, but he has the same Derrydale looks and he be a wild one. He’s off drivin’ a coach now for some hoity-toity nob—” He swallowed visibly. “Par
don, m’lord.”

  James frowned and stared over Hugh’s head for a moment. Had he heard Hugh correctly? He and his cousin shared the Derrydale looks? “Is your cousin in London?”

  “No, m’lord. Exeter. Gone since April.”

  The bustling hum of the dock faded into the background. James was aware of Sam closing the carriage door and the vehicle’s jerking start, but his mind was locked on the words of the cooper, and the description of his errant cousin and what it might mean.

  “Stop. Stop, Sam!” James shouted and was halfway out of the carriage before Sam could pull up. He jumped to the ground and jogged back to where Hugh still stood, staring with mouth agape.

  “Be there a problem, Lord Ellerby?”

  James took a gulp of air to calm his racing heart and then straightened. “I think your cousin might be up to no good,” he said. “He’s been seen making mischief in Welford.” Mischief indeed, if breaking into the manor could be called such.

  “Not surprised in the least, sir. He be foolhardy at the best of times. But I’m thinking he landed on his feet a few months back. Least ways, it sounded like it. Greg got into a spot of trouble an’ were let go here at the cooperage. He be livin’ hand to mouth when he met one of the passengers coming off a merchant ship, looking for a driver.”

  James shook his head. “I can think of better places to hire a driver.”

  “Indeed, sir. Ya got that right. Greg bragged about pullin’ the wool over this gent’s eyes. The gent mentioned Welford an’ Greg said his people, the Brills, were from Welford Mills.” Hugh laughed with little amusement. “That be stretchin’ it more than a bit. Greg Brill be London born and bred. He dinna know Welford at all but he dinna say so.”

  “Rather naive,” James interjected, shaking his head at the gentleman’s folly. “And where might I find Greg Brill, Hugh?”

  “Not seen Greg, not hide nor hair, since he headed out in the coach, whippin’ up the horses like he knew what he was about.”