Into Thin Eire Page 9

  “Is it?” Pickett asked, with none of the blushing confusion that he had shown on his previous visit. “I’m afraid you may not find it so for long.”

  “False modesty, Mr. Pickett,” she chided, and although her manner was flirtatious, her expression grew wary.

  “Mrs. Avery, less than twenty-four hours ago and in this very room, you deflected every question I asked you about Edward Gaines Brockton—”

  “But I don’t know anything!” she protested, opening her blue eyes wide. “I’ve never met the man!”

  “ ‘Never’? Then how is it that you reserved a room for him at the Cock and Boar?”

  She gestured toward the sofa. “Pray sit down, Mr. Pickett, and allow me to explain.”

  “Forgive me if I choose to remain standing,” Pickett replied, hardening his heart. “I know only too well what happens to men who sit next to you.”

  She sighed. “You misjudge me, Mr. Pickett, but I suppose it is no more than I deserve. In fact, I can tell you very little about Mr. Brockton. I have never met him, you see.”

  “You’ve never met the man, and yet you reserve a room for him at the Cock and Boar,” Pickett said skeptically. “Why don’t you pull the other one, Mrs. Avery? It’s got bells on.”

  “It’s true!” she insisted. “If you must know, I—I answered an advertisement in the newspaper.”

  “You answered an advertisement in the newspaper,” Pickett echoed, not quite certain if she were still having him on or not.

  “I am a widow, Mr. Pickett,” she reminded him. “My late husband did not leave me lavishly provided for, and genteel options for supplementing a lady’s income are few. When I saw an advertisement requesting assistance in making arrangements for a traveler, it seemed a simple enough request.”

  “Who placed the advertisement? Was it Mr. Brockton?”

  “I don’t know,” she confessed with a lift of her black-clad shoulders. “He never gave his name.”

  “He never sent you a bank draft for holding up your end of the bargain?”

  “He sent me a ten-pound note. It was torn in half, and the two pieces sent separately through the post.”

  Pickett nodded. Mail theft was a common problem, and the solution Mrs. Avery described—that of tearing or cutting banknotes in half and thus rendering them worthless unless one were in possession of both halves—was not unusual in itself. Still . . .

  “Ten pounds is a lot to pay in return for one small favor—”

  “Two small favors, actually. I was also charged with collecting the key to the room on Friday, the day he was to have arrived.”

  “Two, then,” Pickett amended impatiently, “and he seems to have gone to great lengths not to reveal anything about himself, or his whereabouts. And yet it never occurred to you that there might be anything havey-cavey about the business?”

  “Beggars cannot afford to be choosers, Mr. Pickett,” she pointed out. “There was nothing illegal in what I was asked to do, and he was offering to pay me very well in return for only a very minor inconvenience.” She sighed. “Mr. Pickett, may we not sit down? It is a long story, and I should prefer to make myself comfortable before I tell it. I promise, I shall make no untoward advances upon your person,” she added with more than a hint of asperity.

  Pickett consented, and once they were seated on the sofa, she picked up the thread of her story. “You asked if I never questioned the ethics, if not the legality, of what I was requested to do. In fact, it was not until I saw you in church and realized Bow Street was taking an interest in the matter that I began to wonder. That, and the fact that Mr. Brockton had apparently never reached Dunbury, made me think I might have got more than I bargained for.”

  “You recognized my colleague’s uniform,” Pickett observed.

  She nodded. “Mr. Avery and I lived in London for a short time following our marriage, and I am familiar with the costume of the Bow Street Horse Patrol—though not from any personal run-ins with the law, you understand. When I overheard you asking the vicar about Mr. Brockton—well, you may imagine the thoughts that ran through my head. I am not wholly without principles, you know. I had to discover if I had unwittingly become some sort of accessory to a crime. To that end, I inserted myself into your conversation with the vicar, and asked him for an introduction.”

  “And yet when you invited me to tea, you implied that you possessed some information that would be of interest to me,” he reminded her.

  “Obviously I did possess such information, or you would not be here now,” she pointed out. “Still, the purpose of my invitation was not to impart information, but to obtain it.”

  “Oh, was that it? You’ll forgive me for thinking the purpose of your invitation was something entirely different.”

  “Yes, but you would not follow the rules of the game, Mr. Pickett,” she chided. “Had you followed the rules, we would have spent a very pleasant afternoon upstairs, at the end of which you—by this time thoroughly sated with food, wine, and me—would have confided the nature of your business in Dunbury. If you had said, ‘I am to have the honor of informing Mr. Brockton that he is heir to a fortune in the West Indies,’ I would have obligingly told you all that I knew. On the other hand, if you had said, ‘I must arrest Mr. Brockton for murder and bring him back to London in irons,’ I would have held my tongue.”

  This last was confessed with so charming a smile that it required some effort on Pickett’s part not to return it. “If that was what you had in mind, you would have done better to address your attentions to my colleague, Mr. Carson—as I believe I told you at the time.”

  She gave a disdainful sniff. “Yes, and I told you what I thought of your Mr. Carson. Besides, if he had told me anything at all, it would no doubt have been so inflated and embroidered—so as to represent him in the best possible light, you understand—that I would have found them utterly worthless.”

  Her reading of Harry Carson’s character was so accurate that Pickett’s smile broke free in spite of his best efforts to appear stern and unyielding. “Mrs. Avery, you are an astute judge of human nature.”

  The widow put her hand to her eyes as if shielding them from the sun. “Pray do not smile at me, Mr. Pickett. It only taunts me with visions of what I cannot have. Yes, that’s it! Your blushes are much better.”

  Ignoring these assurances (which, in fact, had caused him to blush still more deeply crimson), Pickett asked, “Do you still have the newspaper? The one with the advertisement, I mean.”

  “Why, no. I saw no reason to keep it,” she added apologetically.

  “What paper was it? The Times?”

  “No. I daresay he would not bother to advertise in London, since it would require someone here in Dunbury, or within easy reach of it, to carry out the errand. It was the Wells Journal.”

  “I see,” Pickett said, contemplating with a sinking heart the necessity of journeying to Wells in search of the publisher of this periodical. “I appreciate your frankness, Mrs. Avery. If you wish, I can return Mr. Brockton’s room key to the Cock and Boar for you.”

  “I would be obliged to you, Mr. Pickett.” She rose and crossed the room to an elegant escritoire, then retrieved a brass key from its shallow top drawer and surrendered it into his keeping. “I only hope you will not be obliged to pay for the room.”

  “If I am, I will pass the expense along to the Bow Street Public Office. From there, it will be charged to Mr. Brockton. He already owes a substantial sum for two Runners and their traveling expenses.”

  Of course, there was the little matter of finding him first, but Pickett had every confidence in his magistrate; when it came to collecting remuneration, Mr. Colquhoun lived up to his Scottish heritage.

  “May I ask a favor of you, Mr. Pickett?” the widow asked, accompanying him to the door. “Will you let me know what you discover about the man? I confess to being curious, and perhaps even a little worried about him.”

  “It’s very likely nothing more than someone’s idea of a joke,
” Pickett assured her, and tried hard to believe it. And yet, there was the troubling coincidence of those initials . . . Still, he couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for Mrs. Avery, whose life was so circumscribed that she was reduced to answering anonymous advertisements for money and seducing random visitors for amusement. “If I should prove to be wrong, I will let you know.”

  With this promise, he took his leave and began retracing his route up the High Street toward the Cock and Boar. He passed the bookseller’s shop and was approaching the livery stable when the sound of thundering hoofbeats behind him caused him to press closer to the buildings. He looked up to glare at the passing rider, and suffered a check. The man on horseback wore the blue coat and red waistcoat, both now liberally coated with dust, of the Bow Street Horse Patrol. Even as his brain registered this curious fact, the two men’s eyes met as the sweating horse raced past in a cloud of dust. The rider wheeled his mount ’round, and returned to Pickett.

  “Mr. Pickett—thank God—I found you—” Samuel Matthews was almost as winded as the horse beneath him. He reached into his dusty coat and retrieved a folded and sealed paper. “This—for you—Mr. Colquhoun—”

  Pickett didn’t waste time asking questions the man clearly didn’t have the breath to answer. He took the paper, and noticed that it was actually two sheets folded together. He broke the seal, then opened it and scanned the scrawled lines.

  “Mr. Pickett?” asked Matthews, seeing the face of his Bow Street compatriot turn white as death.

  “It’s Julia.” Pickett spoke like one in a daze. “My wife. She’s been abducted.”

  9

  In Which John Pickett Calls In the Cavalry

  You should have known . . . You should have known . . . The accusation rang in Pickett’s head as he stared at the creased papers in his hands.

  “Mr. Pickett?” Matthews’s voice seemed to be calling to him from somewhere far away. “Are you all right, sir?”

  Pickett looked up, blinking at him as if surprised to see him still there. “My wife,” he said in a voice strangely unlike his own. “She’s gone.”

  Matthews slid from the saddle and looped the reins over the horse’s head. “Are you going back to the inn—what was it, the Cock and Boar? I’ll walk with you.”

  In fact, he was reluctant to ride ahead and leave Mr. Pickett to make even so short a trek alone. He hadn’t been with Bow Street for very long, but he knew that Pickett was regarded there as something of a prodigy, having been promoted from the Foot Patrol to Principal Officer at the age of twenty-three. In the fellow’s present state, however, Matthews wasn’t sure he trusted him not to step out in front of a wagon. Once they reached the inn, however—a walk completed in absolute silence, as Pickett had spoken not a word—Matthews was obliged to part company.

  “I have to see to Bruno here,” he said apologetically, transferring the reins to his other hand so that he might stroke the horse’s twitching neck. “I’ve ridden the poor old fellow hard over the last twenty-four hours, and he deserves some cosseting. I’ll be inside shortly, as soon as I’ve settled him in the stable.”

  Pickett said nothing, but continued to put one foot in front of the other until he entered the inn. Nancy was behind the counter, so it was hardly surprising that Carson was there as well, leaning against the counter with his chin propped on his hand. Upon seeing Pickett’s expression, he stood up straighter, abandoning, at least for the nonce, all interest in his latest flirt.

  “You found him, then?” he asked urgently. “Is he dead?”

  “She’s gone,” Pickett said, as if he didn’t quite believe the words coming from his own mouth.

  “Who? Mrs. Avery?”

  “Julia—my wife. She’s gone,” he said again, as if the words would make sense if only he repeated them often enough.

  “ ‘Gone’? What do you mean, ‘gone’?” As the significance of this declaration began to dawn, Carson’s blue eyes grew wide. “But that makes you a wealthy widower! Now you can—”

  He got no further. Pickett, suddenly awakened from his stupor, lunged for him. The force of the attack bore both men across the counter and onto the floor on the other side, where they landed in a heap at Nancy’s feet. She screamed and, seeing no other way to prevail upon Pickett to detach his hands from about her swain’s throat, snatched up a broom and began beating him about the head and shoulders with it.

  The commotion was sufficient to reach the upper floor and the ears of Thomas, who had been engaged in putting away his master’s newly laundered shirts. Upon hearing evidence of a donnybrook below, he came clattering down the stairs to discover what was in the wind and, if necessary, to lend his aid.

  “Thank God!” Nancy looked up from her broom to appeal to the newcomer. “Can’t you do something to separate them?”

  Finding his master apparently locked in mortal combat with the colleague with whom he had seemingly been on good terms only that morning, Thomas didn’t hesitate to join the fray, although not without being accidentally whacked with a broom for his pains.

  “Put that thing down, woman!” he commanded Nancy, then set about pulling Pickett off Carson, who was certainly getting the worst of the encounter. Having achieved this goal, however, Thomas didn’t hesitate to make it clear on whose side his loyalties lay. “What’s he done, sir?” he asked, indicating by his tone that he would be more than willing to pick up where his master had left off, should circumstances dictate such a course of action.

  “I didn’t do anything!” retorted Carson, picking himself up and dusting himself off as the color in his face gradually returned to normal. “He just tore into me like a lunatic—and let me tell you, Mister Pickett, that if you think your seniority give you the right to—”

  “Leave it, Harry.”

  All four of the participants turned as a fifth person entered the inn, a man in the uniform, albeit sadly dust-covered, of the Bow Street Horse Patrol.

  “Matthews?” Carson asked incredulously. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  Matthews didn’t answer at once. His spurs jingled as he crossed the room to address himself to Nancy. “Pour this man a tot of the strongest thing you have,” he said with a nod toward Pickett, panting and miserable but making no effort to free himself from Thomas’s grasp. “Better make it a double.”

  “Why isn’t anyone ordering drinks for me?” Harry grumbled, massaging his abused throat. “Seems to me that I’m the injured party here.”

  “Shut up, Harry,” said Pickett and Matthews in unison.

  Thomas, seeing his duty clear, ordered a pint of ale for himself and one for each of the Bow Street men, trusting that his master would reimburse him for the expense once the matter, whatever it was, had been settled.

  After the drinks had been served, the four men seated themselves around a table near the window. Matthews took a long pull from his tankard, then wiped the foam from his lips with his sleeve, leaving a streak of dust across the lower half of his face.

  “First of all, Harry, you’ll have to excuse Mr. Pickett. I’d just brought him some bad news.” He glanced at the man who, although several years his junior, was nevertheless his superior at Bow Street. “Do you want to tell it, sir, or shall I?”

  Pickett, staring blindly out the window, sighed deeply, as if he were suddenly tired of living. “My wife has been abducted. She was taken from her house—our house—on Monday.” Would that have been yesterday, he wondered, or the day before? Time seemed to have suddenly ceased to exist. “Mr. Colquhoun received word on Sunday morning that Robert Hetherington had escaped from prison. Although he’s careful to point out that there’s no evidence to indicate that the two events are related, he thinks”—he swallowed past the lump in his throat—“he thinks I will probably agree that the timing is a bit significant for mere coincidence.”

  “Do you?” Carson asked. “Agree, I mean.”

  “Yes,” Pickett said bleakly.

  Carson opened his mouth to request some further explanat
ion but, in a rare moment of sensitivity, changed his mind, electing to take a swig of ale instead.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Thomas asked, “but how do they know she was abducted? Couldn’t she have just decided to go to her folks’ instead?”

  Her folks, Pickett recalled, closing his eyes at the thought of this fresh disaster. Her parents, Sir Thaddeus and Lady Runyon, who lived not far from Dunbury, and who he had thought to call on while he was in the area. Now he would have to look them in the eye and tell them that their daughter’s life was in danger and that he, who had professed to love her and vowed to care for her, was responsible.

  Aloud, however, he merely said, “It’s all in the letter. Mr. Colquhoun included Andrew’s statement.” This, in fact, was the second sheet of paper, which he handed across the table to Thomas. Carson, not to be left out, leaned nearer and read over his shoulder while Pickett summarized for Matthews’ benefit. “Andrew is a footman. He was downstairs when he heard Rogers—that’s the butler—shout for him, followed by a loud noise like a body”—his voice shook on the word—“hitting the ground. He ran upstairs to find Rogers lying on the floor, bleeding from a head wound. The front door was ajar, and he ran out onto the portico just in time to see the door of an unmarked carriage close, and the driver whip up the horses. He started to run after it, but was soon left behind.”

  Matthews frowned thoughtfully. “Then how does he know she was inside? What if she just happened to step out of the house at the same time, and this Andrew fellow assumed the worst? Maybe the men in the carriage were even watching for her to leave the house so they could rob it, and—what?” he asked, seeing Pickett shake his head.

  “It’s there in the written statement. A scrap of fabric was caught in the door of the carriage—light green, with a pattern that might have been cream-colored flowers. Julia—Mrs. Pickett—owns just such a dress.”

  And she was wearing it with increasing frequency, he recalled, as she’d been obliged to pack away several of her dresses until after the birth, the cut of their narrow skirts not allowing for the increasing bulge of her abdomen. She would never have been so careless with it as to allow it to be caught in the carriage door—unless, of course, she was unable to prevent it, being unconscious or . . . worse. His brain shied away from the thought. Unfortunately, it seemed to be shying away from every other thought, too. He ought to be doing something, but he couldn’t think what—something more than sitting here drinking something that tasted like ditchwater, in any case. He needed a plan; why couldn’t he think? There was something he needed to tell Carson to do; what was it? Something involving newspapers . . .