And a final twist, a final release, a final metal-on-metal clank. Arthur strained forward, leaned in, and frowned.
Gates withdrew the single sheet of paper and held it so they could both read it.
You are too late. The game, as they say, is up. You have lost.
Pushing to his feet, Gates tossed the paper to the window seat. “It seems our hunch was correct, Sir Arthur. Fairchild’s death could not be a result of a random burglary, given this.”
“Indeed.” Still frowning, he looked from the safe to the page. Speculation flew through his mind, but he focused again upon the facts.
One—Fairchild had expected someone to look in this strongbox.
Two—he therefore knew he had an enemy closing in upon him.
Three—if Fairchild expected someone to look in here, then he expected them to have the key. The key which he wore in his boot. It therefore stood to reason that he suspected his enemy capable of murder.
He had taken steps to counteract this enemy, though, clearly. Likely with the removal of whatever had been in the safe at one point. Just as likely with the removal of his daughter from harm’s way.
“Where does that leave us?”
A muscle in Gates’s jaw pulsed, as if he clenched his teeth too tightly. “I know not. I have already canvassed every stop along the post roads from London, the shipyard, everything. No one recalled seeing her, and if they did not recall it two months ago, they will not now.”
“She can’t have disappeared.” Yet she seemed to have. Arthur walked over to the window, pushed aside the drapes, and looked out into the garden. Heavy with blooms and lustrous with life, but empty. So very empty. “I asked after her in all the likely places too during that first week. I even followed several false leads. The only one I could not track down was at the shipping office.”
“What?” Gates had been turning away but halted. “I checked there. No one saw any young ladies the days in question.”
“None of the officials, but a young lad searching for odd jobs thought he’d seen her.”
“Interesting.”
Arthur shook his head. “It could not have been Gwyneth. She would not have been boarding a ship bound for America.”
“America.” A spark ignited in Gates’s eyes, blazed, and then went cool. Controlled. “What ship? To where was it headed?”
Did he really think any potential chance of finding her lay in that direction? “Somewhere in Maryland, I believe. I cannot recall its name.”
A smile curled the corners of Gates’s mouth, though his eyes remained devoid of feeling. “I thought to check my sister’s distant relatives on the Continent, the friends we have abroad. That is where most of the general’s contacts still are.”
“Which would make sense, especially given that Napoleon has been defeated. But General Fairchild would never have sent his daughter into the escalating war in America.”
Something snapped to life in Gates’s eyes, quickly rising and quickly gone. “Exactly. No one would expect it, which would make it safe.”
For lack of anything useful to do with his hands, Arthur clasped them behind his back. He shook his head again. “Safe? Nay. Not with those blasted American privateers on the loose, even in British waters—and he would not send his daughter into a war without a protector.”
Gates’s face was stoic once more. “Ah, but what if he was sending her to a protector? To trusted friends?”
“Trusted friends in America?”
“He was stationed in the City of New York during much of the Revolution. He made friends among the Colonists, who have since moved to Maryland, if I recall correctly.”
“But that is…” Realization sent Arthur back to the bookcase behind the desk. He lifted out the tome of Lavoisier, extracted the letter, and looked at the address. “Bennet Lane of Annapolis?”
Gates snapped his fingers. “That is he. I know they were in regular correspondence.”
“Perhaps. But still, I cannot fathom the general sending her there.”
The laugh that shuffled its way past Gates’s lips sounded more resigned than amused. “You did not know him.”
Arthur’s shoulders snapped back, his spine in perfect alignment. “I know he was a noble man, sir, and an admirable one. I know he achieved his rank through honor and bravery. And I know that he loved his country. He would not send his daughter to England’s enemy.”
“He defined that last word differently than we do, Sir Arthur.” He bent over and lifted the strongbox enough to wiggle it back into place. “Perhaps it is this friendship that blinded him, I cannot say. But he failed to see that America is our enemy. And I fear—I truly fear—that his inability to identify them as such may have been what allowed one close enough to kill him.”