Four
Shortly after two-thirty in the morning the Pennington carriage stopped in front of a small town house in Lantern Street. A single lamp glowed at the top of the steps, next to the front door. A footman handed Beatrice down from the cab.
“Are you certain you wish to be set down here?” Lady Pennington asked. She eyed the door of the office through her monocle. “The Flint and Marsh Agency is closed. The windows are dark.”
“Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Marsh live above their offices,” Beatrice said. “I shall wake them.”
“At such a late hour?” Daphne asked.
“I promise you, they will have a great interest in what occurred this evening,” Beatrice said.
“Very well, then,” Lady Pennington said.
“Good night, Miss Lockwood,” Daphne said. “Thank you, again, for saving me from Mr. Euston.”
Beatrice smiled. “You owe your thanks to your grandmother. She is the one who suspected that something about Euston was amiss.”
“Yes, I know,” Daphne said. “One more thing before you go. Do you think that perhaps you might teach me how to fire a small pistol like the one you carry? I would so love to have a gun of my own.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Lady Pennington asked sharply. “What is this about a pistol?”
“It’s a long story,” Beatrice said. “I shall let Miss Daphne tell you the details,” Beatrice said.
She went up the steps of the discreetly marked door of the Flint & Marsh Agency and raised the knocker. It took a couple of raps before a light came on somewhere in the depths of the town house. Footsteps sounded in the hall.
Mrs. Beale, the middle-aged housekeeper, opened the door.She was dressed in a chintz wrapper, slippers and a lace nightcap. She did not look pleased.
“It’s three o’clock in the morning, Miss Lockwood. What are you doing here at this hour?”
“You know I would not awaken Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Marsh unless it was important, Mrs. Beale.”
Mrs. Beale heaved a great sigh. “No, I don’t suppose you would. Come on in, then. I trust no one is dead this time.”
“I did not lose a client, if that is what you mean.”
“I knew it. Someone is dead.”
Beatrice ignored that. She turned back toward the carriage and gave a small wave to indicate that all was well before she went into the front hall. The elegant Pennington equipage rolled off down the quiet street.
Mrs. Beale closed and locked the door. “I’ll go upstairs and wake the ladies.”
“No need to awaken us,” Abigail Flint said from the top of the stairs. “Sara and I are on our way down. Who died?”
“No one died,” Beatrice said. “At least, I don’t think so.”
Sara Marsh appeared on the landing. “Is our client’s granddaughter safe?”
“Daphne is fine, but it was a near thing,” Beatrice said.
“What’ll it be?” Mrs. Beale asked, sounding resigned. “Tea or brandy?”
“It has been a very long night, Mrs. Beale,” Beatrice said.
Mrs. Beale sighed again, in a knowing way this time. “I’ll fetch the brandy tray.”
—
A SHORT TIME LATER Beatrice sat with her employers in front of a small fire. They all had glasses of brandy in their hands. Abigail and Sara were in their nightclothes, bundled up in robes, slippers and nightcaps.
“Obviously our client was right to trust her instincts when Mr. Euston began to display such a keen interest in Daphne,” Abigail said. “Lady Pennington might not have much in the way of psychical talent but there is nothing like a grandmother’s intuition when it comes to that sort of thing, I always say.”
Abigail was a tall, thin, angular woman of a certain age. She was endowed with sharp features that included a formidable nose and a pointed chin. Her black hair was rapidly going silver. Her dark eyes had a curious, veiled quality that Beatrice was certain concealed old mysteries and secrets.
Abigail’s temperament could only be described as dour. She was inclined to take a pessimistic view of the world and of human nature in particular. When Sara chided her because she went about expecting the worst, Abigail invariably pointed out that she was rarely disappointed.
Her companion in business as well as in life was her polar opposite in both appearance and temperament. Sara Marsh was of a similar age but it was difficult to spot the gray in her blond hair. She was pleasantly rounded in a manner that men—young and old—invariably found attractive. She was cheerful, optimistic and inquisitive.
A keen, self-taught amateur scientist, she was fascinated by the various kinds of evidence left at crime scenes. She maintained a well-equipped laboratory in the basement of the town house where she examined everything from fingerprints to samples of poison brought to her by Flint & Marsh agents.
Mrs. Beale frequently declared that one day Sara would accidentally set off an explosion or unleash poisonous gases that would be the death of everyone in the household.
Both Abigail and Sara possessed what they referred to as a sixth sense. In their younger days they had operated a bookshop that had catered to those with an interest in the paranormal. But a few years ago they had closed the shop in favor of launching what proved to be a successful private inquiry business. The firm of Flint & Marsh attracted wealthy, upper-class clients who wished to commission discreet investigations.
The volumes from the bookshop days now lined the walls of the parlor from floor to ceiling. Many of the books were infused with energy. Beatrice was aware of faint currents stirring the atmosphere of the room.
“Excellent work, my dear,” Sara said. “You mustn’t blame yourself for what happened out in the garden.”
“Euston nearly managed to abduct her and it was my own fault,” Beatrice said. “I allowed myself to become distracted by the spilled lemonade. And when the man with the cane vanished from the ballroom at approximately the same time that Daphne disappeared, I worried that he was involved with the abduction.”
“All in all, a bit chaotic there at the end, but all’s well that ends well,” Sara said.
Abigail snorted. “Doesn’t sound as if things ended well for Mr. Euston. Not that I am overly concerned with his fate. I am very curious about the gentleman who came to your assistance, however, the one with the cane and the scar. That part of your story is extremely worrisome.”
“Yes,” Sara said. “Tell us about him.”
Beatrice struggled to find the right words to explain her reaction to Joshua Gage. “He appeared first in the ballroom. He was only there for a short time but I knew that he was aware of me, that he was watching me.” She hesitated. “Studying me, might be more accurate.”
Abigail frowned. “He should not have taken any notice of a paid companion sitting in the corner of a large ballroom.”
“I know,” Beatrice said. “But he did. What is more, after he introduced himself in the garden and offered to get rid of Mr. Euston he used you and Mrs. Marsh as character references. He then announced that he wished to speak with me tomorrow.” She glanced at the clock. “That would be today, actually.”
“Well, I think that clarifies things,” Sara said. “If he knows about Flint and Marsh and if he is aware that you are one of our agents, he must be someone who was involved in a previous case. That’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.”
Abigail’s eyes narrowed. “But neither of us recognizes his name.”
“Most likely because we never actually met him,” Sara said patiently. “But he obviously knows one of our clients.”
“There was something quite . . . unsettling about him,” Beatrice said.
Abigail frowned. “You say he wishes to talk to you in the morning?”
“Yes. He also said that Euston would no longer be a problem. He was quite clear on that point. To be honest, I am somewhat concerned that Euston might end up in the river.”
“Euston might deserve such a fate but the policy here at Flint and Marsh is to avoid any sort of scandal,” Sara said uneasily.
“Nonsense, bodies turn up in the river all the time.” Abigail brushed the matter aside with a wave of one long-fingered hand. “Euston’s will be just one more.”
Beatrice winced and exchanged a glance with Sara, who gave a long-suffering sigh. Abigail was often inclined to take the pragmatic approach to problems.
“You know very well, dear, that the bodies of gentlemen who move in Society do not turn up all that often in the river,” Sara said. “Euston was not a highflier, but he was known in certain circles. He obviously had some connections. That is how he managed to get himself introduced to Daphne Pennington by a respectable friend of the Pennington family. If he is found dead under mysterious circumstances there will likely be a police inquiry. We all know that Flint and Marsh cannot afford to be connected to that sort of thing.”
“You are right, of course.” Abigail drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. “We can only hope that this Mr. Gage will take great care to make certain that Euston’s disappearance will not cause any problems.”
Beatrice cleared her throat. “He did give the impression that he had some expertise in such matters.”
Abigail brightened. “All the more reason not to worry about Euston.”
“I would remind you that Euston was alive when I last saw him,” Beatrice said. “It is possible that Mr. Gage did not go to extremes tonight.”
“What concerns us at the moment,” Sara said, “is his interest in you, Beatrice. You are certain you do not recognize him from your days at Fleming’s Academy of the Occult?”
“Quite certain.” Beatrice drank some brandy and lowered the glass. “Believe me when I tell you that he is not a man that one would be likely to forget.”
Abigail raised her brows. “The scar is that bad?”
“It’s not the scar that makes him memorable,” Beatrice said. “Or the limp, for that matter. You’re sure you do not recognize his name?”
“Quite certain.” Abigail pursed her lips. “Although I suppose he could be a customer from the old days when we owned the bookshop. We had hundreds of patrons over the years. We cannot possibly remember all of their names.”
“I almost forgot, he gave me a card,” Beatrice said. She set aside her brandy glass and reached into the pocket of her gown. “I believe the name on it is that of his former employer. He seemed to think you would recognize it.”
Sara took her reading glasses off the table and propped them on her nose. “Let me see it.”
Beatrice handed her the card. When Sara looked at it her expression abruptly tightened in shock. She traced the lion seal with the tip of one finger.
“Mr. Smith,” she whispered. “But it’s not possible. Not after all this time.”
“Mr. Smith?” Abigail scowled. “There must be some mistake. Let me see that card.”
Sara handed the card to Abigail, who studied it in mounting disbelief that swiftly changed into openmouthed astonishment.
“Good heavens,” she whispered. She touched the seal. “Do you suppose he really is alive?”
“We always wondered about those rumors of his death,” Sara said.
Beatrice searched Sara’s face and then looked at Abigail. “Who is this Mr. Smith?”
“Damned if we ever knew,” Abigail said. “We never met him, of course. We dealt with his Messenger.”
Her ominous tone did not worry Beatrice nearly as much as the fact that the card was trembling in Abigail’s fingers. It took a great deal to make Abigail Flint shiver. She tended to live up to her surname.
“I’m sure Smith was not the Lion’s real name,” Sara said. “But that name and the seal were all we knew of him. As Abby explained, when he had dealings with us, he sent his Messenger.”
“Mr. Gage asked me to tell you that the Messenger sent his regards,” Beatrice said.
“Oh, dear,” Sara whispered. “This situation is growing more odd by the moment.”
“Can you describe this Messenger?” Beatrice asked.
“We can’t give you a physical description,” Abigail said. “When we met with him it was always in a location of his choice and he was always deep in the shadows. We never saw his face in the light.” She paused. “But I’m quite certain he did not walk with a limp. What do you think, Sara?”
“There was certainly no indication that he used a cane,” Sara said. “I remember how it always startled us when he spoke to us from the darkness of whatever place he had selected for a meeting. We never heard him arrive and we never heard him leave. It was as if he, himself, was a shadow.”
“Hmm,” Beatrice said. She thought about Gage’s halting stride and the way he leaned on his cane. “Well, accidents do happen. And I imagine that a man in his profession would attract a large number of enemies.”
“Very true,” Abigail said.
“You said this Messenger person worked for Mr. Smith,” Beatrice said. “I don’t understand Smith’s role in all this. Why did he require a messenger?”
Sara and Abby exchanged glances. Then Sara turned back to Beatrice.
“Abby and I long ago concluded that Smith was a player in the Great Game, as the press and the novelists like to call the business of espionage.”
“Do you mean to say that he was a spy?” Beatrice asked.
“A master spy,” Abigail said. “The Messenger assured us that his employer was in the service of the Crown and we have no reason to doubt that. From what we could deduce, Smith’s reach extended throughout England, across Europe and beyond. But you know how it is with legends.”
“One never knows the whole truth,” Sara added.
“Hmm,” Beatrice said. “I expect that worked out very well for both Mr. Smith and his messenger. People always fear the unknown more than the known.”
Sara made a face. “Actually, in the case of Mr. Smith, what sensible people feared was his Messenger, the man Mr. Smith dispatched to hunt down traitors and foreign spies in our midst. The Messenger foiled any number of plots and conspiracies, some quite bizarre.”
“And we assisted him on occasion,” Sara said. There was a touch of pride in her voice.
“I don’t understand,” Beatrice said. “What do you mean by bizarre?”
“When Mr. Smith sent his Messenger to investigate a conspiracy or an act of espionage, one could rest assured that the threat was far from ordinary—not the sort of case one expected Scotland Yard to handle. There was invariably a paranormal twist.”
Abigail gave a short, humorless bark of laughter. “Not that the Messenger ever allowed that there was even the possibility of a paranormal explanation in the cases he investigated, you understand. He didn’t believe in psychical energy. That always struck me as amusing because it was obvious he possessed some talent himself.”
“A great many people dismiss the paranormal side of their natures,” Sara pointed out. “They come up with other explanations when confronted with their own abilities.”
“What was the nature of the Messenger’s ability?” Beatrice asked.
“He appeared to have an absolutely uncanny talent for finding people and things,” Abigail said. “If he set out to track down someone or something, he was invariably successful.”
“You speak of both the Messenger and Mr. Smith in the past tense,” Beatrice said. “What happened to them?”
“No one knows,” Abigail said. “About a year ago the rumors of Smith’s death began to circulate. They were mere whispers at first, but the whispers grew louder. Eventually Sara and I concluded they were likely true.”
“The Messenger vanished at the same time,” Sara explained. “Which is why we assumed that he was dead, as well. He certainly has not contacted us in all these months. To tell you the truth, I have missed him.”
“Rubbish,” Abigail said fiercely. “He was a very mysterious individual. He made me uneasy whenever he came around.” She paused. “I will admit that he paid quite well for information, though.”
“The thing is,” Sara said wistfully, “in spite of his opinion of the paranormal, he understood the value of a scientific approach to the investigation of crimes. He always respected my opinions, unlike certain inspectors at Scotland Yard I could name who never paid any attention to my advice because I am a woman.”
“Just because the Messenger respected your scientific talents does not mean that he was not extremely dangerous,” Abigail said.
“Yes, I know,” Sara said. “But I must admit I quite enjoyed analyzing the various bits and pieces of evidence he sent to me.”
Abigail looked at Beatrice. “We assumed that the Messenger was killed by whoever or whatever killed Mr. Smith. It was the only theory we could come up with to explain why they both vanished at the same time.”
Beatrice considered that for a moment. “What if Mr. Smith and the Messenger were one and the same man? That would explain why they both disappeared simultaneously.”
Abigail and Sara glanced at each other.
“It’s a possibility,” Sara admitted. “But I’m inclined to doubt it. We always had the impression that Mr. Smith managed a far-flung empire of spies and information gatherers. The Messenger, on the other hand, appeared to focus entirely on investigations here in London.”
“He had connections that ranged from the most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs to the criminal underworld,” Abigail added.
“Obviously the man I encountered tonight wants you to believe that he is the Messenger you once knew,” Beatrice said.
Abigail stiffened abruptly. “Perhaps he’s an impostor. That would explain a great deal. Maybe someone has reasoned that since the real Messenger is dead, it is safe to assume his identity along with his perceived connections.”
“I don’t think it’s that simple, dear,” Sara said. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”
“The Lion’s Messenger was greatly feared in certain quarters,” Abigail said. “He must have known many deep secrets, some of which no doubt could have brought down some very powerful people. There are those who would kill to acquire his reputation because with it would come the ability to intimidate and control others.”
“What, exactly, was the nature of his reputation?” Beatrice asked. “Aside from being rather dangerous, that is.”
“As Abby told you, he always found whatever he set out to find,” Sara said. “His other hallmark was that his word was his bond. Everyone who had dealings with him knew that if he made a promise, that promise would be kept. In addition, he was relentless. If you met him you simply knew that the only way he could be stopped was by death.”
“Which, we presumed, was exactly what finally did stop him,” Abigail said.
“Excuse me,” Beatrice said, “but how, precisely, did the two of you come to have a connection with the Messenger? You said something about assisting him on some of his cases.”
Sara glanced at the leather-bound volumes that lined the walls of the parlor. “It was the bookshop that brought him to us in the beginning. We catered to a clientele that was interested in psychical matters. Regardless of the fact that he, himself, put no credence in the paranormal, he was often in the business of investigating crimes with paranormal elements.”
“Whether he acknowledged that or not, we certainly recognized the psychical connections in most of those cases,” Abigail said. “He used our bookshop for research initially. Then he discovered Sara’s interest in scientific investigation techniques.”
“One thing led to another and the next thing you know, Abby and I became his occasional assistants,” Sara concluded.
Abigail raised her brows. “He had a great influence on us, actually. It was the business of assisting him that eventually persuaded us to open our own investigation firm. One could say that if it weren’t for the Messenger, we would still be squeaking by on the income of a small bookshop.”
“In other words,” Beatrice said, amused, “I owe my present post as a Flint and Marsh agent to the Messenger.”
“That is certainly one way of looking at it,” Sara agreed.
Beatrice winced. “There is definitely an element of irony involved here.”
Sara squinted in a thoughtful expression. “Not irony.”
“Coincidence?” Abigail asked, clearly troubled.
“You know I do not believe in coincidence,” Sara said. “No, what is going on here appears to be a confluence of small events that all have one thing in common.”
“What is that?” Beatrice asked.
“A paranormal element. Only consider the obvious ingredients in this brew—your previous career at Fleming’s Academy, your work here with us, the reappearance of the Messenger after all these months, his unusual talent and the fact that he often investigated cases that had a paranormal factor.” Sara shook her head, troubled. “I do not pretend to comprehend the pattern yet, but there is one, of that I have no doubt.”
“But what on earth can he possibly want with me?” Beatrice asked. “And how did he find me tonight at that ball?”
“There is no knowing why he has focused his attention on you,” Abigail said uneasily. “But as to how he discovered you at the ball tonight, that is easy enough to explain. I thought I made it clear—the Messenger always finds what he sets out to find.”
Sara’s eyes were shadowed. “Obviously he was looking for you, dear.”