Five
The traffic was thin and the streetlamps were now set far apart. The smell of the river was strong on the night air. They had arrived at their destination.
Joshua used the cane to prod the finely dressed lump on the opposite seat.
“Wake up, Mr. Euston. You have been a great inconvenience to me tonight. I do not wish to spend any more time in your company than is absolutely necessary.”
Euston groaned and opened his eyes. There was just enough light coming through the partially covered window to reveal the bewilderment on his handsome features.
“Where am I?” he mumbled. “Benson? Is that you?”
“Sit up,” Joshua said.
“Huh?” Euston managed to lever himself upright in the seat. He tried to focus. His bewilderment metamorphosed into alarm. “You’re not Benson. Who the devil are you?”
“You do not need to know my name. All that is necessary is that you understand the instructions that I am going to give you.”
“Bloody hell, what are you talking about?”
“By tomorrow morning you will no longer be accepted in Polite Society. Your name will disappear from the guest lists of every hostess in town. No club will allow you through the front door. My advice would be to sail for America or take a tour of the Continent at the earliest possible opportunity.”
“How dare you threaten me?” Euston hissed.
“Let me be clear: I am not threatening you. I never threaten. I give you my word that by noon tomorrow everyone who matters in your world will be aware that you are a fortune hunter and a fraud.”
“You can’t prove that. The girl’s family would never allow you to go to the police, in any event.”
“I’m not going to take this to the police,” Joshua said. “There is no need to do so. We both know that Society does not demand proof before it pronounces judgment. The Polite World is more than happy to gorge on rumors and whispers. I promise you that the news that you have been exposed as a fortune hunter who is trying to find himself an heiress will be all over town within a few hours and, no doubt, in the press.”
“You can’t do this to me. You’re bluffing.”
“You will discover tomorrow that I am not bluffing.”
The carriage halted. Joshua opened the door. Fog wafted into the cab, bringing with it another dose of the odor of the river. A single gas lamp glowed at the end of the street but the mist consumed much of the light before it could radiate more than a few feet. Warehouses loomed in the shadows.
“This is where you get out, Euston,” Joshua said. “Go quickly before I lose my patience. It has been a long night and I am not in the best of moods. You interfered with my own plans for the evening. I do not take that sort of thing well.”
Euston looked nervously out into the waiting darkness. “I’m not familiar with this neighborhood. It is obviously dangerous. How will I get back to my lodgings?”
“There is a tavern on the far side of that warehouse. I expect there will be one or two cabs waiting in the street. But you might want to take care to walk quickly. You are correct. This neighborhood is home to all sorts of thieves and cutthroats.”
Euston did not move.
“Go,” Joshua said. He spoke very, very softly. “Now.”
Euston jerked as if he had been struck by the lash of a whip. He lurched out the door and half stumbled, half jumped down to the pavement. Turning, he paused to look back into the cab.
“I do not know who you are, you bastard,” he said, “but I will make you pay if it is the last thing I do.”
“I’m afraid you will have to stand at the end of a very long queue.”
Joshua pulled the door closed and rapped the roof of the carriage twice.
Henry opened the trapdoor. “Where to, sir?”
“Saint James.”
“Aye.”
Henry closed the door, slapped the reins and drove off into the fog.
Joshua pushed aside one of the curtains and looked out into the night. The sharp pain in his thigh had subsided to a dull, throbbing ache. He consoled himself with the knowledge that there was some excellent brandy waiting for him when he got back to the town house.
Nothing had gone right tonight.
It would be more accurate to state that nothing had gone right since the start of this affair, he reminded himself. And that was precisely what made it all so interesting.
A fortnight ago he had been at his country house sinking ever deeper into the quicksand of the excruciatingly dull routine that he had established for himself. His mind-numbing days started with morning meditation followed by what limited martial arts exercises he could still manage with his bad leg. The exercises were followed by a few hours devoted to overseeing business matters. He managed the family fortune for his sister, his nephew and himself. Late in the afternoon he took his daily halting, often painful, walk along the cliffs above the restless sea.
His nights were more often sleepless than not. When he did sleep his dreams were all variations on the same recurring nightmare. He relived the explosion, saw Emma’s body lying on the stone floor and heard Clement Lancing shouting at him from the other side of the wall of flames. You did this, you bastard. She’s dead because of you.
All the dreams ended the same way, with Victor Hazelton watching him from the shadows, silently accusing him of failing to save Emma.
He was well aware that recently in the course of his afternoon walks he had begun to spend far too much time standing precariously close to the edge of the cliffs contemplating the mesmerizing chaos of the wild surf far below. It would be so very easy for a man with a weak leg to lose his balance.
But he had responsibilities that he could not escape. It was the knowledge that his sister, Hannah, and his nephew, Nelson, depended on him that made him turn away from the sight of the swirling waters at the foot of the cliffs every afternoon.
His carefully orchestrated life had come to a crashing halt, however, when he had received the telegram from Nelson.
Please come to London immediately. Mother needs you.
There was only one force still powerful enough to pry him from his own private hell, Joshua thought, the same force that made it impossible for him to seek oblivion in opium or the sea—his responsibility to his family. For the first time in nearly a year he had a mission to carry out.
He had planned to spend a week or two in London dealing with the problem and then retreat once again into seclusion. But the case, which had appeared simple and straightforward at the start, was proving to be far more complicated and infinitely more intriguing than he had anticipated. In spite of his aching leg he felt invigorated and refreshed. Finding Beatrice Lockwood tonight had acted like a tonic for his spirits.
He had set out to snare a shady little adventuress who obviously had a history of living by her wits only to discover that she was not entirely what she seemed. The stocking gun she had used to stop Euston was only one of several intriguing and unexpected surprises tonight.
By the time he had tracked her down to the agency in Lantern Street he had been well aware that the appearance of fey innocence that Beatrice affected was a tribute to her talents as an actress and no doubt served her well in her new career as a Flint & Marsh agent. But he knew that whatever innocence she had once possessed had long ago been stripped away. As a woman alone in the world she was solely responsible for her own safety and survival. In such situations one did what was necessary. He understood and respected that. He certainly did not blame her if she had slipped off the pedestal now and again. He admired the fact that her spirit was still a bright, fierce flame.
Her survival instincts were obviously very much alive, which only made her risky defense of her client tonight all the more astonishing. True, he knew that the paid companions supplied by the firm of Flint and Marsh were an unusual lot. Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Marsh were, after all, an unusual pair. Nevertheless, one did not expect a woman like Beatrice—a female who, among other things, had pursued a career as a fraudulent psychical practitioner and then proceeded to blackmail some of her clients—to come to the rescue of others. When there was danger afoot, most intelligent people—male or female, regardless of their backgrounds—managed to make themselves scarce. It was not as though Beatrice had not done exactly that on a prior occasion, he thought. She had vanished from Dr. Fleming’s Academy of the Occult following the murder of her employer.
All of which raised new questions about what had really happened the night Fleming died. Morgan at the Yard and the sensation press were convinced that Beatrice had killed her employer, stolen the night’s ticket receipts and taken off for parts unknown. But Joshua had been unconvinced of the merits of that assumption from the start. Now he sensed that his instincts had been correct. Whatever had occurred on the night of Roland Fleming’s death, the murder had not been a simple, straightforward matter of robbery.
Henry brought the carriage to a halt in front of one of the most prestigious clubs in St. James. Joshua gathered up his cane, hat and gloves. Setting his jaw against the pain he knew was coming, he opened the door of the cab, gripped the handhold and used the iron step to descend to the pavement.
Gone were the days when he could jump nimbly out of a vehicle and land with athletic ease, he reflected. Even Euston, still groggy after the short period of unconsciousness, had managed to alight more elegantly after being tossed out of the cab.
Joshua consigned Euston and his own past to hell and went up the steps of the club. An elderly porter materialized out of the front hall to block his path.
“Can I help you, sir?”
Joshua took the envelope containing one of the old calling cards from his pocket and handed it to the porter. “I have a message for Lord Allenby. Please give this to him immediately and tell him that I will wait in my carriage.”
The porter eyed the envelope with suspicion but he accepted it.
“I will give him your message, sir.”
The porter’s tone of voice implied that he did not expect that there would be a response. He disappeared back into the club and closed the door very firmly.
Joshua limped back to the carriage and climbed the steps into the cab. He sat down and massaged his leg while he waited. Not much longer now, he promised himself. There will be brandy soon.
The wonderful thing about the gentlemen’s clubs of London was that time stood still inside the walls of the establishments. Change came at an excruciatingly slow pace, if ever. Joshua had always found the predictability and dependability of the members’ habits extremely useful. Allenby, for example, took pride in always possessing the latest gossip. And when it came to passing that gossip along, he was extraordinarily reliable.
Allenby, a portly man of some seventy years, appeared on the front step of the club. He spotted the carriage on the far side of the street and started toward it.
“Won’t you join me, sir?” Joshua said from the shadows of the unlit cab.
“I say, it is you, isn’t it? Smith’s Messenger.” Allenby clambered up into the vehicle and sat down. “I recognize your voice. Heard you were dead. I suspected someone might be playing a trick.”
“Thank you for making time to see me,” Joshua said.
“Of course, of course. Old times and all that. I will always be in your debt, sir, for what you did for my son a few years ago. Glad to see you are, indeed, still alive. What can I do for you?”
“As it happens, I would like to request a small favor from you.”
“Absolutely, absolutely,” Allenby said.
Joshua settled deeper into the corner of the cab. “I have recently learned some disturbing news concerning the character of a gentleman named Euston.”
“Euston? Euston?” Allenby squinted. “The young man they say is angling after the Pennington heiress?”
“Yes,” Joshua said. “Euston is not quite what he seems, unfortunately. His finances are in ruins and he invented his social connections.”
“Hah. Fortune hunter, eh?”
“I’m afraid so. You are acquainted with the young lady’s father. Thought you might want to put a word in his ear.”
“Certainly, certainly,” Allenby said. “Known Pennington for years. We were at Oxford together. Least I can do is let him know there’s a fortune hunter after his girl.”
“Thank you.”
“Will that be all?” Allenby asked.
“Yes. I appreciate your assistance in this matter.”
“Of course, of course.” Allenby paused and cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t presume to inquire why you haven’t been around this past year but the porter mentioned a cane.”
“I use a walking stick these days,” Joshua said.
“Accident, eh?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“Well, then, may I say that I am delighted to know that you survived,” Allenby said.
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’ll be off then. Pennington will no doubt be dropping into the club later tonight. I’ll make sure he gets the information about Euston.”
Allenby lumbered out of the cab and made his way across the street.
And that was that, Joshua thought. By morning Euston would be persona non grata in all of the wealthy homes of London. Gossip traveled faster than a flooded river through the gentlemen’s clubs of London.