Stolen (18 page)

“Of course.” Michael couldn't resist the offer, but he had to wonder why Crowe wished to speak to him now.

M
OLLY SAT AT HER DESK
and massaged her temples in a vain effort to rid herself of the pain that had plagued her all morning. She thought the discomfort might have to do with the rain and her sinuses. Sometimes they flared up during inclement weather. Then she pegged it on fatigue from staying out too late, or possibly from traveling at night to get back home. In the end, though, she acknowledged it was from stress. Things just weren't going well.

I should have listened to Michael. One night in a hotel room wouldn't have mattered.
Breakfast in bed somewhere other than home had sounded terribly wonderful that morning.

Especially since she had practically gotten nothing done since then.

She'd made a few phone calls, but because it was the weekend, most of the people she needed to contact concerning the documentary were out of the office. Still, they would have messages and e-mails waiting for them when they returned to work on Monday. And a few of them might even respond sooner.

Monday would prove a turning point for the documentary. Molly still felt positive that she could find a new director quickly and get the filming back on track, and the story of the displaced children from London could be told. That was the important thing.

“Headache?” Iris walked into the room.

“Yes. I can't seem to get rid of it.”

“Perhaps a glass of wine.”

“This early in the afternoon and with the way things are going?” Molly shook her head and regretted it as the pressure shifted behind her forehead. “I doubt I could stop at one glass.”

In front of the desk now, Iris scanned the white board Molly had put there. Several pictures and copies of sketches from Kirkwell's book were taped across the surface.

“I must say, you and Michael have made a good run at solving the train robbery.”

Molly leaned forward and studied the pictures. “Yes, but the hardest person to work into this whole thing is Audrey Cloverfield.”

Iris took a seat. “She was on that train.”

“As Chloe Sterling's nanny, yes. But why would she be so important now? Why would someone feel the need to murder her?” Just mentioning that fact called up an image of the dead woman stretched out in her flat. Molly shivered.

“I'm sure there must be a reason. She was killed by someone who was afraid of her. Or of what she knew.”

“And then there's the photograph of the little girl in Blackpool.” Molly took a breath. “Is she familiar to you?”

Iris bent to study the photograph, then shook her head. “I've looked at this several times. I still don't remember Audrey Cloverfield. She is a child herself.”

“Do you recognize the little girl?”

“No, I don't recall her.” Iris glanced at Molly. “If you think the girl is from Blackpool, you could try to get school albums and go through those.”

“I've already set it up with the library. I should have access to several of them on Monday. But it's a lot of
photographs to sort through because I'm not certain what year that picture was taken. And there's no guarantee that I'll recognize the little girl from a school photo.”

At that moment, the doorbell chimed.

“I'll get it.” Iris stood. “Irwin is busy changing the oil in the car.”

Molly got up herself and walked in front of the board. Something—some clue—was right there. She knew it was. She just couldn't put her finger on it. Frustration made her temples pound harder.

“You have a guest.” Iris didn't sound pleased at the prospect.

Turning toward the entryway, Molly saw Synthia Roderick standing beside Iris.

“I tried to leave her at the door, but Miss Roderick insisted that you would see her.” Iris frowned. “I pointed out that in proper circles—more
polite
circles—one should call ahead to arrange a meeting.”

If she took offense at the older woman's bold criticism, Syn gave no visible sign. Instead, the young woman smiled radiantly.

“Hello, Molly.” Syn strode casually into the room and surveyed the white board. “Hello, Syn.”

Quietly, Iris walked past Syn and claimed one of the chairs in front of Molly's desk, then sat with an irritated expression and her arms folded.

Like a chaperone.
Molly struggled not to laugh.

Syn's full-wattage smile never wavered. “I hoped we could chat alone.”

“Iris and I were already involved in a discussion.”

“Of course.” Syn nodded to Iris. “I suppose my arrival is a bit rude and presumptuous.”

“A bit.” Iris's tone was as corrosive as hydrochloric acid.

“But I do have a good reason for being here.” Syn reverted her attention to Molly.

“All right.” Molly met the other woman's gaze full-on.

“I see you're working on the train robbery.” Syn's eyes traveled over the white board, taking everything in. “Where did you get those sketches?”

“Michael turned them up.”

“Fascinating. They're by someone who was at the train robbery?”

“We believe so.” Molly glanced at the photographs again, but this time she focused on one of the necklaces hanging around Audrey Cloverfield's throat. The pendant was a small flower. Upon closer inspection, she saw that it was a rose.

The same rose necklace, or one very similar, hung around Abigail Whiteshire's neck in the group photo of the train robbery survivors.

And around the neck of the little girl in front of the Glower Lighthouse. Hadn't she seen it somewhere else…?

“You spotted the necklace, didn't you?” Syn's tone was casual, but Molly sensed an edge to the woman that hadn't been there before.

“What of it?” Molly didn't want to admit that she hadn't noticed the connection until just that moment.

With casual indifference, Syn took off her jacket and sat. She folded the jacket neatly in her lap, her eyes never leaving the pictures. “It was that necklace that got Simon killed. But I never understood why it was so important. Until now.”

 

C
OLD AND WET
, M
ICHAEL STOOD
at the door to Crowe's Nest. He had parted ways with the Edgars, who'd wanted no
truck with Aleister Crowe, and tramped across the woods separating the two manor houses.

Crowe answered the door himself. He was dressed elegantly as always. “Come in, Michael.”

Michael indicated his wet clothing. “I'm not exactly outfitted for company.”

“I'm prepared.” Crowe indicated a runner of carpet stretched across the Italian marble tiles. “We'll talk in the library. Aunt Ophelia is expecting us.”

“Your aunt?” Michael quickly reviewed what he remembered of the surviving Crowe family. Ophelia Crowe was the younger sister of Philip. She'd never married, though there was a lot of speculation about various men in her life when she'd been younger.

“Aunt Ophelia knows firsthand some of what transpired all those years ago.” Crowe smiled coldly. “I…persuaded her it was in her—
our
—best interests to speak of the matter now.”

“After keeping silent for seventy years?”

“She was only a girl at the time of the robbery. Hardly responsible for anything that happened then. Don't you agree?”

Michael wasn't certain of that, but he did want answers to the puzzle he'd been investigating for the last week. Molly needed to be freed of it. They needed their lives back.

“Lead me to your aunt.”

“Great-aunt.” Crowe crossed the grand room into the library.

The immense room held tall stacks of books as well as objects d'art. Vases and statues lined shelves and special niches designed for them. A suit of armor stood next to the door and leaned on a broadsword.

Ophelia Crowe sat in her wheelchair in the center of
the library, the couches and plush chairs flanking her on the Persian rug. A silver tea service sat on the low table in front of her.

In her early seventies, Ophelia looked like a resin model, not one white hair out of place, her makeup perfectly applied, her dark blue dress partially covered by the blanket over her legs, and her narrow eyes cold as marble. Time had withered her face and liver spots showed on her wrists where her white gloves ended. If she hadn't blinked, Michael would have believed she was the product of a taxidermist.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Graham.” Ophelia didn't smile in greeting. “I'm told it's quite cold outside. Would you care for some tea?”

“As a matter of fact, I would.” Inside the house now, Michael felt the chill seeping into him. He glanced around, then found one of the chairs had been covered by a water-resistant throw. The fireplace cast heat over him and he soaked it up.

Ophelia raised a hand and an older woman in servant's dress came forward to serve the tea. “Please sit, Mr. Graham.” Ophelia waved to the covered chair.

Michael sat and tried not to seem as uncomfortable as he felt. Graciously, he accepted the tea from the servant and let the cup warm his hands.

“I'm told you found the coal tunnel to Starkweather Manor.” Ophelia waved away the offer of tea, though the woman served a cup to Crowe.

Michael took a sip of the hot tea. “We did.”

“We?”
Ophelia shot a sharp glance at her grandnephew.

“The Edgars brothers were with Mr. Graham when he made his discovery.” Crowe didn't appear concerned.

“I don't like this, Aleister.” Ophelia shook her head. “It's
never good to have too many people know something that should never be known at all.”

“Perhaps if my grandfather hadn't involved himself in the whole scheme in the first place, this wouldn't face us now.”

Ophelia frowned sourly. “It's never wise to speak ill of the dead. I've advised you of that on several occasions.”

“Because they might rise up against us?” Crowe raised a mocking eyebrow.

“Do not be so dismissive about powers you don't understand. You have not seen everything I have. The dead are never quite far from Blackpool. I have reminded you of this often, too.”

“Of course. I beg your indulgence.” Crowe didn't sound like he was begging, though, and his words had a sarcastic edge. “Maybe we should focus on what we have to tell Michael about the train robbery.”

The old woman pinned Michael in her cold gaze and he suddenly had an image of himself as prey. “What have you learned so far?”

Michael hesitated for a moment, then decided to relate everything he'd uncovered. The Crowes wouldn't do anything to him, he was sure of that. The Edgars brothers knew Michael was there. And the Crowes wanted something, as well.

“I know that the train robbery was an inside job.” Michael spoke calmly, but his heart was hammering. “The ‘theft' of the paintings was originally an attempt to defraud the insurance agencies. That was a success. However, the people that owned the paintings were betrayed by thieves in their midst. Instead of giving back the originals, several of the pieces were replaced with replicas painted by a professional forger named Byron Kirkwell.”

Crowe smiled. “You have been busy.”

“Quiet, Aleister.” Ophelia banged her fist on her wheelchair arm. “Let him speak.” She shifted her attention back to Michael and nodded.

“Taking the gold along the highway or out to sea would have been hard.” Michael shifted the tea cup in his hands. “The military was watching over the shipment. Not well enough, apparently, because they hadn't expected the level of treachery that the robbers were capable of.”

The old woman's face blanched a little at that, but she held her tongue.

“If the robbers had taken the gold from Blackpool by car or by boat, they would have been caught. So they had to leave it here for a time. But they also needed a way to transport it from the train without leaving a trail for the military to follow. Once I learned of the coal tunnels that serviced the train and the houses out here, I assumed one of them must have been used. They could move the gold and art by mine car, the same as shuttling coal. Since no one had found the tunnel before, I thought maybe it had been covered over. It was.” Michael looked at the two Crowes. “How am I doing so far?”

Aleister simply smiled and silently toasted Michael with his cup.

“My brother was a foolish man.” Ophelia's voice was dry but strong. “Do you believe he was behind the robbery?”

Put on the spot, Michael shifted uncomfortably. “It's possible.”

“Because he was the military liaison for the shipment. Because the men that planned the shipment lived here, at Crowe's Nest.”

“Yes.”

Ophelia snorted in disgust. “Then you're as much a fool as my brother was.”

Michael shook his head and controlled his anger. “I don't
have to do all the thinking. I have enough to make a case for DCI Paddington. He can pull in forensic specialists to—”

“Muddy the water even further.” The old woman cursed. “What we must do is solve the murders that have gone on this past week. Have you gotten so wrapped up in assigning blame for the robbery that you've forgotten those three unfortunates?”

“No.” Michael didn't bother hiding his dislike of the woman anymore. He didn't care for her or for Aleister Crowe, and he didn't mind if they saw it. “I haven't forgotten them.”

“Why were they killed?”

“To cover up knowledge of the train robbery.”

“You're supposed to be a clever man, Mr. Graham. I'm disappointed. Why, after seventy years, would these people pose a threat? It will be hard to prove any of your conjectures. Harder still to reclaim anything that was lost that day.”

“But perhaps not impossible.”

Ophelia's lined features hardened with disapproval. “If you're not careful, you're going to let the real murderers get away with those crimes.”

Michael forced himself not to point out that catching criminals wasn't his job. Still, his curiosity remained. “Perhaps you'd care to enlighten me as to what really happened.”