Lie by Moonlight (19 page)

He continued to contemplate the street, but the corner of his mouth twitched a little. “They know an eccentric gentleman named Dalrymple.”

“Fascinating.” She smoothed her gloves. “I will admit that I am not particularly knowledgeable about such arcane matters, but I was under the impression that a gentleman was considered for admission to a club only upon the recommendation of a member in good standing who knew the candidate quite well.”

“I am very well known to the gentleman who recommended me.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Mr. Stoner?”

“Stoner’s name opens many doors in this town.”

She sighed. “You are enjoying this game, are you not?”

He appeared politely surprised by the question. “What game is that?”

“You know very well what I mean. Asking you personal questions is like trying to examine moonlight. One can see it quite clearly but one cannot quite grasp it.”

He was silent for a moment. The corners of his mouth no longer kicked up.

“I am not in the habit of explaining myself to others,” he said eventually.

“Neither am I.”

He leaned back and rested his arm on the back of the seat. “I am aware of that.”

“It appears that, for the sake of our careers, we have each gone to great lengths to construct a curtain of privacy around our personal lives.”

He reflected on that for a moment and then inclined his head in a somber fashion. “What is your point?”

“My point, sir,” she said gently, “is that when one has lived with secrets for a long time it can be difficult to shed the habit.”

Shadows moved in his eyes. For a moment she thought she had gone too far.

To her surprise, he leaned forward and drew the edge of one finger along the underside of her jaw.

“Sometimes it is better not to break old habits,” he said.

“I broke mine when I told you about my past in the Crystal Springs Community.”

“Rest assured, I will keep your secrets.”

“I do not doubt that. But there has not been an even exchange between us, Ambrose. I have trusted you. Can you not trust me?”

He sat back in his seat again, drawing in on himself. She could almost hear the click of invisible locks.

“It is not a question of trust,” he said.

“Are your secrets so terrible, then?”

His brows rose in a subtle warning. “I am not one of your students, to be comforted with the offer of sympathy and a kind ear, Concordia. I have lived with my secrets a long time.”

She tensed at the rebuff. He was not going to confide in her and that was that.

“Very well.” She folded her hands together in her lap. “You are entitled to your privacy, sir. I will not press you.”

He returned to gazing meditatively out the window. The silence lengthened between them. When she could not abide it any longer, she tried to think of a way to break it.

“I wonder what Mrs. Hoxton would say if she knew what was going on at the Winslow Charity School for Girls,” she mused.

Ambrose frowned. “Who the devil is Mrs. Hoxton?”

“The benefactress of the school. Her picture was on the wall of Edith Pratt’s office, directly across from a photograph of the Queen.”

“Was it, indeed?” He raised his brows. “In that case, your question is a very interesting one. I wonder what this Mrs. Hoxton does know about the goings-on at the school.”

“Nothing at all, I expect.”

“What makes you so sure of that?”

Concordia grimaced. “Judging from what little the girls told me about her, Mrs. Hoxton is typical of many women in her position who engage in philanthropy. They do so only because they believe that a bit of charity work elevates their status in Society. The Mrs. Hoxtons of this
world take no real interest in the schools and orphanages that they support.”

“Did the girls ever see this Mrs. Hoxton?”

“Only once. She made an appearance at Christmas and stayed just long enough to bestow a pair of mittens on each girl. Phoebe, Hannah, Edwina and Theodora said that all of the students were summoned into the dining hall for the occasion. Miss Pratt made a little speech along the lines of how fortunate they all were to have such a gracious, generous benefactress, the girls sang some carols and then Mrs. Hoxton took her leave.”

He shook his head in disgust. “That must have made for a memorable Christmas for the students.”

“I think it is safe to say that Mrs. Hoxton does not take a great deal of interest in the day-to-day operation of her charity school.”

“I believe you,” Ambrose said. “Nevertheless . . .”

“Yes?”

“It might be interesting to ask Mrs. Hoxton a few questions about her generous charity work.”

Concordia stared at him, astonished. “You’re going to interview Mrs. Hoxton?”

“Yes. It will have to wait until tomorrow. It is too late today.”

“Are you acquainted with her?”

“Never met the woman,” he admitted.

She widened her hands. “She is evidently a very wealthy woman who moves in Society. How on earth will you persuade her to allow you through the front door?”

“I intend to call upon a higher power.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He smiled slowly. “Society is composed of several ascending circles. Mrs. Hoxton will view any person who moves at a level that is higher than her own as a god of sorts.”

“I see. And do you happen to know one of these higher-ranking gods?”

“In Society, one is always outranked by someone.” Ambrose shrugged. “Unless, of course, one happens to be the queen. Something tells me that Mrs. Hoxton is nowhere near that particular circle.”

H
ERBERT
C
UTHBERT
sat alone in his office and pondered his unexpected good fortune. There were two ways to play this new hand of cards he had just been dealt, he decided—two ways to turn a profit.

He would have to be very careful about how he handled the matter, of course. Larkin and Trimley were both extremely dangerous men. They would, however, be very eager to receive the information that he was in a position to give them. With luck, their gratitude would translate into a sizeable sum of money.

As for the second arrangement, that would pose no significant problems that he could see. He would simply sell a fraudulent name to Dalrymple, pocket the five hundred pounds and take himself off to his favorite gambling hell.

His luck had changed at last.

W
hoever he is, the bastard managed to locate Cuthbert.” Trimley paced the hot room. “Do you realize what this means?”

Larkin lounged on the bench, a cup of cold water in one hand, and savored the satisfaction that was flowing through him. Trimley, he thought, was finally starting to show signs of strain. The man was actually sweating. His elegant Roman toga was slipping, too.

About time.

But then, he had always known that Trimley’s nerves would weaken sooner or later. Trimley was soft at the core. He lacked the hard, tempered steel that could only come from being raised on the streets.

“It means,” Larkin said, stretching out his legs in a leisurely manner as though ensconced in a comfortable club, “that we are in a position to set a trap. I must admit I am curious to find out just who this Dalrymple is.”

“It is obvious who he is. He’s the one who stole the girls from the castle.”

“Not necessarily,” Larkin said. “He may be working for someone else, someone who wants to take my place, perhaps.”

He never did his own dirty work anymore, he mused. Perhaps whoever was behind the theft of the young ladies kept a similar distance between himself and his business activities.

Trimley clamped a fist around the knot of his toga-style sheet, barely managing to keep it from sliding off his shoulder. “Either way, we will get him when he goes to see Cuthbert.”

“That would be very stupid.” Larkin drank some water. “I am not a stupid man, Trimley.”

“What the devil are you talking about? We have to stop Dalrymple before he gets any closer. Matters are slipping out of control. Can’t you see that?”

“Matters are still in hand, Trimley,” Larkin said patiently. “If this Dalrymple is, indeed, involved in this thing, he can lead us to the girls and the teacher. I want him followed after he visits Cuthbert’s office. Once we have recovered the young ladies and Concordia Glade, we will deal with him.”

Trimley’s jaw jerked once or twice but he did not argue. “Yes, that makes sense, I suppose. But what of Cuthbert? He expects to be paid for informing us of Dalrymple’s visit.”

“He will receive his reward.”

Trimley came to a halt. “Damn it to hell, don’t you understand? If this Dalrymple managed to track down Cuthbert, the police may well do the same.”

“There is no reason to think that the police have any interest in this affair. But be that as it may, I promise you that Cuthbert will not talk.”

“I would not depend upon that, if I were you.”

Larkin almost smiled. Trimley was definitely starting to fray around the edges.

“Calm yourself, Trimley. Cuthbert will not give us any more trouble.”

D
orchester Street was drowning in a sea of fog and shadows. A row of gas lamps stood sentinel against the night, but the balls of glary light did not penetrate far into the dense mist.

Ambrose stood in a doorway at the corner and surveyed the scene.

The message from Cuthbert had reached him less than an hour ago. The urgency in the cryptic, scrawled note had been unmistakable.

I have news of interest. Meet me at my office. Eleven o’clock tonight. Come alone. Kindly bring a bank draft for the agreed-upon amount.

The shops on the street level were locked and shuttered. Most of the windows in the rooms above the ground floor were also darkened, but Ambrose saw a thin outline of light around the edges of the curtain that masked the window of Cuthbert’s office.

The street was empty except for a lone cab. The driver, shrouded in a heavy coat, his hat pulled down low over his ears, was slouched on his
box. He looked as if he had gone to sleep. His bony nag stood waiting patiently, head lowered, no doubt lost in a dream of fresh hay and a warm stall.

Ambrose watched for a while longer. Nothing and no one moved in the shadows. The rim of light continued to burn steadily in Cuthbert’s window.

One thing was certain: He was not going to learn anything more if he remained in the shadows of the doorway.

He walked toward the entrance to Cuthbert’s office, allowing the heels of his shoes to echo hollowly on the pavement. Mr. Dalrymple was not the furtive sort. He was a respectable, prosperous gentleman who maintained a membership in an exclusive club and patronized an expensive tailor. He had come here on a matter of business tonight and he was in a hurry to conclude it.

The door of Cuthbert’s building was unlocked. Ambrose let himself into the dark hall and waited a moment, absorbing the feel of the space. When he sensed that it was empty, he climbed the stairs to the floor above and looked down the corridor.

The only light was the razor’s-edge glow that came from beneath Cuthbert’s office door.

He went along the hall, moving silently now. Methodically he checked the office doors on either side of Cuthbert’s. Each was securely locked.

Satisfied that Cuthbert was the only one present on this floor, aside from himself, Ambrose went to the office and checked the knob. It turned easily in his hand.

He did not bother to knock. Instead he thrust the door open very quickly, giving no warning of his presence.

The attempt at a startling effect was for naught. Cuthbert was not at his desk. The office was empty.

He studied the lamp on the desk. Why had it been left burning? Had Cuthbert gone off for some reason, intending to return shortly to keep the appointment with Mr. Dalrymple?

Or had the man of affairs become frightened and fled in such a great hurry that he had not taken the time to lower the lamp?

Ambrose closed the door and turned the key in the lock. He did not want to be unpleasantly surprised while he searched the premises.

He had spent a lot of time on this case dealing with files of various sorts, he reflected. Not like the old days when the object of his searches had been intriguing little items that glittered and flashed and gleamed in the light.

Ah, but the snap and crackle of the exhilarating energy was still as potent as it had always been. Pity he could not find a way to bottle and sell this intense experience. The potential for profit would have been enormous.

He made short work of the small filing cabinet. There was nothing to interest him amid the assortment of aged business papers. Judging by the names and addresses in the various files, most of Cuthbert’s clients were single women of modest means. There were a number of widows, retired housekeepers, governesses and others who survived on meager pensions and small investments.

He closed the last drawer in the filing cabinet and went to the desk,
expecting little. He was not disappointed. Most of the drawers and cubbyholes were filled with the usual assortment of paper, business cards, pens, pencils and spare bottles of ink.

Inside the center drawer was a small leather-bound journal. He flipped through it quickly. The pages were filled with figures and sums. A journal of accounts, he concluded. One could often learn a great deal about a man by examining his finances.

He tucked the little journal into his coat pocket, closed the drawer and went to the window. Flattening himself against the wall, he peered through a crack in the curtain.

Down below in the street nothing had altered. Fog still veiled the gaslights. The dark shape of the cab with its dozing driver was still parked where it had been earlier. Ambrose detected no movement.

He went back across the office, unlocked the door and let himself out into the darkened hall. Once again he paused for a moment, using his excellent night vision to examine his surroundings.

Satisfied that there was no one else about, he went back downstairs.

Outside on the street he walked deliberately toward the hackney. His footsteps rang loudly in the fog-bound silence.