Lie by Moonlight (28 page)

Old Henry whimpered but he seemed to comprehend what was happening. He did not contradict the claim of a longtime association with a master criminal.

“How do you know all this?” Trimley asked sharply.

“I’ve been watching Larkin for a long time,” Ambrose said. “You could say I’ve made a study of the man.”

“Bloody hell,” Trimley said. “He told me that someone was out to take over his empire, but I thought he was merely somewhat paranoid.”

Ambrose said nothing. Water splashed lightly on tiles somewhere in the darkness. The sound echoed eerily.

“Show yourself, ” Trimley ordered. “You sound like a gentleman. No reason we can’t do business. I’m in the market for a new partner, as you can see.”

Ambrose moved forward until he was standing next to a stand that held two large, empty pitchers of the sort used by the hair-washing attendants. He kept the lamp at his back so that his face remained in shadow. The pool separated him from the other two men.

At this distance and in this light, it was highly unlikely that Trimley
could use the revolver against him to any useful effect. But the attendant was still in mortal danger.

“What are you proposing?” Ambrose asked softly.

“Stop right there.” Trimley sounded calmer. He was obviously feeling more in command of the situation now that he could see Ambrose’s silhouette. “Put up your hands. I want to see if you have a gun.”

“I’m unarmed.” Ambrose held up his palms. “But bear in mind that if you kill me, you’ll have an even bigger problem than if you kill the attendant.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s true that I was watching Larkin. But someone else is closing in on you, Trimley. I’m the only one who can tell you the name of the police inspector who has concluded that you and Larkin were partners.”

“You’re lying. No one knows about me.
No one.
I’m a gentleman, damn you, not a member of the criminal class. Why would an inspector take any notice of me?”

“I have news for you, Trimley. The police are not above suspecting members of the upper classes. It is just that they find it more difficult to make arrests in those circles. They require a great deal of proof. But rest assured, in your case, the inspector is well on his way toward acquiring ample evidence against you.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m the man he paid to obtain the evidence he needed.”

Trimley was dumbfounded. “Impossible. You’re lying.”

“There is no need to be overly concerned. I’m a businessman at heart. As for me, justice is a commodity that can be bought and sold, just like those four girls you and Larkin stole.”

“You’re willing to tell me the name of the inspector?” Trimley sounded dubious.

“I will sell you his name, assuming we can come to terms on the price,” Ambrose replied. “And, for an additional, negotiable fee, I will make the evidence that I have acquired thus far disappear.”

A
mbrose should have returned by now. Concordia shivered and pulled her cloak more snugly around herself. Something had gone wrong. She was as certain of that as she had ever been of anything in her life.

She leaped to her feet and jumped down from the cab.

“Here now, where are ye going?” the driver demanded. He peered at her, alarmed. “I’m supposed to keep an eye on ye for the gentleman.”

“I believe he may be in grave danger somewhere inside the Doncaster Baths. Someone may be trying to murder him. I must go to him. Will you please help me?”

“Murder?”
Galvanized by the word, the driver swiftly unhooked the reins. “No one said anything about that sort of trouble.”

“Wait, please, I need your assistance.”

“The fare was a nice one, but it wasn’t enough to make me get involved with murder.”

The driver slapped the reins. The horse started forward.

“Will you at least please find a policeman and send him to the Doncaster Baths?” Concordia pleaded.

The driver did not respond. He was too busy wielding his whip, urging his horse into a full gallop.

In a matter of seconds she found herself alone in the street.

She ran toward the entrance of the baths, her cloak swirling out behind her.

Y
ou are the man of business who called on that foolish, social-climbing cow, Rowena Hoxton, aren’t you?” Trimley said. “Who was the woman who accompanied you? The one who said she wanted to start a charity school?”

“She’s not important,” Ambrose said. “An actress I employed to play the role.”

“That silly bitch Hoxton was the one who put you on to me, wasn’t she?” Trimley’s voice was laced with disgust. “That’s how you learned my name. You must have been at the ball tonight. You followed me when I came here.”

“Perhaps,” Ambrose allowed.

“I almost had you the other evening when you went to see Cuthbert at his offices, you know.”

“Your men were somewhat less than efficient.”

“They weren’t
my
men.” Trimley snorted. “They were Larkin’s. When Cuthbert attempted to sell me information about a certain Mr.
Dalrymple who had sought him out to inquire about a girl named Hannah Radburn, I realized at once what had happened.”

“You agreed to purchase the information from Cuthbert and then you had him send the message to me at my club. When you had no further use for Cuthbert, you got Larkin to arrange for him to be murdered.”

“The plan was to follow you when you left the office that night. I wanted to know who you were and where you had hidden the girls. But things went wrong.”

“Just as they did at the castle,” Ambrose said. “By the way, were you the one who had the bath attendant, Nellie Taylor, murdered? Or did Larkin give the order?”

“Was that her name?” Trimley asked without much interest.

“Yes.”

“Actually, I had nothing to do with her death. She was one of Larkin’s little Turkish bath whores. He was very fond of tumbling the female bathing attendants. Nellie Taylor was his favorite of the moment, I believe. I suspect she learned more about his business than was good for her.”

“So he got rid of her?”

“Obviously.” Trimley’s voice sharpened. “Forget Taylor. She wasn’t important. I suggest we discuss our business, instead. What is the name of the police inspector you say is watching me?”

“Come now, you don’t really believe that I’m going to give you that information as long as you’re holding a gun, do you? I’m unarmed. You have nothing to fear from me. Put down your weapon and we will talk this over like gentlemen.”

“I can’t see you very clearly. Come into the light.”

Ambrose moved a little farther into the small circle of light from the nearest wall sconce, closer to the water pitchers.

“Can’t you see my empty hands?” he asked, holding them up, palms out.

Trimley peered intently in his direction and finally seemed satisfied. “Very well then, what is your price for the girls? It had better be reasonable, or—”

He broke off abruptly when a faint rumbling sound echoed from the corridor behind him.

“What’s that?” he rasped, his earlier agitation returning in full force. “Who’s there?”

Damn it to hell, Ambrose thought. Stoner would have been proud of him. The Strategy of Negotiation had been working rather well. But as his father and grandfather had often said, a smart man is always prepared for sudden reversals of fortunes.

“It would seem we have a visitor,” Ambrose said. He took advantage of Trimley’s distraction to pick up one of the heavy water pitchers.

“One of your men?” Trimley demanded. His head swiveled back and forth between the darkened hall and Ambrose.

“Definitely not one of my men,” Ambrose said, keeping the pitcher in the shadows alongside his right leg. “One of Larkin’s, perhaps.”

The rumbling grew louder. Trimley rounded on the shivering attendant. “Do you recognize that sound?”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” Old Henry said in a shaky voice. “I think it’s one of the linen carts. We use them to move the sheets and towels about the place.”

“Damn it to hell and back. Is there
another
attendant here tonight?”

“No, sir. I’m the only one, sir,” the man replied. “Least, I thought I was.”

A cart heaped with a mountain of linens appeared in the entrance to the corridor. The stack was so high and so wide that it was impossible to see who was on the far side.

“Stop,” Trimley ordered.

There was no time to get around the pool, Ambrose realized. He would have to throw the pitcher across the water.

At that moment the cart jolted forward suddenly, picking up speed. Whoever was pushing it had just given it a strong shove.

“Damn you,” Trimley shouted, completely unnerved now.

He fired the gun wildly in the directly of the laundry cart.

Ambrose hurled the pitcher. But Trimley was already in motion, scrambling to one side in an effort to avoid being bowled over by the laundry cart.

The pitcher struck him on his shoulder instead of hitting him in the head, as Ambrose had intended.

Trimley howled, but he did not go down. He lost his grip on the revolver, however. It clattered on the tiles.

Frantic, he staggered and then whirled around to search for the gun.

Ambrose broke into a run, circling the pool. He could see the revolver on the floor very near the water’s edge.

“Get his gun,” he shouted at the dazed attendant.

Old Henry recovered and turned to search for the pistol in the shadows. “I can’t see it. Where is it?”

No point calling out instructions for finding the damn gun, Ambrose
thought. Trimley could follow them just as well as, if not better than, Old Henry.

A few more strides and he would have Trimley in his grasp.

“I see the gun.” Concordia flew from the hallway, her cloak whipping out behind her. She was headed straight for the pool’s edge.

Trimley spun around, following her. He, too, finally saw the pistol.

Bloody hell, Ambrose thought. Just what he needed.

Concordia reached the gun a split second ahead of Trimley. She did not even try to pick it up, which would have been a terrible mistake, Ambrose knew, because Trimley would have wrestled it from her.

Instead she used the toe of her shoe to kick it into the pool.

“What do you think you’re doing, you stupid creature,” Trimley shouted.

He lashed out in fury, knocking Concordia into the pool. She landed with a splash that sent water showering up onto the surrounding tiles.

Then he swung around and charged toward the entrance to the corridor.

Concordia surfaced, gasping for air.

“Are you all right?” Ambrose asked, slowing briefly.

“Yes.” She sputtered, coughed and found her footing in the water. “I’m fine. Go on. Don’t worry about me.”

Taking her at her word, he raced into the heavily shadowed hallway. Trimley had already disappeared, but Ambrose could hear his footsteps pounding toward the alley entrance.

It was dark in this portion of the bathhouse, but Trimley was running with the confidence of a man who knew his way around the building.

At the end of the hall, Trimley yanked open a door and vanished.

Ambrose went through the door a few strides behind him and discovered a narrow spiral staircase. Trimley was headed for the roof.

Ambrose climbed swiftly, listening to Trimley’s pounding footsteps on the upper stairs.

A door opened at the top of the stairwell. Damp night air flowed inside.

Ambrose came out of the stairwell in time to see Trimley step up onto the stone parapet that surrounded the rooftop and jump down onto the roof of the neighboring building. He followed swiftly, closing the distance between them.

Little wonder that Felix had been unable to chart Larkin’s comings and goings into and out of the baths, he thought. The crime lord had devised a secret route. He wondered if Larkin had ever realized that his gentleman partner had discovered it.

Evidently concluding that he could not outrun his pursuer, Trimley stopped suddenly, bent down and picked up an object that had been lying on the roof. He turned swiftly.

In the fitful moonlight, Ambrose could see the length of pipe in his hand quite clearly.

“I don’t know who you are, but you’ve been a damned nuisance,” Trimley said.

He rushed forward, swinging the pipe in a heavy, lethal arc designed to connect with Ambrose’s head.

Ambrose threw himself flat onto the hard surface of the roof. The pipe slashed through the air only inches overhead.

He rolled to his feet and went toward Trimley.

“No, stay away from me.
” Trimley skittered backward. “Stay away, damn you.” He raised the pipe for another blow.

Ambrose feinted to the left.

Trimley shifted position again to stay out of reach. Ambrose lashed out with his right foot.

Trimley tried to evade the blow. The back of his leg came up hard against the edge of the stone parapet.

He staggered, lost his balance and toppled over backward.
“No . . .”

The scream reverberated through the night. It ended with a shocking suddenness on the pavement of the street below.

A
re you certain that you are warm and quite dry?” Ambrose asked from the opposite side of the cab.

“Yes, thank you,” Concordia said politely. It was not the first time she had answered the question. “I told you, the water in the pool was still warm and the attendant very kindly supplied me with a number of towels.”

Old Henry had also recovered her spectacles for her with the aid of a long hook.

Nevertheless, she knew she looked quite odd, enveloped from neck to ankle as she was in Ambrose’s overcoat. The heavy garment had proven useful, however. It had allowed her to pass as a gentleman as far as the cabdriver was concerned.

She did not know what he had made of the large towel wrapped around her wet hair. It certainly added an interesting fashion note, she thought. Perhaps she could single-handedly bring about a return of the turban style that had once been popular in the more exclusive ballrooms.

She was not concerned about her own health. She was certain that she would survive the dunking in the bath quite nicely. It was Ambrose she was worried about. Ever since he had returned from the roof he had been in a dark, shuttered mood.