Marigold Chain (33 page)

Four legitimate
possibilities; Chloë, Matt, Naomi, Mistress Jackson – all of them
equally unlikely and leaving only one logical alternative which,
after the murderous chase home, wasn’t so hard to believe. The only
question was, were they being burgled or invaded?

From a drawer,
he drew a small serviceable dagger and then slipped out of his
room. The landing was in darkness and no light showed under any of
the doors. Alex crossed swiftly to the stair-head and quietly made
his way down. A few steps from the foot he paused, realising that
although he had left a candle burning, the hall was dark. Then the
smell of it reached him; warm wax, recently extinguished. He moved
on, listening and finally isolated the sound.

Beneath the
door of Chloë’s office lay a ribbon of light and from behind it
came the unmistakeable rumble of drawers and the crackle of paper.
Someone was conducting a thorough search. Alex looked down at the
knife in his hand, then laid it gently on the floor against the
wall. Just one man it seemed, and this time he needed him alive.
This time, he thought, grimly smiling, we’ll find out what the hell
is going on.

His fingers
closed on the latch, lifting it silently, then he flung the door
wide and was face to face with the intruder who looked back at him,
startled, one hand just withdrawing from his pocket. And then he
jumped.

The fellow was
heavily-built and his hands were like bill-hooks. Less your average
burglar, thought Mr Deveril as he side-stepped, than a wrestler –
or, scenting the odour of tar, a sailor. And apparently unarmed
which, given the smallness of the room, was probably just as well.
Then the enormous hands were on him, spinning him round and
wrenching his arms behind his back with a knee to the kidneys as
leverage. Alex grunted as his bruised shoulder flamed with agony;
then, delivering a savage kick to the other man’s shin, he bent
sharply, broke his grip and hurled him to the ground in a sea of
papers.

The candle went
out. Prepared for it, Alex was on his opponent before he had time
to move and already engineering a knee lock. It was answered with a
hard chopping motion which he caught half-way to his throat.
Altering his grip, Alex twisted and, holding the arm at an
unpleasant angle, said breathlessly, ‘I wonder what’s in your
pocket. And if you can be persuaded to give it to me.’

He felt, with
surprise, the fellow’s muscles relax and then, too late, understood
why. With sudden, unexpected venom, the man spat hard in his face
while simultaneously jerking himself free; then a fist like Thor’s
hammer took him in the stomach and his left arm was seized and
twisted viciously against the socket.

Through the
white-hot anguish that was his shoulder, Mr Deveril recognised that
he had committed a major miscalculation. After a month of continual
work on poor food, followed by twenty-four hours without sleep
during which he’d already received a fairly comprehensive
battering, his physical capabilities were at an unsurprisingly low
ebb. He rammed his elbow into the man’s side and inflated his lungs
to do the only sensible thing; yell for Matt.

He never
managed it. Even as he opened his mouth to call, his arm was given
one final, excruciating jerk and, in the haze of burning pain that
followed, released so that the burglar could spin him round and
deliver a flailing blow to the jaw. Alex’s head snapped back,
hitting the desk and, without a second’s delay, the other man was
up and off through the door.

By the time
Alex had recovered sufficiently to haul himself dizzily to his
feet, the front door had slammed and his intruder was long gone. He
dropped heavily on the edge of the desk, allowing his left hand to
fall loosely at his side while using his right to delicately
explore the damage to his shoulder. It screamed to the touch but
mercifully did not appear to be dislocated. He closed his eyes,
controlling faintness and frustration with every ounce of his
will.

When he opened
them again Chloë was standing in the doorway, candle in hand, her
eyes wide with anxiety and one arm thrust into a blue chamber-robe
over her night-rail. Then she moved slowly through the wreck of her
office to stand before him.

‘
Some
people,’ she said severely, her voice not entirely steady, ‘will do
anything to enliven a dull Friday.’

‘
Saturday,’ Mr Deveril corrected weakly. ‘It’s Saturday.
You’ve had a burglar.’

‘
So I
see. And you’ve had a fight. Another one. What’s wrong with your
arm?’ She did not touch him but set about using the candle to light
others.

‘
Nothing
that won’t mend.’ He eyed her consideringly. ‘I’m sorry to be
tedious – but he took something and I need to know
what.’

Chloë sought
her straying sleeve, then tied the ribbon at her waist with a
business-like air.

‘
What you
need,’ she replied, ‘is to go to bed. All this will wait and you’ve
done enough for one day. Come on.’ She reached out to take his
hand.

His fingers
closed over hers but he did not move. ‘It’s important, Chloë.’

‘
Really?’

‘
Really.
It can’t wait … but I can’t do it alone. Help me?’

She drew a long
breath and said, ‘All right. But I don’t need you – I can do it on
my own. You get some sleep and when I find out what’s missing, I’ll
wake you.’

‘
No. But
if it will make you happy, I’ll do no more than sit and watch.’ His
brow was faintly furrowed but beneath it the translucent eyes
gleamed with the same expression they had held earlier and which
Chloë still could not interpret.

She frowned
crossly. ‘You think that’s a compromise? You’re hurt and you’re
tired – and if you weren’t so stubborn, you’d admit it.’

‘
I’ll
admit it willingly – but I won’t go to bed.’ He stood up with an
effort that made Chloë grit her teeth and then looked down at her,
smiling a little. ‘Please, Marigold?’

And that, of
course, settled it.

Chloë pushed
her hair behind her ears and knelt down on the carpet amongst the
lists and costings before he could see that tears were stinging her
eyes.

‘
Sit
down,’ she said irritably. ‘And if you lift a finger, I swear I’ll
go back to bed.’

‘
Don’t do
that,’ begged Mr Deveril, meekly doing as she said and concealing
the acute relief it brought. ‘The truth is it’s just an excuse
because I like to share my insomnia.’

Head bent over
a sheaf of papers, she retorted, ‘The truth – as someone once said
– is that you don’t know when to recognise a piece of good advice
and take it.’

‘
Or how
to tell it from interference?’

‘
Quite.’
She sifted a handful of documents on to various piles and collected
more from the litter around her.

Alex forced
down the temptation to say things for which this was definitely not
the time and fell silent, watching her. The fall of shining hair
brushed the floor where she knelt and the narrow, arched brows were
drawn together in concentration as she went through the papers,
filing them one by one. He leant his head against the chair-back
and his eyes grew heavy as he followed the small, capable
hands.

He fell asleep
very quickly and, through an hour of sorting and collating, Chloë
glanced up from time to time to assure herself that he had not
woken. Then she became absorbed in her task, checking and
re-checking the piles until there was no doubt at all that only one
document was missing. She sat on the floor, frowning thoughtfully,
and then, hearing sounds that told her it was day and the servants
were up, rose stiffly and went in search of Naomi.

When she
returned some half-hour later bearing a tray of warm medicinally
spiced ale, Mr Deveril had not moved. Chloë set the tray on the
desk and stood for a moment, seething with resentment. Then,
because she had promised, she blew out the candles and opened the
curtains. Sunlight came flooding in but still he didn’t stir and
looking at his face, fine-drawn and bruised, Chloë wasn’t
surprised. Then, hating the necessity, she set out to wake him.

Eventually he
sat up, wincing as the movement jarred his shoulder and rubbing a
hand sluggishly across his eyes while Chloë put the ale in front of
him and tried not to watch.

‘
I need a
shave,’ he said stupidly.

‘
Yes.
Never mind. Drink that.’ She paused, then added, ‘It’s still early
– just past six. You only slept for an hour or so.’

Alex took a
drink and then looked up, the blue gaze focusing slowly.

‘
I’ve
kept you up all night. I’m sorry.’

Chloë repressed
a desire to scream. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve found what you wanted
to know.’

He was suddenly
wide awake. ‘And?’

‘
There’s
only one thing missing.
The Black
Boy
’s bill of lading.’

‘
What?’

‘
The bill
of lading,’ she repeated. ‘The list of the cargo on – ‘

‘
Yes. I
know what it is.’ Alex stared at her with worrying intensity and
then hauled himself to his feet. ‘Wait here, will you?’

Chloë watched
him go and then sat down, wondering if her control would last as
long as she needed it. Then he was back and holding a piece of
paper out to her.

‘
A bill
of lading, you said. Like this?’

She
looked and then, with surprise, into his face. ‘Yes. Only this is
for the
Arabella
– Captain
Vine’s ship. How did you get it?’

‘
I rather
think that it was put into my pocket by mistake last night at
Whitehall,’ replied Mr Deveril slowly. ‘This man Vine … do you know
anything about him?’

‘
Not
much. Captain Pierce thinks he’s either smuggling or breaking
bulk.’ She stopped abruptly. ‘Put into your pocket? By that
child?’

He nodded and
watched her, a curious smile touching his mouth.

‘
Then
somebody discovered their mistake and came to get it back but took
mine instead,’ she went on in growing disbelief, ‘And we were
chased all over the City and five men died …
for a bill of lading?
’

‘
It looks
that way, yes.’

‘
But
why?’

‘
That’s
what I have to find out.’ The smile grew into one of enormous charm
and, taking her hand, he raised it to his lips. ‘You may not
realise it, but thanks to you I believe I may have the key. All
that remains, is to find the door it opens.’

‘
I knew
it,’ said Chloë, covering confusion with gloom. ‘You’re going to
tell me to forget what I know and ask no questions.’

‘
I’m
afraid so. But not without gratitude.’

She rose and
walked wearily to the door, saying flatly, ‘The only thing you need
thank me for is waking you up just now. Compared to that, the rest
was nothing.’ And she went out.

For a minute,
Alex stared after her then, picking up the bill of lading, examined
it carefully. He read every word, looked closely at both sides,
held it to the light and found nothing that gave a clue to its
importance. He tapped it thoughtfully against his hand. It might,
of course, just be coded but he did not think so; which left only
one other possibility. Reaching for the flint, he lit a candle and
proceeded to warm the paper gently by the flame. And then smiled
as, between lines of open script, new ones in faded ochre began to
appear.

The cipher was
moderately complex but it presented few difficulties to one
experienced in the art and half an hour later Mr Deveril was
writing it neatly on to a fresh sheet of paper. Then he decoded the
message which was brief and consisted of just three lines.

Send detail
sail power and planned movement.

Submission re.
Beverweed approved. Proceed.

Urgent you
increase victualing disruption.

Alex drew a
long breath and considered the words. Then, ‘Eureka,’ he said,
without visible signs of rejoicing and, going to the door, shouted
for Matt.

By the time Mr
Lewis made an appearance, Alex was sitting at Chloë’s desk
assembling various writing materials in front of him and did not
immediately look up, thus giving Matt the opportunity to make a
comprehensive survey. He noted the marks on the face and hands and
the tell-tale stiffness of one shoulder, then said, ‘She must have
been a sturdy lass. What happened? Did you forget your money?’

Mr Deveril
raised cool blue eyes.

‘
Sit
down. If I had the time, I’d ask where the hell you were last night
– but as it is, we need to hurry.’ He tossed the bill of lading
across the desk. ‘Last night that was put in my pocket – a mistake
it’s owners later tried to rectify by attacking us on our way home
and then burgling this house. As you see, there’s an extra message
in code.’ He flicked his translation in the wake of the original.
‘I’m about to make a copy which you’ll deliver to Captain Vine
aboard the
Arabella
– make
sure you put him off the scent with a quantity of naïve chatter.
It’s vital he thinks this document is the original and myself
entirely unaware of its hidden contents. Clear so far?’

‘
I think
I can just about follow you,’ said Matthew, annoyed.

‘
Good.
Once he has the paper, watch him and if – as I think likely - he
sends a messenger out of London, follow him. I trust you’ve still
got someone watching my cousin?’