No Place for a Lady (17 page)

“Perhaps he saw that French book when he took Jamie the tin soldiers.”

“She was a little careless about leaving her books around, but she had so few visitors it did not seem important. If Vivaldi called, then it was for the purpose of snooping around. No doubt he spotted something.”

“I wish you could have convinced her to quit when you thought they mistrusted her,” I said, not in accusation but in frustration.

“So do I; she was adamant. I did tell her that if any such thing as this happened, she must tell them to contact Lord Dolman, who will pay handsomely for her release. She is to claim kinship with him. Greed is a strong incentive. I doubt they would kill her without trying for the money. That will buy us some time. Papa will send the note to me at once if it comes.”

“Would he actually pay for her safety?” I asked.

“The Horse Guards do provide funds for such contingencies, but the idea is to use the money as a bait to catch the spies.” Algernon rose and said, “We must be going now. I only came back to let Miss Lemon know what is afoot. You might go up and spend some time with her if you want to help, ladies. This is a hard time for her to be alone.”

“Yes, of course we shall take care of Miss Lemon.”

He smiled a sad little smile, the kind of smile that made me wish we were alone. It was intimate, tender, loving. “Be careful, Algie,” I said.

“We’ll keep in touch. You must be cursing me for making you stay on here. But we had things so cozily arranged, with Sharkey and myself to look out for Mrs. Clarke—and Butler always on hand to help out, though he hasn’t a notion what is going on. It seemed a shame to disrupt it. What we did not know was that Vivaldi was a part of the ring. He came a month ago. For that long, they have suspected her.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me if he’s French,” Sharkey said. “Letting on he’s Italian gives an excuse for his funny accent.”

“You are probably right.” Algernon said. Then he looked at his watch and hauled Sharkey away.

“What a wretched state of affairs,” Miss Thackery said. “I shall go up and sit with Miss Lemon now. She must be distracted. Will you come with me, Cathy?”

“I shall be up shortly. I just want to sit quietly a moment and see if I can remember anything that might help. If Vivaldi ever said anything, you know, or ... I don’t know. I just want to think.”

Rational thought was impossible, of course. My mind was too full of horrible possibilities: Anne alone with those wicked Frenchies who would not deal kindly with an English spy; poor Jamie, not only fatherless but motherless as well. And I thought of how brave young Anne was. She seemed the softest, gentlest girl in all of England, and all the time there was a tiger’s heart lurking in her breast. Algie had warned her she was in jeopardy, but she would not stop as long as there was hope of retaliating for her husband’s death. How she must have loved her James!

I was not alone long. Within five minutes, Mr. Butler came downstairs, looking worried. “Mrs. Clarke is still not back from work, Miss Irving. Have you heard from her? Very likely she is working overtime. She does that once in a while. Perhaps I should go down to the shop to walk her home. I mean—” He stopped, staring at me. “Something has happened to her,” he said in a hollow voice. His ruddy face turned paper white.

Mr. Butler would have to know the whole soon enough. He was Mrs. Clarke’s closest friend. She might have told him things she had not even told Algie. It was unlikely, but he might possibly be able to shed some light on the disappearance.

I invited him to sit down and said as gently as I could that Mrs. Clarke had vanished—and we thought Mademoiselle Lalonde and Professor Vivaldi had abducted her.

“That foul old wretch! I knew he had his rheumy old eyes on her, bringing Jamie toy soldiers!”

“I do not think that was his reason, Mr. Butler. It has to do with the Frenchies at the shop. The war ...”

He sat trembling, unable to speak. “I always knew there was something—she had some secret. About her speaking French, for instance. Her Bible is in French, and I once saw her reading it. She said she refused to speak French in public, or even admit she knew it, because the French had killed her husband. Why did she not tell me what she was up to? I might have helped her. To put herself in such danger!”

“Can you think of anything else she said that might help us find her, Mr. Butler? Did she ever mention any names of people who came into the shop.”

“She had to make a gown for Caro Lamb once.”

“Not just customers, but other people. Frenchmen,” I said, to make myself clear.

“She never talked about the shop much,” he said. “Mostly she talked about her husband and Jamie. Lately, though, she had begun to get over his death, I think. When you put the notice up about selling the house, we agreed we would both move into the same house again, if we could. I hoped, of course, that we might live together as man and wife. I think I had half talked her into it. At least she let me call her Anne. We found a dandy little flat on Tavistock Street. Too expensive for one of us, but if we pitched in ... Mind you, she did not accept an offer of marriage, but she did not say no, either.”

“And you cannot think of anything at all that might help us find her?”

“No, but demme, I’ll find her if I have to tear London apart stone by stone.” He flung his arms about as he spoke.

To try to assuage his rising hysteria, I explained Algernon’s plans for her rescue and suggested that he might be able to help in some manner, but he must stay calm, for Anne’s sake. I poured him a glass of wine and sat with him, waiting for Algernon to return.

Chapter Fifteen

I have no doubt the saloon on Wild Street has seen some strange things in its day, but I doubt it ever saw stranger goings-on than it saw that night. I had just convinced Butler he must eat to keep up his strength and sent him to our dining room for some of Mary’s chicken, when Algernon returned, alone and in a high state of excitement.

He peered in at the saloon door to see if I was alone before he exclaimed, “I have the ransom note!” He held it out in his hand to show me. “I called on Papa to tell him what had happened. He had just received the note.”

“What does it say?” I asked, jumping up to examine it.

It was written on a piece of cheap white paper. “That is Vivaldi’s writing,” Algernon said. “I have seen it on your bulletin board.”

The note was brief and to the point:

Five thousand pounds in gold coins. You have until noon tomorrow. Details for exchange following. If you want to see Mrs. Clarke alive, do not go to police.

“How do we know she is not already dead?” I asked.

He handed me another note, written on a piece of paper torn from the top of that same evening’s journal, bearing the printed date to prove when it was written. I opened it, and a lock of Anne’s hair fell into my palm. That little blond curl caused my stomach to clench in a knot. I cringed to think of that poor girl, so vulnerable at the hands of those thugs. Why had they cut her beautiful hair? It seemed a wanton and cruel act of vandalism. The note was in her own hand, but her nervous condition made the writing wobbly. It said:

Algernon: I am alive and well. Please do as they say, and take care of Jamie for me.

“Are you certain this is her writing?” I asked.

“I am fairly sure. I do not think they would kill her when she is worth five thousand pounds to them alive.”

I looked again at that pathetic little blond curl. “Don’t let Butler see this. Why did they cut her hair?”

“As proof that they have her, I suppose. And to strike fear into our hearts. If they can cut her hair ... they can cut her throat,” he said grimly.

“Oh, Algernon! We must rescue her! Five thousand pounds! Can you get the money by noon tomorrow?”

“Papa is arranging it now. Of course I shall try to recover Anne before then, preferably without putting five thousand in Boney’s coffers. Sharkey has not returned?”

“Not yet.”

“Then he has run into trouble. He should have been back before me. The gin mill favored by the French is not far from here.”

We had very little time to talk. Our conversation was all about Anne’s safety and how we could recover her. Algernon told me he and Sharkey had searched the shop and the rooms above it thoroughly. There had been nothing indicating where they might have gone.

“They did not remove their few furnishings, so there was no hope of anyone noticing where the tranter’s wagon went,” he explained. “Lalonde’s shop was little more than a pied-a-terre. The parcels you saw on the wagon Vivaldi used were not at the shop. They were delivered to one of the other shops, I expect. We think, Papa and I, that the French have a series of them around the city. The Lalondes are small fish, probably reporting to one man in charge of the whole. This affair was planned in advance.”

“I wonder who this man could be.”

“We cannot say, but one thing Papa did find out. There was no Professor Vivaldi ever at Oxford. That is the background Vivaldi claimed for himself. He is a cultured gentleman. From the two times I played chess with him, I can tell you he has a formidable brain. I am counted a better-than-average player, but I hadn’t a chance against him. He mentioned belonging to a chess club in London. We think he may have made his contact with the British traitor there. A certain Clarence Makepiece is under surveillance. We have not been able to catch him yet, but he will be questioned more severely now.”

“Vivaldi was out of his rooms all day,” I said. “No doubt he was visiting his minions, collecting their gleanings and brewing up mischief against our troops.”

“I feel the same. This is my chance to get him,” he said, with a grim smile.

The front door flew open, and Sharkey came in. “Not a sign of any of them,” he announced. “Milkins’s gin mill was half empty. Milkins told me none of the Frenchies had been in all day. They’ve been tipped off to make themselves scarce.”

Algernon muttered a few profanities into his collar and smacked his closed fist against my desk in frustration.

Sharkey said primly, “
Tsk,
Algie. There is a lady present.” He honored me with one of his crocodile smiles before turning back to Algernon. “Don’t give up. I’ve put the word out on the nappy lads’ grapevine. Every prigger and bung nipper and ruffler and bawd in the neighborhood will be after the reward. I had to offer a reward,” he said, peering for signs of objection. “I hope you’re good for ten guineas. Anybody seeing anything will get back to me here pronto.”

“Cheap at the price,” Algernon said.

“What are priggers and those bung people, Mr. Sharkey?” I asked in contusion.

“They are various sorts of rogues,” Algernon said vaguely.

“Your priggers and rufflers are thieves,” Sharkey explained. “Your bung nipper is a file.”

“A file?”

“Pickpocket,” Algernon explained.

I did not have to inquire what a bawd might be. I said faintly, “But why are these—people—coming here, to my house?”

“I told them to watch their tongues and act proper, knowing you’re a lady,” Sharkey said.

“Naturally they are welcome if they can help find Anne, but they are not involved with the French—are they?”

“Certainly not! They’re
as patriotic as John Bull, but they know more about what’s going on in London than all the journals and politicians put together,” Sharkey told me. “They spend their days and nights on the streets with their ears and eyes open. They have to be sharp to live. If anybody leaves a house empty, they know about it. An empty house is a place to lay down indoors for a night, as well as maybe pick up a few gewgaws. I wager Lalonde’s shop is picked clean by now of any ribbons or buttons she left behind. There’ll be half a dozen lads camping there until somebody else moves in.”

“You have already checked Lalonde’s shop,” I said.

“That was just an example, you might say,” Sharkey said. “Get a bunch of the nappy lads together and they might know not only that the crew left, but where they went. That’s what we’re after.”

“I see!”

“And there’s the prancer priggers,” Sharkey added, slipping into cant again.

“Horse thieves,” Algernon explained.

“They know every piece of horseflesh to be seen on the streets of London, along with every cab-driver. Jocko is our lad for prancers. The Lalondes didn’t have a rig, so they must have used a hansom cab to move Mrs. Clarke. And there’s Vivaldi to think of as well. He didn’t vanish into thin air. Ten to one he took a cab to wherever he’s hiding. I put out an emergency call for Jocko.”

“Well done,” Algernon said.

It was not long before the door knocker sounded. Sharkey peered through the curtains and said, “It’s a Drury Lane vestal. Spotty Meg, I believe.”

The female was a common bawd. The sobriquet Spotty Meg might have been an unkind reference to her complexion, which bore the ravages of smallpox, or it might have referred to her gown, which wore a few months dirt on its silken surface. She was stout and jolly. Her age was uncertain; whether she was an aged thirty or a young forty I could not tell. The only gray on her coppery hair was dust.

“Sharkey, luv,” she said, sidling up to him while peering uncertainly at me from the corner of a flashing black eye, “I hear there’s something in it for any mort who’s seen that fellow calls hisself Professor Vivaldi.”

“For anybody that can put a finger on him,” Sharkey said. “He’s disappeared.”

“Tip me a dace and I might be able to tell you something,” Meg said, with a leer.

Sharkey gave her tuppence, which she stored in her bodice. She looked longingly at the wine. I poured her a glass and offered her a chair. “Thankee ever so, dear.” She smiled, then proceeded with her tale.

“He was a strange cove, the professor,” she said. “I knew he was up to something, the way he nipped and capered about. What he’d do, he’d walk out of this house each morning quite early, down Keane Street to Aldwych. A solicitor, I figured, going to the Inns of Court. I got to wondering why a decent businessman lived here, so I followed him one day, thinking there might be something in it for me. Hiding from a wife or debtors, I figured.” She took a swig of the wine and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.