Elizabeth Thornton - [Special Branch 02] (7 page)

“Me mates,” said Officer Rankin by way of introduction. “I’m showing them the ropes.”

“They’re Bow Street runners?” Jason’s tone was incredulous. “Where did you find them? Newgate?”

“You better watch your mouth,” said one.

“Or we’ll shut it for you,” said the other.

“It’s all right, lads. Me and Mr. Radley goes back a long ways. You see—Bloody hell!”

Jason had just made a rude gesture, and before Rankin could prevent it, his men charged. A kick in the groin downed one, but the other checked Jason with a blow that missed his head by inches and landed on his shoulder. Jason recoiled, then sprang at him, and they both went rolling on the floor.

Jason came out on top. He felt the blood thundering in his ears; he could taste the thrill of the fight in
his mouth. And all the anger that was bottled inside him had, at last, found a worthy object.

He pulled back his arm to deliver a punch, but before he could complete the movement, pain exploded across his back and he slumped forward in a daze.

“Sorry, Mr. Radley, sir.” Officer Rankin shoved the truncheon into his waistband. “You always was a wild one when the drink was on you. ’Ere, what do you thinks you’re doing? Put that truncheon down!” This aside was addressed to the runner who had just pulled himself from under Jason.

“He elbowed me in the stomach.” He clutched his stomach and groaned to prove his point. “He deserves everything he gets.”

“Just be thankful he’s out of practice or it’s you we’d be trying to bring round. Will you stop your caterwauling?” This last was to the runner Jason had kicked in the groin.

“He kicked me in the balls!” came the choked reply.

“What did you expect—a fair fight? These are west-end gents we’re dealing with, lads.
Real gentlemen
, and they’re the worst kind. Just remember, they only plays fair among themselves. Now, let’s get him to the saloon or whatever they calls it with the others.

When Jason came to himself, he discovered that it wasn’t a raid, or it hadn’t started out that way. It was much more serious. A young man named Johnny Rowland had been found dead on the servants’ staircase. He’d been strangled with a length of butcher’s twine. Everyone in that house was a suspect in a murder case.

T
he Right Honorable Hugo Gerrard made a considerable effort to control his voice, but it was obvious he was incensed. “You’re sure Johnny Rowland was the man who tried to help my wife get away?”

The man on the other side of the desk nodded. “We were sure even before we picked up his trail. I told you, the groundsmen saw him and recognized him when lightning flashed. It was Rowland in the boat all right.”

“They could have been mistaken. It was raining hard.”

“He admitted it … under duress.”

“Then I’m not sorry he’s dead.”

Ralph Wheatley wasn’t surprised at the older man’s virulence. Johnny Rowland had once been a footman in Gerrard’s household, but some months ago he’d left to take up a position with less money and more respect. Gerrard could not abide disloyalty. That Johnny had returned only to assist Gerrard’s runaway wife, had put him beyond the pale.

Wheatley still had trouble believing that Lady Mary, that pathetic nonentity who was almost invisible, had found it in herself to rebel against her husband.
A week ago, during a ferocious thunderstorm, she’d crept out of the house with her maid, Gracie, and had almost made it to the boat that was waiting for her on the river. Johnny was in the boat.

The groundsmen had raised the alarm, and Gerrard had ordered them to let loose the dogs. Only Rowland and the maid got away. Lady Mary was now heavily sedated and locked up in the tower room.

A runaway wife was one thing, but it was a lot worse than that. She had some sort of hold over Gerrard—Wheatley didn’t know what—a paper of some sort that she’d concealed in the back of a miniature portrait of herself. All he knew was that some friend was holding it for her, and would use it to ruin Gerrard if anything happened to Lady Mary.

He had as much to lose as Gerrard. He was Gerrard’s attorney and right-hand man. He was also his natural son. That’s what really tied him to Gerrard. Lady Mary was childless and one day, so Gerrard promised, all this would come to him.

He allowed his gaze to wander around the library of Gerrard’s house on the Strand. Persian rugs covered the parquet floor. The books that lined the walls were priceless. But dominating the room, like another presence, was the portrait above the mantelpiece. It was a portrait of Gerrard’s late father-in-law, the earl.

And when he became master here, thought Wheatley with a shudder, the first thing he would do would be to get rid of that damn portrait. It always made him feel as though a dead man were looking over his shoulder.

Gerrard said, “Tell me again what happened, and leave nothing out.”

It was two o’clock in the morning and Wheatley was ready for his bed. He didn’t know where Gerrard got his energy, but he looked as though he was all
spruced up to go out for the evening. They might be father and son, but no one would have known it to look at them. Gerrard could have passed for a Roman centurion if he’d worn a toga. And he had the presence for it. He, Wheatley, knew he wasn’t nearly as handsome as Gerrard, and he felt sweaty and crumpled after being roused from his bed by the news of Rowland’s murder. He’d known better than to wait till morning before making his report. Gerrard was so obsessed about the damn portrait that he’d given orders that he was to be informed of any new development at any time of the day or night.

“Well?” prompted Gerrard irritably.

Wheatley swallowed a sigh. “I had Bloggs and Kenny on shifts watching Rowland’s place of employment. He’d given notice, but he had wages to collect. When he came to collect them, Bloggs spotted him and followed. But Rowland didn’t lead him to the maid. He went to Sackville’s house, and there are no maids in Sackville’s house.”

Gerrard interrupted with a small sound that spoke volumes, thought Wheatley. A very moral man was Gerrard, or so he liked to think—no smoking, no drinking, and no fornicating except as necessary to keep a man healthy. He regarded Bertie Sackville as beneath contempt. Anyone who was anyone knew about Bertie’s parties.

Yes, a very moral man was the Right Honorable Hugo Gerrard. The only thing was, morality was whatever he decided to make it. Wheatley had no illusions about himself. He was a thoroughgoing villain, but at least he knew it.

Gerrard was watching him, so he went on, “When they got to Sackville’s house, Rowland entered it through a basement window. Bloggs followed, but Rowland must have spotted him at some point, because he was waiting for him. There was a scuffle and
Rowland came off the worse. Bloggs applied pressure, you know what I mean, and asked about the maid and the portrait, but Rowland denied knowing anything. As I told you, Bloggs didn’t mean to kill him, but Rowland wouldn’t talk. All he would admit to was that he was the man in the boat and he’d only agreed to help Lady Mary for the money. It seems she promised him a fat purse if he would get her away.”

At the mention of Lady Mary, Gerrard linked his fingers and squeezed till his knuckles showed white. That small gesture convinced Wheatley that once the portrait was recovered, Lady Mary’s days were numbered. He couldn’t understand it, couldn’t understand why Gerrard couldn’t break her so that she would tell him what he wanted to know. She was like a whipped cur to begin with. Where had she got the courage to turn on her master?

“Why did Rowland go to Sackville’s house?” demanded Gerrard.

Wheatley shrugged. “Bloggs never got around to asking him that.”

“There must be a reason. What do you think?”

“To see or speak to someone who he knew would be there. I really don’t know. But first thing tomorrow, I’ll get onto it. It probably has nothing to do with the portrait or the maid. Maybe someone owed him money and he went to collect it. There could be any number of reasons. We may never know why.”

“What about the maid, Gracie?” asked Gerrard.

“She may have left the city by now. She must know we’re after her. If I were her, that’s what I would do.”

“And if she hasn’t?”

“There’s an Open House at the library on Friday. We think she may try to contact one of the ladies then. The place will be crowded with people and we’ll be there.”

“You think, but you don’t know?”

Again, Wheatley shrugged.

Gerrard suddenly leaned forward, making Wheatley straighten in his chair. The older man’s eyes were bulging and his breathing was audible. “This is not a game we’re playing,” he said. “This is in deadly earnest, and you’d better remember it. I want to know why Rowland went to Sackville’s house. I want you to find the maid. I want to know who has that portrait. You’ve had a whole week, and all you’ve given me so far is a footman who expired before he could tell us anything.”

He was breathing hard now, sucking long breaths through his teeth. “Now you listen to me. Rowland was murdered. I’m not sorry he’s dead, but if we don’t find the maid soon, she could make things very unpleasant for us. I want her found. I want her dealt with. And I want that portrait, and the person who has it dealt with, too. Do I make myself clear?”

Wheatley nodded.

“My wife must have given it to one of those harpies at that library. Those are the only friends she has.”

“I’m aware of that, sir, and we made a thorough search of the library and the home of every woman whose name was on the list you gave me. There was no portrait.”

“Well, someone must have it,” Gerrard roared, “and I want it found.”

Wheatley knew better than to say anything. He sat there, waiting like a little mouse for the cat to pounce, and he despised himself. Gerrard’s eyes strayed to the portrait of the earl. After a long silence, he looked at Wheatley again.

“I think the situation calls for someone with special skills. I think we should call in Harry. You remember Harry, don’t you?”

Wheatley nodded.

“Then see to it.”

When Gerrard got up, so did Wheatley. The interview was over.

After Wheatley left, Gerrard stood for a long time staring up at the portrait above the mantelpiece. He was only twenty-three when he’d become the earl’s private secretary and he’d soon come to revere the older man. When the earl walked into a room, everyone was aware of it; when he spoke, people listened. Anyone foolish enough to become his enemy soon came to regret it.

There was no man he respected more.

It wasn’t all one-sided. He’d made an impression on the old earl as well. He became the earl’s protégé, and very soon after, he married the earl’s only child, Lady Mary. The earl had made a bargain with him all those years ago: if he would marry Lady Mary and take the family name, the earl would promote his career, and make him the heir to everything that was not entailed on a despised nephew.

He had kept to the bargain, as had the earl. He’d given up his own name and had become a Gerrard. He’d done everything in his power to live up to the earl’s faith in him. The one bitter disappointment was that there had been no children, no sons with the earl’s blood in them to carry on the family tradition. What was inconceivable was that a wretched, worthless woman, who could not even produce children, had tricked them both. Gerrard clamped his teeth together as the fury began to rise in him again.

Why had she decided to leave him now?
he had asked himself over and over. And now he knew. She had discovered his secret. Deep inside her, the resentment must have smoldered, only to erupt years later when
she came under the influence of a group of women who should be locked up for their inflammatory views.

When he’d first heard that his wife was visiting the Ladies’ Library two or three times a week, he’d been pleased to know that she’d finally found a reason to stop moping around the house. Then a member at White’s had put him wise to a thing or two. These women were subversives. They wanted women to have the same rights as men. They stirred up good women and made them question a husband’s authority.

After that, he’d confined her to the house, but those insolent women had had the gall to come calling. They’d been turned away at the door, all except their leader, Lady Octavia. Just thinking about Lady Octavia made him want to grind his teeth. She’d threatened to go to the magistrates if he did not allow her to see Lady Mary. And the magistrates would listen to her, because she had connections. Besides, it wouldn’t have looked good for a man in his position to have a public quarrel with a group of women who’d made themselves laughingstocks in all the gentlemen’s clubs.