“Cracksman? What is that?”
“Thief. And from time to time he does a bit of smuggling. Mr. Edgar is familiar with every street and rookery in London.”
“My husband instructed you to contact a constable and a criminal?”
Valentine looked a bit sheepish. “Yes, ma’am.”
Poppy put her fingertips to her temples, trying to calm her racing thoughts. A painful sob rose in her throat before she could swallow it back down. She dragged a sleeve across her wet eyes. “If he’s not found by morning,” she said, taking the handkerchief he handed to her, “I want to post a reward for any information that leads to his safe return.” She blew her nose indelicately. “Five thousand—no, ten thousand pounds.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And we should give a list to the police.”
Valentine looked at her blankly. “A list of what?”
“Of all the people who might wish to do him harm.”
“That won’t be easy,” Valentine muttered. “Most of the time I can’t tell the difference between his friends and his enemies. Some of his friends would love to kill him, and one or two of his enemies have actually named their children after him.”
“I think Mr. Bayning should be considered a suspect,” Poppy said.
“I had thought of that,” Valentine admitted. “In light of the recent threats he’s made.”
“And the meeting at the War Office yesterday—Harry said they were displeased with him, and he—” Her breath stopped. “He said something about Mr. Kinloch, that he wanted to lock Harry away somewhere.”
“I’ll go tell the Special Constable immediately,” Valentine said. Seeing the way Poppy’s eyes flooded and her mouth contorted, he added hastily, “We’ll find him. I promise. And remember that whatever Mr. Rutledge is dealing with, he knows how to take care of himself.”
Unable to reply, Poppy nodded and pressed the wadded-up handkerchief to her nose.
As soon as Valentine had departed, she spoke to the concierge in a tear-clotted voice. “Mr. Lufton, may I write a note at your desk?”
“Oh, certainly, ma’am!” He arranged paper, ink, and a pen with a steel nib on the desk, and stood back respectfully as she began to write.
“Mr. Lufton, I want this taken to my brother, Lord Ramsay, immediately. He is going to help me search for Mr. Rutledge.”
“Yes, ma’am, but . . . do you think that wise at this hour? I’m sure Mr. Rutledge would not want you to compromise your safety by going out at night.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t, Mr. Lufton. But I can’t wait here without doing something. I’ll go mad.”
To Poppy’s vast relief, Leo came at once, his cravat askew and his waistcoat unbuttoned, as if he’d dressed hastily. “What’s going on?” he asked shortly. “And what did you mean, ‘Harry’s gone missing?’ ”
Poppy described the situation as quickly as possible, and curled her fingers into his sleeve. “Leo, I need you to take me somewhere.”
She saw from her brother’s face that he understood immediately. “Yes, I know.” He let out a taut sigh. “I had better start praying that Harry won’t be found for a good long while. Because when he learns that I took you to see Michael Bayning, my life won’t be worth a tin of oysters.”
After questioning Michael’s manservant as to his whereabouts, Leo and Poppy went to Marlow’s, a club so exclusive that one could only belong if his grandfather and father had been counted among its former members. The ennobled crowd at Marlow’s looked down on the rest of the populace—including less-privileged bluebloods—with undiluted disdain. Having always been curious to see the inside of the place, Leo was more than pleased to go there in search of Michael Bayning.
“You won’t be allowed past the door,” Poppy said. “You’re precisely the kind of person they want to keep out.”
“I’ll merely tell them that Bayning is a suspect in a kidnapping plot, and if they don’t let me look for him, I’ll see that they’re charged as accessories.”
Poppy watched through the carriage window as Leo went up to the Marlow’s classical white stone and stucco façade. After a minute or two of conversation with the doorman, Leo went into the club.
Folding her arms tightly, Poppy tried to warm herself. She felt cold from the inside out, ill with panic. Harry was somewhere in London, perhaps injured, and she couldn’t reach him. She couldn’t do anything for him. Remembering what Catherine had told her about Harry’s childhood, that he had been locked in a room for two days with no one giving a thought to him, she nearly burst into tears.
“I’ll find you,” she whispered, rocking a little in her seat. “I’ll be there soon. Just a little longer, Harry.”
The carriage door was wrenched open with startling suddenness.
Leo stood there with Michael Bayning, who was shockingly ravaged by his recent habits of excess. His fine clothes and meticulously tied cravat only served to accentuate the bloat of his jaw and the ruddy web of broken capillaries on his cheeks.
Poppy stared at him blankly. “Michael?”
“He’s halfway pickled,” Leo told her, “but coherent.”
“Mrs. Rutledge,” Michael said, his lip curling in a sneer. As he spoke, the scent of strong spirits wafted into the carriage. “Your husband’s gone missing, has he? It seems I’m supposed to spout some kind of information about it. Problem is . . .” He averted his face and suppressed a quiet belch. “I haven’t got any.”
Poppy’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you. I think you had something to do with his disappearance.”
He gave her a distorted smile. “I’ve been here for the past four hours, and before that I was at my home. I’m sorry to say I haven’t arranged any underhanded plot to harm him.”
“You’ve made no secret of your animosity,” Leo pointed out. “You’ve made threats against him. You even came to the hotel with a revolver. You’re the most likely person to have been involved in his disappearance.”
“Much as I’d like to claim responsibility,” Michael said, “I can’t. The satisfaction of killing him isn’t worth being hanged for it.” His bloodshot eyes focused on Poppy. “How do you know he hasn’t decided to spend the evening with some lightskirt? He’s probably tired of you now. Go home, Mrs. Rutledge, and pray that he doesn’t come back. You’re better off without the bastard.”
Poppy blinked as if she’d been slapped.
Leo interceded coolly. “You’ll be answering scores of questions about Harry Rutledge in the next day or two, Bayning. Everyone, including your friends, will be pointing fingers in your direction. By tomorrow morning, half of London will be looking for him. You could spare yourself a great deal of trouble by helping us resolve the matter now.”
“I’ve told you, I had nothing to do with it,” Michael snapped. “But I hope to hell that he’s found soon—facedown in the Thames.”
“Enough,” Poppy cried in outrage. Both men glanced at her in surprise. “That is beneath you, Michael! Harry wronged both of us, it’s true, but he has apologized and tried to make reparations.”
“Not to me, by God!”
Poppy gave him an incredulous glance. “You want an apology from him?”
“No.” He glared at her, and then a hoarse note of pleading entered his voice. “I want you.”
She flushed with fury. “That will never be possible. And it never was. Your father wouldn’t have consented to have me as his daughter-in-law, because he considered me beneath him. And the truth is that you did, too, or you would have managed everything far differently than you did.”
“I’m not a snob, Poppy. I’m conventional. There’s a difference.”
She shook her head impatiently—it was an argument she didn’t want to waste precious time on. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve come to love my husband. I will never leave him. So for your sake as well as mine, stop making a spectacle and a nuisance of yourself, and go on with your life. You were meant for better things than this.”
“Well s
aid,” Leo muttered, climbing into the carriage. “Let’s go, Poppy. We’ll get nothing else out of him.”
Michael grabbed the edge of the door before Leo could close it. “Wait,” he said to Poppy. “If it turns out that something has happened to your husband . . . will you come to me?”
She looked into his pleading face and shook her head, unable to believe he would ask such a thing. “No, Michael,” she said quietly. “I’m afraid you’re too conventional to suit me.”
And Leo closed the door in Michael Bayning’s astonished face.
Poppy stared at her brother desperately. “Do you think Michael had anything to do with Harry’s disappearance?”
“No.” Leo reached up to signal the driver. “He’s not in a condition to plot anything other than where he’s going to find his next drink. I think he’s essentially a decent lad, drowning in self-pity.” Seeing her distraught expression, he took her hand and squeezed it comfortingly. “Let’s go back to the hotel. Perhaps there’ll be some word about Harry.”
She was silent and bleak, her thoughts taking the shape of nightmares.
As the carriage jounced along the street, Leo sought for a remark to distract her. “The interior of Marlow’s wasn’t nearly as pleasant as I’d expected. Oh, there was quite bit of mahogany paneling and nice carpeting, but the air was difficult to breathe.”
“Why?” Poppy asked glumly. “Was it filled with cigar smoke?”
“No,” he said. “Smugness.”
By morning, half of London was indeed looking for Harry. Poppy had spent a sleepless night waiting for news of her husband, while Leo and Jake Valentine had been out searching gentlemen’s clubs, taverns, and gaming halls. Although Poppy was frustrated by her own enforced inactivity, she knew that everything possible was being done. The cracksman, Mr. Edgar, had promised to use his network of thieves to find any possible scrap of information about Harry’s disappearance.
Special Constable Hembrey, for his part, had been exceedingly busy. Sir Gerald at the War Office had confirmed that Edward Kinloch had threatened Harry during their meeting. Subsequently, Hembrey had procured a search warrant from one of the Bow Street magistrates, and had questioned Kinloch early in the morning. However, a thorough search of Kinloch’s residence had revealed no trace of Harry.
The Home Secretary, who was the acting head of the Metropolitan Police Force, had directed his Criminal Investigation Unit—comprised of two inspectors and four sergeants—to apply their skills to the case. They were all engaged in questioning various individuals, including employees at the fencing club and some of Edward Kinloch’s servants.
“It’s as if he’s disappeared into thin air,” Jake Valentine said wearily, lowering himself into a chair in the Rutledge apartment, taking a cup of tea from Poppy. He gave her a haggard glance. “Are there any problems with the hotel? I haven’t seen the managers’ reports—”
“I went over them this morning,” Poppy said scratchily, understanding that Harry would want his business to continue as usual. “It gave me something to do. There are no problems with the hotel.” She rubbed her face with both hands. “No problems,” she repeated bleakly, “except that Harry is missing.”
“He’ll be found,” Valentine said. “Soon. There’s no way he can not be found.”
Their conversation was interrupted as Leo entered the apartment. “Don’t get comfortable, Valentine,” he said. “Bow Street has just sent word that they have at least three men claiming to be Harry Rutledge, along with their ‘rescuers.’ It’s assumed they’re all impostors, but I thought we’d go have a look at them in any case. Perhaps we’ll find a chance to talk with Special Constable Hembrey, if he’s there.”
“I’m going, too,” Poppy said.
Leo gave her a dark look. “You wouldn’t ask to go if you knew what kind of riffraff parades through that office every day.”
“I’m not asking,” Poppy said. “I’m telling you that you’re not going without me.”
Leo contemplated her for a moment, and sighed. “Fetch your cloak.”
The Bow Street court was universally regarded as the foremost London magistrates’ court, where the most publicized criminal cases were investigated and prosecuted. The Metropolitan Police Act had been passed more than twenty years earlier, resulting in the formation of what was still called the “New Police.”
However, there still remained a few law enforcement establishments outside the Home Secretary’s direct control, and Bow Street was one of them. Its mounted patrol and half-dozen Runners were answerable only to the Bow Street magistrates. Oddly, the Bow Street enforcement office had never been given a statutory basis for its authority. But that didn’t seem to matter to anyone. When results were needed, one went to Bow Street.
The two buildings that comprised the court and office, nos. 3 and 4, were plain and unassuming, giving little hint as to the power that was wielded inside.
Poppy approached Bow Street with Leo and Valentine, her eyes widening as she saw throngs of people milling around the building and along the street. “Don’t speak to anyone,” Leo told her, “don’t stand close to anyone, and if you hear, smell, or see something offensive, don’t say you weren’t warned.”
As they entered no. 3, they were surrounded by the mingled smells of bodies, sweat, brass polish, and plaster. A narrow hallway led to various holding rooms, charge rooms, and offices. Every inch of the hallway was occupied with jostling bodies, the air thick with exclamations and complaints.
“Hembrey,” Jake Valentine called out, and a lean man with close-cropped gray hair turned toward him. The man possessed a long, narrow face and intelligent dark eyes. “He’s the Special Constable,” Valentine told Poppy as the man made his way toward them.
“Mr. Valentine,” Hembrey said, “I’ve just arrived to discover this lunatic gathering.”
“What’s happening?” Leo asked.
Hembrey’s attention switched to him. “My lord, Mr. Rutledge’s disappearance was reported in the Times this morning, along with the promise of reward money. And his physical description was given. With the result that every tall, dark-haired swindler in London will appear at Bow Street today. The same thing is occurring at Scotland Yard.”
Poppy’s jaw dropped as she glanced at the gathering in the hallway and realized that at least half of them were men who vaguely resembled her husband. “They’re . . . they’re all claiming to be Harry?” she asked dazedly.
“It would seem so,” Leo said. “Accompanied by their heroic rescuers, who have their hands out for the reward money.”
“Come to my office,” Special Constable Hembrey urged, leading them along the hallway. “We’ll have more privacy there, and I’ll apprise you of my latest information. Leads have been pouring in . . . people claiming to have seen Rutledge drugged and put aboard a ship to China, or robbed at some brothel, things of that nature . . .”
Poppy and Valentine followed Leo and Hembrey. “This is abominable,” she told Valentine in a low tone, glancing at the line of imposters. “All of them posturing and lying, hoping to profit from someone else’s misfortune.”
They were forced to pause as Hembrey tried to clear a path to the doorway of his office.
One of the black-haired men nearest Poppy bowed theatrically. “Harry Rutledge, at your service. And who might you be, my fair creature?”
Poppy glared at him. “Mrs. Rutledge,” she said curtly.
Immediately another man exclaimed, “Darling!” He held his arms out to Poppy, who shrank away and gave him an appalled glance.
“Idiots,” Hembrey muttered, and raised his voice. “Clerk! Find some place to put all these damned Rutledges so they don’t crowd the hallway.”
“Yes, sir!”
They entered the office, and Hembrey closed the door firmly. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Rutledge. I assure you, we’re doing everything possible to locate your husband.”
“My brother, Lord Ramsay,” she said, and Hembrey bowed respectfully
.
“What is the latest information?” Leo asked.
Hembrey went to pull out a chair for Poppy, speaking all the while. “A stable boy in the mews behind the fencing club said that around the time of Mr. Rutledge’s disappearance, he saw two men carrying a body through the alley out to a waiting carriage.”
Poppy sat hard in the chair. “A body?” she whispered, cold sweat breaking out on her face, nausea rising.
“I’m sure he was only unconscious,” Valentine told her hastily.
“The stableboy had a glimpse of the carriage,” Hembrey continued, returning to his side of the desk. “He described it to us as black lacquer with a small pattern of rosemaled scrollwork across the boot. The description matches a brougham in the mews of Mr. Kinloch’s Mayfair residence.”
“What next?” Leo asked, his blue eyes hard.
“I intend to bring him here for questioning. And we’ll proceed by taking inventory of Mr. Kinloch’s other properties—his arms manufactory, realty he may own in town—and obtain warrants to search them methodically.”
“How do you know for certain that Rutledge isn’t being held in the Mayfair house?” Leo asked.
“I went over every inch of it personally. I can assure you that he is not there.”
“Is the warrant still applicable?” Leo persisted.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then you can return to Kinloch’s house for another search? Right now?”
The Special Constable looked perplexed. “Yes, but why?”
“I’d like to have a go at it, if I may.”
A flicker of annoyance appeared in Hembrey’s dark eyes. Clearly he regarded Leo’s request as nothing more than a bit of self-important showmanship. “My lord, our previous search of the house and grounds was comprehensive.”
“I have no doubt of that,” Leo replied. “But I trained as an architect several years ago, and I’ll be able to look at the place from a draftsman’s perspective.”
Jake Valentine spoke then. “You think there’s a hidden room, my lord?”
“If there is,” Leo said steadily, “I’ll find it. And if not, at least we’ll annoy the devil out of Kinloch, which should have some entertainment value.”