Sara and Abby exchanged glances. Then Sara turned back to Beatrice.
“Abby and I long ago concluded that Smith was a player in the Great Game, as the press and the novelists like to call the business of espionage.”
“Do you mean to say that he was a spy?” Beatrice asked.
“A master spy,” Abigail said. “The Messenger assured us that his employer was in the service of the Crown and we have no reason to doubt that. From what we could deduce, Smith’s reach extended throughout England, across Europe and beyond. But you know how it is with legends.”
“One never knows the whole truth,” Sara added.
“Hmm,” Beatrice said. “I expect that worked out very well for both Mr. Smith and his messenger. People always fear the unknown more than the known.”
Sara made a face. “Actually, in the case of Mr. Smith, what sensible people feared was his Messenger, the man Mr. Smith dispatched to hunt down traitors and foreign spies in our midst. The Messenger foiled any number of plots and conspiracies, some quite bizarre.”
“And we assisted him on occasion,” Sara said. There was a touch of pride in her voice.
“I don’t understand,” Beatrice said. “What do you mean by bizarre?”
“When Mr. Smith sent his Messenger to investigate a conspiracy or an act of espionage, one could rest assured that the threat was far from ordinary—not the sort of case one expected Scotland Yard to handle. There was invariably a paranormal twist.”
Abigail gave a short, humorless bark of laughter. “Not that the Messenger ever allowed that there was even the possibility of a paranormal explanation in the cases he investigated, you understand. He didn’t believe in psychical energy. That always struck me as amusing because it was obvious he possessed some talent himself.”
“A great many people dismiss the paranormal side of their natures,” Sara pointed out. “They come up with other explanations when confronted with their own abilities.”
“What was the nature of the Messenger’s ability?” Beatrice asked.
“He appeared to have an absolutely uncanny talent for finding people and things,” Abigail said. “If he set out to track down someone or something, he was invariably successful.”
“You speak of both the Messenger and Mr. Smith in the past tense,” Beatrice said. “What happened to them?”
“No one knows,” Abigail said. “About a year ago the rumors of Smith’s death began to circulate. They were mere whispers at first, but the whispers grew louder. Eventually Sara and I concluded they were likely true.”
“The Messenger vanished at the same time,” Sara explained. “Which is why we assumed that he was dead, as well. He certainly has not contacted us in all these months. To tell you the truth, I have missed him.”
“Rubbish,” Abigail said fiercely. “He was a very mysterious individual. He made me uneasy whenever he came around.” She paused. “I will admit that he paid quite well for information, though.”
“The thing is,” Sara said wistfully, “in spite of his opinion of the paranormal, he understood the value of a scientific approach to the investigation of crimes. He always respected my opinions, unlike certain inspectors at Scotland Yard I could name who never paid any attention to my advice because I am a woman.”
“Just because the Messenger respected your scientific talents does not mean that he was not extremely dangerous,” Abigail said.
“Yes, I know,” Sara said. “But I must admit I quite enjoyed analyzing the various bits and pieces of evidence he sent to me.”
Abigail looked at Beatrice. “We assumed that the Messenger was killed by whoever or whatever killed Mr. Smith. It was the only theory we could come up with to explain why they both vanished at the same time.”
Beatrice considered that for a moment. “What if Mr. Smith and the Messenger were one and the same man? That would explain why they both disappeared simultaneously.”
Abigail and Sara glanced at each other.
“It’s a possibility,” Sara admitted. “But I’m inclined to doubt it. We always had the impression that Mr. Smith managed a far-flung empire of spies and information gatherers. The Messenger, on the other hand, appeared to focus entirely on investigations here in London.”
“He had connections that ranged from the most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs to the criminal underworld,” Abigail added.
“Obviously the man I encountered tonight wants you to believe that he is the Messenger you once knew,” Beatrice said.
Abigail stiffened abruptly. “Perhaps he’s an impostor. That would explain a great deal. Maybe someone has reasoned that since the real Messenger is dead, it is safe to assume his identity along with his perceived connections.”
“I don’t think it’s that simple, dear,” Sara said. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”
“The Lion’s Messenger was greatly feared in certain quarters,” Abigail said. “He must have known many deep secrets, some of which no doubt could have brought down some very powerful people. There are those who would kill to acquire his reputation because with it would come the ability to intimidate and control others.”
“What, exactly, was the nature of his reputation?” Beatrice asked. “Aside from being rather dangerous, that is.”
“As Abby told you, he always found whatever he set out to find,” Sara said. “His other hallmark was that his word was his bond. Everyone who had dealings with him knew that if he made a promise, that promise would be kept. In addition, he was relentless. If you met him you simply knew that the only way he could be stopped was by death.”
“Which, we presumed, was exactly what finally did stop him,” Abigail said.
“Excuse me,” Beatrice said, “but how, precisely, did the two of you come to have a connection with the Messenger? You said something about assisting him on some of his cases.”
Sara glanced at the leather-bound volumes that lined the walls of the parlor. “It was the bookshop that brought him to us in the beginning. We catered to a clientele that was interested in psychical matters. Regardless of the fact that he, himself, put no credence in the paranormal, he was often in the business of investigating crimes with paranormal elements.”
“Whether he acknowledged that or not, we certainly recognized the psychical connections in most of those cases,” Abigail said. “He used our bookshop for research initially. Then he discovered Sara’s interest in scientific investigation techniques.”
“One thing led to another and the next thing you know, Abby and I became his occasional assistants,” Sara concluded.
Abigail raised her brows. “He had a great influence on us, actually. It was the business of assisting him that eventually persuaded us to open our own investigation firm. One could say that if it weren’t for the Messenger, we would still be squeaking by on the income of a small bookshop.”
“In other words,” Beatrice said, amused, “I owe my present post as a Flint and Marsh agent to the Messenger.”
“That is certainly one way of looking at it,” Sara agreed.
Beatrice winced. “There is definitely an element of irony involved here.”
Sara squinted in a thoughtful expression. “Not irony.”
“Coincidence?” Abigail asked, clearly troubled.
“You know I do not believe in coincidence,” Sara said. “No, what is going on here appears to be a confluence of small events that all have one thing in common.”
“What is that?” Beatrice asked.
“A paranormal element. Only consider the obvious ingredients in this brew—your previous career at Fleming’s Academy, your work here with us, the reappearance of the Messenger after all these months, his unusual talent and the fact that he often investigated cases that had a paranormal factor.” Sara shook her head, troubled. “I do not pretend to comprehend the pattern yet, but there is one, of that I have no doubt.”
/> “But what on earth can he possibly want with me?” Beatrice asked. “And how did he find me tonight at that ball?”
“There is no knowing why he has focused his attention on you,” Abigail said uneasily. “But as to how he discovered you at the ball tonight, that is easy enough to explain. I thought I made it clear—the Messenger always finds what he sets out to find.”
Sara’s eyes were shadowed. “Obviously he was looking for you, dear.”
Five
The traffic was thin and the streetlamps were now set far apart. The smell of the river was strong on the night air. They had arrived at their destination.
Joshua used the cane to prod the finely dressed lump on the opposite seat.
“Wake up, Mr. Euston. You have been a great inconvenience to me tonight. I do not wish to spend any more time in your company than is absolutely necessary.”
Euston groaned and opened his eyes. There was just enough light coming through the partially covered window to reveal the bewilderment on his handsome features.
“Where am I?” he mumbled. “Benson? Is that you?”
“Sit up,” Joshua said.
“Huh?” Euston managed to lever himself upright in the seat. He tried to focus. His bewilderment metamorphosed into alarm. “You’re not Benson. Who the devil are you?”
“You do not need to know my name. All that is necessary is that you understand the instructions that I am going to give you.”
“Bloody hell, what are you talking about?”
“By tomorrow morning you will no longer be accepted in Polite Society. Your name will disappear from the guest lists of every hostess in town. No club will allow you through the front door. My advice would be to sail for America or take a tour of the Continent at the earliest possible opportunity.”
“How dare you threaten me?” Euston hissed.
“Let me be clear: I am not threatening you. I never threaten. I give you my word that by noon tomorrow everyone who matters in your world will be aware that you are a fortune hunter and a fraud.”
“You can’t prove that. The girl’s family would never allow you to go to the police, in any event.”
“I’m not going to take this to the police,” Joshua said. “There is no need to do so. We both know that Society does not demand proof before it pronounces judgment. The Polite World is more than happy to gorge on rumors and whispers. I promise you that the news that you have been exposed as a fortune hunter who is trying to find himself an heiress will be all over town within a few hours and, no doubt, in the press.”
“You can’t do this to me. You’re bluffing.”
“You will discover tomorrow that I am not bluffing.”
The carriage halted. Joshua opened the door. Fog wafted into the cab, bringing with it another dose of the odor of the river. A single gas lamp glowed at the end of the street but the mist consumed much of the light before it could radiate more than a few feet. Warehouses loomed in the shadows.
“This is where you get out, Euston,” Joshua said. “Go quickly before I lose my patience. It has been a long night and I am not in the best of moods. You interfered with my own plans for the evening. I do not take that sort of thing well.”
Euston looked nervously out into the waiting darkness. “I’m not familiar with this neighborhood. It is obviously dangerous. How will I get back to my lodgings?”
“There is a tavern on the far side of that warehouse. I expect there will be one or two cabs waiting in the street. But you might want to take care to walk quickly. You are correct. This neighborhood is home to all sorts of thieves and cutthroats.”
Euston did not move.
“Go,” Joshua said. He spoke very, very softly. “Now.”
Euston jerked as if he had been struck by the lash of a whip. He lurched out the door and half stumbled, half jumped down to the pavement. Turning, he paused to look back into the cab.
“I do not know who you are, you bastard,” he said, “but I will make you pay if it is the last thing I do.”
“I’m afraid you will have to stand at the end of a very long queue.”
Joshua pulled the door closed and rapped the roof of the carriage twice.
Henry opened the trapdoor. “Where to, sir?”
“Saint James.”
“Aye.”
Henry closed the door, slapped the reins and drove off into the fog.
Joshua pushed aside one of the curtains and looked out into the night. The sharp pain in his thigh had subsided to a dull, throbbing ache. He consoled himself with the knowledge that there was some excellent brandy waiting for him when he got back to the town house.
Nothing had gone right tonight.
It would be more accurate to state that nothing had gone right since the start of this affair, he reminded himself. And that was precisely what made it all so interesting.
A fortnight ago he had been at his country house sinking ever deeper into the quicksand of the excruciatingly dull routine that he had established for himself. His mind-numbing days started with morning meditation followed by what limited martial arts exercises he could still manage with his bad leg. The exercises were followed by a few hours devoted to overseeing business matters. He managed the family fortune for his sister, his nephew and himself. Late in the afternoon he took his daily halting, often painful, walk along the cliffs above the restless sea.
His nights were more often sleepless than not. When he did sleep his dreams were all variations on the same recurring nightmare. He relived the explosion, saw Emma’s body lying on the stone floor and heard Clement Lancing shouting at him from the other side of the wall of flames. You did this, you bastard. She’s dead because of you.
All the dreams ended the same way, with Victor Hazelton watching him from the shadows, silently accusing him of failing to save Emma.
He was well aware that recently in the course of his afternoon walks he had begun to spend far too much time standing precariously close to the edge of the cliffs contemplating the mesmerizing chaos of the wild surf far below. It would be so very easy for a man with a weak leg to lose his balance.
But he had responsibilities that he could not escape. It was the knowledge that his sister, Hannah, and his nephew, Nelson, depended on him that made him turn away from the sight of the swirling waters at the foot of the cliffs every afternoon.
His carefully orchestrated life had come to a crashing halt, however, when he had received the telegram from Nelson.
Please come to London immediately. Mother needs you.
There was only one force still powerful enough to pry him from his own private hell, Joshua thought, the same force that made it impossible for him to seek oblivion in opium or the sea—his responsibility to his family. For the first time in nearly a year he had a mission to carry out.
He had planned to spend a week or two in London dealing with the problem and then retreat once again into seclusion. But the case, which had appeared simple and straightforward at the start, was proving to be far more complicated and infinitely more intriguing than he had anticipated. In spite of his aching leg he felt invigorated and refreshed. Finding Beatrice Lockwood tonight had acted like a tonic for his spirits.
He had set out to snare a shady little adventuress who obviously had a history of living by her wits only to discover that she was not entirely what she seemed. The stocking gun she had used to stop Euston was only one of several intriguing and unexpected surprises tonight.
By the time he had tracked her down to the agency in Lantern Street he had been well aware that the appearance of fey innocence that Beatrice affected was a tribute to her talents as an actress and no doubt served her well in her new career as a Flint & Marsh agent. But he knew that whatever innocence she had once possessed had long ago been stripped away. As a woman alone in the world she was solely responsible for her own safety and survival. In such si
tuations one did what was necessary. He understood and respected that. He certainly did not blame her if she had slipped off the pedestal now and again. He admired the fact that her spirit was still a bright, fierce flame.
Her survival instincts were obviously very much alive, which only made her risky defense of her client tonight all the more astonishing. True, he knew that the paid companions supplied by the firm of Flint and Marsh were an unusual lot. Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Marsh were, after all, an unusual pair. Nevertheless, one did not expect a woman like Beatrice—a female who, among other things, had pursued a career as a fraudulent psychical practitioner and then proceeded to blackmail some of her clients—to come to the rescue of others. When there was danger afoot, most intelligent people—male or female, regardless of their backgrounds—managed to make themselves scarce. It was not as though Beatrice had not done exactly that on a prior occasion, he thought. She had vanished from Dr. Fleming’s Academy of the Occult following the murder of her employer.
All of which raised new questions about what had really happened the night Fleming died. Morgan at the Yard and the sensation press were convinced that Beatrice had killed her employer, stolen the night’s ticket receipts and taken off for parts unknown. But Joshua had been unconvinced of the merits of that assumption from the start. Now he sensed that his instincts had been correct. Whatever had occurred on the night of Roland Fleming’s death, the murder had not been a simple, straightforward matter of robbery.
Henry brought the carriage to a halt in front of one of the most prestigious clubs in St. James. Joshua gathered up his cane, hat and gloves. Setting his jaw against the pain he knew was coming, he opened the door of the cab, gripped the handhold and used the iron step to descend to the pavement.
Gone were the days when he could jump nimbly out of a vehicle and land with athletic ease, he reflected. Even Euston, still groggy after the short period of unconsciousness, had managed to alight more elegantly after being tossed out of the cab.