The Vanishing Thief

“You don’t think this was a simple abduction,” Adam Fogarty said as he paced in front of the bookcases, his footsteps making a th-thump, th-thump on the wooden boards. Then he stopped and rubbed his stiff knee, muttering something in a growl.

“No. If it were, we wouldn’t hear claims that a duke was involved or that the victim was a thief,” the baronet said.

I held up a hand, palm out. “To question our suspects, we’re going to need to move about society.”

Sir Broderick smiled. “Be sure to see Lady Westover tomorrow. You’ll need her help to give an authentic performance. You’re about to enter aristocratic society.”

Chapter Four

AS the meeting broke up, I went to sit next to Sir Broderick. I couldn’t bear the heat from the fireplace baking my skin, but I couldn’t let it drive me away.

He looked at my face and said, “What is it, Georgia?”

“I saw him today. My parents’ murderer.”

“Good grief. You can’t be certain. It’s been a dozen years.”

“Yes, I can. I spent time with him. I memorized his face. I remember his stride and how he carried a newspaper under his arm. I’ll be able to point him out until the day I die.”

Sir Broderick kept shaking his head. “He could be dead or have left the country. His appearance could have changed with time.”

“This man looked older, but it was him. I saw him walking along Hyde Park Place. Perhaps it’s time to again check on the land records for the cottage where my parents died.”

“We do that every year. It’s never changed hands, and the killer is definitely not the owner or anyone who works around there. Did you speak to him?” Sir Broderick reached out and patted my hand.

My shoulders slumped and I couldn’t hide the mournful frustration in my voice. “I couldn’t catch up to him, and I lost him. I feel like I failed again.”

“You didn’t fail, Georgia. Not then; not today. You did the best you could. If it was him.”

My best wasn’t good enough. “Have you learned any more about the Gutenberg Bible?”

He looked away for a moment, and I thought he wouldn’t answer me. “Every year or two, I hear a rumor about one for sale here in London. I heard the rumor again about two weeks ago.”

I reached out and took his hands. “Maybe he left and has come back because he heard the same rumor you did. Maybe that’s why we haven’t seen him until now.”

“‘We’? Georgia, please. I rarely leave this house, and I never saw him. And I know you’ve been looking for him on every street you walk down and in every carriage that passes you since the day your parents died. Can you be absolutely certain this man you saw wasn’t very similar to your parents’ killer, and you want him to be the one?”

“I was certain when I saw him. And now that I have an area to search, I’ll find out if I was right.”

He gave my hands a squeeze. “Good luck. I want the bastard found, too. If he can be found. But for heaven’s sake, be careful.”

*

I WAS ALONE in the shop the next morning when the bell over the door jingled and a middle-aged man walked in. Portly, bearded, and balding, he was a caricature of a peer. Knowing a potentially large purchase when I see one, I hurried over to him with a welcoming smile. “May I help you? I’m the proprietor of Fenchurch’s Books.”

He glanced around the shop rather than at me. “I’m the Duke of Merville.”

I kept my smile in place with effort as astonishment nearly made me miss the man’s next words.

“I understand from my man of affairs that you deal in antiquarian Bibles.”

“I have a small selection, Your Grace, and I can check the catalogs for more.” I hoped my face reflected a helpful expression, since my mind was searching for a way to bring up Nicholas Drake’s thieving and Merville’s ride in the Duke of Blackford’s coach the night Drake disappeared.

“I’m looking for something with gilt edges, no wormholes or brown spots or water stains. New Testament only, or just the Gospels. A good leather cover. Original, not rebound, in quarto or octavo size.”

The Duke of Merville was obviously a collector of the best examples of antiquarian books. He sounded like a man who would appreciate the care I used in storing the rare books in my possession. “I keep the old books over here, away from outside walls, the floor, and the ceiling to keep the temperature constant, and behind brass wire rather than glass to ensure air can move freely around them.”

He followed me behind the sales counter to the antiquarian shelves. Ordinarily, I’d have insisted he stay on the other side of the counter, but I didn’t want to start off by telling a duke to behave like a mere mortal. I put on my pair of cotton gloves, handed him a pair from the counter, and unlocked the ornate grille.

“How much do you plan to spend?”

“How much is a volume meeting my expectations?”

“I have an octavo-sized Gospels meeting your requirements for”—he was a duke and I wanted this sale—“twenty pounds.” I pulled the book out and held it away from him while I stared at his hands.

With pursed lips, he yanked off his leather gloves and put on the cotton ones. Then he held out his hand. I passed him the volume and held my breath. The duke was knowledgeable, but was he careful with fragile things?

He examined the cover, which was cracked in a few places from heat sometime in the past, and ruffled the pages enough to send up a puff of dust. “Eighteenth century?”

“Possibly late seventeenth. The printer worked in both.”

“Do you have something a little more modern, with a cover in better shape?”

So he was one of those, who only cared how the cover looked on his shelves. I put back the book he’d examined and pulled out a quarto New Testament covered in pristine black leather. “This is late eighteenth century and kept in very careful circumstances. The price reflects its condition.”

I believed it had been kept at the bedside of the first owner, a woman who’d possessed it for all of her long life, which explained the book’s still-elegant condition. I gently stroked the beautiful volume before I handed it over.

He examined the book briefly. “I’ll give you fifty pounds for it.”

I’d never thought I’d hear those words. I’d expected to bargain him up to forty-five at most. “A most discerning purchase. I’ll wrap it for you.”

“I need something appropriate for my daughter to carry down the aisle at her wedding. Then I’ll add it to my collection.” He pulled off the cotton gloves and walked to the other side of the counter as he pulled on his finely crafted leather ones. He glanced around my empty shop again as if he were appraising it and its owner. “I see you don’t have much trade.”

Quick to defend my shop from his slur, I said, “Mornings are our slow hours. We also do more business when the gentry and overseas visitors come up to London to shop.”

As soon as he handed over the Bank of England notes, I added, “The Duke of Blackford said you had something stolen by Nicholas Drake.”

For the first time, he looked me in the eye. “You know Blackford?”