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I had to silence this woman. Now.
Stepping forward from the gardening section, I said, “I’m Georgia Fenchurch, owner of Fenchurch’s Books. You’ve come to the right place. We should be able to find answers to your questions about the Archivist Society and the Duke of Blackford as we do for all our customers. Everyone comes here for the most up-to-date sources of information in print.” I swung my arms out to encompass our stock. “Perhaps you’d like to join me in my office. But first, let’s do something about your outerwear.”
She put her umbrella in the rack by the door and carried her soggy cloak into the back hall, where I hung it up. We entered my office and she looked around with a little sniff.
The room was a trifle crowded. Truthfully, the tiny space was stuffed, with two chairs, a desk, record storage cabinets, piles of books, and very little room to walk. But it was my office and I was happy with it. I moved the books off both chairs and, at my gesture, she sat in one chair and I on the other.
I was determined not to waste time. We might have more customers come into the shop, even in this rainstorm, and I make it a practice never to miss a sale. I can’t afford to. “Who are you? And why have you come to me?”
“I’m Edith Carter. My next-door neighbor, Nicholas Drake, was abducted from his home by the Duke of Blackford in the duke’s carriage last Thursday at eleven in the evening.” The words spilled out in one quick gush as if she were afraid I’d stop her. If she’d gone into a long explanation, I would have.
“Have you been to the police?” I really hoped she hadn’t so I could throw her out. I had paying customers to wait on.
“Yes. They spoke to his housekeeper, who said he’d gone to Brighton to visit a friend. They believed her.”
“Perhaps he did.”
“I saw him dragged out to the duke’s high, antique carriage and tossed inside. Besides, would you go to Brighton in this weather?”
As if in answer, rain mixed with ice beat on the windowpanes looking out over the back alley, and the wind howled through every crevice. “Perhaps it’s nicer in Brighton.”
“Not until summer.” She was snapping her answers at me.
I wasn’t going to be dragged into a discussion about weather. I wanted her gone. “I repeat, why come to me?”
She smoothed her skirt, ignoring the mud splatter on the hem as she dug into her bag. “I saved this article from a recent newspaper. It contains the symbol of the Archivist Society, the same as you have in your front window. It also contains a picture of an u
I don’t know how the reporter learned I was a member. I don’t advertise my membership. And the black-and-white portrait didn’t show my better features, a pair of violet eyes and a long, graceful neck. However, if Edith Carter could recognize me that easily, perhaps my better features weren’t that impressive.
“You don’t need anyone’s help to ask the Duke of Blackford if he knows where Mr. Drake is. You said the duke’s carriage was involved. You should talk to him.”
“I did ask him. He threw me out. He was frightfully rude. He—he threatened me.”
Interesting. “Threatened you how, Miss Carter?”
“He said if I didn’t leave his house immediately and stop asking questions about Mr. Drake, he would have me arrested and thrown into prison.” The woman whispered the last word with terror in her eyes.
“Those were his exact words? Stop asking questions about Mr. Drake?”
“Yes. I’ve tried to be as accurate as possible.”
“What do you hope the Archivist Society can accomplish?”
“Talk to the Duke of Blackford. Ask him to release Mr. Drake. I can’t afford a ransom, but I doubt a man as rich as the duke would need one.” The woman reached across the space between us and clutched my hand with a surprisingly firm grip. “You must help me. I’ve nowhere else to go. The police won’t listen to me. And Nicholas is such a fine person.”
Nicholas? I recognized the glow in the woman’s eyes and the blush on her cheeks. Nothing could compel me to help her more than to see his importance in her heart. “You’re in love with him.”
Miss Carter jerked back as if I’d slapped her. Casting her eyes down, she said, “No. No, of course not.”
I counted slowly in my head until the woman revealed all.
I’d reached nine when Edith Carter turned her head to the side. “He’s unobtainable. I don’t wish to discuss this.”
“He’s married?”
Miss Carter gasped. “No. Not at all. Why would you say such a thing?”
“It’s the most logical explanation as to why he’s unobtainable.”
The woman looked everywhere but at me. “It’s a private matter. That’s all I’ll say on the subject.”
Miss Carter was lying to me. I was willing to bet Nicholas Drake was married. Edith Carter wasn’t prepared to reveal the truth, and that made her a terrible client. In spite of my doubts, I began the usual list of questions. “How long have you been Mr. Drake’s next-door neighbor?”
“Since I moved in a year ago.”
“Who moved in with you?”
“I—my parents.”
“And you hope that if you organize Mr. Drake’s rescue, he will feel what? Indebted to you?”
Edith Carter looked me straight in the eye. “I prefer his high regard, his love, to a debt of friendship.”
“Do your parents approve of him?”
“They are not your concern. Mr. Drake is.”
Miss Carter showed every sign of already being in a relationship with Mr. Drake. Since she appeared to be near thirty, perhaps her parents were not as worried about chaperoning her as they ought to be. Maybe she would get the happy ending I never could. A home and family with the man she loved.
I kept searching for a hole in her story. “You said you looked out last Thursday night at eleven and saw the Duke of Blackford’s coach.”
“Yes. I told you.”
“You’re completely certain the coach belonged to the Duke of Blackford. You couldn’t have made a mistake about that?”
“I’m absolutely certain. The fog hadn’t yet come in. The coach was stopped near a street lamp. It was the ancient, tall carriage with the matching black horses he always uses. I could see the crest clearly from my bedroom window. It was the Blackford crest. Two men, thugs in his employ no doubt, although they didn’t wear livery, carried a third man out of the house. Mr. Drake.”
“You saw his face?”
“Who else could it have been?”
Georgia suggested, “The duke visited and was taken ill.”
Miss Carter dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “The duke would never make a call in my neighborhood. I have no doubt it was Mr. Drake who was carried out.”
“What is Mr. Drake’s occupation?”
“He’s a broker, arranging sales of artworks and jewelry between buyers and sellers.”
“Perhaps the duke was there as either a buyer or seller and was taken ill during the negotiations. Perhaps this or another business arrangement required Mr. Drake to travel to Brighton.” I spread my hands in a gesture of defeat.
“He would have told me if he needed to travel to Brighton or had a duke calling. You have to help us. Please. No one else can or will help. I haven’t much money to pay for your services, but . . .”
This was a woman deeply in love. Despite my misgivings about her honesty, I knew I couldn’t turn her down. She could lie about the facts, but her emotions were genuine. I knew. I’d had the same desperation in my voice when I’d cornered Sir Broderick a dozen years before, begging for his help in rescuing my parents. The mixture of grief and fear choking off the ability to speak can’t be faked. My heart still ached over my failure to save my parents, and every time I heard that anguish in someone’s voice, I was driven to ease my pain by helping a fellow sufferer.