The Vanishing Thief

*

WHEN I RETURNED to the bookshop, Emma waved a note at me before turning her attention back to a middle-aged woman searching through the novels. I hung up my cloak and hat and went out to face a man who looked like a bulldog browsing through our astronomy books.

A half hour passed before we were both free to talk. Emma held out the note and said, “Lady Westover has invited me to attend a lecture with her tomorrow afternoon.”

She was bouncing on her toes. “I’m to be a barrister’s daughter and will be introduced to Daisy Hancock. Lady Westover says she’s the only possible blackmail victim left besides the Duke of Blackford’s sister. No one else need fear a revelation by Drake.”

So it wasn’t the entire Archivist Society, but only me, who was in trouble with Lady Westover. Working up a smile for Emma, I said, “That’s great. We need to know as much about Miss Daisy as you can discover.”

I must have failed, because Emma said, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m just tired.” I gave her a weak smile. “Nicholas Drake is alive. I met him today at the cemetery.”

Her eyes widened as she reached out and grabbed my arm. “Good heavens. He’s alive? Then who died in the fire?”

“Harry Conover, a friend of his who came to visit him that night. I think he was followed by whoever burned down the house and Conover was killed by mistake.”

“You think whoever killed Conover didn’t know what Drake looks like?”

“Hounslow isn’t London. It’s dark at night on their lanes. Possibly the killer thought whoever walked into the house had to be Drake and attacked.”

The bell over the shop door rang. Emma gave me a sympathetic look, patted my arm, and walked over to our customer.

I stood between two bookshelves, suddenly drawn to Lady Westover’s words that Emma had repeated. The Mervilles seemed to be willing to pay off Drake and anyone else aware of their secret, but they may have fooled me. The husband of the younger Dutton-Cox girl, Elizabeth, might be angry at Drake for blackmailing his wife or jealous if he knew Drake was the recipient of her daring letters. I couldn’t see how Waxpool or the Naylards would be involved in the attacks on Drake, since Drake couldn’t cause them any harm, but it might only be a failure on my part to dig deep enough.

Any of the threatened peers might be Drake’s attacker. Even the Duke of Blackford. As much as I didn’t want to discover that the fascinating duke, with his air of regal menace, was capable of murder, I needed to keep investigating.

*

I SPENT THE next afternoon alone in the shop except for a few customers who seemed particularly grumpy. It might have been the drizzling weather. It might have been my frustration with the case. And it might have been the prospect of traveling two days to reach the far end of Britain where the Duke of Blackford’s sister was hiding from society. If Emma didn’t find a good reason why Daisy, or Lord Hancock, was after Drake, and nothing else turned up, I would have to make that trip.

I jumped, my melancholy forgotten, as the bell jangled over the door and the Duke of Blackford strode in. After Nicholas Drake, with his suave good looks and seductive voice, the duke was like a drink of good brandy. Blood heating, sharp tasting, and molded by the very best. I bobbed a quick curtsy behind the counter. “What can I do for Your Grace?”

“First, I came to see your shop. Merville says you’re well equipped to handle rare books. You use electric lights, I see.”

“Yes. They became available on this street two years ago. It takes a little effort getting used to the brightness, but it’s much easier on the books than burning those smoky gaslights.”

“I’m thinking of adding them at Blackford House, at least on the ground floor.” He studied our light fixtures for a moment. “And where are your antiquarian volumes?”

“Behind the counter, Your Grace.” I led the way. To my surprise, he stayed on the customer side of the counter.

“Do you have any Shakespeare?”

I’d seen the antique globe in his library the day I stormed into his home. I didn’t expect to get any of his business. I had nothing so grand. “I have a quarto-sized Othello from the early eighteenth century in pristine condition.” I slipped on my cotton gloves and opened the brass wire cover. When I turned back to Blackford, he had already put on cotton gloves.

When I handed him the volume, he held it with reverence, carefully opening the book and examining the pages and cover. “There’s no gilt to protect the pages from dust.”

“No, but it’s still an excellent volume.”

“I’ll give you twenty pounds for it.”

I glared at him. “It’s worth fifty.”

“It’s worth whatever the market will pay for it.”

I held out my hand to take the book back. “If you don’t want it, may I put it away, please.”

He continued to examine the book, ignoring my hand. “You think this book is worth fifty pounds to a collector?”

“To a collector, yes. But not to a duke who’s a sharp businessman.” When he glanced over and glared at me, I said, “Financier?”

“Investor.” He wasn’t smiling. Aristocrats were so touchy about being associated with trade.

A blur of brown fur suddenly dashed from the back of the shop, heading straight for the duke. I leaned over the counter to see Dickens with a mouse hanging from his mouth, standing next to Blackford.

“What is this?” the duke asked.

“Dickens. Paying his bill.” I took a breath to cover my a