Chapter Seventeen
Sophie prided herself on her ability to face down any obstacle she encountered, to overcome any challenge. Wasn’t that what she’d been doing since that summer day when her parents had embarked on a journey from which they’d never returned? She had survived the scandal of the incident that had left her a virtual untouchable in London society, and she’d walked away from her position as a governess after the newly minted stepfather of her charges made it clear he expected that she allow him under her skirts as a condition of employment. She’d taken some comfort in the memory of the weasel’s face as she’d driven her boot into his shin and her knee into an even more vulnerable spot on his anatomy, but the experience had been devastating. Without references or money, she’d endured a necessary retreat to her uncle’s home, only to be dubbed a disappointment by her unforgiving aunt, yet again.
A chance encounter with a daring female reporter had changed her life. While on a shopping expedition with her cousin, Sophie had stumbled upon a harrowing scene. An aged flower peddler stood alone in the shadows of an alley, cornered by a massive brute wielding a stout length of pipe. Armed with only her parasol, Sophie had come to the old woman’s aid. Much to her cousin’s horror, Sophie had crept up behind the man and delivered a sound blow to the back of his skull. Her actions and her cousin’s screams had provided a distraction, allowing the peddler to escape before constables had arrived on the scene.
Days later, Sophie had received a carefully worded communique from the secretary to MacAllister Campbell, the Herald’s editor. In reality, the peddler had been a woman only three years her senior—journalist Jennie Quinn. Impressed by Sophie’s spirit and courage, Jennie had extended the opportunity to become her assistant, one of the trusted inner circle who knew reporter J.Q. Knight’s daring exposés were the result of Jennie’s danger-fraught investigations.
As a Colton Agency operative, Sophie had found herself in a fix or two. She’d faced criminals and all manner of thugs. But she’d never experienced the nerve-racking sense that she was prey. Even after the pale man’s attacks had left her shaken, she’d convinced herself that she could take on the unknown threat.
Until now.
Gavin’s warning had let loose a dread that permeated to the bone. If only she could dismiss his words as a ploy, as some manipulation that would play into his scheme. But her instincts cried out that he had not intended to deceive her. The threat was all too real.
Stanwyck’s driver offered to transport her home, but she insisted he take her to Trask. Despite her fear, she could not walk away. No matter the circumstances, she had to salvage this mission. If the unfortunate souls who’d died following Trask’s gatherings had indeed been murdered, their killer was still on the loose. She must find the evidence that would bring the murderer to justice before he could strike again.
She glanced at the timepiece pinned to her bodice. Nearly five o’clock. Trask had scheduled a gathering for that night. Given his usual habit of taking his evening meal at the café around the corner, he’d likely not be in the studio for at least a half hour. Not an abundant amount of time, but enough to search the man’s desk for new intelligence that might be of use.
The door was locked, but she dared not assume Trask had left the premises. She peered through the unfrosted oval of the window, confirming the space was nearly dark and seemingly unoccupied. Not a foolproof method of determining if Trask waited inside the studio, but she’d have to take that chance.
Patting her upswept hair, she slid a hair comb from her loosely pinned curls. A few quick manipulations of the three silver teeth, and the elegant accessory transformed into a master key.
The tool made short work of opening the lock. She slipped inside and secured the door behind her. Pulling in a steadying breath, she surveyed each room for any sign of Trask.
Satisfied she was alone, she stepped into his office.
Trask was a fraud, but no one could accuse him of slovenliness. His office could have served as a model of efficiency and order. The trait might well be a virtue, but it increased the odds he would notice if a document went missing.
His mahogany file cabinet occupied a shadowed corner of the room. Pity she did not have more time to explore the contents of his files. Logic dictated his client notes were the first priority. She’d observed him storing those documents in the second drawer from the top. Her hand trembled ever so slightly as she slid the device into the lock. A soft click and she tugged open the drawer. She removed one binder after another and thumbed through the documents. In the dim light, her eyes rebelled against the strain of deciphering Trask’s cramped, light script. She paused to give them a rub and kept going.
Trask had taken meticulous notes, documenting every sitting, every participant. Was this exacting attention to detail another reflection of his precise manner, or did he intend to use this information to his advantage? Could the information he’d gathered through the séances—revelations which were at times excruciatingly personal, perhaps even incriminating—provide fodder for blackmail?
She scanned the pages, searching for dates that would correspond to Eversleigh’s and Fenshaw’s attendance. Lady Valentina. Penned in Trask’s precise hand, the name caught her eye. The woman had served as the medium at several sittings attended by the men. What was the connection between their deaths and Valentina’s disappearance?
Three pages bore both Valentina’s name and the dates of séances. Sophie studied each entry. Unlike Trask’s other notations, he’d included little specific detail. At times, the notes were cryptic—abbreviations she did not recognize, symbols and numbers in what seemed a code. How very peculiar.
Folding the papers into a neat square, she tucked them within a pocket hidden along the seam of her petticoat. Brushing the fabric back in place, she glanced again at her timepiece. Ever a creature of habit, Trask would return within the quarter hour. She had to move quickly and take her exit before he caught her blithely perusing his documents.
There’d be no time to explore the contents of the other files. Perhaps she’d sneak in that night after Trask had retired to his town house and gain access to the remaining documents.
Taking great care to leave everything as she’d found it, Sophie replaced the binder in the cabinet and moved to his desk. She glanced over a neat stack of correspondence. Finding nothing of interest, Sophie shifted her attention to the top drawer.
A few shimmies of the master key in the lock, and the drawer opened. The space was empty, save for a pair of letters, each envelope addressed in the same bold hand.
She lifted one of the missives from the drawer and read its unsigned message.
You have been careless. A nonbeliever is in your midst.
Sophie’s pulse raced. Had she been discovered? Had the men been sent to silence her?
Taking the second envelope in her hands, she removed its contents.
She stared down at the newspaper clipping. Her hands trembled.
Gavin Stanwyck’s sullen face glared back at her. Younger by a few years or so in the picture, he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with a pleasant-faced man with an infectious grin.
Stanwyck heir returns triumphant from Cairo expedition.
She shifted from the image to the letter.
A nonbeliever…
A bitter taste filled her mouth. Stanwyck had believed she was in danger, had wanted to protect her. All the while, he had no inkling he’d put himself in a villain’s crosshairs.
With trembling hands, she placed each letter back in its envelope, folded them, and hid the incriminating correspondence within the folds of her petticoat. She drew in a calming draught of air, then another. She had to pull herself together. This show of nerves simply would not do.
With a twist of the tool, she relocked the drawer. From the front of the studio, a scratch against metal, a key inserted into a contrary lock, announced Trask’s return. Soundlessly closing the door behind her, she ducked into her small dressing area, lit a lamp, and smoothed her jacket to ensure no telltale creases drew attention.
Trask’s heavy footsteps marked his path to the closet-sized room. Standing in the doorway, he glanced from her face to the hairbrush in her hand. Was it her imagination, or was the man agitated, ill at ease? “I didn’t expect you so soon. You were caught in the storm?”
“I avoided the worst of it.”
“Where is Stanwyck? I assumed he’d return with you.”
“I do not know where the man is.”
He strolled to the window, tension marking his every stride. Turning away from her, he stared into the street. Behind her, the clock’s pendulum marked the moments. Swish. Swish. Swish.
“Am I to believe that you’ve alienated an exceedingly lucrative patron?” Anger simmered in his outwardly cool tones. “I warned you, Sophie.”
Thank heavens he wasn’t looking at her. What was the man about? The person who’d sent those letters saw Stanwyck as a threat. Perhaps, even, a complication to be eliminated. Why would Trask seek to keep the professor snooping about his business? Why didn’t he seek to drive the man away?
Unless—unless Stanwyck had something he needed. Evidence, perhaps. Surely Trask would not chance the retribution implied in those missives simply to add more tin to his purse?
She could not betray her suspicions. Forcing herself to look the man directly in the eye, she conjured one of the boldest lies she’d yet to utter.
“I will do what I can to keep Stanwyck’s money flowing into your coffers.”
Looming over her, Trask seemed somehow larger. Intimidating. Threatening.
“Make sure you do, Sophie. I am losing patience. If you fail me, I promise you will not like the consequences.”
Hiring a hack to take her from Trask’s studio, Sophie instructed the driver to head directly to the Boar’s Head and climbed into the coach. The rain had eased to a gentle shower, the thunder far in the distance. She leaned back against the bench, drew the curtain, and closed her eyes. How long could she lead Trask on? Whatever his shortcomings, he was not a fool. Her charade would be short-lived at best. What would she do when he caught on to her lie? He’d issued a clear threat. She’d remain vigilant in his presence, on guard for any sign she might need to take defensive action.
Her thoughts wandered to Stanwyck. She pictured him as he’d looked at her, standing beneath the threatening clouds in the cemetery. He had not flinched when she’d questioned his integrity, yet, his eyes had betrayed the depth of the wound her words had inflicted. She’d known full well her doubting words would cut him. Despite his protests that he was indeed a scoundrel, he’d bared his heart to her in those moments. And now, picturing the flicker of pain in his gaze, a pang of regret rippled through her core.
She hadn’t anticipated any of this. When she’d embarked on this mission, she could not have foreseen the impact Gavin Stanwyck would have upon her investigation—upon her. What was it about the man that made her furious one moment and long to be in his arms the next?
One hand went to the seam of her skirt, skimming the outline of the documents concealed within her clothing. Gavin had crossed someone quite dangerous. Whoever had sent those letters viewed him as a threat. But why would the cur who’d sent Trask the threatening messages include a years-old clipping of Stanwyck when a larger, much clearer likeness had graced the Herald’s front page only a few months prior?
What was the meaning behind that grainy image? Who was the other man in the picture, his grin posing a vivid contrast to Gavin’s scowl? Was that earnest soul somehow tied to this web of deceit?
If only she’d been able to deduce why Gavin had sought out Trask. Had he gone after the phony psychic to debunk the man as a fraud? Or did he seek to uncover some more sinister aspect of the conniver’s dealings?
Was Gavin Stanwyck working against her purposes?
Or might their motives be aligned?
Opening her eyes, she parted the curtain and took in the sights and sounds of the city. She’d never tire of the brisk chaos that was London. A fruit vendor pushed a half-full cart, letting loose with a bellow as a dirty-cheeked urchin grabbed an apple and scurried off with his purloined prize. If she’d walked the route, she might’ve parted with a coin to ease the merchant’s anger, but she’d exercise an abundance of caution in the coming days.
A helmeted bobby stepped from a pub. She recognized his blunt, rather ordinary features—the patrolman who’d offered his escort after the first encounter with the pale hoodlum. He hesitated, as if waiting for someone.
Another man approached the pub, his collar pulled up, as if that would disguise his fleshy face. Reggie. She bit back a gasp as the stout man marched up to the patrolman, exchanged a few words, then pressed something she couldn’t make out into his hand. A pound note, perhaps. Or a scrap of paper bearing a message. There was no way to tell.
A pretty miss like you had best be careful. The patrolman’s words echoed in her thoughts. Her heart pounded, and she gripped the bench. God above, had he been party to the abduction attempt, or had they bribed him to turn his head in the future?
The hack rumbled up to the café. Gerry met her at the door, frowning as she cast a quick, assessing glance.
“Goodness, Sophie, what’s happened to ye?”
“I’ve had a spot of news. Will you summon Jennie?”
“I’ll do what I can. Ye may need to wait a bit.” Gerry’s mouth thinned as she ushered Sophie to a quiet corner table. “She’s interviewing tutors for Douglas and Sally. Those children are bright as they come. Douglas wants to learn French, while Sally is keen on learning to play the piano.”
“Douglas has grown so much in the last year. Why, he’s nearly as tall as me now.” Sophie pictured Jennie and Matthew’s adopted children, a clever lad with mischief in his smile and his equally mischievous younger sister. “And Sally—doesn’t she look the perfect little lady in her bonnet and curls?”
“Aye, she may look the part, but she’s a handful, she is. It warms my heart to see the little ones so happy. Jennie and Matthew have given those children a grand life.” Gerry glanced over her shoulder. “If my ears do not deceive me, Matthew has arrived.”
Good heavens, this was not a development she’d looked forward to. Her pulse accelerated as she followed the path of Gerry’s gaze. Matthew Colton made his way through the labyrinth of tables, each stride long and confident. Tall and lean with eyes dark as the midnight sky, he was an exceedingly handsome man. Was it any wonder Jennie had fallen for him?
The man the press had dubbed the Sinister Inspector had not intimidated her when she believed him to be a criminal. But now, the very thought of the man’s power to cast her out of the elite investigative agency sent a boulder plummeting into the pit of Sophie’s stomach. She’d compromised her ability to access the intelligence she desperately needed, and Colton was not one to tolerate failure.
“Good afternoon, Sophie.” He gave his aunt a nod. “Gerry, you’re looking well today.” With a subtle gesture, he motioned the women into the small, private office and closed the door behind them. “Gerry, I’d appreciate it if you’d remain. I’m in need of your services.”
“Whatever ye need, consider it done,” she said, beaming with pride as she always did when the nephew she’d helped raise in the slums of St. Giles was near. Determined after his mother’s death to see him escape a dire, crime-laden life, Gerry had made certain his well-heeled father learned of his son’s existence. Lord Winthrop had welcomed his child into his home and provided an education that allowed Matthew to straddle two worlds, never entirely leaving behind his past.
“We’ve brought aboard a new operative, a woman with an impressive array of talents. However, we are looking to place her undercover as a cook for some craggy old lord in Mayfair, and it seems the agent has never so much as boiled an egg. How quickly can you tutor her in the essential skills?”
Gerry laughed. “Ye want me to teach her to cook, do ye? Well, how long will I have?”
“A week. Perhaps ten days.”
“Her fare will be limited, to say the least.”
“I can live with that. Thank you.” He shifted his attention to Sophie. His expression went grim, his jaw rigid with tension. “I am aware of a recent development in your mission. We need to discuss the matter, but it may be best to wait until Jennie is here.”
Sophie shook her head. “I see no point in waiting, Mr. Colton.”
“I need to be tendin’ to my customers,” Gerry said, moving to the door. “At this time of day, the gents are ready for a cold brew and a warm meal.”
“Indeed. I’ve always had a taste for your fish chowder,” Colton said. “Any chance you’ll be whipping up a pot tonight?”
Gerry’s smile brightened her careworn features. “I’ve got a pot simmerin’ as we speak. I’ll be sure to put some aside for ye.”
“Thank you.” He watched as the door closed behind her. “Please, take a seat, Sophie.”
She settled into a comfortable chair upholstered in a rather garish flowery print. “I take it you’ve learned of the brutes who accosted me. I’m confident there’s no need for further concern. Should they put in another appearance, I will be prepared. I now carry a pistol at all times.”
“That may be of some help,” he said, taking a seat beside her. “But it doesn’t change the fact that you’ve been targeted. You are in danger. It’s time to take a different approach to this mission.”
“I’ve made strides in garnering intelligence from Trask’s clients. One fellow in particular, a particularly nasty man who goes by McNaughton, is a promising source.” She contemplated the best strategy for presenting what she’d learned without stoking Colton’s apprehension that she might well be in over her head. “I’ve quite recently uncovered evidence that may have bearing on the case.”
“Very good. Do you have this evidence on your person?”
“Yes. Might I trouble you to look away?”
A hint of a smile tugged at his mouth. “Of course. Never let it be said Matthew Colton is not a gentleman.”
He averted his gaze, seeming to study the paisley wallpaper. “I really do need to encourage Gerry to change this abominable print. It’s enough to give one a headache.”
Lifting her skirt, Sophie retrieved the documents she’d hidden in her petticoat. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I suppose.”
“Indeed.”
“You may turn back now,” she said.
He met her gaze. She handed him Trask’s notes and waited as he gave the documents a brisk perusal.
“Your efforts have been productive,” he said. “You’ve developed valuable avenues of inquiry. Have you uncovered any direct link between Trask and the men who were killed, other than their patronage of his studio?”
“Not yet, but I’m close to unearthing evidence we can use against him. As it stands, I’ve witnessed considerable trickery and deception, and I believe he’s made enemies along the way. I’ve also uncovered evidence of another party involved in his enterprise. It’s possible the men who died crossed Trask or his silent partner. If they threatened to reveal Trask’s fraudulent practices, to put him out of business, they may have been silenced.”
“A man like him would not risk facing the hangman to protect his interests. He’d abscond across the Channel with the money he’s conned from his clients. If he had those men killed, the reasons go deeper than greed.”
“Quite so. I shall tailor my inquiries along those lines.”
Leaning back, Colton steepled his fingers. While playing chess with him, she’d noticed he tended to do just that while he puzzled out his next move. What was he contemplating that had his features so drawn and serious? Tension formed a lump in Sophie’s throat. Whatever he was thinking, he knew she would not like it.
“A complication has arisen,” she went on, pushing her concerns aside. “That archaeologist—Stanwyck’s his name—he’s been sniffing around Trask’s studio. I have not been able to deduce his motives. Clearly, he is not in search of a long-lost treasure, as he claimed in his initial meeting with Trask.”
“From what I’ve been told, the man has taken a special interest in you. Jennie informed me that he took it upon himself to come between you and the blighters who attacked you. On one hand, I owe him a debt for coming to your defense. On the other, his appearance at the scene may have been all too convenient.”
Sophie met his questioning gaze. So, he’d also harbored doubt over the timing of Gavin’s gallant arrival upon the scene. She swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat. How much could she reveal without risking being pulled from the case? She certainly could not confess that he’d warned her that she was in a killer’s sights.
She pulled in a breath. “I believe he is a skeptic, out to prove Trask a fraud.”
Colton nodded. “What would drive a man who’s spent much of his adult life traipsing across a desert in search of antiquities to shift his focus to exposing a phony medium?”
“I cannot say at this time, but again, you’ve posed an excellent avenue for further inquiries.” Even as she spoke the words, they seemed a lie of omission, bitter on her tongue. Should she inform Colton of the clipping she’d found, evidence that someone connected to Trask viewed Stanwyck as a threat?
“All indications point to a personal grudge against Trask, rather than an interest in debunking spiritualism. By all accounts, Stanwyck is a highly respected scholar. His service in Her Majesty’s Navy was beyond reproach, and he’s said to be a man of courage, if his actions in the field are a fitting measure. He risked his life in Egypt to save members of a sightseeing expedition that had come under attack. Without his intervention, the travelers might have been killed by the bandits. Why would he invest valuable time destroying a rotter like Trask without an intensely personal motivation?”
“I’ve also considered that possibility,” she said, even as Colton’s description of Stanwyck took her by surprise. She’d known of his expeditions, but not of his selfless bravery—other than, of course, the courage he’d shown in her defense. Why had he tried so hard to convince her that he was a scoundrel?
“I tried to get the truth out of him. He admitted he believes Trask is a fraud.”
Colton’s eyes narrowed. “He told you this?”
“Essentially, yes.”
“Blast it, none of this makes sense. At this juncture, I do not know what has led the man to Trask. It’s one more piece of this damnable puzzle.” Again, Colton peered at her over the steeple of his fingers. “Whatever his reasons, Stanwyck has focused his attention on you. That in itself is a troubling development.”
“Stanwyck does not pose a threat to me. I’m quite certain he means me no harm.” She removed the letters and the clipping from the envelopes. “I found these today. I suspect they prove Stanwyck’s life may be in danger.”
Colton examined each message. His brow furrowed as he studied the image.
“Where did you find this?” he asked finally.
“In Trask’s desk.”
He gave a grim nod. “Did you think to consider that Trask will suspect you if he realizes the letters are missing?”
“Yes, but I did not see that I had a choice. It was a chance I had to take.”
Another nod, and he turned his attention back to the clipping. He pointed to the second man in the picture. “Do you know who this is?”
“No, but I feel certain there is some meaning behind the selection of the image.”
“Your instincts are correct, Sophie.” Colton placed the clipping on the round, doily-covered table between the two chairs. “That man is Peter Garner. I trust you are familiar with the name.”
Good heavens! Garner was the third man who’d sought Trask’s services only to meet his end soon afterward.
Sophie lifted the picture to the light, studying the image. The two men had embarked on an expedition. Such a danger-fraught endeavor often forged lasting bonds of loyalty and friendship.
“It all makes sense now,” she said. “Stanwyck has gone after Trask seeking retribution.”
“So it would appear. Trask’s web is getting more tangled by the day.”
“Someone must warn Stanwyck.”
Colton nodded. “I will have my contact at Scotland Yard arrange a meeting. Stanwyck cannot know how the evidence was obtained.”
“This is a matter of some urgency,” Sophie countered. “It is my duty to warn him. The man put himself at risk to defend me.”
“I understand, but I must forbid you from making further contact with him. Every moment you are in his presence places you in danger.”
“And if Stanwyck is attacked…if he is killed…what then? Shall I go about my life and console myself that I followed orders?”
“We will take measures to ensure his safety. The tone of these letters indicates that the writer expects Trask to take action against Stanwyck. It follows that any threat to Stanwyck will originate with Trask. I will assign a surveillance detail to shadow Trask. He won’t be able to make a move without being trailed.”
“That is some comfort.” Sophie stared down at her hands. Her knuckles had gone white with tension. “I do feel as if I owe it to Stanwyck to warn him away from Trask.”
“Absolutely not.” Colton rubbed his neck as if to ease an ache. “I can no longer live with the risks you face in this investigation. I am reassigning you, effective immediately.”
The air rushed from her lungs. His pronouncement seemed a belly blow she’d seen coming but could not guard against. “Reassigning me? You cannot do this. Trask will realize something is amiss. He may gather his ill-gotten gains and escape to another country, out of reach. There is no telling what the man may do to avoid justice.”
“Our agents will ensure that does not happen.”
She steadied her voice. A display of weakness would only undermine her cause. “I need more time…more time to see this through.”
He shook his head, the granite hardness of his features making it clear he would not be swayed. “We must take all measures needed to ensure your safety. I am well aware of his previous medium’s disappearance.”
“I have no reason to fear Trask.”
Colton frowned. Had he detected the lie in her words? The man’s ability to read the tone of one’s voice and the expression in one’s eyes was blasted uncanny.
“I’ve had misgivings about putting you in this position since the start of the case. These doubts are not rooted in any question of your competence. The danger is simply too great.”
She came to her feet and stared down at him. Frustration churned within her. “I am a trained operative. Shouldn’t I be the one to make the final decision as to the risks I’m prepared to take?”
Colton stood, his expression somber. “If you were hurt, Jennie would never forgive me. And frankly, I doubt I could grant my conscience a reprieve should any harm come to you.”
“Give me more time… I can find the answers you need.”
“That is not advisable. We have not been able to deduce which is the greater threat—Trask or Stanwyck—but your involvement in this mission has come to an end.”