Four days later, John was on a case. A lady had gone missing, the good wife of a solicitor, a Mr. Bainstoke. Bainstoke worked often in the Bow Street courts, where Judge Fielding sat as London’s chief magistrate, so Bainstoke had gone to Fielding for help. And Judge Fielding had put John on the case.
Bainstoke was neither young nor old, rich nor poor. His law firm served the merchant ships and their many contracts and legal disputes. His wife, still young and attractive enough to attract scoundrels, had gone out for the daily shopping two days ago and had never returned.
“She insists on shopping for my supper herself, you see,” said the distraught Mr. Bainstoke when John had questioned him that morning. “She’s very particular about my diet. And as her favorite shops were close by, she’d gotten in the habit of going out unaccompanied early in the morning. It should be safe!”
Yes, should be. Lots of should be’s in life, John found. But they so very rarely were.
John had interviewed him, and their two servants, and had no reason to suspect any of them were culpable. He’d lay odds they were as grief-stricken as they appeared. But the lady had come upon some misfortune, that was clear. Only what exactly had happened, and where she was now, was a mystery.
The Bainstokes lived in Catherine Street and she shopped at the stalls in Covent Garden. John had been around to the shops already and learned Mrs. Bainstoke had been seen the morning of her disappearance, and she’d been agreeable as always. She’d made purchases, including a prime cut of beef which she’d be anxious to get home. Only she never had.
Now he was slowly searching a perimeter around Covent Garden—streets, alleys, and gutters. Looking for an empty purse, lost glove or scarf or, God forbid, her remains. It wouldn’t be the first time someone lay unnoticed in an alleyway for days in London. And it likely wouldn’t be the last.
His thoughts, however, drifted as he searched.
Drifted to a narrow face and dark, expressive eyes. A fine, slender hand.
That hand had not been soft and weak, as so many nobles affected these days. It was in style to appear to have spent one’s entire life with one’s delicate digits languishing in oil or some such rot. John did not care for it. He was a man of action and his tastes ran to the same. Allston’s hand had been strong, his fingers callused against John’s palm.
Well, of course they had. The man was a sculptor. He carved wood all day. He must work with tools, instruments, and paint brushes. He did quite delicate work by all appearances. His hands would be dexterous and capable.
Blast it.
And those eyes. Those round, soulful brown eyes. They could steal a man’s soul and hold it for ransom, eyes like that.
A cat ran past John’s feet and he shook his head. Damn it all, he was daydreaming. He had no scruples about having sexual thoughts. He was a man of hearty appetites. And if he appreciated a man’s shoulders or thick thighs or full lips, that appreciation stayed in his own skull and did the fellow no harm. He meant no disrespect. But it didn’t do to have one’s head in the clouds on the streets of London. He was a big, strapping fellow, but that was no guarantee of safety when gangs roamed the streets. He looked around, making sure no one was sneaking up on him. All appeared well, or as well as it might be.
The problem was he’d been at this search since daybreak, and it was nearly dusk. He was tired and hungry and losing his focus. No wonder his mind wandered to greener, more pleasing pastures. Just a few more streets and he’d call it a night.
He took a keen look around the alley he was in. It was to the west of Covent Garden, not the direction the lady was likely to go to get back home. But if she’d been snatched, she might be anywhere in the area. The alley was narrow and had a half dozen back doors to shops. A barrel of rubbish to his right caught his gaze. It was beside a door that, from the reek of it, led to a fish shop. A distinct smell of fish guts hung in the air.
His gaze fell to a bundle of paper and rags at the base of the barrel. Nothing belonging to a lady there. His gaze moved on.
Snapped back.
There, in amongst the rags, was a glint of something bright. Something gold.
In two strides he was over there. The smell of fish was stronger here. He ignored it, his attention focused on the bundle of rags. He touched it with the tip of his walking stick—which doubled as a handy club when he needed it—and carefully parted the rags in the bundle.
“What the devil?” he said out loud.
It wasn’t possible. He looked around, sure someone was playing him for a fool. But there was no one there, no one in the alley. The windows above were blank, oblivious to his presence.
No one knew he’d be searching this alley today. Judge Fielding had assigned him the case, but he hadn’t told him what he’d planned.
“What on God’s earth?” he said, rather redundantly, but he was unable to suppress his astonishment.
In the pile of rags was a figurine. The figurine. The angel.
It wasn’t possible. He’d found her in the Thames near Blackfriars. He’d returned her to the shop from whence she came on the Pall Mall. Yet here she was again, in a random back alley near Covent Garden, discarded in a bundle of trash.
It beggared belief.
He squatted down and picked her up. She felt real enough. Her weight was slight, just like before, but she was solid, nonetheless, as real as any carved wooden figurine might be. She was still unblemished, unbesmirched by dirt or fish guts. Her paint gleamed.
It was damned strange.
Only two possibilities presented themselves. The first was that Mr. Allston had made dozens of these figurines or had even licensed them to some sweat shop with urchins churning them out by the loads. But she didn’t look like that sort of cheap goods. Even a very good apprentice would have difficulty reproducing her. And by Allston’s reactions, John could have sworn she was one of a kind.
The second possibility was that someone had planted her here for him to find. But how? The only person who knew of the angel, besides Allston, had been Barnes, who’d been there when John had found her. But Barnes was too practical a fellow, and too interested in earning a bob, to play games. And John couldn’t imagine any reason Allston would have for doing this.
He sighed. Well. It would do no good to stand here and gape like a bloody idiot. He took out his handkerchief again, and wrapped her in it again, and again stuck her in his coat pocket.
“There’s such a thing as coincidence,” he muttered, more to convince himself than not.
Still. It was a very curious thing.