The Vanishing Thief

The Vanishing Thief


Kate Parker


 
Chapter One





EARLY spring rain drenched London in a cold damp that either kept customers away or drove them into the bookshop. Today the rain was in our favor. We had three browsers searching the shelves when a woman barreled in, flinging droplets in the musty air and onto the wooden floor. “The Duke of Blackford kidnapped Nicholas Drake and you must save him.”

My assistant, Emma, looked up from the recent arrivals she was discussing with a female customer and said, “Is that a new novel?”

The woman planted thin fists on her hips, shoving back her cloak and displaying a green dress faded to the shade of mushy peas. “No. I’m demanding the Archivist Society do something to free Nicholas Drake from the Duke of Blackford.”

All three customers stared at her, mouths agape. The Archivist Society unfortunately appeared in the penny press occasionally, earning us a notoriety we didn’t desire.

I didn’t want my customers to learn Emma and I worked for the Archivist Society. Respectable women didn’t court notoriety. Even the old queen kept her activities private. And our work required secrecy.

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 unnamed young woman member of the Archivist Society. That member is you.”

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.