The Vanishing Thief(11)
Chapter Three
PHYLLIDA, formally Lady Phyllida Monthalf, had bowls of mutton stew and crispy bread on the table as soon as Emma and I reached our flat near the bookshop. The smells of roast and gravy and warm rolls reminded me how I’d not had time for even a cup of tea all day. I rushed through our prayers as my stomach growled in hope.
I’d told Emma all I’d learned that day and, while I dug in, she repeated everything to Phyllida. As Emma talked about the blood on the floor, I watched as terror flashed through Phyllida’s eyes.
Ten years earlier, I’d seen that same terror when I first met her, at her brother’s London town house. After a week of trying to interest Scotland Yard, a street lad named Jacob had learned from a policeman of the existence of the Archivist Society. He’d begged us to investigate the disappearance of an East End prostitute named Annie at an address in an upper-crust neighborhood belonging to Earl Monthalf. Our own inquiries convinced us that something was amiss and we decided to gain entrance to Earl Monthalf’s home to search for the woman.
We’d discovered that our suspect and his sister lived there, but no one had seen his sister in a decade. Earl Monthalf came and went by the front door, but he allowed no one into his fortresslike house. The front door was locked and bolted. Ornate grilles covered all the windows, making entrance that way impossible. The easiest access was by the kitchen door, and by watching, we discovered Earl Monthalf opened it at ten in the morning for the daily deliveries.
Adam Fogarty, invalided out of the police force, took over for one of the regular deliverymen and I followed, planning to slip in while Fogarty kept Earl Monthalf busy. My job was to search for any sign of the missing woman and rescue her if possible. Jacob was outside to call the police if we were successful. We didn’t think anything could go wrong.
When I slipped in the kitchen door, I encountered a cowering wretch, who stared at me, backing away until she bumped into the sink. Her frock was stained, sweat slid down her cheek, and I could see fading bruises on her face and arms. “Go away,” she said. “It’s not safe here.”
Fogarty, Jacob, and I had wondered why we’d seen nothing of a domestic staff come and go from this house. “Who are you?”
“Lady Phyllida Monthalf.”
She looked pitiful, and I immediately felt sorry for her. Seeing a lady, the daughter and sister of lords, in such a bedraggled state in this basement kitchen made me wonder what had caused her downfall. “You don’t need to fear me. I can help.” I moved forward and squeezed her hand.
She looked toward the next room, where we could hear Fogarty and Earl Monthalf’s voices. She trembled as she pushed me toward the door. “You can’t help. There’s no escape. Hasn’t been for years.”
“Lady Phyllida, was there a woman here named Annie? Where has she gone?”
“She’s still alive, poor soul. Chained to a bed on the first floor, but still alive when I took her breakfast this morning.”
If this beaten, dirty drudge called Annie a poor soul, what would I find upstairs? “Has this happened before?”
“Dozens of times. Dozens of them. It’s terrible.” Her blue eyes flashed defiance for an instant, and I recognized an ally in this investigation.
I heard the men raise their voices in argument and knew I didn’t have much time. “Thank you.” Hurrying over to the back staircase, I climbed it as silently as I could.
Up two flights of stairs, I began to open doors. The first bedroom, opulently decorated for a man, was empty. The second, resembling a tidy jail cell, also was empty. The third contained an iron bedstead with soiled linens and a scrawny, filthy victim with big, staring eyes.
She was chained to the bed in such a way that her attempts to free herself had failed, leaving her with bloody fingers. By moving to the other side of the bed, I was able to unchain her quickly.
“Can you walk?” I asked.
She nodded and struggled to her feet. Leaning on me, we moved slowly and noisily down the two flights of stairs. She was surprisingly heavy and we banged into walls as I awkwardly hurried her along. I knew there was no way Earl Monthalf hadn’t heard us. I kept looking behind and in front of us, but no one gave chase or blocked our way.
When we reached the basement floor, Monthalf stood between us and the door, a knife in his hand. There was no sign of Fogarty.
He walked toward us, smiling. “Two of you to have fun with. Where shall I start?”
Mesmerized by the blade, I didn’t see Phyllida until her brother tumbled unconscious to the floor. She stood staring at us, a cast-iron skillet clenched in both thin hands. Then I ran for the outside door, screaming for help and jostling Annie as I half dragged her along.