The Vanishing Thief(12)
The police quickly arrived and medical aid was summoned for Annie and Fogarty, who’d been attacked by Monthalf. Fogarty was furious that his limp had given away his weakness. Monthalf had knocked his injured leg out from under him and then beat Fogarty senseless, leaving Monthalf free to attack us in the kitchen.
Monthalf awoke in chains and was taken to Newgate to await trial. I brought Phyllida home with me when the police began to tear apart the house to find the remains of other missing prostitutes. What started as a temporary refuge a decade before had quickly become her home.
“Will you two be safe?” was Phyllida’s only comment once she’d smoothed her narrow-boned features into mild interest.
“Yes, Aunt,” Emma said, using the honorary title we both employed.
“I doubt we’ll be in any danger but I don’t know what we have: an abduction, a runaway, or a simple misunderstanding,” I told her.
Phyllida gave me a hard look, but she said, “You’ll figure it out. In the meantime, I should plan meals that will fit in with your odd schedules. You are taking on the investigation?”
“I think so.”
“Then your schedules will be disrupted.” She took another bite of her stew. Despite being better fed living with me, she’d never lost her gaunt look.
I smiled. “You always manage to keep the household running no matter how much disorder Emma and I cause.”
“I don’t do that much,” Phyllida said. As much as I was in her debt for the help she’d given me over the years, she still felt as if she wasn’t earning her place. Her brother had left scars on her soul that Emma and I would never be able to erase.
“You save me dealing with the laundress and the grocer and the char. I can’t run the bookshop and take care of our home, too.”
Emma said around a mouthful of stew, “This is wonderful. You are the best cook in the world.”
Phyllida dipped her head, but I saw the blush of pride on her cheeks.
After dinner, Emma and I hurried downstairs and out the door onto the street. In the shelter of the narrow porch, I put the hood of my gabardine cloak over my hat and turned in the opposite direction from the bookshop, wishing there was something equally rain repellent for the hem of my skirt.
Fortunately, the rain held off for most of our walk, and we were out at a time when we didn’t have to wait as long to dash across the streets between carriages. What light there was, from street lamps, shop windows, and carriage lamps, made the wet, shiny pavement look smooth as silk.
When we finally reached Sir Broderick’s looming six-story house, I hesitated, staring at the glistening raindrops starting to hit the pavement at my feet. “I don’t want to listen to a roomful of critics tonight. I have no idea how to find Nicholas Drake. I don’t even know if he’s a victim or a villain.”
Emma gave me a sharp look. “What’s really bothering you?”
I looked up and down the road lined with elegant brick town houses. Lights shone behind draperies in many of the windows, looking welcoming on this dreary night. But how many of them hid secrets as dangerous as Nicholas Drake kept? And did one of them hide my parents’ killer? “I saw a man today—oh, never mind.” I couldn’t tell her who I’d seen.
Emma took my arm and dragged me forward onto the steps. “You’ll figure it out. And we’ll help you.” As she reached out and rang the buzzer, the hood of her cloak fell back. Her golden hair sparkled in the light of the lantern above the door. Emma was born beautiful and lucky. She kept telling me beauty was a curse, but I thought it was better than being called “agreeable.”
Jacob, the street lad who was now a young man and Sir Broderick’s assistant, immediately cracked the door open, saw us, and swung it wide. Emma rushed in, rubbing her hands together. “It’s bitter out. Be glad you don’t have anywhere to go.”
I walked in and gave a sigh. Everything I’d heard that day was a contradiction of something I’d learned from someone else, and I was certain to hear complaints about my investigation tonight. And at some point I’d have to tell Sir Broderick who I’d found.
Jacob gestured with a tilt of his head toward the brightly lit stairs for us to go up. Then he held out his arms for our cloaks.
I took off my damp cape, hat, and gloves, rejoicing in the warmth of Sir Broderick’s home. The head of the Archivist Society insisted on keeping his house overly hot, but after my walk through the blustery night, I was grateful for the heat soaking my clothes and sinking into my bones. Following Emma up the staircase that wound around the iron lift, I found the double doors to the study open.