The Vanishing Thief(57)

“He burned to death?” The timing was suspicious. Especially when blood was found in Drake’s front hall the day he disappeared and he stood accused of blackmail.

The policeman patted my hand. “We talked to the regulars at the Red Lion and they said Nicholas had been staying here, well, at his house, for the past week. He’d lived there from time to time before. He was well-known around here and well liked. He was seen heading toward the Hanworth Road just after closing time. I’m sorry, miss.”

“His house was on the Hanworth Road. How did no one see the fire until it had consumed the house?”

“Hanworth Road is well traveled, even at that hour. There were a few people at a distance who saw the fire begin and heard the explosion. It only took a moment to turn into a raging fire, much quicker than they could reach the house. It was so fast, he wouldn’t have suffered.”

An explosion? It sounded more and more like his abductors found him before I did. “His house wasn’t old and decrepit?”

“No. It was a solid house, if old and small.” The constable kept his voice calm and his manner reassuring. How many times had he talked to a bereaved family? I wasn’t bereaved, and I wanted answers.

“And no one was seen running from the house?”

Shaking his head, the constable patted my hand. Again. I’d have gladly ripped off his arm if it would get me the answers I was looking for in a more timely fashion. “No. There’s no sign it was anything but an accident.”

“Who did he buy the house from?”

The constable drew his hand away and gave me a piercing look.

Oh, bother. I’d raised the policeman’s suspicions. Trying to sound aware of his doubts and innocent of prying for information I should already have as Drake’s sister, I said, “Nicholas and I hadn’t kept in contact often in recent years. He was never a letter writer and I don’t travel much. He told me something about it, but I don’t remember now and I’d like to remember happier times.”

The policeman nodded, apparently believing my story. “Old Lady Caphart owned several of the farms in the area. Your brother’s was the smallest, not big enough to farm properly. Shortly before she died, she sold it to your brother. None of us had ever seen him before he came down here with the deed, and then it was only days later that we heard she’d died.”

I nodded, belatedly remembering to pull out my handkerchief and take another sip of the rapidly cooling tea.

“How did your brother meet Lady Caphart?” the constable asked.

I wove together some details we’d learned about Drake and told him, “He’d done some work for her. He was a broker of artworks, and he’d found her some pieces she wanted. I had the impression the farm was in payment for something.” Had he been blackmailing Lady Caphart? That would have to be looked into.

“Are you from a big family, and will you want to take the body home for burial?”

“We’re not a big family, and we’ve all moved away from the village we grew up in. I’m sure he’ll be buried locally.”

“That’s the shame of these modern times. People are starting to move out of their hometowns into the cities looking for work. No one knows their neighbors anymore.” The constable shook his head.

“Are you local? I imagine you can remember all the changes coming to this area.” Like Nicholas Drake. I hoped he’d start talking and I’d hear something that would help with my investigation.

“Aye. The railway into London just came out here five years ago. Or maybe ten. And with it came chain grocers buying up farms for a steady supply of produce in the city and we got new, bigger stores on the high street. Why, your brother had a friend come out from London yesterday on the railway.”

My pulse jumped. Was it Drake’s abductor? “Who was it?”

“A friend from London. Met him in the Red Lion.” The constable flipped over the pages in his notebook. “Harry Conover. Left him just before the last train back to London. Just a few minutes before closing time.”

One of the two friends Drake’s housekeeper and his wife had mentioned. Now the Archivist Society would have to find him and learn what they’d talked about so close to Drake’s death. Then I realized with a sinking feeling that this would be someone else we’d have to find to give them the bad news.

“What is your name, miss?” The constable had his pencil ready.

“Georgia Drake.”

“And your address?”

Blast. I hadn’t planned on that. “I’m nurse-companion to Mrs. Ellis of Winchcombe in Warwickshire. It’s a village. No other address is needed.” I remembered passing through the village during one investigation and Mrs. Ellis, of London, from another.