The Vanishing Thief(67)

I shook my head. He could say the same for my parents. “No, you’ve told me a lot. The man who killed my parents killed Denis Lupton.”


*


THE NEXT DAY, I strolled away from the Heston and Hounslow railway station with Anne Drake. While Fogarty walked to the chapel in Hounslow Cemetery for Drake’s funeral, I found a tea shop where Anne—I was starting to think of her that way, and not as Edith Carter—and I could wait. She was determined to visit the grave as soon as the service was over and the dirt thrown in. Feeling guilty that I’d waited a day before telling her Nicholas Drake was dead, and had then slipped off, leaving Frances Atterby to deal with her grief, I went along as support.

We stepped out of the gusty breeze and sat at a table, where I ordered a pot of tea and scones. “Who was the man you were talking to on the ride out here?” Anne asked.

“A colleague of mine. He’s acting as Nicholas’s brother and paid for the funeral.”

“Oh.” I realized this was the first time Anne Drake had thought of the cost. She remained silent until after the tea had been served and then said, “It’s good of you to do this. Nicholas had no family, and I can’t afford a funeral. I have no idea what I’ll do. . . .”

Her voice trailed off and she took a sip of tea. “Mrs. Atterby was very kind to me yesterday, but she told me she wouldn’t be able to come with me today. Thank her for me, please, and thank you for being here today.”

I waited while she gave one sniff, took another sip of tea, and raised her chin. Purple bruises formed half circles under her red-rimmed eyes. She must have cried all night, making me feel even guiltier for not bringing Drake back safely. “I wonder if Harry and Tom will attend.”

“We learned Harry Conover saw Nicholas Drake shortly before he died. We’ve not been able to find Conover, and Tom Whitaker hasn’t seen him, but we’ll continue looking.”

“Harry came out here?” Anne asked me. “Why?”

“We won’t know until we find him. Do you have any idea?” When she shook her head, I added, “It might help find whoever did this to your husband.”

“I don’t know,” she burst out and then looked around the half-filled room at the eyes staring back at us. Lowering her voice, she repeated, “I don’t know.” She nudged her mourning veil forward so that it shielded her face from prying eyes on either side.

“Did you ever hear their conversations?”

She shook her head again. “Anytime either Tom or Harry came by, Nicholas took them out to a pub or he sent me back to my house. He didn’t want me to hear. I suspect because they were up to something illegal, and Nicholas knew how I wanted to change our lives. To stay on the right side of the law.”

When I didn’t reply, she said, “You think that, too.”

I didn’t want to admit I thought her much-mourned husband was a thief and a blackmailer until the day he died. “What are you going to do now?”

“My house is rented, but Nicholas owned his. I’ll move in there for a while until I decide what to do. For years, my life has revolved around Nicholas. I have no idea what to do now that he’s gone.”

With that, she grabbed up her handkerchief to stifle her sobs. After a few hiccups and a sip of tea, she said, “I wish I could have seen him.”

“He was in a fire. It’s better you didn’t.”

“I’ll never be sure he’s gone. I think I’d feel it inside if he were—oh, God.” She sniffed. “And not being able to attend the funeral since I’m a woman makes it even harder to believe he’s—. Instead, I keep expecting him to walk in and say it’s all been a mistake.”

I patted her hand. “It’s no mistake.”

In a whisper, Anne said, “I hope he didn’t suffer.”

Something she had said nudged at me. “When did your husband buy his London house?”

“I don’t know. He owned it when I arrived. He was very proud of having obtained a house, since he came from nothing.”

We finished our tea in silence, neither of us having any interest in the scones. When I guessed we had waited long enough for the service and burial to end, I paid the bill and we bundled up to face the chilly walk to the cemetery.

Fogarty was waiting outside the cemetery chapel for us, rubbing his gloved hands together. The wind howled around the building as if in mourning. “Would you like me to lead the way?” he asked.

Anne Drake nodded, and I fell into step with her behind Fogarty.

“It’d be a pretty day if the wind would just stop,” he muttered after a vicious push by a hard gust of air.