“Could we just confront Mr. Sutcliffe?”
“Of course, but I want some proof—something substantial. If he finds out we’re on to him, he may run,” I said. “I have an unorthodox suggestion.”
“My favorite kind,” Margaret said. “I think I’m beginning to get my nerve back.”
“You’ll need it if you’re to agree to this scheme. I wouldn’t suggest it if I could think of any other option— preferably a more reasonable one—but I can’t seem to do that. How do you feel about calling on the ambassador?”
“You said he won’t help.”
“He’s not going to realize that he is,” I said. “First, though, we have to find a shop. I need to buy candles.”
Two hours later, I was hiding in a broom closet in the British embassy, having slipped away while Margaret and I were ostensibly waiting to speak to Sir William. An earnest clerk led us to a small reception room. We spent a quarter of an hour discussing elephants with a gentleman newly arrived from India, who was hoping this posting would be as exciting as his last, but once he’d been summoned away, we were alone, and I dashed to the first reasonable hiding place I could find.
So far as closets go, this was not an uncomfortable one. It was neither overly crowded nor musty smelling. I had crammed myself into the far back, sunk to the floor, and sat there, wishing I’d had the sense to remove my corset before this endeavor, until all the ambient noise had disappeared from the corridor. Despite my attempts to stretch my legs, both were cramped, and returning to my feet was prickly painful. I managed, then fumbled in the dark to open the door. Once in the hall, I pulled from my reticule one of the candles and matches I’d purchased and soon had enough light to keep me from tripping over any ill-placed furniture.
I made my way to the records room, figuring it as the most likely spot to find employment files. I pulled open drawer after drawer in the cabinets that filled it, eventually reaching the one I sought and flipping through folders until I saw the two names I needed. My heart racing, I took them both, held them to my chest, and started towards a table where I could read them. But before I could spread them on the surface, I heard a terrible crash on the other side of the door.
For a moment I was frozen, forgetting even to breathe. Then sense returned to me, and I blew out my candle, snuffing the glowing ember of wick with my fingers to stop its swirling smoke. Now unable to see, I dropped to the floor and scooted under the table, terrified. Nothing happened. I started counting seconds, to see how much time was passing, but could hardly keep track of the numbers. All I wanted was to get out as quickly as possible. I strained to listen but heard no further sound, and decided to get up. As soon as I had, however, I heard a second noise—not so loud as the first—followed by a hollow thump.
Not being foolish enough to open the door and see what was there, undoubtedly ready to confront me—I was having visions of Mr. Sutcliffe with a sword, not that
Once there, I stayed close to the building, not wanting the guards to see me skulking around. I knew there’d be no avoiding them eventually but had come up with what I considered a better than average strategy for dealing with them.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” I said, hugging the files close to my chest, my arms wrapped tight around me as I walked down the path to the gate. “The grounds are so beautiful, even in the moonlight, I simply couldn’t tear myself away.”
“You—when—” the younger of the soldiers stuttered incomprehensibly.
“I assume Miss Seward left ages ago. Was she with Sir William, did you see?”
“No, madam, I believe he left alone.”
“Very good, then. I’ll catch up with her now. Thank you, and have a lovely evening.” I breezed past them, a brilliant smile on my face, and looked for the carriage I knew Margaret would have waiting for me at the end of the block. She opened the door as soon as she saw me coming.
“I’ve been beside myself,” she said. “It’s more awful than you can imagine sitting here and having no idea what’s going on.”
“I can assure you it was nothing but invigorating excitement inside.” I handed her the files as I stepped into the coach and told her what had happened.
“Do you think someone’s in there?” she asked.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” I said. “And wasn’t about to find out. I wish I hadn’t had to remove anything, but I had no choice.”
We returned to Misseri’s, where we could peruse our purloined letters at our leisure.
“Port,” Margaret said, handing me a glass. “Cigar.”
I lit it, but the smell turned my stomach. “I can’t,” I said, snuffing it out in the crystal ashtray on the table.
“Are you ill?”
“Let’s hope.” I looked at the folders in front of me. “Which would you prefer? Mr. Sutcliffe or Sir Richard?”
“Sutcliffe, please. I want to be the one who finds whatever it is we’re looking for.”
“Go forth and conquer.” I pushed the file to her and opened Sir Richard’s. It was dull reading, but that came as no surprise. Records of his assignments, comments about his performance, letters praising his skills and efficiency and dedication from a series of well-heeled ambassadors filled the folder, but nothing suggested any connection between him and Mr. Sutcliffe.
“Anything of note?” I asked Margaret, filling her glass with more port.
“So far just a letter about this West Indies business,” she said. “Terrible. He was granted an extended leave after the funerals, but served out the rest of his tour there. Other than that, though, a remarkably uninteresting record. No sign of trouble yet, however.”
“All right. Let’s compare their postings. Were they ever together?” A quick assessment showed us they had crossed paths in Vienna—on that first assignment of Mr. Sutcliffe’s. “Mrs. Hooper-Ferris mentioned that he’d tried to arrange something with a colleague, someone who’d agreed to switch with him. I’d bet anything the colleague was Sir Richard.”
“Is there reference to such a thing in his file?”
I flipped through the pages, skimming as I went. “There’s this—when he requested assignment in Constantinople, it was noted that he had never before asked for a specific post.”
“Does that signify?” Margaret asked.
“Only if Mr. Sutcliffe thought he’d asked for the West Indies.” I closed Sir Richard’s file. “May I?”
“Of course.” Margaret leaned back in her chair, blowing rings of smoke. “I have to admit I liked feigning swooning better than going through papers. My dedication is suspect at best.”
“I love you regardless,” I said, and kept reading. “Here, here it is. A letter he wrote asking to be allowed to have a colleague, Mr. Richard St. Clare—pre-knighthood—be assigned to the West Indies in his place. ‘Mr. St. Clare has assured me he would happily take this post and has already submitted the appropriate paperwork to arrange the details.’ ”
“But he never did?”
“It seems not.” I took a long breath, rubbed my forehead, and went back to Sir Richard’s file. “Yes... Yes. This is enough, Margaret, it’s enough. Look.” She stood beside me, reading over my shoulder. “The page here that says he never made any such requests was stamped as received here only six months ago.”
“Why the delay?”
“Who knows? Perhaps it was misfiled, or never sent from wherever he was posted when he applied to come here. The point is that Mr. Sutcliffe is the one to whom it would have gone to be filed—he’s the one who would have stamped it. And when he did, if he read it, he’d know that Sir Richard never tried to help him avoid the West Indies.”
“And hence, let his family die from typhoid.”
