“Robin Hood and the murders are completely unrelated.”
“So Reginald’s death was a coincidence? As was Elmira Bradley’s?”
“No. They were setups, meant to frame an innocent man.” At this, Genevieve cocked an eyebrow. Even Rupert looked doubtful. “Fine, not entirely innocent. But Rupert did not kill anyone.”
“I did not,” Rupert reiterated. “Please, if you believe nothing else, Genevieve, you must believe that. I’m a thief. A wretched, twisted thief, who can’t seem to stop. But I’ve never hurt anyone, and I never would.”
“May we talk, Genevieve?” Daniel pleaded. “Can you please put down the gun?”
Genevieve waited a few moments. Her anger had not abated; if anything, it had risen. She had trusted him, and thought he trusted her. She had thought they had a true friendship, but he had turned tail at the first doubtful sign, not even bothering to ask if she’d written the damn article.
“Instead, I think you should give me one good reason I shouldn’t shoot you both right now,” she said, steadying the gun. “Robin Hood and accomplice, caught in the act. Self-defense. I’d write a cracker of a story, and it would really aid my career, don’t you think, Daniel?”
He had the good grace to flush. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t reach out to you immediately. I should have known you would never betray my trust.”
“Yes, you damn well should have,” she shot back.
“I haven’t had a lot of practice trusting people,” Daniel said. “Please, put the gun down, and let’s finish what we started.”
Genevieve narrowed her eyes in suspicion. Despite all her talk of trust, she wasn’t sure she could overcome her own feelings of betrayal. But her arm was getting a bit tired, as was she. Here, finally, was the opportunity for answers.
And she suspected she could fill in a few of the missing gaps to the story as well.
“You first,” she finally said.
Daniel let out a relieved sigh, then reached underneath the back of his jacket and pulled a gun from his waistband. With the other hand still raised, he gently placed the revolver—she recognized it from his desk drawer—on the floor.
One down. “Rupert?” she asked.
Following Daniel’s lead, Rupert kept one hand up and with the other extracted a long, thin blade from his left boot. He laid the knife next to Daniel’s gun on the floor.
She raised a brow in query at him, and again, Rupert shrugged in response. “Quieter than a gun,” he said. “Helpful in picking locks.”
“Elmira Bradley’s throat was slit,” Genevieve observed. “That’s quiet, all right.” Truth be told, she had never thought Robin Hood had killed Elmira; it had never added up. She glanced back and forth between the two men, both of whom were returning her gaze warily, then lowered her gun. Didn’t put it down, but lowered it.
Both men sagged in visible relief.
“Genevieve, I promise,” Rupert began. “I didn’t kill anyone. I take things. I … I’ve always taken things. For years. Tell her, Daniel.”
“Not always,” Daniel said quietly. “But for a long time now. I believe that when you are particularly concerned about finances, the urge is intensified.”
Despite herself, Genevieve found her curiosity piqued. “Urge?”
Rupert nodded miserably, then plopped into a nearby armchair. “It’s hard to describe. It’s an almost physical sensation. This … feeling crawls up my spine and burrows into my brain. It’s maddening, awful. But the only thing that sates it is to … take.”
“Things that aren’t yours,” Genevieve supplemented.
“Yes, things that aren’t mine,” Rupert confirmed, gesturing around the room aimlessly. He looked exhausted and wrung out in the dim gaslight, his already pale face further bleached of color. “It started small. A silver-plated cigarette case here, a porcelain figurine there. I adore you Americans, you know, but sometimes the sheer excess of your money rankles.” He frowned and shoved his hair back from his forehead. “Particularly if I’d just received another letter from my mother, again reminding me of the direness of our situation.”
Daniel remained standing. “You can’t solely blame America, Rupert. This began while we were at school.”
Rupert nodded and blew a breath at the ceiling. “Yes. We’d always been genteelly impoverished, but that was when things really began to go south. I never meant any harm. It had been a lark, a bit of a gag, a subtle dig at the kids in school who made fun of my shabby jackets; at my father, who mismanaged and drank away our fortune; at the robber barons, whose overindulgences sometimes give even me pause.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against his seat. “At this whole damned society with its vast cogs and wheels and my tiny place in it.”
He opened his eyes and regarded Genevieve wearily. She realized she was probably seeing the real Rupert, without the social mask he continually wore, for the first time. “And eventually I couldn’t control it anymore. I wasn’t taking just to show I could. It became something I had to do. I’ve tried whiskey, women, swimming at the natatorium until I was so exhausted I could barely stand, but nothing worked. Nothing could replace the insatiable need.”
Finally, Genevieve sat as well. She kept the gun in her lap, but the tiredness that had overcome her was so sudden and severe that her legs felt wobbly. It was partially the lateness of the hour and her continued lack of sleep, but it was also hearing Rupert’s sad tale. This wasn’t a mastermind criminal hell-bent on seeking revenge on a society he despised, as his letters suggested. It was a melancholy, disheartening story about the power of money and society and one man’s broken way of attempting to cope.
“What do you do with all those things?” she asked. “Your letters never said, simply that the money was given to the poor. Which poor? How?”
Rupert allowed his head to roll to the side of the chair. “I sold them. I didn’t want the teaspoons or earrings or snuffboxes I took. Couldn’t stomach keeping them, in fact. Nor the money. I
