the Rookery, and he preferred not to be seen. So he slipped down first one dark alleyway and then another, crossed a third, and paused to get his bearings.
The moon had been swallowed by fog, but Patrick knew where he was by the clink of glasses, the rough male laughter, and the smell of sour beer that clung to the damp night air. He was directly behind the Great Horse pub, an old coaching inn which had been made redundant for its original purpose by the railway line and in which every sort of roguery and villainy had been plotted over the years. The Great Horse occupied a long, narrow building with rafters high above and sawdust on the floor, a bar along one wall and scarred deal tables along the other, and a large back room where various belligerent encounters occurred: prizefights, dogfights between vicious red bull terriers, and the cockfights that had been illegal for fifty years but which continued unabated. Staggering sums were wagered in that room-Patrick knew, for he had seen with his own eyes the sums of money that changed hands. Now, there was a vicious flurry of growls and barks and a loud cheer, and Patrick shivered. He was fond of dogs, and he did not like the idea of one dog destroying another.
But Wellington Street was a few paces ahead, and Hardaway House, with its brick gateway, just to the right. More relieved than he cared to admit that he had almost reached his destination, Patrick set off again, hurrying now, for the clock in the tower was striking ten.
He didn’t get far. Three or four quick steps, and he was lying flat on his face in the middle of the alley, his nose scraped, the wind knocked out of him. He lay there a moment, stunned and half-bewildered, then sat up, cursing loudly and rubbing his nose. He turned to see what had tripped him up.
A log that someone had carelessly left lying across the alleyway? He put his hand on it.
No, not a log, a roll of canvas, unexpectedly warm to the touch. He frowned, feeling farther along, and then farther still, discovering by degrees that what he had tripped over was neither a log nor a roll of canvas but a
But as Patrick got to his feet, he realized that his hand was wet and slippery and when the moon peered over the fog for her own surreptitious glance at the scene, he saw to his dismay that it was covered with blood. With mounting horror, he turned to look at the man, whose eyes were staring open and whose waistcoat was soaked with blood.
He was not dead drunk after all. He was bloodily and indisputably dead. And he was no stranger.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Nowadays we have so few mysteries left to us that we cannot afford to part with one of them.
“The Critic as Artist” Oscar Wilde
Charles looked up when he heard steps in the hallway and then the door opened and Kate was in Bradford ’s drawing room, throwing off her shawl and looking eagerly around.
“Where is he?” she demanded, breathless. “Charles, where’s Patrick?”
“Not here yet, my dear,” Charles said, folding the
“He
“Sit down, Kate.” Charles stood with a smile and gestured to his wing chair before the fire. “I’ll get you a brandy.”
Charles watched his wife as she sank into the chair, thinking how lovely she was when she was passionate-and she was certainly passionate about Patrick, who had taken the place in her heart of the child she had lost, of the children she would never have. But Charles knew boys, and he feared that her passion might frighten Patrick and send him hurtling away again.
He cleared his throat. “Patrick is hardly a child,” he said quietly. “He’s very much a young man. He’s working in the stable at the Grange House, apprenticing as a jockey. As it turns out, he was Gladiator’s traveling lad at the Derby. He-”
“A jockey!” Kate took the brandy Bradford offered her. “But what about school, for goodness sake?” Her voice rose. “What about our
“It would seem that Patrick has made his own plans for himself,” Charles said. “He looks fit and in excellent health. But I very much fear,” he added, hoping she would understand, “that any pressure on our part to return him to school will be met with resistance.”
“But he needs an education!” Kate cried. “He needs-”
“Rather,” Charles interrupted firmly, “I propose that we encourage him to make his own choices and stay in touch with him so that we can support him, whatever he chooses to do with his life.” He paused. “I hope you can agree to that, my dear. Otherwise, I’m afraid we will lose him again.”
“But I did so want-” She turned the brandy snifter in her fingers. “I’m afraid he won’t-” After a moment she gave a small sigh. “Perhaps you’re right, Charles. Perhaps I’m holding too hard, hoping too much.” She studied him for a moment, her head tilted, her hair catching the firelight. “The problem is that I’ve never been a boy, so I don’t understand all their ways. But I know how often I do just the opposite thing, when someone gives me what sounds like an order.” She smiled a little, and her voice took on a tone of light irony. “I shall try not to smother the poor child-the young man-with an overabundance of motherly love.”
“Thank you, my dear.” Charles sat back, grateful, as he often was, for his wife’s intuitive understanding. He had the feeling, too, that when Kate saw Patrick and realized how he had grown in the months since they’d been apart, she would realize that he was right. To stay connected to Patrick, they had to let him go.
The door opened again, and Bradford came in. “Hello, Kate,” he said warmly. “I hope that Mrs. Langtry did not think it rude that we took you away this evening.”
“Not at all, as it turned out,” Kate replied. “At teatime, she received a message from the Prince. It seems that he has come to visit his horses and is staying with Mr. Rothschild at the Palace House. Mrs. Langtry was invited to a late supper, so I was left to my own devices.” She leaned forward, her gray eyes intent. “I am so glad I decided to visit Mrs. Langtry. She is utterly fascinating-but frightening, too!”
“Oh?” Bradford asked, amused. “The celebrated Gilded Lily, frightening? What’s she done to you, Kate?”
“Well, see what you think,” Kate said. Then, speaking slowly and carefully, as if she were trying to recall every detail, she told them what she had overheard in the garden outside Mrs. Langtry’s drawing room, and what Amelia had told her afterward.
“Wait a minute,” Charles said. “Do I understand that this man claims to have taken her jewels and disposed of them for her? And that he got rid of Edward Langtry as well?”
“That’s the gist of it,” Kate replied. “And what is equally interesting, she didn’t attempt to dispute him. In fact, she begged him not to speak of it, for fear they might be overheard by the servants.”
Bradford frowned. “The jewels-I was out of the country at the time. How was it that they were stolen?”
“It was quite an interesting story,” Charles said. “According to the newspaper reports, she kept her jewels-forty thousand pounds worth-in a black enameled tin box, which was reported to be fireproof. She carried the box with her when she toured with her plays, and when she was in London, left it in the Union Bank,
