The Debutante's Code, page 18
“Did Mr. Selby have any enemies? Anyone who might wish to do him harm?”
Mr. Rickets fussed and fidgeted as he thought about his answer. “Mr. Selby wasn’t like that. I mean, he was rather boring on the whole. He didn’t excite anyone to the point of shouting, much less to murder. He was ordinary. Good at his job, reliable, a good boss. I cannot imagine anyone wanting to kill him.”
Daniel consulted his prepared list of questions. What else could he ask? Thus far, he’d discovered nothing that lent itself to finding Mr. Selby’s killer, and several things that seemed to indicate he hadn’t an enemy in the world.
Yet the man was dead, someone had killed him, and someone had stolen the inventory lists.
“Have you been able to remember what else you purchased on your trip?”
“Oh, my, yes. I am sorry my mind was so blank before. It was the shock, you see. Poor Mr. Selby, God rest his soul. And the state of the gallery. I don’t know if we’ll open the shop again. Mr. Rathbone is so old now, and to have to start over. He lost so many beautiful pieces to that wicked vandal.” His nostrils flared. “It’s disgraceful that someone would act with such wanton wickedness, destroying beautiful pieces of art that never harmed anyone.”
Not to mention killing Mr. Selby. God rest his soul.
“What else did you buy then? And for whom?” Daniel prompted.
“Oh yes. Well, specifically, I bought some table silver and jewelry at an auction in Pau, and several items all in a lot at a villa in Lombardy whose owner had a propensity for betting on bad cards and needed to pay his creditors. There was a very curious collection in Zurich that had items from Africa and other odd places. I don’t think Mr. Selby had buyers for those pieces, but he did enjoy artifacts from around the world. Some were intended for auction here if I could get them for a low enough price. And one particular item he was most insistent that I purchase. A first folio of Shakespeare that had been taken to France at the beginning of the war by an aristocrat who evidently thought war was going to be a pleasant junket. When he was killed and the camp overrun, the folio fell into enemy hands. Mr. Selby had tracked the folio to a book dealer in Marseilles, and he had a buyer here willing to pay a king’s ransom for it to be returned to England, where it belongs. I don’t know which pieces went where, as Mr. Selby liked to keep that information to himself. He was closed mouthed when it came to sharing information about our clients. I think he feared another dealer might pinch his customers if word leaked. He didn’t tell me who the items were for, and I didn’t ask. It was strictly need to know, you understand.
“I know there were some other oddments here and there that I bought, but the paperwork was with the shipment, and Mr. Selby would have received those documents when he took possession of the crates at the quay.” His mouth twisted. “I was frustrated to have missed the departure in Genoa.” He fingered the buttons on his waistcoat. “I had heard there was a Sevres jardinière for sale, which I thought I could purchase and still make it back to port on time. The owner was a determined Genoese who wished to sell but did not wish to negotiate. He also wished to drink wine, and he would not drink alone. We imbibed, and I hoped that when he was inebriated, I might get him down to a better price. Alas, he had a head for wine, and I do not. I got nowhere in the negotiations, and I fell asleep at his table. By the time I awoke, my ship had left port and my head wanted to leave my body.” He winced and rubbed his temple. “I was afraid Mr. Selby would be upset that I did not return with the shipment, and rightly so, as it was very valuable. That is why I was so nervous when I came into the shop, having to face Mr. Selby and tell him that I missed the boat—on two counts.”
He sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I didn’t appreciate what a fine man he was until it was too late. I couldn’t have asked for a better employer.” He sniffed and blinked, digging for a handkerchief and blowing his nose with a loud honk. “If Mr. Rathbone doesn’t reopen the store, I don’t know what I will do.”
Daniel looked at Ed, raising his eyebrows. Did he have anything else to ask?
“The jeweled dagger wasn’t something you purchased while on your buying trip?” Ed indicated the box beside him on the table, the box that contained the murder weapon, the sight of which had nearly sent Mr. Rickets into a faint.
Rickets composed himself, rubbing his palms on his thighs and staring at the wall to his right. A shudder went through him, as if he could still see the dagger. “No. It must have been something Mr. Selby obtained for the shop while I was in Europe. Possibly from an individual, but more likely from an auction house.” He shuddered again. “I’ve never seen it before, and I don’t want to see it ever again.”
“What auction house did Mr. Selby use? To sell things you bought on speculation?”
“Barrett and Company almost exclusively. They have a wide range of clients and handle most every type of art and antiquity.”
“They would have a record of items they had sold for Turner and Rathbone, wouldn’t they?” Daniel asked. Perhaps they could get an approximation of the inventory of the art dealership through the auction company.
“Of course. I can’t imagine why someone would want to steal our inventory books. Most of the current inventory was destroyed by that wanton, wicked—”
“We understand.” Daniel had no desire to go over that again. “Thank you, Mr. Rickets, for coming in today. If we have further questions, we will contact you.” He pushed his chair back and folded his list of questions, tucking it into his breast pocket.
Rickets seemed taken aback at the abrupt end of the interview, but he gathered himself enough to give a weak smile and nod. “I hope I’ve been of help to you. Please apprehend whoever did this soon. I’m afraid to be in the gallery by myself knowing there is a madman on the loose.”
When he’d departed, Owen shook the ink drops off his quill, capped the bottle, blotted the papers, and butted them together. Ignoring Daniel, he handed the pages to Ed. “’Ere you go, sir. Nice and tidy. That man can talk for England.” He rotated his wrist and flexed his fingers. “I thought he’d never stop.”
“Thank you, Owen.” Ed examined the papers. “That will be all for now.”
Owen nodded and sauntered out of the room, whistling softly.
“What do you think?” Daniel asked Ed.
“I think we heard plenty and didn’t glean much.” Ed slid the box with the dagger toward himself. “He doesn’t seem to know anything that would point us in a solid direction. Mr. Selby had no enemies that he knew of, they’d received no threats that he was aware of, and he encountered nothing unusual on his buying trip.”
“So we’re no further ahead, and Sir Michael will be expecting an update this evening.”
“What next?”
“You’re going to contact the agencies who supplied the extra workers for the Montgomery and Bickford parties and see if anyone recognizes anyone else.”
“What will you do?”
“I will visit Barrett and Company Auction House. It’s the slimmest of leads, but it’s the only one we’ve got.” Daniel followed Ed out of the interview room.
Most days, the six detectives who called Bow Street Magistrate’s Court their home base were scattered across London and sometimes across the country, but today there was a full house.
Thomas Fyfe had his boots on the corner of his desk and his chair tipped back at a precarious angle. Pipe smoke wreathed his head, and his waistcoat strained to cover his substantial middle. Many a scoundrel had underestimated both his brains and his brawn to their peril.
Edgar Piggott, a wiry man of just over five feet, cleaned his nails with the sharp end of a pushpin. When Daniel passed his desk, Edgar jerked his chin in a hello, but any smile he might have given was hidden by his legendary moustache.
Tolliver, whose given name was Matthias, barely glanced up from the neat stacks of paper on his desk, but Andrew Jamison bounded up and clapped Ed on the shoulder. “Greetings, Beck. How’s the war against crime going? Word is, the pup got his first case, and it’s a cracker.” He winked and elbowed Ed, jerking his head at Daniel. “Ah, makes a tear come to the eye it does, seeing our little lad growing up like he is.”
“All right.” Daniel grinned. “How long do I have to work here before I’m no longer ‘the pup’?”
Jamison spread his hands, as if the answer was obvious. “Until someone greener than you gets hired on.”
Ed handed Daniel the interview notes and took his hat and cloak from the pegs on the wall by his desk. “I’ll let you know what I find.”
Daniel nodded and took his own garments. Jamison perched his hip on the corner of Daniel’s desk and crossed his arms. “So tell me about your case, me boy-o. A theft linked to a murder linked to another theft? And all caught up in the aristocracy?”
“You seem to know a lot already.”
“Word gets around. Sir Michael seems a bit … unsettled? Is it the case or the detective? Why isn’t Ed in charge?”
Daniel’s hackles rose. “I am a capable detective, and I can handle my own cases.” That this was the first one he’d been given charge of shouldn’t signify. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have an actual lead to follow and cannot spend the rest of the day gossiping.” He clapped his hat on his head and swirled his cloak in a practiced manner so the many capes fell across his shoulders just so.
Jamison raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Easy there, lad. I meant no offense. Sure you can handle a case on your own, and well past time you had one. I only meant to let you know we’re all here if you want to bounce some ideas around. We all play on the same team, lad.” He swept his arm wide to take in the other detectives, who nodded agreement. “Sir Michael can be a thrawn de’l when he’s in a mood, but don’t let him knock your confidence. We’ll help if we’re needed, and we’ll watch from the side if we’re not.”
Shame flickered in Daniel’s chest. “Right. My apologies.” They were good men who didn’t deserve the rough side of his tongue. He’d not earn their respect if he couldn’t take some good-natured quizzing from time to time. “I appreciate the assistance.”
Cadogan’s cab waited at the curb. “Need a ride?” He’d blanketed Lola and Sprite against the chill, and their breath hung in misty clouds before being swirled away toward the river.
“Know where Barrett and Company Auction House is?”
“Aye. Climb in.”
The auction house was an understated brick building on the outside, but the interior spoke of wealth and taste. Walnut paneling, plush Axminster carpets, and subdued but ample lighting in the foyer.
A well-dressed clerk raised his head from his paperwork. “May I help you, sir?”
Daniel introduced himself. “I’d like to speak to a manager, please.”
“There is an auction in progress, sir, and the manager won’t be available for some time.”
“This is a matter of some urgency.” Why did he seem to choose to arrive when managers were at their most busy?
“So is an auction that will produce thousands of pounds, sir. You are welcome to go into the gallery and observe the proceedings. I will tell the manager you are here, and if there is a break, he will come to you.”
Daniel slid his pocket watch into his hand. He supposed he could wait a few minutes, and he’d never been to an auction before. “Very well.”
The clerk showed him to a side door, and he slipped into the gallery. The room was only half-full. Perhaps the clerk had overestimated bringing in thousands of pounds today.
He took a chair along the wall, putting his hat and cloak on the empty seat beside him as the auctioneer murmured on about a pair of cloisonné vases. Daniel leaned in to hear, and the opening bid would have impoverished him.
He refrained from rolling his eyes, but only just, leaning back against his chair and folding his arms to wait.
A head turned, and his gaze meshed with Lady Juliette’s.
But even more astonishing was the woman to her left.
“I’m sorry I’m late. It seems to be a perpetual state with me. Where are we going?” Agatha landed in the carriage beside Juliette and stopped speaking, her brows rising.
“Agatha, this is Mrs. Dunstan, our housekeeper. The dowager wasn’t available to accompany us, and I didn’t think she would enjoy the excursion anyway. It’s just shopping, after all, so I asked Mrs. Dunstan to accompany us. I don’t have a ladies’ maid yet, since Mother had to leave before we chose one, and Mrs. Dunstan said she didn’t mind getting out of the house for a while.”
As much as Juliette would have loved to go on her own to bid on the next item, Uncle Bertie had said to obey all conventions, which included taking a maid with her when she went out. It was he who suggested the housekeeper, in fact.
“I see,” Agatha said weakly. “If I had known the dowager was unable to come, I would have brought my maid so your housekeeper wouldn’t have been inconvenienced.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Dunstan will be an excellent chaperone. It’s not as if we’re going to get up to anything scandalous. A few errands and some fresh air.” Did bidding on a sculpture that might contain a secret code harmful to the realm constitute scandalous?
Mrs. Dunstan nodded. “I won’t get in your way, Lady Juliette. Pretend I’m not here.” She looked out the window, giving the girls at least the pretense of privacy. Juliette had never been comfortable with the notion that servants should be seen and not heard and that unless one was addressing them directly, one should act as if they weren’t there at all. That they were part of the furnishings and functions of the house, not people in their own right.
Thankfully, her parents had never believed that either, nor acted upon it. Those they hired were people with lives and feelings and ideas. They were neither better nor worse than anyone. The employer-employee relationship was built on mutual respect and was an equal exchange. A fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work, making certain that courteous treatment went both ways.
When it came time for Juliette to set up her own household, she intended to operate along those lines.
“What’s on your list to accomplish today?” Juliette asked Agatha.
“I simply must stop by Catrin’s today and pick up my riding habit. If we’re going to the Ash Valley Hunt, I want to look my best. And I’ve got a beautiful new gown for the Hunt Ball. What are you going to wear?” Agatha dove in on her second-favorite subject.
“I shall have to look through my wardrobe. I know Mother will have covered every contingency, and if not, I can borrow something from her dressing room. A groom is taking Fabiana from the stables here down to Ash Valley on Thursday in plenty of time for her to be rested and ready for the hunt on Monday.”
Mother wouldn’t mind Juliette riding her mare, but hopefully she would return to London before the hunt and all would be well. Worry spiraled through Juliette’s middle. The process of procuring and decoding the art pieces was stretching into eternity. The longer it took, the more likely that someone else could break the code. It was possible that even now it was too late. Worse, the longer her parents remained away, the more bleak the possibilities. Had they been captured? Were they even now dead, as Mr. Selby and Leonidas were? Surely God wouldn’t allow anything to happen to them just as she was coming home, just as she was beginning to know them without pretense. God, protect them wherever they are.
Perhaps when Uncle Bertie returned, he would have news?
“I had another place I wanted to stop before the dressmaker’s, if you don’t mind.” And a letter of credit burning a hole through my reticule.
“The milliners? The glovers? Or do you need new stationary? I’m having calling cards printed. I don’t like the ones I chose last week as well as I had hoped. There’s a new style at the stationer’s with scalloped edges that I just adore.” Agatha dug in her reticule. “Look at these. What was I thinking? They’re so drab.” She held up a perfectly good bit of pasteboard with her name printed in beautiful script.
“Actually, I’d like to visit an auction house.”
Agatha’s brows rose and arrowed together. “An auction house?” She sounded as if Juliette had suggested calling upon Mad King George. “Whatever for?”
“My father’s birthday is approaching, and he’s taken an interest in studying things from the Far East. There’s an item coming up for bid that I want to get for him.”
“What item? Can you not send someone to buy it? Are ladies welcome in an auction house?”
“Of course we’ll be welcome. It isn’t like Whites or Boodles. It’s open to the public. The item I want is an ornament for Father’s desk. According to the catalog, it’s a dragon carved from jade. Not too big, but heavy, to weigh papers down. I think he’ll love it.” He would love it if she could get it, because of the code. But unlike the painting and the maquette, which must be returned as soon as possible, he would be able to keep the dragon because she was purchasing it with his own money. That, at least, sat lighter on her conscience.
“The only auction I can remember was one near the Haymarket, where they were selling livestock. It was noisy, smelly, and crowded.” Agatha plumped back against the squabs. “Father took me when I was small, and when Mother found out, she blistered him but good.”
“This won’t be like a livestock auction.” At least she hoped not. She’d never been to an auction at all, livestock or not.
Barrett and Company turned out to be more like a Mayfair salon than an animal barn. Understated elegance greeted them, and while no one was openly rude, curious stares followed the ladies through the foyer.
Agatha nudged Juliette and whispered, “I don’t see another woman anywhere.”
Mrs. Dunstan stood to the side with Agatha while Juliette approached the clerk, showed her letter of credit, and signed her name. He handed her a bidding card with a number on it. “Keep this with you to show the auctioneer if you happen to win an item. He’ll record it, and we’ll use it when you are ready to pick up your purchase.” He snapped his fingers, and an elderly man in a green waistcoat and breeches and white hose that wrinkled around his thin legs shuffled forward. “Allow one of our ushers to show you around.”
