“I trust things are going according to plan?” Oren asked, as he slid into the passenger seat.
Colton checked the side mirror, then pulled away from the curb. “As expected. As long as everyone keeps their end of the bargain, we should be fine.”
Arthur looked at him, but the man’s gaze was fixed out the window, presumably on the traffic. “What do you mean by that?”
“Exactly what it sounds like. Everyone knows their part, the payments are made, I expect all to continue without issues.”
To Arthur, it sounded almost like a veiled threat, but he chose to let it go. For now. He didn’t want anything to ruin this moment. They were finally on their way to see the Gray Ghost, find the secrets it held, and take the next step in securing his fortune and his hold on the Payton estates. All the planning, all the dreams, were finally coming to fruition, and he settled back in his seat, forcing himself to relax during the drive.
Colton, however, broke the silence with the worst sort of news. “The old man has a solicitor. My understanding is, he’s very reputable.”
Reputable meant competent, something they’d hoped to avoid. “He was supposed to be destitute,” Oren said. “How can a man who hasn’t a cent to his name afford that?”
“Oliver, it seems, has convinced the Fargos that his uncle is worthy of their help. They hired the attorney.”
“Out of the goodness of their hearts? I find that hard to believe. There has to be some sort of collateral. They barely know—” He stopped, looked over at Colton. “The only thing of value Oliver and his uncle have left besides Payton Manor is—was—the Gray Ghost.”
“Maybe that’s it,” Colton said, signaling for a right turn, never once looking at Oren. “It’d make sense. Not that it’ll do them much good. They’re hoping to recover the Ghost, no doubt, and we both know that won’t happen.”
Oren drummed his fingers on the center console, his well-manicured nails clicking on the burled wood. They could hope all they wanted. The Paytons were never getting their hands on that car again. Even so, he wouldn’t relax until he’d completed the rest of his plan. They needed to keep the Paytons’ finances on the brink. One step away from disaster, all so Oren could deliver the final blow and see them ruined forever. That would be his vindication, he thought, suddenly noticing that Colton had slowed down considerably. The road leading to the warehouse was a straight shot, the better to see anyone approaching. “Is something wrong?”
Colton eyed the buildings, checked his rearview mirror. “It never hurts to take precautions. I don’t like surprises.”
“Neither do I. Now, back to the Fargos. What do you intend to do about them?”
“That depends on how involved they plan on getting. If they’re merely offering up the services of this solicitor and his investigator, have at it, I say.”
“What if they get the old man off?”
“They won’t. The evidence is irrefutable. Otherwise, the police wouldn’t have made an arrest. So far, all they’ve received is a copy of the police report and the video, neither of which will do them any good.”
“You’d better be right,” he said, as they cruised past the warehouse. Colton pulled around and parked in the back. “After all the problems Oliver has caused, the last thing we need is more distractions.”
Colton looked at him, as he shut off the engine. “Distractions being the key word. It won’t alter the endgame. As I said, everything’s going as planned.”
“Really?” Oren asked, as they got out and walked up to the warehouse door. “I thought you were planning on taking the Fargos out. What happened with that plan?”
“A slight setback, is all. They’ve turned out to be a bit more troublesome than anticipated.”
“How hard is it to knock off two socialites?”
Colton gave him a sidelong glance, as he paused to light a cigarette. He blew out a long stream of smoke, then said, “Is that what you think they are? Or did you not read the dossier I sent?”
“I did. But I thought you were better than that.”
“Because I am better than that, their social status is exactly why we can’t kill them without careful planning. Especially after that fiasco at the Payton warehouse. Like it or not, they’re connected to Oliver. If they go, it needs to appear unconnected to the Paytons or you’ll risk scrutiny when you take over the estate.”
Deep down, he knew Colton was right. It was, after all, why he hired the man. To make sure mistakes weren’t made. “Maybe step up the planning.”
Colton ignored him, as he unlocked the door and the two stepped inside. Cigarette hanging from his mouth, he keyed the code into the alarm pad, switched on the lights. The two men turned around, staring at the empty space.
Colton ripped the cigarette from his mouth, dropped it onto the ground. “I don’t understand . . .” He pulled out his phone, called one of his men. “Where’s the Gray Ghost?”
The volume was high enough for Oren to hear the silence at first before his man said, “What’re you talking about? It was right there last night when I set the alarm.”
“Well, it’s gone.”
It took a moment for Oren to register what he was seeing and hearing. When he finally came to his senses, he looked over at Colton. “Tell me again how everything’s going according to plan?”
24
Allegra was ambitious. Which is why it troubled her to know that Oliver, someday to be the 8th Viscount Wellswick, cared less about the title and more about the farmers. She, on the other hand, had a son to think about, which was what made their family history so interesting. Chances were good that if Oliver continued down the path he was on, her son would inherit everything.
Whether there’d be anything left to inherit remained to be seen, she thought, looking over at her ex-husband, Dex Northcott, who sat at the dining table, reading, while he ate the leftovers she’d hoped to save for dinner. A slow reader, he turned a page, paused to look over at the television in the front room, where a football game was on. The player dribbled the ball past the defense, then kicked it. When the goalkeeper caught it, Dex turned back to the book, the fifth journal, which told the story of the Gray Ghost, stolen in 1906, and how an American detective named Isaac Bell had helped to find it, all while he was hunting down a group of notorious bank robbers.
She regretted the day she’d ever told him that story, one she’d first read when she was about her son’s age, her early teens, after Oliver had found and read it. Back then, she’d thought it was all made up. One of her ancestors having a bit of fun with their family history. It wasn’t until her uncle had brought out the Gray Ghost, hidden in a barn on the property, that she’d even recalled the story. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one.
“Mum . . .”
She nearly jumped. Her son, Trevor, was staring at her. “Did you want something?”
“I asked where the Nutella was.”
“Same place as always. In the cupboard.”
“We’re out.”
Dex gave them an annoyed look. “Do you mind? It’s hard enough reading this ancient cursive without you two making all that noise.” Loud cheering broke out on the television, and he looked that direction but was unable to see because Trevor was standing in the way. Swearing, he slammed the book onto the table, then stalked around the boy and into the front room.
“Let’s have a look, shall we?” Allegra said, walking over to the cupboard and opening it. “Imagine, right where I told you it was,” she said, pulling out the Nutella jar. When she turned around to hand it to him, he’d picked up the journal from the table and was reading through the pages.
“Why’s Dad reading this? Looks pretty old.”
“It’s nothing,” she said. “Belongs to the manor.”
He turned away when she tried to take it from him. “Is it Uncle Albert’s?”
“Sort of.” One thing T
revor had developed over the years he’d lived with her uncle was a deep and abiding love for the man. Which meant she had to be careful if she didn’t want him to develop an inordinate interest in the book. All it would take was a few computer clicks, and he was bound to start linking some of the more unusual goings-on with what was in that journal. Since that was the last thing she needed, she gave a casual shrug. “His great-great-great-grandfather, or some such. Known for his tall tales, according to Uncle Albert.”
“Really?” He turned another page and walked out of the room, forgetting about his sudden need for food.
She would have gone after him if her cell phone hadn’t buzzed and she had to backtrack to the front room to find it, where she’d left it on the coffee table. Annoyed and disturbed when she saw the caller ID, she answered. “I told you not to call me here,” she said, lowering her voice.
“The Gray Ghost is missing.”
Before she even had a chance to process his words, her ex-husband moved in behind her, grabbing her phone so that he could hear the call as well. Her heart started thumping. “Missing?” was all she could manage. “How?” she finally added.
“We’re still trying to figure that out.”
“Did you have a chance to search it?”
“Not yet. Who’s good for it?”
“Good for what?” she asked.
“Who do you think has the car? Who stole it?”
With no idea what to say, she closed her eyes, feeling Dex’s hot breath on her fingers as he gripped them and the phone, listening in on the call. “Chad,” he whispered in her ear.
She pulled away, looking at him, confused.
He pointed to the phone, mouthing the name again.
“Chad . . . ?” she said aloud. Dex nodded.
“Who’s Chad?” the caller asked.
“The mechanic he hired. Supposed to be one of the foremost experts on those antique clunkers. The only one who knew he had the car to begin with. Oliver is on his way to see him tomorrow.” She heard the faint squeaking of the chair in the office. “I have to go. My son’s home.”
“I’ll call tomorrow.” The phone beeped when the call ended.
“Nicely done,” Dex said.
“What are you talking about? Who else would take the car?”
He turned toward the dining table, grabbed her arm, holding it tight. “Where’s the journal?”
Her heart skipped a beat at the anger in his eyes. “Trevor has it.”
“How’d that happen?”
Because you’re an idiot, she wanted to say. “It was sitting on the table. He saw it and picked it up.”
“And you didn’t think to take it from him?”
“I didn’t want to draw attention to it. I know my son,” she said, a subtle dig that Dex had never been there for them. “It’s bad enough that he’s questioning your presence here. He’ll grow tired of reading it and get back to his computer. We just have to wait.”
He squeezed harder, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh.
“Are you quite finished?” she asked, refusing to cry out.
“For now.”
He pushed her arm away in disgust, stormed over to the armchair, sitting down with enough force to move the heavy piece of furniture back a few inches.
Long ago, she’d learned that it was better to remain on an even keel when dealing with him. Now that he was back, it was even more important. For Trevor’s sake.
She walked to the office, peeking in the door, her son barely noticing her, absorbed in reading the diary. Trevor had taken over the room after her divorce, somehow putting together a computer from the boxes of electrical equipment that her ex had left behind, then working a part-time job and buying a newer desktop. These days, he was perfectly happy staying in that room, glued to the monitor, doing, well, whatever it was he did on the computer. The only time he came out was when he had to go to school or to eat. In the past, his isolation worried her. Now, however, she was grateful.
It kept him out of Dex’s affairs.
She looked back toward her ex, his focus on the telly. Perfect. Quietly, she stepped into the office. According to Trevor’s teachers, his comprehension of the written word—unlike his father’s—was more than brilliant. He retained nearly everything he read. Moving closer, she peered over his shoulder to see what he was reading.
25
JOURNAL OF JONATHON PAYTON, 5TH VISCOUNT WELLSWICK
1906
’Twas my fault. I tried to grab the boy’s wrist, but he saw us, taking off down the alley as fast as a cellar rat chased by a cat. Isaac Bell and I raced after him. When we emerged from the alley to the street beyond, there was no sign of the child.
Isaac, certain he couldn’t have gone far in that time, drew me back into the alley, insisting we wait, in his words, “for however long it takes.”
We hunkered down near a refuse pile, the smell of soured trash almost overpowering at first, then fading as our senses dulled. Isaac and I both wore heavy overcoats and gloves, protecting us from the cold. The child had neither, and the quick glimpse of his arm I’d seen at the shop told me that the patched sleeve of his threadbare coat was far too thin to offer much warmth.
As the cold permeated through my heavy layers, I felt certain the child must have escaped or was freezing to death somewhere because of our presence. About to suggest that we split up and begin a search, Isaac pointed to our left. The child emerged from an alcove across the street, where stairs led down to a basement door of the mercantile building. He hovered at the top of the stairs, edged his way out, raced ’round the corner. Isaac and I followed as the boy ran toward the railroad tracks . . .
* * *
—
“WE HAVE HIM,” Isaac said, bolting down the street.
I could scarce keep up with the detective as he raced after the child, cornering him beneath the stairs of a factory about midway down the block.
By the time that I caught up with them, I was completely out of breath. “We mean no harm,” I said, my chest heaving.
The boy cowered against the wall, his eyes wide with fright, as he regarded us. He lingered on me, as he slowly stood, edging away from Isaac. Suddenly he darted past me.
Isaac was faster. He grabbed the boy, lifting him in the air and holding him out, as the urchin squirmed and kicked.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” the boy cried. “You can have the bread. I won’t do it again. I won’t!”
“Hush,” Isaac said. “We don’t care about the bread.”
“Let me go!”
“Information. We’re willing to pay.” Isaac looked over at me. “Show him the money.”
It took a moment for his words to sink in. I quickly reached for my coin purse, holding out two shillings for the boy to see. “Yours,” I said, “if you’ll talk to us.”
He eyed the money, his demeanor changing from scared to suspicious. But then he looked at my face, his eyes going wide. Suddenly he struggled harder, shouting, “I won’t tell. I won’t. I promise! I promise! Please let me go.”
Isaac nearly lost his grip on the boy. “Won’t tell what?”
The boy refused to look up again, this time angling his eyes downward. Which was when I recognized him. My father had insisted I attend a meeting at the orphanage to learn why there was a shortage of money. It had been that day. “I saw you at the children’s home.”
Tears sprang to the lad’s eyes, and he seemed to crumple in Isaac’s arms, the fierce wildcat turning into a trembling mess. “Please don’t hurt me. I didn’t see anything.”
I was about to reassure him when Isaac asked, “What didn’t you see?”
“That man what killed them blokes. I didn’t see. I didn’t.” He buried his face into Isaac’s chest, struggling to breathe as loud sobs wracked his chest.
Isaac held him tight, as he loo
ked at me over the top of the boy’s head. “I believe we have found our witness.”
* * *
—
WE TOOK THE BOY to Isaac’s suite of rooms at the Midland Hotel, where we discovered that food was a far better motivator than any amount of money. Isaac questioned him as he ate, and, with each answer, I felt my world crashing in.
“He’s mistaken!” I said, unable to believe the child’s words. “There’s no other explanation.”
“That remains to be seen,” Isaac said, sitting at a table in the parlor in front of an arched window that overlooked the street below, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the squeak of carriage wheels drifting up. Isaac looked at the open door to the next room, where the child had fallen asleep on the bed. “You believe the lad saw you and your cousin at the orphanage a few days before the robbery?”
“That had to have been it. My father asked me to have a look at the ledgers, due to a sudden shortage in funds. As patrons of the charity for the orphanage, he feels it’s our responsibility to ensure that nothing was amiss.”
“And what were the findings?”
“My cousin assured me the books held only one or two errors. Nothing that would suggest a mismanagement of the funds.”
“Your cousin assured you? This wasn’t your assessment?”
I felt a twinge of worry. “He offered to look at the books. He’s much better at figures.”
“Was there anyone else with you besides your cousin that afternoon?”
“Our driver.”
“Did he ever leave the carriage?”
“No.”
“Only you and your cousin?”
“He’s not a thief.”
“Quite possibly he’s a murderer. Which is far worse.”
“Impossible. He and his wife have a newborn son. He’d never—”
“By any chance does your cousin gamble?”