Unraveling Secrets (The Secret Trilogy) Page 4

  He glanced about the room, not bothering with a greeting. “Quite the mess he left, eh?”

  “Indeed it is.” Abigail stepped forward. “I’m Abigail Bradford and this is my stepmother, Lady Bradford.”

  “Constable Jennings, at your service.”

  Irene dipped her head at the man’s bow. “I’ll leave Abigail to give you the few details we know. We do hope you’ll be able to find the person who did this and put an end to it.”

  “We do what we can, my lady. But crimes like this are a bit of a challenge to solve.”

  Irene’s eyes went wide at his words.

  “Thomas, could you see that repairs are made to the garden door? We’ll need a better lock on it as well.” Abigail hoped that would calm her stepmother.

  “Of course, miss. I’ll see to that immediately.”

  “I’ll leave you two to discuss this.” Irene smiled politely at the constable. “I’m certain we can expect results with such a capable man as you on the case.”

  The man beamed at her words. “I promise to do what I can, my lady.”

  “Well then, that is all we can ask, isn’t it?” She winked at Abigail as she left the room.

  Abigail bit back a smile at her stepmother’s obvious attempt to flatter the constable. With no man in their household, they had to do what they could to be certain they were treated fairly. Irene was not above plying her feminine charms, if necessary.

  Ponsford closed the door behind Irene and Thomas, remaining in the room. Abigail appreciated his support. The old butler had been with their family since Abigail’s birth and often served as her sounding board. He knew all about Simmons’ return to their lives and was as frustrated as she at recent events.

  The constable cleared his throat and withdrew a small notebook from his breast pocket. “Now then, perhaps you could give me what information you know?”

  “Ponsford?” She nodded at the butler to share what he knew which he did in precise words.

  “And that was when you arrived home, miss?” the constable asked when Ponsford had finished.

  “Yes. I can’t see anything that’s missing, but I haven’t gone through all my papers yet.”

  The constable laughed. “I doubt the thief was after those. He’d be looking for small objects he could easily carry and sell.”

  Abigail bristled, unable to help herself. “My papers are extremely valuable. They contain detailed information about—”

  Ponsford cleared his throat and raised a brow, a sure sign that she should reconsider her words.

  She drew a deep breath, resigned to keep to the topic at hand. “I’m sure you’re right. But those statues are quite expensive and would’ve been an obvious item for him to take.”

  The constable followed the direction of her finger and reached to pick up one. “Humph. True enough. Perhaps that’s when your man here interrupted him. Can you give me a description of him?”

  “I’m afraid I only caught a glimpse of the back of him.” Ponsford proceeded to give him the few details he knew.

  “We do have a suspect we would like to have you investigate,” Abigail said.

  “Oh? Why didn’t you say so? Has someone bothered you before? Made threats?”

  “Indeed they have. Vincent Simmons. He’s only recently been released from Pentonville Prison. Our footman can give you his current place of residence.”

  Constable Jennings scribbled as she spoke.

  Again, Ponsford cleared his throat.

  Abigail knew exactly what he was thinking, but she wasn’t going to bother explaining about Simmons’ escape from the death sentence he’d received. She’d tried that approach with the constable yesterday and failed. In truth, she was certain he’d thought her a loon.

  “He might also go by the name of Edward Smith.” That was the best she could do. She glanced at Ponsford to see him nod in approval.

  “He has an alias? Quite ambitious for a petty thief.”

  Abigail debated saying more, but decided less was more in this case. She’d let the constable do his own research and hopefully at the very least put Simmons back in jail.

  “How do you know this Simmons character?”

  “Ah—” How could she explain it? “He knew my father.”

  “Do you have any evidence to support your claim that he’s the one who broke in?”

  She looked to Ponsford for help.

  “He was seen outside the house just last week, lurking about,” the butler said. “Very suspicious behavior.”

  The constable looked up from his notes to study the butler. “Perhaps Lord Bradford is available that I might speak with him.”

  “He is deceased,” Ponsford told him. “Ten years past.”

  “My condolences, miss.” The constable dipped his head. “Terribly sorry.”

  “Thank you,” Abigail said.

  “It’s just you and the lady then?”

  “And my younger twin sisters.”

  “A house full of ladies? I’m sorry to say that not having a man in residence makes you an easier target.”

  Ponsford cleared his throat again, obviously affronted at the constable’s comment, but the policeman remained unaware of the butler’s annoyance.

  “I was told someone was injured?” Constable Jennings asked, glancing between them.

  “Yes, our maid Jenny was struck from behind.”

  “I’ll want to speak with her. And your footman as well.”

  “Of course. Do you want to examine the room further? Perhaps see if there are any clues?”

  The man frowned at Abigail’s suggestion. “No point in that. If you find something as you’re tidying up the place, let me know. But if the thief broke in during the day, chances are he’s experienced and wouldn’t have made the mistake of leaving behind evidence.”

  Abigail was growing more frustrated by the moment. “Could you tell me what your next steps are? How do you intend to approach Simmons?”

  “Now now, miss. No need to worry your pretty little head about such matters. Leave it to us. It’s what we do. I’ll let you know as soon as I discover anything of interest.”

  “When can I expect that?”

  He smiled condescendingly. “When I contact you. Some things can’t be rushed.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do the best you can,” she replied, wishing she could demand immediate action.

  Funny how when a woman was demanding, she acted like a shrew, but when a man did so, he was merely someone who knew what he wanted. She wasn’t yet ready to be called a shrew, but that day might come if she didn’t hear back from Constable Jennings soon.

  “Perhaps you could take me to where the maid and footman are?” the constable asked Ponsford.

  “Of course. This way, please.” Ponsford led the way out the door.

  “Good day, miss.” He bobbed his head.

  “Oh, wait. One more thing.” Abigail paused, deciding how best to word this. “My stepmother, Lady Bradford, upsets quite easily. I’d rather you spoke only to me of anything that develops.”

  “Very well. Good day.”

  Abigail frowned at his retreating back. Somehow she wasn’t reassured by the constable’s visit. She felt no safer.

  A glance about the wrecked room had her biting her lip with worry. Yet she could think of nothing else she could do to keep her family safe.

  ***

  Stephen paused as he attempted to don his shirt, closing his eyes at the wave of pain that tore through him when he tried to lift his arm. “Damn!”

  “Do you truly think this wise?” Daniel Farley asked as he stood nearby, watching.

  “What? Do you think I should lie in bed for the next month?” Stephen disliked the anger that spewed out but seemed unable to do anything about it.

  “Resting for more than two days would hardly hurt. You were shot after all,” he said dryly. “Not to mention the surgery to remove the ball.”

  Stephen held back a growl. The whole situation was so frustrating. All because
of that blasted woman! He hated the pain and weakness that filled him, especially since all he could do was lay there and think of her.

  “I’m all for you getting up and moving around a bit. I just don’t see the need for you to go downstairs tonight. Chances are that someone will jostle your shoulder and since you’ve insisted on keeping your injury as much of a secret as possible...”

  Stephen sighed. As always, Farley was the voice of reason. “Fine. I’ll satisfy myself with walking around my rooms a bit.”

  “And perhaps eat a decent meal for a change,” Farley suggested. “Proper nutrition will aid your strength.”

  “You’re worse than my mother ever was.”

  “Since the dear lady is no longer with us, it’s my job to look after you when you refuse to look after yourself.”

  Resigned to being stuck in his room for another day, Stephen walked to the window and pulled back the drapes to stare out across the city, doing his best to ignore the pain in his shoulder and the weakness in his legs.

  Dusk settled over the horizon, disguising the soot-covered buildings with a golden glow. Soon night would fall in full, and with it came another sort of darkness all together. The darkness that mankind brought. When the lights went out, sinners showed their faces.

  But this night, it would have to get on without him. Someone else would have to try to keep the villains at bay, to keep the innocent safe, to keep the ignorant unaware of the evils out there.

  He let the drapes fall back in place, but that didn’t block out his own dark thoughts. This would be his second full night inside. That meant the restlessness would start. His own demons would plague him. With no outlet, they would circle in his mind in an attempt to drive him mad. He’d found the only thing that worked to hold them back was to go out into the streets and find people in need of aid.

  “One more night will do no harm,” Farley said softly, as though he’d read Stephen’s thoughts.

  Farley knew all of Stephen’s secrets, or most of them anyway. Having a business partner and friend like Farley to cover his back when he needed it and to leave him in peace when he didn’t was more than Stephen could’ve asked for.

  Certainly more than he deserved.

  “You’re right,” Stephen agreed but without conviction. “It’s only one more night.”

  He walked to the crystal decanter on the dresser and poured himself a brandy with his bad arm, just to push himself a little. Then he took the edge off the pain with a gulp of the golden liquid. It burned a path down to his belly, spreading warmth as it went.

  “Shall I stay?” Farley asked. “We could play some chess if you’re up to it.”

  Stephen glanced to the ivory chessboard that sat on a small table near the fire. The black and white intricately carved pieces did not beckon him this night.

  “No need. I’ll be fine. I think I’ll go home for a few days on the morrow, assuming you can handle things here?”

  “Of course.”

  “You should go down to the gaming room to see if you’re needed.”

  “As you wish.”

  Though he knew he’d probably hurt Farley’s feelings, Stephen did not call him back. He did not want company. He wanted to brood with a glass of brandy while he contemplated big blue eyes and a golden aura.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Abigail hurried into the library two days later, anxious to hear what Constable Jennings had discovered. Her hopes were high that he had Vincent Simmons in custody and had uncovered how Simmons had escaped from hanging. Her nerves were frayed from being on the watch for the man everywhere they went.

  “Good day, Constable.”

  The thunderous look on the official’s face was less than reassuring. “I would hardly call it that, miss.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The police are very busy. We do not take lightly to those who send us on wild goose chases.”

  Dread curled in the pit of her stomach. “I’m afraid I don’t understand of what you’re speaking.”

  His red mustache twitched with indignation. “I’m speaking of you providing false leads.”

  “I did no such thing!”

  The sound that escaped the constable’s mouth was difficult to interpret. He withdrew his notebook from his breast pocket. “Did you or did you not suggest that Vincent Simmons was the man who’d broken into your home?”

  “Well, yes, I have every reason to suspect—”

  “Simmons was hung ten years past. How could you have possibly seen him outside your home of late?”

  She gritted her teeth in frustration. “I have no proof, but he told me himself that he did not hang. That instead, he switched places with another man named Edward Smith—”

  “Ah, yes, let us discuss this Smith person.” The constable flipped the page of his notebook. “Edward Smith boarded a ship to America the day after he was released from prison with his wife and three sons.”

  “What? No, that can’t be.” Abigail frantically tried to think of some way to prove her claim. “Simmons told me the police wouldn’t believe me.”

  “So you’re saying you’ve spoken with a ghost, is that it?” The constable’s brows rose to the brim of his hat. “You’re one of those, are you? One who communicates with the deceased?”

  “Heavens, no! I’m telling you that Simmons is not dead.”

  “I examined his death certificate myself.”

  “It was forged.”

  “What proof do you have of that?”

  “None, but surely it’s obvious.” Abigail wanted to throttle the man and his ridiculous attitude. Speaking with the dead? Who was the crazed one here? “If you’d only listen to reason—”

  “Miss, I mean no disrespect, but I can’t be wasting my time chasing after people who either no longer exist or who have left the country.” He rose from his chair and tucked the notebook back in his pocket. “Someone obviously broke into your home, but since nothing was missing and we have no real leads, we’ll have to close the case unless additional evidence arises. Good day to you, miss.”

  Shocked at the turn of events, Abigail could only stand there, mouth ajar, while the constable showed himself out. She’d thought she’d found assistance to protect her family and now she was left with no one to aid her. Again.

  “Was that the constable?” Irene asked as she came into the library.

  “Yes, but he was of no help whatsoever.”

  “Why? What did he say?”

  The entire story nearly poured forth before Abigail caught herself. She still didn’t want to tell Irene of the return of Vincent Simmons. She knew he was real even if the constable refused to believe her. But she didn’t want her family to know that. “He said without evidence of some sort, there’s nothing he can do.”

  “That’s ridiculous. What are we to do now?” Her brow furrowed and her gaze darted about the room as though hoping to find a solution tucked in a corner.

  Abigail forced a reassuring smile to her lips. “Thomas has put better locks on all the doors. I don’t expect we’ll have another break-in.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” The worry in Irene’s eyes belied her words.

  Abigail was at a loss. Now what was she to do? Simmons was obviously not going away on his own.

  ***

  The next morning, Stephen sat at the desk in his library, staring at the papers spread before him. No matter how hard he concentrated, he couldn’t make sense of them. With a growl of frustration he sat back, annoyed that he couldn’t focus.

  The quiet of his town house on Park Lane was a welcome change from the noise and energy of The Barbican. His injury felt better today, but given his lack of focus, perhaps he needed additional time to recover. He’d hoped that a change of scenery would improve both his mood and his health. He well knew the two were often closely connected.

  His home was his private sanctuary. No one visited here, not even Farley. Stephen kept his life at the gaming hell and his personal life separate. Not that he had much of
a personal life.

  He picked up one of the papers, hoping to hold back the darkness that loomed over him once again. It helped to stay busy, to keep his mind occupied, but that wasn’t always enough to fend off the shadows.

  The headache that throbbed at his temple often indicated the beginning of another bout of the despair that stole days of his life at a time. The thought of suffering through one now, in addition to the gunshot wound, was more than he could bear. He was certain the bouts were a side effect of the experiment that had gone wrong nearly ten years ago.

  Before him in the center of his desk was an electromagnetic device—fine copper wire coiled with transducers at either end. The apparatus was a miniature version of the one that had forever changed his life. As he stared at it, memories washed over him from those days that seemed a long time ago and yet as if they’d occurred yesterday.

  His first few weeks at Cambridge had been lonely, but soon he’d met Michael and Lucas. Previously only acquaintances, the three of them became inseparable, even sharing the same tutor, Professor Grisby. The professor had provided wise advice, extra assistance and lively discussions the three friends had enjoyed.

  Professor Grisby had been fascinated with electromagnetism—the ability to create and control a magnetic force with electricity. His excitement over its potential to aid mankind had been infectious. He’d hoped to develop many practical applications with its power and had involved the three friends in his research. One of their first experiments had been using the force to bend metal.

  The challenge with all of their tests over those two years had been trying to control the velocity. And that had been where things had gone awry in their last experiment. Stephen should’ve stepped in and stopped it. He’d realized the flaw in their plan but had hesitated and the transducer had surged with power; electric currents had struck them all.

  The memory of the jolt still made the hair on the back of Stephen’s neck rise. He’d never before or since felt that level of pain—a stunning force that had ricocheted through his body. He’d tried to piece together what had happened after he’d been knocked unconscious. His memory of the entire incident was hazy at best. He’d woken to find a jagged cut across his chest and a lump on his head from striking the table he’d stood beside. The floor was littered with debris, the room filled with smoke.