February 15, 1889 Afternoon #2
“When I had my own children, I told them the same stories of their grandfather and his daring exploits. And when Byron was older, he found my father’s papers too.
Shortly afterwards, he started working as a detective, using the information in the journals as a starting place.
So you see, I was the one to tell him.” She looked out the window, her shoulders sagging.
Mira sat back, the new information swirling in her mind. Was this why Mrs. Sherard disliked Byron’s choice in occupation? Was it guilt?
“Did you—” She cleared her throat. “Do you ever regret not destroying your father’s papers?”
“Never.”
The carriage rumbled beneath them, rushing towards the common goal of this tenuous new alliance. Perhaps they were seeing each other clearly for the first time.
***
Their investigation at the post office yielded nothing.
No man matching Hoddle’s description had mailed anything that day.
Mira wasn’t particularly surprised. If she were wanting to send a ransom note, she would have hired a boy off the street.
They asked every carriage driver they could find whether they had driven a man like Hoddle or a woman like Mary in the past day. None of them could tell them anything.
After two hours of investigation, they stepped into a tea house to warm up and regroup. Mira blew over the top of her cup, urging the tea to cool down so she could drink it faster.
“If this man really is part of Circe,” Mrs. Sherard said, “he is not unconnected. They create a web of deceit, one strand leading to another. If we can only find one connection, we might be able to find him.”
“Yes, but like a web, touching any part alerts the spider,” Mira took a sip and winced as it scalded her tongue.
Mrs. Sherard hummed. “There must be someone we can talk to.”
Mira gasped. “There is! Sibyl Hand.”
“And who is that?” Mrs. Sherard frowned.
“The man who died was not Silas Treadway, but a thief named Enoch Hand. His wife, Sibyl, might know something. She’s the one who told us about the documents in the first place.”
“Will she warn the spider, do you think?”
Mira sat back, the warmth of the teacup radiating into her hands. “I don’t think so.”
“Well then,” Mrs. Sherard set down her cup. “Where can we find her?”
***
They ate a light supper in the tea house while they waited for the cover of night. Mira led the way from the Abbey, through the streets, to the tunnel within the alleyway. The same man, Adams, stood guard.
“What is your business here?”
“We’re here to see Sibyl,” Mira said.
Adams puffed out his chest a little. “She’s not here. Not yet. Do you know where the chamber is?”
Mira nodded.
“Wait there, then. If she ain’t there by ten, she ain’t coming tonight.”
He stepped to the side, letting the women pass.
“It’s a little cramped up ahead,” Mira said, steadying her nerves. “And dark. But it does open up once we are through.”
“A little darkness never hurt anyone.”
“The footing is a little uneven too.”
“I hope you aren’t suggesting that I turn back.”
“Not at all.”
They moved in silence the rest of the way through the tunnel. Once Mira was in the open room with the blue-green pool, she reached down to help Mrs. Sherard through. Byron’s mother took her hand, using her cane to help her up and out of the tunnel.
“Why, this is quite extraordinary,” she said, looking about at the pool and colonnade. “Is this where the thieves meet?”
“It’s a little further on.”
“I suppose Mr. Davis, the architect, knows nothing of this skylarking?”
“I would assume not.”
They ventured into the tunnels that led to the antechambers, but as the light dwindled, so did Mira’s nerves.
She took some deep breaths, feeling altogether unsettled as her mind reminded her of all the ways the Roman construction was like the Parisian catacombs.
She jolted as Mrs. Sherard set a hand on her arm.
“Why don’t we go back and wait in the room with the pools, hm? This Sibyl will need to come the same way we did.”
“We don’t know that,” Mira said.
“If she didn’t, then how would that man out there know whether she had come or not? Come along.”
They retraced their steps, coming back into the open where the cold, moonlit sky stared down at them.
Mrs. Sherard hoisted herself up onto one of the low walls, making a little seat.
From the waist up she looked the picture of elegance, but her legs dangled in the air like a child’s.
In the moonlight, Mira could see Byron’s profile in his mother’s face.
“There. That’s better. I can breathe a little easier in all this fresh air,” Mrs. Sherard said. “I’m afraid I’m not used to these sorts of things.”
Mira hesitantly hopped up onto the wall next to Byron’s mother. “It isn’t exactly a society party, is it?”
“I gather that you don’t think much of society?”
Mira averted her gaze. “I never know how to behave, what I am meant to do.”
The silence spread between them, thick and uncomfortable.
After a moment, Mrs. Sherard said, “The great secret of society is that no one knows what they are meant to do. Things are always changing. Even the cutlery can’t manage to stay consistent.
You think you know what each fork and spoon is meant to do, and then you visit the duke’s and he shows off his new set of tomato spoons.
Yet another thing to remember, and all you want to do is ask why the dickens anyone would want a spoon used exclusively for one particular fruit. ”
Mira couldn’t help but laugh. “Are you speaking from experience?”
“Very recent experience, I’m afraid. I bit my tongue to avoid saying anything rude. Mary ordered a set of tomato spoons the very next week. We have a reputation to uphold, after all.”
Both of their laughter petered out at the mention of Mary.
“I do hope Sibyl knows something,” Mira whispered.
“As do I.”
***
It was nearing ten and Mira’s extremities were tingling. Mrs. Sherard stood, pacing back and forth in front of the pool.
What if Sibyl didn’t come? Would Adams know where she lived? Or worse, what if she had left town, never to return?
It was doubtful Monty would know where Admiral Hoddle would retreat to.
The skittering of rock against rock had them both turning towards the tunnel entrance. A woman Mira recognized scrambled through and froze upon seeing them. It wasn’t Sibyl, but rather one of the other thieves, Elvina.
“Are you back to purchase more goods?” Elvina asked, setting her things down. She struck a match and lit the lantern she had brought.
“We’re waiting for Sibyl,” Mira said.
“You’re out of luck.” Elvina picked up the lantern in one hand and her case in the other. “She won’t be coming for at a few days at least.”
“Why?” Mrs. Sherard said, glancing at Mira.
“She didn’t say. But when I stopped by earlier today, it seemed she had company.”
Mira couldn’t dare to hope. “Was he tall, with grey hair and mutton chops?”
She narrowed her eyes. “. . . yes?”
“It’s Hoddle, it has to be.” Mira stepped closer. “Please, can you tell us where Sibyl lives?”
“I’m not sure I—”
“It’s my daughter,” Mrs. Sherard said, coming to stand next to Mira. “That man has abducted my daughter. Her life is at stake. Please.”
Elvina sighed. “She lives in a cottage near Old Bridge. I’ll write the address down for you.”
***
The lights were still on when they returned to the Royal Crescent, address in hand.
Once stripped of their winter clothes, Mrs. Sherard headed upstairs to check on Castel while Mira went to the sitting room, where she found Byron slumped over the low, Japanese-style table, fast asleep.
Beneath him were pages of various ciphers, the sheet music, and scribbled notes.
Mira picked up the one closest to her, but it was a mess of gibberish.
She crouched beside him, placing a hand on his back and rubbing in slow circles.
“Byron?”
“Hm?”
“It’s time for bed, love.”
“Hrngh.” He lifted his head, eyes bleary. “Mira?”
“Yes.”
He let out a breath. “You’re safe.”
“Of course I am.”
He sat up, considering the papers scattered around him. “What was I doing? I . . . I’m afraid I don’t remember.”
Mira’s heart ached and she stood, reaching a hand down. “You were going to bed.”
“Was I? No, I recall now, I was . . .” He rifled through the stack and picked up a packet of papers. “Right. Did you find—”
“Not exactly. We can talk about everything later.”
He nodded and let her help him stand. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight. See you in the morning.”
He took one last look around, tucked the packet of papers into his jacket pocket, and padded out of the room, still half asleep.
Mira slumped onto the sofa, rubbing her temples.
Even though they knew where Hoddle was keeping Mary, there still was no guarantee of getting her back safely.
She picked up the stack of the papers Byron hadn’t taken with him.
Dozens of attempts and none of them revealed anything.
Maybe Maureen was right about it only being a poor composition.
They had two more days to figure something out. Two more days or Mary would die.
Footsteps shuffled down the hall and Mrs. Sherard came in, looking as exhausted as Mira felt. She sat beside her on the sofa.
“How is he?” Mira asked.
“Still sleeping, but he woke up when I came in. The glass of water I left on the nightstand was empty, so that’s a good sign. Where’s Byron?”
“I sent him up to bed. He was in that fuzzy state between wakefulness and sleep and his memory wasn’t particularly clear.”
Mrs. Sherard frowned. “I thought his memory had healed. Doesn’t he remember things from day to day now?”
“He does. But that doesn’t mean he remembers everything.” She let out a wistful sigh. “I do believe he will always be my forgetful detective.”
Mrs. Sherard smiled. “I’m so grateful that he has you.”
Mira’s breath caught in her chest. “You are?”
“From the moment I met you, I have seen how you’ve cared for him.” Mrs. Sherard stood, moving to close the curtains. She paused at the window before turning back to Mira, straight-backed, hands folded in front of her. “Do you know why Mary dislikes you so?”
Mira swallowed. “I believe there’s a list.”
Mrs. Sherard shook her head. “It’s the detective work.
It always comes back to that. If you had been any other girl, she needn’t have been so afraid.
But you don’t merely encourage his work, you engage with it.
I’m not sure you are aware, but I have buried three grown daughters, an infant son, and a husband. ”
“Byron mentioned the loss the other day. He said that was why Mary was so protective of him.”
“Detective work is dangerous. We’ve always known that.
But when the accident happened . . . He didn’t die, but we lost him just the same.
Every time we would visit, he couldn’t recall anything we had talked about the time previous.
He may not remember it, Miss Blayse, but we visited him every week for a year.
When his external injuries had healed, he got the notion that he could go on the case again.
That was when we stopped coming, because Mary couldn’t bear to see him destroy himself. ”
Mira swallowed. Everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours only corroborated his family’s fears. They may have asked Byron to come investigate the theft of their jewels, but Byron brought the danger of Circe to them. Now Castel had been drugged and Mary abducted.
“That’s why you disapprove of the detective work?” Mira said. “It isn’t because of what society will think, but because it is dangerous?”
Mrs. Sherard paused, moving over to a set of drawers built into the bookcase. She opened one of the drawers and returned with a rectangular book, sitting next to Mira and handing it to her.
Mira opened the cover and found a page pasted full of newspaper clippings.
Detective Constantine Solves Meerdown Murder.
Princeline Diamonds Stolen. Constantine on the Case.
Constantine Finds Duke of Shirland, Missing Three Weeks.
At the bottom of one of the later pages was the advertisement that had initially brought Mira to Byron.
The Central News September 17, 1888
Something troubling you? Are people following you in the street? Sounds that can’t be explained? Mysterious letters in your postbox? Perhaps a loved one gone missing? Look no further. Come to 27 Palace Court, London. Can’t miss it. Oh, and yes, I’m a private detective if you were wondering.
She ran a finger around its edge, smiling fondly. “You’ve saved all of his cases . . .”
“The ones the papers wrote about. I’m sure there are more.
I don’t disapprove of his detective work.
He’s brilliant. I couldn’t be prouder of him.
But it is one thing to lose a child to illness, quite another to violence.
” She turned to look at Mira, her scrutiny not as intimidating as before.
“I’m grateful to you because you’ve brought back his memories.
And now I know there is someone looking out for him, someone who is brave enough to stay by his side and intelligent enough to keep up with him. ”
Mira’s heart glowed as she closed the book and handed it back. “You mean, you don’t think it is improper for a woman to be a detective?”
“There is a superstition that it is bad luck to take a woman to sea.” A wry smile came to Mrs. Sherard’s lips. “But I have taken many voyages myself.”
Mira laughed. “How terribly I’ve misjudged you.”
“One’s character tends to show itself over time.” Mrs. Sherard’s eyes twinkled for a moment. But her gaze grew distant and her smile faded. “We ought to get to bed. We won’t do Mary any good if we aren’t well rested.”
“Oh,” Mira stood, “I’ll need to call a carriage.”
“Nonsense. You can sleep in Mary’s room. Come along.”
Mrs. Sherard led the way up the stairs and helped her find some night clothes.
“Thank you, Mrs. Sherard,” Mira said.
Mrs. Sherard paused in the doorway. “Considering the circumstances, you may call me Mamma, if you’d like. Sleep well, Mira.”