Chapter 25
‘It was initially suspected,’ Dashwood explained as he sorted through a selection of bolt pins, ‘that the robberies were the work of foreign agents, hence my being assigned to the task. As you are no doubt aware, we stand in a tense state of affairs with Napoleon in control of most of Europe. We have superior naval forces, which give the Isles a strong defensive position. But secrets and information are a vital point of military strategy, and while the robberies themselves did not involve the loss of especially critical intelligence, there remained concerns.’
Lucy nodded, still reconciling what it meant to be part of a second secret world in addition to the Night Races.
Their conversation continued as they worked, breaking only when Jim and Mr Marbrook were required to lever up the frame of the coach so that the wheels might be attached. The finessing and customising were left to Dashwood and Lucy.
‘But the latest robbery surely does not fit the pattern,’ Lucy mused.
‘Perhaps not the pattern, but certainly the style. Each coach has been found with the persons and cargo missing, but little to no indication of damage.’
‘Given that the previous robberies were not common knowledge,’ she said, ‘it would be an unlikely coincidence that the missing brandy is the work of a different party.’
‘I concur. But it may also suggest that the robberies are not the action of foreign agents after all.’
‘But rather the work of thieves, or at least those with money as their prime motivation.’
‘Precisely. Military information can be valuable for anyone with the right Continental contacts. And yet …’ Dashwood paused, twisting a bolt into place with impressive strength.
‘It seems curious that one would start with harder robberies and work down to easier ones. The previous coach had five men on it, four of them armed.’
‘Perhaps they simply found the brandy too easy a mark to ignore.’
‘That is my supposition also. I believe the robbers are likely very experienced in this activity.’
‘Which is why you attended the Night Races.’
‘And why I intend to race again once we are able.’
‘You suspect Torres?’ Lucy asked.
‘I do. He is a skilled night rider with Continental knowledge and a mysterious background. From what you know of him, might he be capable?’
‘Torres and his team were one of the two most likely parties responsible for the crime in my theories.’
‘The other being?’
‘Yourself.’
He chuckled at her blunt admission. ‘A logical conclusion.’
‘Torres and his team are formidable, both in knowledge and skill. I know nothing of them beyond the races, for it is seldom done to ask about such things. In theory they seem the most likely suspects. But it does seem at odds with what I know of their characters.’
‘I too have such reservations. A man like Torres has no love for Napoleon. Yet a man without a country may just as easily sell his services to another.’ Dashwood paused again, walking over to a workbench.
With the lull in conversation, Lucy returned her focus to the practical work at hand.
At the moment she was fascinated by the expansion in scale she had known intellectually to exist but had never considered.
In her models, it was easy enough to remove a pin or a screw.
Here it was a matter of positioning, filing down, bending and hammering, some of which took significant lengths of time for what seemed like a simple part.
Dashwood was both experienced and fit for such a task, but the spring heat and heavier work meant that he often mopped his brow of sweat.
Lucy was quite aware that it would be inappropriate for her to lend her hand to the crafting, and imagined she should be of little assistance if she did.
But for the first time she could recall since her childhood, she felt a compulsion to get her hands dirty.
Was this the same feeling Margaret had had when grappling with the goat, she wondered – the desire to get the job done under one’s own power?
It took a combination of her will, her desire for propriety and the watchful gaze of their chaperone on the far side of the workroom to resist the urge to pick up a wrench herself.
‘Do you know anything of the rest of the group?’ Dashwood asked, returning her to the conversation.
‘I know the most about Hekili. Most people call him Hercules. We have talked affably several times. He has a love of carving and cares well for the horses. He came here as a whaler from the Pacific. I cannot imagine him a criminal, but I suppose if the need arose … I have never truly known want, but I am told that given deprivation there is little one cannot be driven to.’
‘Alas, that is true. And yet for some the call to crime need be little more than a whisper. Desperation may lead a man, but greed is far more often the bait.’
‘Elsa is his engineer. I have conversed with her only on technical matters. I believe she is Swiss in origin.’
‘And the messenger?’
‘Ulcha. Irish. And that is the sum of all I know of her save what I have seen her capable of at racing.’
‘So, a mysterious crew assembled from across the Continent and across the seas, with no known home. Would they be capable of seizing a coach in motion?’
‘Without question, were it their object.’
‘If they are guilty, they shall not give themselves away readily,’ Dashwood posed.
‘But you have a plan to fish them out?’
‘I do. It is already underway. You have been a key compatriot in it. Next full moon I intend to out-race Dante Torres.’
‘That will be difficult.’
‘I do not doubt it. He is a man who lives for the chase.’
‘Like yourself?’
‘I cannot deny there is a thrill in racing. The wind on your face and the reins in your hands. You’ve felt it too. I saw it on the road.’
She nodded. It seemed her observations during the races had been reciprocated.
‘But for Torres I think it is more than that,’ said Dashwood. ‘His livelihood at least. If I can beat him at the Night Races, I hope I might see what manner of man he is beneath his mask.’
‘He will not be expecting you to race him again so soon,’ said Lucy. ‘But he is a canny racer, as you know. We can build a fast coach, but we must work in concert to defeat him. Horses, coach, messenger and driver.’
‘That is my hope. I have had the axle reinforced and the pin double-locked so we shall not have a repeat of the accident that put this coach in my hands. But I am uncertain as to what modifications to apply.’
‘Dual-spring suspension.’
‘It would lose speed on the corners.’
‘This can be adjusted for by the driver, but not completely,’ she said. ‘We would need a way to gain it again on the straight.’
Dashwood began to hook one of the coiled springs onto a pin and, without thinking, Lucy swiftly stepped forward to stop him, putting her hand over his.
Again they both froze. She had applied no pressure, but her merest touch halted his movement. Without a word, he seemed to divine her meaning, gently lifting his hand away with hers still on it before she came to her senses and pulled back.
‘That spring is for the crossbar,’ she managed after a moment. ‘It runs sideways, not lengthways. Had you continued to apply pressure it would have slipped, and you could easily have been hurt with the backlash.’
‘I see,’ he replied. He was not looking at the crossbar but holding her gaze.
Something in her felt like a spring itself, coiled and tense. She took a breath, knowing her nerves well enough to calm them.
There was the scent of iron, mahogany, orange and lavender and … lemongrass. Had she missed lemongrass in his cologne during the race?
No, Lucy, she reminded herself. The lemongrass is yours.
She felt the tension slowly unwind.
‘Thank you, Miss Elliot,’ his voice broke the silence, a shade rougher than usual. ‘I am less familiar with this element of design. Perhaps you could direct me to … Miss Elliot?’
She raised a finger, but did not reply. Her thoughts were already several steps ahead. Would the mathematics work? The materials? The construction?
‘Lucy? Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘I am …’ She considered. ‘I am in need of a pencil and paper.’
As Dashwood went to retrieve it without question, she continued to sketch in her mind. Perhaps victory over Torres was possible after all.