Chapter 6 #3
“But the biography made him sound like a Robin Hood figure, taking from the rich and giving to the poor. While it’s possible he did do that, he simply sounds too good to be true.
The biography Arkwright wrote describes Blackheart’s adventures in detail.
He defeated only cruel pirates and greedy traders, and always through increasingly clever maneuvers, often when he was outnumbered, or a storm was bearing down, or his back was otherwise to the wall. ”
“It sounds like stories young boys would lap up.”
“Precisely. It’s too neat, and life isn’t like that.” Harry shrugged. “None of it proves Arkwright made it up, but I can’t help but wonder if he embellished the story knowing it would sell more copies if he painted Blackheart as a heroic figure.”
The sceptic in me agreed, but to what extent had Blackheart made it up?
Did the treasure exist, or was that part entirely fiction?
It was the only part that mattered for our investigation.
“Blackheart must have returned to the United Kingdom around 1810 or just before. His son was apparently born in London that year, according to the records Bill Watson showed us.”
“Not necessarily,” Harry said. “The woman who gave birth to him may have returned when she discovered she was pregnant, but the child could have been conceived anywhere. The biography is evasive on the meeting place between Arkwright and Blackheart.”
It was something to ask Arkwright, along with the question about the possibility of a child.
“After rereading the book, what does Goliath now think about the existence of the treasure?” I asked.
“He still believes it’s real and is simply well hidden. He says that every possible clue in the book has been studied by the cleverest minds, but to no avail. Although he didn’t say it, I think he was implying that I had no chance to decipher them in a few short hours.”
I tucked my hand into his. “He doesn’t know you like I do. Your mind is cleverer than most.”
“Another compliment? I ought to go fishing for them more often if you’re going to dish them out so easily.”
I leaned into him, glancing out of the window. No one paid us any attention as we moved steadily through the London traffic. They were all too busy trying to stay dry beneath hats and umbrellas. “It’s all part of my devious plan.”
His lips twitched with his smile. “Now I am intrigued.” His heavy lids lowered over smoky eyes. “What is your plan for me, Cleo?
“To ask you about your carousing with Mr. Mathers.”
He sat back, looking a little dazed as he blinked hard at me. “My what?”
I smiled. “According to my sources, you used to go carousing with Mr. Mathers when he came to stay at the Mayfair.”
He chuckled. “I’d hardly call it that.”
“Then what did you get up to together?”
“A gentleman never tells.”
“Not even if the other gentleman is a suspect in a murder?”
He hesitated. “He didn’t murder anyone while we were out carousing. Who is your source, anyway?”
“There was more than one. And a detective never reveals her sources.”
His gaze narrowed. “It sounds like a word Uncle Alfred used. I can assure you, Cleo, he didn’t know what I got up to after work.”
“Now I’m even more intrigued.”
He sighed theatrically. “It’s too bad I can’t tell you. A gentleman’s code, and all that.”
I rolled my eyes and sat back, only to find myself focusing on his lips.
They curved with his smile again. “We’re almost at Scotland Yard.”
“We have a little way to go yet.”
“And we’re in a carriage, alone. May I suggest we set aside your plan to interrogate me, and enact my plan instead?”
“Your plan being…?”
“To kiss you, of course.”
I pretended to consider it. “Very well. That seems like a good plan.”
He circled his arms around me and drew me against him.
Several minutes later, as the carriage slowed, I righted my hat, and he picked up the newspaper and envelope that had slid to the floor. He opened the carriage door and stepped out. I accepted his hand and alighted.
“You’re a very good planner, Harry.”
“So I’ve been told.”
My gaze slid to his. Was he alluding to his kisses being praised before? While he didn’t smile, his eyes were bright with mischief. Or perhaps that was desire. Either way, despite poor Goliath’s predicament, Harry was in a good mood.
It didn’t last long.
When Harry handed D.I. Latimer the photographs, he drew attention to the one showing the size of the boot print in the soil. “Mrs. Jeffry said the culprit she saw fleeing had to duck under the doorframe. A man that tall wouldn’t wear shoes that small.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Latimer said. “The print is irrelevant. The killer didn’t enter or exit via the balcony. The landlady let him in. It’s the tall fellow. That part isn’t in doubt.”
“Why not?” I asked. “Shouldn’t every possibility be considered at this point?”
“Not when it’s cut and dried, Miss Fox. The tall fellow did it.
It’s just a matter of time until we find him.
” He pointed his finger at the door. “Out there, Sergeant Fanning is supervising several men as they sift through all the responses we received, and continue to receive, after the killer’s likeness was printed in this morning’s paper.
We’ll find him by the end of the day, Miss Fox. Just wait and see.”