Chapter Nine. Caught, at Last
CHAPTER NINE
Caught, at Last
AFTER my poor reception by Inspector Beecham, I did not feel much like going home.
Leona was right to be worried about Mueller’s hasty arrest—and against all better sense, I was determined to get to the bottom of it.
My reluctance certainly had nothing to do with the fact Ruan Kivell was likely still there.
Nor was it avoidance of the inevitable conversation that would ensue once I laid out my plans for this evening.
The man had aided me in past investigations, but I got the distinct sense that burgling remained at the remotest edge of his morality map.
Breath visible in the cold midmorning air, I waited on the curbstone for a passing motorcar before hurrying across the street.
A few cold drops of rain splattered my cheeks as I tucked into the Covered Market for shelter.
The tall wooden-buttressed ceiling gave the entire structure an airy open affect, aided in no small measure by the high windows allowing in what pitiable light broke through the rain clouds.
It was an utterly dreary day, made doubly so by the discoveries of the last twenty-four hours.
Mrs. Penrose had asked me to pick up a few bits and bobs while I was in town—utterly unaware that I would be once again investigating a murder.
Besides, she took far less umbrage at my erratic comings and goings when I brought her little gifts.
Nothing pleased my housekeeper more than a chance to experiment with an unusual spice, a new vegetable, or a curious cheese.
The woman adored a challenge, which was likely the reason she agreed to come work for me in Exeter earlier this year, for we both knew that I was nothing if not challenging.
Four pigeons pecked around on the cobbles for forgotten crumbs from a previous patron.
A peculiar sound caught my attention, and I turned back to the street as the rain began to pour from the heavens.
There in the distance at the corner of Cornmarket stood a slight, fair-haired man.
He wore a long military-style overcoat and leaned against the stone front of a building, smoking a pipe in the shelter of the eaves.
A thick beard a shade or two darker than his hair disguised his face.
At this distance, I could not make out his features, other than to know without a doubt that he was watching me.
Something about his shape pricked at my memory, an achingly familiar sensation.
I knew him somehow, and yet I could not place it.
The man remained there for several seconds watching me, before he dipped his head in polite acknowledgment and turned, walking off into the rain, without even an umbrella to keep him dry. How very strange.
I stared in his direction long after the man disappeared, half wondering if I’d hallucinated the whole thing.
It wouldn’t be the first time I’d seen people who did not exist, but that had been during the darkest days of the war.
And in truth, I think most of us were half-mad during that time, for madness helped make sense of a senseless situation.
Hallucination or no, staring off into the rain wasn’t going to get me any closer to clearing Mr. Mueller’s name.
And as I was trapped by the weather for the foreseeable future, I made the most of things—dipping into a nearby produce stall and setting to work to earn the forbearance of my housekeeper and forget the burgeoning unease in my belly.
AN HOUR AND a half later, newly acquired umbrella and sack of produce in hand, I found myself in a nearby tearoom waiting on the rain to finally ease for my walk home.
I took a seat at a table near the front window.
The glass was terribly fogged, casting the outside world in impressionist shadows.
Shapes and hints of color hidden behind the moisture.
An occasional droplet of water would slip down the pane, cutting a narrow line to the outside world.
A gash as raw as the wound in my heart. An imposter.
Another murder. The mess I’d made with Ruan.
I was adrift in a sea of turmoil and uncertainty and wanted none of it.
The winter sun had already sunk below the horizon.
This time of year, it was scarcely overhead at all, always hanging in that middling space just past dawn and before nightfall.
A perpetual twilight that left me craving the long days of summer with their endless hours of sunshine and the scent of the sea on my skin.
I missed the water when I was this far inland.
It wouldn’t be long though. A few more weeks and the days would lengthen again.
Perhaps I could convince Mr. Owen to go on a Mediterranean holiday once we returned to Exeter.
I wrapped my fingers around the chipped white cup before closing my eyes and lifting it to my lips, inhaling the earthy scent of tea as a chair scraped the tile floor across from me. I winced, opening my eyes, dreading which of my acquaintances had found me.
“Ruby Vaughn, you certainly are hard to find when you want to be…”
I bit my lower lip, struggling to disguise my smile as I saw my solicitor taking a seat in the dainty pastel green chair across from me. “Hari…”
He flashed me a dashing smile and folded his neatly manicured hands before him. “Don’t even begin devising excuses. I know you’ve been avoiding me for days and I suspect I know why.”
More like weeks … but I cocked my head to one side in acknowledgment. “It’s nothing personal, dearest. You know I adore you.”
“I weep for the soul you truly love.” He chuckled, not at all offended by the fact that I had climbed out of a window to avoid having this very conversation.
Hari leaned back in his chair, a faint hint of amusement never leaving his lips.
He was a formidable man, even dressed as he was in an immaculately tailored royal blue suit with a gray herringbone waistcoat.
The dastar he wore was the same jewel-toned hue as his jacket.
Everything looked smart on Hari Anand, even the drab khaki of the British Expeditionary Force uniform that he’d been wearing when we first met.
It was an understatement to say I adored the fellow.
Hari had also been orphaned during the war, and the pair of us struck up an easy friendship that carried us through the darkest of days.
It was little wonder that he became my solicitor after the armistice, as he was one of the handful of people I trusted in this world.
“I saw in the papers what happened to Julius Harker.” His hazel eyes were fixed upon me as he laid down the offending newsprint on the table between us.
I picked up my teacup and took an indignant sip. “Don’t start with the pleasantries, Hari, you did not come here to talk about murder.”
“I did not, but as I read your name in the article, I felt compelled to bring it up and be certain you aren’t doing anything reckless.”
The corner of my mouth curved up. I set my teacup down slightly harder than intended, sending the brown liquid sloshing out onto the saucer to a harrumph of approbation from the matron at the table beside me.
“I’m not involved in that—truly.” Perhaps that was a tiny lie.
I ran my finger over the tines of my fork, testing them against my flesh.
“After the last few months, I cannot even walk down the street without someone assuming there’s some sort of supernatural nonsense afoot.
Don’t pay the papers any mind.” The weariness must have been evident on my face as Hari’s expression softened.
“I had hoped you would say as much.” He rubbed his thick beard with the back of his hand. “Ruby … you do know why I’m here, don’t you?”
“Another imposter, I presume. That’s the only thing that would warrant you coming in person and not sending a letter or phoning me.”
Hari flattened his palms on his thighs, visibly relieved that I had already guessed his purpose. “Yes, yes there is. And I shall get to the point. This woman is requesting a meeting with you.”
Somehow hearing the words from his lips did not burn as much as I’d expected. “Can’t you send her away like all the others?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Do you think I have no experience in frightening away these women? Practically since I’ve known you, I have had one fraud after another showing up at my office door—some with children in tow—claiming to be your mother or Opal.”
My eyes burned at my sister’s name, but he told me nothing I did not know.
Hari tried to shield me from the worst of it.
But occasionally an intrepid imposter would require my attention and Hari would come—as he had today—with that same sympathetic glint in his lovely hazel eyes that told me how much it pained him to rehash old wounds.
“I have tried to get her to leave, but this woman … Ruby, she is not like the others. I am sorry for it, but I fear you need to speak with her.”
My jaw tightened and I swallowed hard. “If anyone should be sorry it is this woman trying to dredge up the past for money.”
He hesitated, tapping his finger three times on the table. “You see, that’s the thing about this woman. She hasn’t asked for money. She’s not asked for anything beyond the opportunity to speak to you. I’ve done everything in my power to frighten her off—but I fear…”
“You fear what?”
“I simply wonder if she might not be an imposter in the sense the others have been.”
My stomach knotted at his words and my skin grew cold.
I thrust my hands into my lap, gathering my skirt in my fists to keep them from shaking.
“What do you mean not an imposter? Hari, my mother died on the Lusitania. As did my sister and my father. Unless the woman is a ghost, she must be an imposter.”
Hari closed his eyes and sighed. The nearby matrons having overheard our conversation quieted as to gather more juicy breadcrumbs. Mention of ghosts and imposters clearly was more interesting than their egg-and-cress sandwiches.
I lowered my voice to a whisper. “What are you trying to say?”
He leaned forward. “You know that your mother and sister’s bodies were never found. This woman … she knows things. Things that only you’ve told me. Things that none of the others have known. Things no one could know.”
“That does not mean she is my mother. Besides, there were plenty of others who were not recovered from the wreckage.” I didn’t know if the reassurance was for him or myself.
“I know.” He worried his lower lip, the familiar freckle there catching my attention.
“I don’t think she is your mother. She’s far too young—but I do think you should speak to her and see what her motivation is.
You know I have never asked this of you before, and would do anything to spare you this pain, but Ruby—what if there is a chance that your mother is alive somewhere and this woman is key to finding her? ”
I bristled at the thought.
“It’s a chance I would take if it were me. What if she’s out there?”
“Then why would she not come herself?” I slammed my hand on the table, palm stinging. Bitter tears filling my eyes. “She’s dead, Hari. My mother is dead. Please don’t do this to me. Not you. Not now.”
His expression shifted and he stood slowly with a soft sigh.
“Very well. I will not push you. I am staying at the Randolph for the next few days.” He paused, pulling a slip of paper from his card case and scratching out a room number on the back in pencil before sliding it to me.
“If you change your mind, let me know. I fear she will not leave you alone until you speak with her—and it is my experience that it’s best to handle such things on your own terms rather than allowing the aggressor command of the field. ”
My mouth dried and I squeezed my eyes shut. He was right and yet I could not bring myself to agree to do this thing—to rend open that old wound—when it was precisely what needed to be done.
“Hari…”
“Ruby?” His tone matched mine.
“What if I can’t do it?” The words came out as weak and broken as I felt.
“Then I will be here for you, as I have been since the day you saved me back in France.”
I furrowed my brow in confusion. “I didn’t save you. I simply drove you back from the front. The surgeon saved you when he took your leg.”
He gave me a faint smile, his eyes sad. “I beg to differ.” And with that, he stood and turned, walking out of the tearoom, leaving me with the most uncomfortable of thoughts. I sat there staring at the paper in my hands, with only one question on my mind—What if she’s not an imposter?