Chapter 13 #2
“So far, very little. But perhaps he writes more details in the earlier pages.” George tugged at one sleeve of his coat, his eyes narrowing in thought. “You said C had a dossier put together on Ardmore?”
“Yes,” I replied, wondering what he was thinking. “At my request.” Alec, of all people, had been the one to compile the highly classified report, which was consequently marked with the Chief’s initial and an X to denote its secrecy.
“How much did it focus on Ardmore’s past? He was born and raised here in Ireland, correct?”
I allowed myself to sink deeper into the sofa cushions, the ache in my abdomen telling me I may be overexerting myself this morning. But I couldn’t lie about in bed all day. Not when there was so much still to be learned.
“Yes,” I answered George. “His maternal grandfather was a wealthy Irish banker. It’s from him that he inherited some of his banking interests.
He spent much of his childhood in his grandparents’ Dublin home rather than at his father’s estate.
” While the CX report hadn’t stated as much, the fact that his mother had mostly lived with them and not with her husband had spoken volumes about their marriage.
“Is that all?”
I blinked at George in momentary incomprehension. “I could list the schools he attended. Why?” Understanding began to dawn. “You think we need to know more?”
He frowned at the floor, speaking slowly as he searched for the right words.
“I think we still don’t precisely understand Ardmore’s motive.
Or his ultimate goal.” His fingers drummed absently against the leather cover of Smith’s journal.
“And I can’t help but wonder if some clues to those answers might lie in his past.”
He made a fair point. We didn’t understand Ardmore’s objectives or intentions.
It was part of what made his actions so unpredictable, for he didn’t appear to be on anyone’s side but his own.
However, if we comprehended the reasons for his actions or at least their aim, we might be better able to anticipate his next move and uncover evidence of his culpability.
“Yes, but isn’t that descending into the murky realm of psychology?” Sidney countered. “Thinking the past somehow predicts the future.”
George became animated. “On the contrary, it’s cause and effect. A plus B minus C equals X.”
The corners of Sidney’s lips twitched upward. “I defer to the mathematician on this, then.”
Max asserted his opinion. “It certainly can’t hurt.
I can recall my grandfather forever opining about the importance of empire and Britain’s role in enlightening and redeeming the ‘savages.’ It might explain why my father so easily fell in with Ardmore’s ploys, believing they were preserving the empire and saving the Irish from themselves.
” It was clear from the consternation writ across his brow that he wondered whether his grandfather’s speeches had also had an effect on him, convincing him to swiftly join up like so many others when the German Huns invaded Belgium, threatening civilization and British dominance.
If so, he wasn’t the first to feel disillusioned by such a realization.
“There must be someone still around who can tell us more about Ardmore’s family and what went on in his grandparents’ household. A servant, perhaps,” I suggested.
“The archives might hold some answers.” George glanced down at the book in his lap. “I could go to the library …”
“No, I can do that,” Max volunteered. “You stay on top of the decryption.”
George nodded.
I tapped my lip. “If I could get in touch with Wick, I imagine he has some sources who could tell us something. But”—my stomach sank—“I’m not sure he’s even speaking to me.”
“Wick knows better than to blame you, Ver,” Sidney cajoled, attempting to comfort me. “And if he doesn’t, he’s a blazing idiot.” He tapped out some ash in the pewter dish at his elbow. “But he doesn’t seem to be such a sap.”
“He’s not,” I confirmed. “Although …”
“No.” Sidney pointed his cigarette at me. “No ‘althoughs.’ He’ll contact you. Just give him time. He may be on assignment.”
I hadn’t thought of that. Probably because I’d been more concerned about the injuries he might have suffered while in custody. But Wick was nothing if not resilient. He might very well be chasing a story and either out of touch or unable to respond. A surge of relief filled me.
Sidney took one last long drag before stubbing his cigarette out.
“In the meantime, you and I will question Mrs. Harlow and anyone else we can track down who might know something about Lieutenant Harlow’s murder or his and his wife’s relationship with Ardmore.
Perhaps if we’re lucky, it will prove the key to his downfall.
” He didn’t sound very convinced, and I could hardly blame him. But his words did jog a memory.
“Speaking of keys …” I turned to Max. “You still haven’t figured out what the key your father left you opens?”
He shook his head, scraping a hand back through his dark blond hair in frustration.
“It doesn’t open anything at Nettlestone Hall.
” His manor on the Isle of Wight. “Or the house in London.” He grimaced.
“And I wrote you about my wishful thinking that it might open a box or locker in the storage space he’d been granted at the British Museum because of the number of Roman antiquities he’d donated over the years. ”
“It was a good suggestion,” I contended. “After all”—I glanced at the others—“none of us have any better ideas.”
Toward the end of his life, Max’s father had come to realize what a terrible mistake he’d made in allying with Ardmore.
He’d been manipulated into betraying his country and was effectively being blackmailed to remain under Ardmore’s sway.
But the late Earl of Ryde had grown a conscience, if not a spine, and began collecting evidence of Ardmore’s crimes.
He might have exposed Ardmore directly, but rather than risk his own reputation and freedom, he’d instead hidden the proof and left a letter to be given to his son on his next birthday.
Whether the late Lord Ryde had suspected his former partner would have him killed or he was simply being cautious was unclear, but the letter had delivered a crippling blow to Max.
It had also sent us off on a quest to locate the evidence the late earl had concealed before Ardmore’s men could confiscate it first. We’d persevered through the exasperating scavenger hunt, eventually locating the key Max now possessed, and the three phosgene cylinders that had tipped us off to Ardmore’s plan, but we’d never figured out what the key was supposed to open.
Maybe that clue had been destroyed, maybe it had fallen into Ardmore’s hands, or maybe Max’s father had died before he could hide it.
Whatever the truth, I was beginning to accept that we might never know. But I’d begun to fear that Max couldn’t. Even now, his hand had stolen perhaps unconsciously into the pocket of his gray herringbone coat to finger the key I suspected he’d stowed there.
“If only Father hadn’t been so maddeningly obscure with his clues,” he stated fiercely, even going so far as to pound his leg as he rose, pacing toward the windows. “Then we might have had the proof to expose Ardmore a year ago and Verity would never have been put in danger.”
“Hey, now,” I protested, sitting upright. “None of that.”
“By the same token, maybe if I’d decoded this journal”—George lifted the book—“faster, we might have stopped him sooner.”