C. Archer - The Wrong Girl

"Really? Can I see it?"

"I lost it in the fire."

"Shame. I've got an interest in new inventions." He seemed to believe Jack's explanation, thank goodness. "So, that one-armed man...is he the fellow you told me about? The one you accuse of stealing your uncle's papers?"

"Yes," Jack said, standing. "His name is Reuben Tate."

"I, uh, I'm sorry I didn't believe you when you first came to the station, sir. It's just that I, uh, thought it better to leave it to your local constabulary."

"I'm glad I was able to convince you in the end."

"Not sure I'm so glad." The inspector gingerly touched the back of his head.

"Did you search the house?"

"My men are doing it now. So far, no luck. You'd better give me the name of your witness after all. There's no avoiding it now, I'm afraid."

Jack nodded. "His name is Patrick O'Dwyer."

Sylvia shifted her weight. Tommy cleared his throat. "Patrick's dead," he said gently. "We found out yesterday. That's why we came here, to warn you."

Jack sat back down beside me and drew up his knees. He dragged his hands through his hair and lowered his head.

"I'm sorry." I wanted to stroke his hair and draw him into my arms, but it would only end in sparks and I didn't want the inspector to see, or to start something I couldn't stop.

Jack thumped a fist into the ground. "He told me Tate was dangerous. I should have listened."

"We weren't to know how dangerous," I said. "No one could have guessed he was a murderer."

"And arsonist," the inspector said, nodding at the factory. The blaze was under control, but the brigade-men continued to pour water on it. "The Senior Fireman told me this place has been set alight numerous times and recently too."

That would explain the new furniture and painted walls in the house. "How many?" I asked.

"Eight that I know of," said a man as he passed us. He was dressed in one of the brass helmets and woolen tunics of the firemen.

"Come inside and tell me everything," Inspector Ruxton said to us.

We walked single-file back along the path at the side of the house to the front door, leaving enough space for the firemen and their hoses to pass us. It was early afternoon, but the heavy clouds obscured the sun and allowed little light through. Two horse-drawn fire engines were positioned near the street-plug connected to the city's water supply. Steam hissed and spat from the brass cylinders, pumping the water to the hoses. Several workmen from the nearby factories helped, and others stood by and watched Tate being led to a waiting coach by a constable. Ham was bundled into another by four policemen. Despite having his hands tied, he managed to knock over one of the constables with a bump of his massive shoulder. It took some effort and a lot of foul language, but the others eventually got him into the cabin.

Tate was more sedate. He simply stared at me with such longing in his gaze that I shivered, despite the heat still coursing through me. He must have seen because his top lip curled up in a distorted smile.

Jack positioned himself between Tate and me. "Take him away," he growled.

We went inside and gave our version of events to the inspector, leaving out only the details of how Tate started the fire. Of course none of us had seen how he did it, and the inspector didn't dwell on that aspect. He was more interested in the fact that Tate had chained Tommy up and wanted to kidnap me.

"A madman," he muttered as he dipped his pen in an inkwell held by one of his constables. He wrote something down in his notebook then blew on it to dry the ink. "Are you four returning to Frakingham tonight?" he asked.

"Tomorrow," Jack said. "We'll stay at Claridges tonight. The ladies will be tired."

"The ladies would like to go shopping," Sylvia corrected.

When all the men looked at her, she merely shrugged. "You cannot expect us to spend another moment in these garments. I'm sure we can organize new dresses from our rooms. It's what all the refined ladies do."

"For once, I agree with you," Jack said. "We all require new clothes. If you need us, Inspector, you can find us at Claridges."

We headed outside and skirted the fire engines to reach Olsen and the carriage. We set off, and Tommy alighted at the stables where he'd left the brougham. We three drove on to the heart of London. Jack had offered to get a room for Tommy at the salubrious hotel too, but he'd refused saying he'd feel too awkward in a "toff place." He and Olsen were to stay at an inn they knew nearby.

I slept solidly that night and into the next day. All three of us did. The rest of the day and part of the next was busy with fittings and fabrics. Dressmakers and milliners came to us, and by the third day, they had clothes and hats ready for our journey home.

Home. Yes, I supposed it was, in a way. There was nothing for me at Windamere anymore, but I now knew I at least had friends in Jack, Sylvia and Tommy. Frakingham was the only place I belonged.

I was grateful to be finally leaving Claridges. Not that the hotel wasn't exquisite, our every need and comfort met, but because I wanted to be alone with Jack again at Frakingham. We'd been surrounded by others ever since the fire, and I had so many things I wanted to talk to him about before we saw his uncle again.

He rode with Sylvia and me inside the cabin on the journey back. Olsen drove because Tommy had left the morning after the fire to report back to Langley. At first I was glad I wasn't going to be near him when he found out what Tate had almost done to us, but then I changed my mind. Seeing Langley's first reaction may have said a great deal about his character as well as his intentions.

"Well," said Sylvia on a breath. "I'm glad that's over."

London grew smaller in the distance, the miasma that hung over the city merely a brown stain on the horizon. I didn't dislike the place, but I didn't want to return there in a hurry. Frakingham at least had fresh air and open spaces, although its moodiness was something I wasn't yet used to.

"There'll be a trial," Jack said. "We'll all be called as witnesses. It's not quite over yet."

"I can endure a trial to see that man swing," Sylvia said. "He and his creature."

"They don't actually hang people in public anymore, Syl."

"You know what I mean. They deserve to be hanged. You shouldn't have gotten Tate out, Jack."

He lowered his gaze and said nothing.

"And now that I think about it," she went on, "why didn't you throw one of those fireballs at the thug, Ham? You could have saved yourself all those bruises."

Jack fingered his swollen lip. The cut above his eye had closed, but it still looked raw and would be for some time. His knuckles too were grazed and must be sore.

"That's a good question," I said to Jack. "You threw one at Tate, but not Ham. Why?"

"It would set his clothes alight and burn him," he said.

"So?" Sylvia said. "The man was horrible. He doesn't deserve our sympathies or your consideration."

"You think that now," he said. "But if you were the one inflicting the fireball and you had to watch a man burn alive, would you think the same then?"

"Yes."

He shook his head and turned to the window. From the distant gaze reflected in the glass, I guessed that he wasn't actually seeing any of the scenery that slipped past. "It's the screaming that gets to you first," he said. "Even a man as large and strong as Ham has a high-pitched scream when his skin is exposed to intense heat. After the screams comes the smell. Burning flesh has a distinctive odor, Syl. It's not very pleasant. You wouldn't like it."

She fell silent and pulled the collar of her new fur coat closed at the throat.

"I saw someone burn to death once," he went on. "I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."