Amanda Quick - The River Knows

Royce cleared his throat again. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir.”

Elwin sighed. “What is it now, Royce?”

“The name Stalbridge, sir,” Royce said diffidently. “Would there be any connection to Mr. Marcus Stalbridge, the gentleman who designed the Apollo Patented Safe?”

Elwin felt as if he had been struck by lightning. He turned slowly, slack jawed.

“What’s this?” he said tightly. “Marcus Stalbridge designed my safe?”

Quinby scowled. “What the devil are you talking about, Royce?”

Royce fidgeted nervously. “Got a cousin who knows a bit about the safecracking business.”

“That would be Bert,” Quinby said. “And the reason he knows something about the business is because he is a professional safecracker.”

“Retired now,” Royce said hastily.

“Get on with it,” Elwin snapped.

“Yes, sir.” Royce shifted uneasily on his big feet. “It’s just that I’ve heard Bert talk about the subject. More than once he’s told me that, generally speaking, the professionals avoid Apollos because in the end the only way inside is to blow a hole in them.”

Elwin gripped the back of a reading chair. “What are you getting at, Royce?”

“Explosives create a lot of noise and draw attention, which is not what your average safecracker is after,” Royce explained, assuming an instructive mien. “Especially if the safe happens to be located in a private house like this one, where there are usually a number of people on the premises.”

“I am not interested in how one cracks a safe,” Elwin said, spacing each word out with great care the way one does when conversing with an idiot. “Tell me more about Marcus Stalbridge.”

Royce’s head bobbed up and down several times. “Yes, sir. Well, the thing is, sir, Marcus Stalbridge is much admired by my cousin and certain of his, uh, colleagues on account of he holds the patent on the Apollo.”

“Damnation.” Elwin wanted to throw something at the nearest wall. “Anthony Stalbridge grew up in the household of a man who invented the most secure safe on the market, the very safe I happen to own. If anyone would know the secret of opening an Apollo, it would be him.”

“Or his father,” Royce pointed out helpfully.

“Bah. Marcus Stalbridge was not here last night. His son was.”

“What of the woman, Mrs. Bryce?” Quinby asked.

“She’s not important.” Elwin waved that aside with a short, chopping movement of one hand. “A little nobody. Stalbridge must have used her for some purpose. Probably as camouflage to hide his real reason for being in that part of the house in the event he was discovered coming out of the bedroom.”

“I don’t think it’s wise to jump to conclusions,” Quinby said.

“Surely you are not going to suggest that Mrs. Bryce cracked that safe,” Elwin snapped.

Quinby’s shoulder rose in another one of his annoying shrugs. “Never pays to underestimate a woman.”

“It strains credibility to the breaking point to think that dull female is a skilled safecracker,” Elwin said, “but someone opened my safe last night. Whoever he was, he certainly knew what he was about. There was nothing to indicate that anyone had even been in my bedroom. If I had not opened the safe this morning I still wouldn’t know that certain very valuable items were missing.”

Quinby lounged against the corner of the desk with the insouciant ease of a man who felt as if he were in his own home. “Calm yourself, Mr. Hastings. We’ll get this sorted out.”

Another burst of rage flashed through Elwin. “Don’t you dare patronize me, you criminal bastard. Remove yourself from that desk at once. I’ve had enough of your insolence. Who in bloody hell do you think you are?”

Quinby’s jaw jerked. His eyes turned very, very cold. He rose slowly from the corner of the desk, uncoiling like a cobra.

A small, breathless whisper of dread swept through Elwin. He reminded himself that Quinby and Royce took orders from Clement Corvus and that Corvus had instructed them to guard him. Nevertheless, the fact remained that both men held their current positions in Corvus’s organization precisely because they were capable of cold-blooded violence.

Royce’s blunt features screwed up into an expression that was no doubt intended to express polite curiosity.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir,” he said. “As you just said, by all accounts, Mr. Stalbridge is a wealthy gentleman. Why would he want to break into your safe? He doesn’t need your valuables.”

That, of course, was the question here, Elwin thought. He released his death grip on the chair and forced himself to concentrate. There was only one thing that connected Stalbridge and himself: the death of Fiona Risby. And that damned necklace was the only piece of jewelry that had been taken. Coincidence? What in blazes was going on here?

For a time after Fiona was pulled from the river rumors had circulated to the effect that Stalbridge was not convinced that she had committed suicide. But even if he did suspect that Fiona had been murdered, why did he care? By all accounts, he had been about to terminate the engagement, anyway. There was even gossip that he had found her in bed with another man. What possible interest could he have in avenging her? And why would he wait this long to act? And if Stalbridge was the thief, why did he also help himself to the extortion items and the business papers?

It was all so bloody bewildering. He felt hopelessly muddled and very, very uneasy. Something had gone badly wrong.

He stalked to the window and stood looking out into the garden. He wished he could discuss the problem with someone he could trust. He certainly did not intend to confide in Quinby and Royce. He was playing a dicey game with their employer at the moment. The last thing he wanted to do was make a slip that might get back to Clement Corvus.

In the old days he would have sought Victoria’s advice. She had possessed an extraordinarily clever mind when it came to fitting together the pieces of this kind of puzzle, but Victoria was gone, and so was Grantley, the only other person he could consult. There was no one else he could trust.

He hesitated. There was always Thurlow, he thought. Victoria was the one who had chosen him as the seducer par excellence to compromise the various young ladies in their extortion scheme. Thurlow had his talents. He was, according to Victoria, one of the most handsome men in London. Certainly the innocent young women he had seduced had thought so.

Thurlow, however, was also a devout gambler. That was what had made him so useful, of course. He was regularly in need of money to clear his debts. But Victoria had never entirely trusted him. “A gambler’s first loyalty is to the next game of cards,” she had said.

Another uneasy thought arose. Thurlow knew about Grantley. Damnation, maybe it was Thurlow who had murdered Grantley. That appalling possibility sent another jolt of fear through him. Had Thurlow decided to go into the extortion business himself? Perhaps he had started out by getting rid of the middleman—Grantley—and then helped himself to the items in the safe, items that Thurlow, himself, had originally stolen from the young ladies. It seemed highly unlikely that Thurlow was skilled in the art of safecracking, but perhaps it was not altogether impossible. That still left the question of Stalbridge’s role in the affair.

Elwin began to feel as if he were sinking into quicksand. It was all so damned complicated.

He swung around to face Quinby and Royce. “Here is the plan. First, you will both make certain that Stalbridge does not come anywhere near me or this house again. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Royce said dutifully.

Quinby shrugged.