Beth Henderson - Reckless

“Not another robbery!” she breathed, sinking dramatically back onto the sofa, one hand pressed to the string of jet beads that lay against her breast. “What was it this time?”

Wyn tossed her friend the news sheet and reached up to unpin her plumed walking hat. “Don’t you mean who?” she asked.

Hildy refrained from reading the story. “Let’s make it a game,” she urged. “If I know what was taken, I wager I’ll know the who.”

Wyn unbuttoned her light coat and tossed it casually over the back of a chair. Since the pernicious state of Hil-dy’s finances made it impossible to pay wages, she had lost both housekeeper and housemaid. Those friends who came to visit the young widow quickly learned to make themselves at home.

“You must admit, Wyn, there is no one who knows the contents of the jewel boxes of our set better than I do,” Hildy insisted. Her soft brown hair was arranged in playful curls that spilled from a knot at the crown of her head. Despite the deep mourning color of her gown, there was nothing mournful about the flush of excitement in Hildy’s cheeks as she leaned forward in anticipation. “I used to make lists of my favorites and give them to Oswin hoping that he would visit the same jewelers,” she admitted. “If anyone can match the pieces with the person, it’s me.”

“All right,” Wyn agreed, reclaiming the newspaper and settling into the deeply cushioned chair across from her friend. They had played together in the school yard as children, and had attended their first ball arm in arm. Young men had clustered around them both, vying for favors. As inseparable as they had always been, Wyn had still been stunned at the news Hildy had whispered one evening soon after their presentation. She had promised her hand to Oswin Hartleby, a wealthy man nearly forty years her senior. “But, why?” Wyn had demanded. “Because I’m tired of being just comfortable,” Hildy answered. “I want to be rich.” Her wish had been granted, if only for a handful of years.

Wyn scanned the newspaper until she found the story about the most recent theft She had come to visit Hildy nearly every day since her bereavement, making an effort to cheer her friend’s lonely hours. Hildy had always been a social gadfly and the constraints of widowhood had depressed her nearly as much as the loss of the Hartleby fortune.

“Here it is.” Wyn rustled the paper, making a production of refolding it. “The thief walked off with opals,” she announced.

“Hmm.” Hildy tapped a finger against her lips in thought. “Cordelia Earlywine or Olympia Stokes.”

“There’s more.”

“More?” Hildy’s eyes widened with pleasure. They were a deep sapphire blue and surrounded by long, curling lashes.

“Diamond cravat pin, diamond shirt studs.”

Hildy jumped in her seat. “Stokes!” she shouted.

“If it were possible,” Wyn said as she tossed the newspaper aside, “I’d wager on your ability to pinpoint the robber’s victims using nothing more than a description of the missing jewelry.”

“Perhaps there is a future for me with one of those detective agencies,” Hildy suggested. “Do you think Mr. Pinkerton would hire me?”

“Only if you could name the thief as easily as you do the victim,” Wyn answered.

Hildy sighed. “Well, that I can’t do. If I could I’d have my diamonds back.” Petulantly she leaned back into the cushions of the sofa, apparently no longer interested in the robbery now that the latest victim had been identified. “Have you heard from Pierce?”

Wyn stretched her feet out, studying the toes of her shoes where they peeked from beneath the dark green pleats that trimmed the hem of her skirt. Her brother had been in Boston a month and in that time she’d received two letters, both assuring her that her money was being put to excellent use. Earlier that day a telegram had arrived. “He’s on his way back. The liner is nearly finished. We sail in three weeks.”

Hildy bounded back up, squealing with excitement before sobering once more. “Oh, but, Wyn! Whatever shall I wear? I refuse to traipse around in funeral black. Oswin has been dead three months, which is quite long enough to mourn him in my opinion. I have resolved to travel in half-mourning.”

Deciding she would prefer to delay hearing how Hildy intended to finance a new wardrobe, Wyn tried changing the subject. “Did you write to Rachel?”

Three years before, Hildy’s sister had made the coup of the social season by marrying Sir Alston Loftus and moving to his ancestral home in England.

“Oh, Rachel and Lofty will be expecting us,” Hildy assured, casually unconcerned. “I told them in my letter that we’d be on our way before they could reply, but there’s a standing invitation. Now…” She resettled on the couch, her expression changing to one of serious intent as she reached for the magazine she’d abandoned earlier. “I’ve been thinking,” Hildy said, and quickly leafed to the fashion section. “Oswin only left me the use of the house, so I can’t sell it, but his will wasn’t as specific about the furnishings. If I sell off the heavier pieces, I should be able to get at least a decent start on a new wardrobe. Enough to travel with at any rate.”

“What if the Hartlebys object?” Wyn asked.

“I won’t tell them,” Hildy said, dismissing her late husband’s middle-aged offspring. “Will you be using your dressmaker before we leave? What do you think of this pannier overskirt? Too overdone?”

Resigning herself to the planning of her friend’s ward-robe, Wyn moved over next to Hildy on the sofa and was soon discussing the merits of bunting for a lightweight excursion costume.

Pinkerton operative Magnus Finley hung back as his suspect paused at the corner to let a freight wagon rumble by. It wouldn’t do to be discovered. It had taken weeks of intensive field investigation and paperwork to get the case to this point He couldn’t afford to lose it all now through a careless step.

The dray passed, the horses trudging on down the street, hooves dropping in weary thuds. The driver’s face was as long as those of his team, his expression just as dull. He made no effort to hurry the animals but sat hunched forward, his hat pushed to the back of his head, the reins dangling in his hands.

The suspect waited until the wagon was well past before attempting the street. Magnus continued following without crossing. He was fairly sure of the final destination. He’d dogged the same footsteps along this same path for a week now as the suspect spent a good deal of money. The largess manifested appeared to indicate that the jewels had been sold rather successfully.

Which was extremely odd since none of the known fences in the city claimed to be aware of a recent sale.

If the thief had found a buyer, it wasn’t just the Stokes woman’s opals that had changed hands. The Hartleby diamonds were still unaccounted for, as were sets of various other precious and semiprecious gems.

Numerous operatives had been put on the job as one robbery followed another. Clients ranging from weeping widows to blustering businessmen had descended on the Pinkerton office demanding results. The local police had not reclaimed the jewels nor had they indicated progress in learning the thief’s identity. But Finley thought he’d discovered a vital clue. Until he could prove his suspicions, he was playing his cards close to his vest.

The suspect entered the expected doorway, the shop of a valise and trunk maker. Finley settled in the mouth of an adjacent alley. He knew from experience that it would be an hour or more before his quarry left.

The door swung open and closed a little later as a young boy emerged, hastily pulling on a sack coat and donning a cloth cap. He gave a quick glance up and down the roadway before heading toward Market Street.