Roth looked up at Malcolm as he came back into the room. "I'm sorry. But I wasn't sure—"
"Quite right." Malcolm returned to his chair beside Mélanie. "What have you learned?"
Roth fished his notebook from his greatcoat pocket and stared at it for a moment. "Evans, one of my constables, made the rounds of the houses in the area round Mrs. Larimer's to see if anyone had seen anything remarkable." He thumbed through the pages of the notebook. "Evans got a few vague accounts of a gentleman glimpsed in the street about eleven who may be the person who called on Mrs. Larimer and attacked her, but no descriptions beyond a tan greatcoat and a beaver hat. Not even a positive on hair color. And no one actually saw him go into the Larimer house, so we can't even be sure of that. But a nursemaid a few doors down said she was walking with the family baby about midday on Thursday last, and a saw a woman going into Mrs. Larimer's. Matching this up with Bridget's and Gregory's accounts of callers, it seems this was a Mrs. Musgrave, whom they report calling on Thursday. Someone neither of them had seen before or since, though they said it wasn't odd for Mrs. Larimer to have friends call from her time abroad whom they hadn't seen in the past. The nursemaid remembers a bit more, because the woman stopped to admire the baby. The nursemaid describes her as very pretty, with honey-colored hair, not tall, but very direct. And when she bent over the baby, the nursemaid noticed her a pin she was wearing. It was unusual, so she took note of it. Silver, shaped like a bat, with green stones for the eyes."
Roth looked up from the notebook and met Malcolm's gaze. Malcolm drew in his breath. Because his sister Gisèle had just such a pin. He knew it well, for he had given it to her. And while she was undercover, she could wear it when she wanted him to be able to trace her.
"Given your sister's role with the Elsinore League," Roth said, "I thought it was best to keep the information confidential."
"I'm grateful for it," Malcolm said. "Not that I have any reason to think Kitty has anything to do with the League. But we've learned we can't rule out anyone's being their agent. And given Gisèle's situation, we can't be too careful."
The Elsinore League were an organization of powerful men, begun at Oxford over three decades ago. Malcolm's putative father, Alistair Rannoch, had been one of the founders and leaders. Their cover was as a hellfire club, and they certainly indulged themselves enough to actually be one, but their real aim was to arrange affairs in Britain and the world to advance their own interests. Malcolm's mother, Arabella, had made it her mission to uncover their secrets and drew Raoul into her quest. The past winter, Malcolm's sister Gisèle had uncovered information about the League and put herself undercover as an ally of theirs, for reasons Malcolm still did not fully understand.
Malcolm scrubbed his hands over his face. "Gelly never met Annabel, so far as I know. If she went to see Annabel it almost certainly means the League have an interest in her."
"Could Mrs. Larimer have been working for them?" Roth said.
Malcolm met his friend's gaze. "As I said, we've learned not to discount anyone's being their agent. But we have no clue that Annabel was."
Roth frowned. "Mrs. Larimer was a spy in the Peninsula. What does the League have to do with Spain now?"
"Very little, so far as we know." Raoul shifted Clara in his arm. "They're dedicated to advancing their own interests, at home and abroad. Those could involve Spain, but haven't tended to. At least, as far as we've been able to discover. And we've been able to discover quite a bit. They've operated in France a fair amount, especially before and just after the Revolution. But they don't seem to have played a large role in the Peninsular War."
"But considering they want to preserve a status quo favorable to themselves, they might not like the idea of the Bourbons falling in Spain again," Mélanie said.
"No, I wouldn't think they'd like it," Raoul agreed. "Whether or not they'd feel threatened enough to intervene is another question."
"You think they sent Gisèle to learn about this Goshawk?" asked Roth, who now knew so many of their secrets it was a wonder they kept any from him.
"Even granted there's a lot we don't know about Gelly's work with the League, she seems a surprising choice," Malcolm said. "But whyever she went, she meant to leave a message for us. Which is a good thing, because I'm going to have to talk to her."
Roth nodded and tucked his notebook back into his pocket. "I'll leave that to you. I've torn up the page with the notes about Mrs. Musgrave's brooch. And I don't think Evans realizes it's anything remarkable."
Malcolm touched his arm. "You're a good friend, Jeremy."
Roth smiled. "I'll keep you updated. Like Mrs. Ashford, I trust you'll update me as you can."
"Far more than we will Kitty, truth to tell." But not with everything. Roth knew that and accepted it. And he was far less likely than Kitty to pry into secrets Malcolm wanted to keep hidden.
Laura came into the library accompanied by Valentin with a tea tray. Roth stayed to drink a quick cup of tea before making his departure.
"I'll send word to Gisèle," Malcolm said, when he had seen Roth from the house. "I didn't want to say this in front of Kitty or even Jeremy, but Harry's going to look for a contact at Vauxhall tonight. A singer who was Annabel Larimer's maid in Spain and then worked for Harry as an agent. It's not a bad place to meet Gelly if she can be there."
"Best if we go as a group, perhaps," Raoul said.
"Yes, that's what I'm thinking." Malcolm perched on the arm of the chair Mélanie was now occupying. "I sent a message to Fanny and Archie. We'd all raise brows if we go there, but if Fanny drags us there as part of a large party it will seem quite unremarkable."
"Vauxhall." Laura leaned forwards to reach for her teacup. "Do you know, I've never been? Not surprising, I suppose. I was only in Britain at five and fifteen, and then when I returned as an adult I was a governess."
"And your employers obviously didn't take you out enough or show you enough of the city," Mélanie said.
"My employers were very generous. I was trying to avoid encountering anyone I knew from my old life. I spent my days off in lending libraries and museums, and, as I recall, I declined your invitations to accompany you more than once. And since I've stopped having to hide, there seems to have been rather a lot going on."
"You have a genius for understatement, sweetheart," Raoul said.
"In any case, I know Vauxhall's not as popular with the ton as it once was, but I've always been curious. I confess to a quite unspy-like curiosity. Not to mention a more spy-like one."
"That's good," Malcolm said. "We need to look as though we're bent on pleasure. Make no effort to disguise being there, then manage to wander off and get lost along the walkways. Which isn't such unusual behavior at Vauxhall."
"It is for you," Mélanie said.
Malcolm reached for her hand. "Not if I get lost with my wife."
Mélanie smiled and twined her fingers round his own. "Are you going to talk to Carfax again? He may have more information about Annabel."
"I thought of that," Malcolm said, lacing his fingers through his wife's own. "But I'm not sure I want Carfax to know we're hunting the Goshawk. Technically, Britain hasn't taken a side in Spain. Practically, I'm sure Carfax doesn't want the monarchy disrupted."
"What I don't understand," Laura said, "is why the Goshawk's identity should be such a secret now. Assuming that's why Annabel Larimer was attacked, and the timing certainly suggests that it was. The Goshawk's side won the war. Why would it be so dangerous for the truth to come out?"
"Why, indeed?" Malcolm leaned forwards and refilled the teacups. He glanced at Raoul. "Is there any chance the Goshawk was an elaborate French double?"
Raoul raised his brows. "Any chance? It's always a possibility. But I never heard a whiff of it. And the Goshawk did real damage. If he—or she—was a double, it's difficult to see what we gained by it."
Mélanie took a sip of tea and curled her legs under her. "Suppose the Goshawk was Spanish. He—or she—was an ally of the guerrilleros. And might not be viewed entirely with sympathy by the current Spanish government. Whoever it is hasn't come out in support of the rebels, at least not yet. So they may be trying to walk a fine line in Spain at present and not be drawn into the conflict."
Raoul regarded her across the library. "Querida, are you suggesting my nephew might be the Goshawk?"
Mélanie returned his gaze. "I just met him today. But I spent hours with him and half an hour with him alone. I'd say he might be capable of it. As I said when Kitty was here, I kept having a sense there was something he was holding back."
"If he was, Kitty didn't know." Malcolm dropped an arm across Mélanie's shoulders. "Despite being his lover. Though I, of all people, should understand how possible that is. Of course, it's always possible she did know but didn't want to tell us. I've never had illusions that she tells me everything." He looked at his father.
Raoul turned his teacup in his hand. "Raimundo struck me as having a good mind when I met him during the war," he said. "I wouldn't have thought he was unconventional enough for such a mission. But perhaps it's not so very unconventional after all. His father was trying to stay out of the war. That might have made Raimundo do things secretly. He might have then realized the power of a secret identity. Still—perhaps I'm simply hesitant to admit I didn't see something so important in someone related to me by blood. But it feels off to me."
"Suppose the British were running the Goshawk operation," Malcolm said. "Perhaps they—we—didn't want their Spanish allies to know the truth after the war."
"Why not?" Mélanie asked. "The British weren't shy about trying to change things in Spain. Any more than the French were," she added.
Malcolm gave a faint smile. "No. But suppose the Goshawk wasn't just helping the guerrilleros. Suppose he—or she—was extracting information and giving it to the British. Allies spy on allies. And there was plenty of British frustration with the guerrilleros."
"And vice versa," Raoul said. "You're suggesting Carfax may have been running the Goshawk?"
Malcolm's mouth tightened. "I think it's possible. If the Goshawk was an invention of Carfax's, then I can imagine a number of reasons Carfax might not want the truth to come out now."
"Darling," Mélanie said, "are you suggesting Carfax may be behind yet another murder—attempted murder, that is?"
"Just because he proved innocent of one is no guarantee he isn't capable of it. In fact, we all agreed he was last January. For that matter, I know for a fact he's had people killed."
"All because Annabel Larimer was going to talk to us and perhaps reveal the Goshawk's identity?" Mélanie frowned. "I'd think he'd have had to be quite worried indeed about what she might reveal. If he trusted her as an agent, you'd think he'd have trusted her to keep secrets. I know he respects our abilities, but I'm not sure his respect goes that far."
"A point," Malcolm acknowledged.
Laura reached over to tuck the blanket round Clara, whom Raoul was still holding. "And then there's the fact that someone was plotting to have the Goshawk assassinated six years ago. And apparently didn't succeed."
"At least, not then," Mélanie said. "I suppose that could be the reason the Goshawk dropped from view a year later. Though it seems odd for anyone to have assassinated him or her just as the war was leaving Spain."
"I wonder—" Laura stroked her fingers against Clara's cheek. "When someone has a secret identity, it's relatively easy for more than one person to act under that name. Suppose the Goshawk was killed not long after Raoul overheard the plot. Someone else could have started operating in the Goshawk's name."
"Suppose that was the point of the assassination," Mélanie said. "To put someone new in as the Goshawk. Although it's difficult to see why. The Goshawk's actions and goals don't seem to have shifted."
"It's an intriguing thought either way," Malcolm said. "It opens up options on who the Goshawk may have been. And it certainly doesn't preclude its having been Raimundo."
"I'll try to find him this afternoon," Raoul said. "He needs to learn about Malcolm's place in the family, and I'll see if I can detect any secrets he may be keeping. Though given that the two of you aren't sure, I don't hold out high hopes."
"False modesty doesn't become you," Malcolm said.
Raoul put Clara in Laura's arms, touched his fingers to his daughter's cheek and then his wife's, and pushed himself to his feet. "It's not false modesty in the least. It shows how very highly I think of you and Mélanie."
As Raoul stood, the door opened yet again. This time, Valentin came into the room. "Forgive me, but you've had a caller. One I think you'd want to see. It's Captain Rannoch."
"Good God." Malcolm got to his feet as his brother came into the library.