Kiss me.
I may have only said it in my head, but it was as if Gabe heard it…and did the exact opposite.
He stood suddenly and dragged his hand through his hair. “I, ah, that was… I shouldn’t have.”
I didn’t need to ask why. He was still reeling from his long engagement to Ivy. He was still trying to find himself, and learn about the man he’d become since the war. He didn’t want an entanglement to complicate things.
I knew all of that, but I said nothing. We didn’t get the opportunity to talk anyway, because Willie and Alex returned, although I suspected neither of us would have welcomed conversation. A lifetime of avoiding difficult discussions was a hard habit for me to break. In Gabe’s case, I suspected he simply felt too raw.
Willie slammed the door shut, making my taut nerves jump. “That pigswill reckons he’s so clever and so superior, but he wouldn’t have lasted a day in Broken Creek when Grandpa Johnson was alive. He’d be running scared, tail between his legs, begging for protection.”
Alex rolled his eyes. “Are we about to get another ‘American history according to Willie’ lesson? Because if we are, can it wait until I’m not here?”
“I should clip you over the ear for being disrespectful.”
“You would if you could reach, you mean.”
“Any more sass from you and I’ll tell every girl you ever talked to that you’re in love with her and want to settle down.”
That shut Alex up.
Willie turned to me and clapped me on the shoulder. “Real quick thinking telling Thurlow that Francis would make a hopeless criminal. It ain’t a lie either, that’s what makes it so smart. Why didn’t you mention it, Gabe? You usually think of ways to divert someone’s attention when it ain’t wanted.”
Gabe dragged his hand through his hair again, messing it up even more. I found it rather endearing considering he was usually so polished. “I wasn’t as coolheaded as Sylvia in the moment. Thurlow had me riled. He seems to know how to get to me.”
“Then stop letting him get to you.” She spotted the professor coming down the stairs carrying a tray laden with cups, a teapot and a plate of toast. She rubbed her hands together. “A second breakfast! You’re a good man, Prof. One of my favorite men, in fact. I put you ahead of Alex, for sure.”
Alex gave her a withering look.
The professor blinked at the tray in his hands. “Oh dear. Now I feel terrible. This is for Sylvia. She missed breakfast and I’m worried she might faint.”
Willie pouted.
“I can’t eat it all,” I told her. “Have a slice of toast.”
She grabbed one and took a large bite quickly, as if she were afraid I’d change my mind. She still had a mouthful of toast when she thanked me. “You’re also above Alex on my list of favorite people.”
“What happens if I fall off your list altogether?” Alex asked.
“Ask your parents. They fell off it about seventeen years ago.”
“What happened seventeen years ago?”
“Lulu was born and they said they weren’t having any more children.”
“So?”
“So they had four children and didn’t name a single one after me. And Willie could be a girl or boy’s name. I didn’t care which.”
As we headed back into the reading nook for tea and toast, Alex drew alongside Gabe. “Did you know she kept a list of her favorite people?”
“Sorry? I wasn’t really listening. My mind was elsewhere.”
Alex smirked. “I noticed you were in the middle of something when we returned.” He glanced over his shoulder and, seeing me close enough to hear, swallowed heavily.
“I was thinking about Thurlow’s comment,” Gabe said. “We should think like criminals in order to find out more about Foster.”
“It was sound advice, although I hate admitting it. Have you thought of a way to follow it?”
“I think I know what to do next.”
Willie, walking in front of them, had been listening, too. “Does it involve me using my Colt?”
“No.”
“Burglary? Blackmail? Arson? Kidnap?”
“None of those.”
She grunted. “Back in Broken Creek…”
Alex groaned as she rattled off another story from her youth.
Gabe spent the afternoon at the library’s front desk placing telephone calls to Liverpool and waiting for responses. One of the distinguishing features that Bill Foster’s old army captain, Dr. Collier, had pointed out was his accent, and Dr. McGowan at Rosebank Gardens had also known who we meant when we mentioned Foster’s accent. He must have spent a significant amount of time in Liverpool.
According to that city’s General Registry Office, there were four men named William or Bill Foster who were born there and were the right age to be our Bill Foster. There was a chance that our man was born elsewhere and moved to Liverpool at a young age, so Gabe then followed up with the electoral office. The person on the other end didn’t question Gabe when he said he worked for Scotland Yard, and was eager to assist. He even opened his telephone directory and rattled off numbers corresponding to the relevant Fosters. Two didn’t have telephones.
Gabe put calls in to each number and repeated his same question: “Has a man named Bill Foster with a birthmark on his left cheek ever lived at this address?”
Each time, the answer was no.
“They could be lying,” I said when Gabe joined me in the upstairs reading nook. I’d moved the book I was trying to translate to the desk there, enjoying the peace and quiet after Alex and Willie left. Neither had been interested in waiting once they realized how long Gabe could be.
“That’s possible, although I sensed they were telling the truth.”
“If the Bill Foster we’re searching for isn’t from Liverpool, did he put on a false accent?”
“He would have needed to keep it up constantly, for years.” Gabe shook his head. “I think it’s more likely that he is from Liverpool, but changed his name when he left. If he’s running away, it makes sense.”
It did make sense, particularly when he’d had no qualms using Robin Reid’s name when he needed it. “So we’re not looking for Bill Foster, after all.” I sighed. “We’ll never find him without the correct name.”
“Not necessarily. As Thurlow suggested, if he was running away, there’s a good chance it was because he was wanted by the police. I’ll telephone the Liverpool constabulary now. But first, I should warn Cyclops that I might need to mention him. No police department will give out important information without checking I am who I say I am.”
It was almost an hour before he reappeared again. “After going around in circles for a while, one of the Liverpool detectives agreed to search through their archives for reports of persons matching Foster’s description who went missing around 1893.”
“That’s good news.”
“The bad news is, it will take him a day or two.”
“There’s no urgency.”
He blew out an exasperated breath. “I need something to do in the meantime. Can I help out around the library?” He picked up the book I was attempting to translate. “Dutch?”
“Yes.”
He returned the book to the desk. “I can’t speak Dutch. Do you have anything in French? I could translate it reasonably accurately, although you’d need someone to check it over when I’m finished. I know a little Latin, although it’s quite rusty and mostly limited to legal terms.”
“You studied law?”
“I took some classes at university, but don’t ask me to defend you in court if you’re ever arrested.”
I laughed. “I’m afraid there isn’t much for you to do here.” I could have put him to work on a French translation, but I suspected he needed to do something that required physical activity, not sitting at a desk. “Why not go for a drive? Or take the train to Brighton and stay overnight. I’m sure Alex wouldn’t mind a short jaunt to the seaside. Not Willie, though. I can’t imagine her being separated from her gun long enough to go for a swim.”
He chuckled. “Willie at the seaside would be a painful experience for the rest of us. You and Daisy could come. It might even be the beginning of something between Daisy and Alex.”
“It didn’t work out so well in Ipswich. Besides, I shouldn’t go.”
He rubbed a hand over his jaw, avoiding my gaze. “Right. Of course. We really shouldn’t. It’s too…soon.”
Were we talking about the same thing? “I have to work. I’ve taken enough time off for this investigation already.”
“Oh. Uh…yes. I suppose you’re right.” He cleared his throat and stood. “I’ll find something to do while we wait for the Liverpool police to respond.” He offered me an awkward smile and a little wave. “Well, goodbye for now.”
“Goodbye, Gabe.”
He got as far as the staircase and suddenly turned around, catching me staring at him. I hastily gathered up the Dutch book and pretended to study it.
“Join us for dinner tonight. You and the professor.” He paused. “Francis would like to see you.”
“I wouldn’t want to disappoint him when he’s feeling somewhat vulnerable. Thank you, I accept and I’ll check with the professor to see if he’s free. But are you sure Mrs. Ling won’t object? It’s rather short notice.”
“She loves cooking for guests, but I’ll see that she has everything she needs in time.” He twirled his hat with his fingers then flipped it onto his head, looking smug when it landed perfectly.
“Very flash,” I said, grinning and shaking my head.
His good mood was infectious, and I missed his presence the moment he disappeared from sight. I threw myself into work for the remainder of the day. Like Gabe, I needed a distraction. I wondered if he needed a distraction for the same reason as I did.
Gabe was still in a buoyant mood when Professor Nash and I arrived for dinner. We joined Gabe, Francis, Alex and Willie in the drawing room for cocktails, and I asked Francis how he’d settled in.
He listed a series of tasks he’d completed so far, from putting his clothing in the wardrobe to learning the route to work. He was determined that Willie shouldn’t drive him every day.
“It may not be for long,” he said. “Gabe told me that Thurlow merely wants to employ me, not kill me. He says you explained to Thurlow that I have no interest in working for a criminal, which is true. Thank you for that, Sylvia. Anyway, Gabe suggested I stay here until he’s absolutely sure Thurlow will leave me alone.”
“Is that all right?” I asked, watching him closely.
“I believe it will be. I enjoy the company, although it can be tiring constantly having conversations with different people and learning the new routines. Sometimes there is no routine, apparently. The butler tells me mealtimes vary depending on what everyone is doing.”
“And you prefer to have your meals at the same time every day?”
“How did you know?”
I smiled. “It was a guess.”
Despite his anxiety, Francis seemed to enjoy himself at dinner. He particularly liked Mrs. Ling’s food, which he’d tasted before when dining with Gabe. He contributed to conversations that ranged across a variety of topics. He got along particularly well with Professor Nash. After dessert, we adjourned back to the drawing room for a glass of port before leaving. Francis wanted to hear the professor’s stories about traveling to exotic lands and the professor was more than happy to regale him.
“You really must write these down,” Francis urged him. “I would very much like to read about the places you went to. They sound fascinating, and I know I’d never get to see them in person.”
“You might,” the professor said. “I thought I’d never travel either, but Oscar was the perfect companion for me. He took care of all the little difficulties that crop up when overseas.” He laughed softly. “Even when he got the translations wrong, he managed to extricate us from some sticky situations.”
Francis’s eyes widened. “Were there many sticky situations?”
“Several. They became a regular occurrence.” The professor pushed his glasses up his nose. “I can’t begin to tell you how many times we almost missed a connecting train, or got lost, or lost our luggage. And then there were the times we nearly died. But we almost always managed to bring home something to add to the library’s collection, and we had adventures along the way, too. Not that I saw them as adventures at the time. It was only after each journey was complete that I could reminisce fondly about it.”
“You simply must write them down, Nash. I love a good adventure story.”
“I have been working on my memoir, as it happens. I might see if a publisher is interested.”
Gabe came up beside me and offered to top up my glass. I declined. I’d had enough wine over dinner already, and another port would send me to sleep.
He sat on a chair nearby. “I thought of something to do tomorrow. We should call at Bill Foster’s address again, but this time I don’t want to speak to the landlady. I want to question the neighbors.”
“You think she lied to us?”
“Perhaps. I can’t put my finger on what it was, except to say that her answers seemed too smooth and practiced.”
I didn’t know why she’d lie, given that Bill Foster was dead, but it was as good an idea as any. “What happened to the seaside?”
“Why take a holiday with Alex when I can investigate?”
Had he cut himself off? Had he been about to say, ‘investigate with you?’ It was something I would ponder for the rest of the evening.
Gabe collected me from the library in the middle of the morning and escorted me along Crooked Lane to the Vauxhall Prince Henry, parked near the lane’s entrance. I greeted Alex as I slid onto the backseat. “No Willie today?”
“She went out last night after you left and hasn’t come home yet. She probably fell asleep in someone’s bed.” We both watched Gabe as he cranked the engine. Once the motor rumbled to life, Alex turned to me with a grin. “Unless she got arrested again.”
“If she isn’t doing any breaking and entering for our investigation, what would she get arrested for?”
“Drunkenness, disorderly conduct, affray, murder, prostitution—”
“Prostitution!”
“That one was a mistake and the police let her go.”
“And the murder?”
“Of one of her husbands. It was downgraded to manslaughter, then dismissed altogether.”
Good heavens.
When we arrived at Bill Foster’s address we sat in the motorcar outside the row of featureless terraces, trying to catch glimpses through the windows of Mrs. O’Brien. The only person we saw, however, was a man. That didn’t mean she wasn’t near the back of the house, in the kitchen, perhaps.
Gabe and I were about to knock on the doors of the neighbors’ houses when Mrs. O’Brien’s door opened and she stepped out, basket over her arm. She didn’t see us, and went on her way up the street, her short but determined steps taking her quickly around the bend and out of sight.
“Forget the neighbors,” Gabe said as he got out of the motorcar. “I have a better idea.”
Alex joined us and knocked on Mrs. O’Brien’s door. Beside me, Gabe removed a notepad and pencil from his jacket pocket. “Play along,” he said.
A middle-aged man wearing a neatly pressed pinstripe suit, his gray hair parted perfectly down the middle, greeted us genially enough but didn’t invite us inside. “If this is about a charitable donation, I’ve already given to the Red Cross this week.”
“This isn’t about a donation.” Gabe introduced us using false names. “We’re conducting research into the changing nature of dwellings and their occupants for the local council. Since the war ended, there has been a great deal of movement amongst the population. Young folk no longer live at home, others move in together, that sort of thing. We are conducting a study of the changes over the years, and this address was randomly selected.”
“How intriguing. Come in, come in.”
He led the way to a small parlor with just enough seats for all of us. It was furnished in a turn-of-century style, with thick-legged chairs and too many side tables, all of which were covered in knickknacks. Mrs. O’Brien seemed to have a liking for little creatures carved from wood.
“How can I help?” the lodger asked Gabe.
“Have you lived here long, Mr.…?”
“Tovey. I’ve boarded here a number of years. It’ll be thirteen this winter, I believe.”
That was far longer than we’d expected. We’d assumed Mrs. O’Brien’s current lodger had moved in after Bill Foster vacated the room when he joined the army in November 1914, six years ago. But if Mr. Tovey had been here thirteen years, did that mean Foster was no longer living here at the time he enlisted? It also probably meant Mrs. O’Brien hadn’t lied, after all, and really couldn’t remember her former lodger if he had stopped leasing the room that long ago.
“I never left,” Mr. Tovey went on. “There was no need. They were good to me when I moved in, and Mrs. O’Brien has remained an excellent landlady, even after she lost her husband in the war.”
Gabe frowned. “Our records say Mr. O’Brien died well before the war. It was our understanding they hadn’t been married long before she became a widow.”
Mr. Tovey leaned forward and lowered his voice. “The man I’m referring to wasn’t actually her husband. He was her former lodger. He’d boarded here a while before moving into her room. They then re-leased the spare room to me.”
“And you say he enlisted and died in the war?”
“I assume he died, although she never received a letter, unlike other war widows. His letters stopped suddenly, just like that.” He clicked his fingers. “I suspect she knew he wouldn’t be coming home, however. She was terribly upset for a long time, the poor thing. They were very much in love. He was a good man. Kind, to me and to her.”
“What did he look like?” Gabe asked.
“About my age, but fit as a fiddle.” He sucked in his stomach. “Tall, rather ordinary to look at. He had a birthmark on his face.”
“Was he a local man?”
“I don’t think so. He had a strong accent. Something northern.” He frowned. “I’m sorry, how is this relevant to your study?”
“It’s giving us a fuller picture of the dwelling and its occupants from before the war for a baseline.”
“I see.”
We heard the front door open, and my heart somersaulted. The only person who’d open it would be the landlady.
“I forgot my purse,” she called out.
“In here, Mrs. O,” Mr. Tovey called back. “We have visitors.”
It was too late to escape through a back door. Alex muttered something under his breath, perhaps cursing himself for not waiting outside to keep watch.
I steeled myself and tried to think of a logical excuse for our lies. But my mind went blank. We’d have to admit everything. She might notify the police. At the very least, she’d continue to deny ever knowing Bill Foster.
Unless we could convince her there was no point anymore.
Mrs. O’Brien peered around the door. She gasped. “You were here before! Mr. Glass, isn’t it? And Miss Ashe?”
Mr. Tovey shook his head. “No, you’ve got it wrong, Mrs. O. They’re with the council.”
“They are not. They were poking around here before, asking questions about someone I’d never heard of. A man named Bill Foster.” She pointed at Mr. Tovey. “If they ask you about that name, you’ve never heard it. Have you?” The glare she gave him spoke the threat she couldn’t voice.
Mr. Tovey’s eyes widened. He stared at her a moment then quickly shook his head. “No,” he squeaked. “That’s not a name that’s familiar to me. I know lots of Bills and Williams, but no Bill Fosters.”
“Yes, you do,” Gabe said mildly. “He was the lodger before you.” He turned to Mrs. O’Brien. “You lied to us the other day. Bill Foster did live here for many years. He was your husband in every way except in the eyes of the law. Why did you lie, Mrs. O’Brien? What are you hiding?”
She thrust her chin forward and her nose in the air. “I am not lying.”
“He’s dead. You no longer have to protect him. Please, tell us about the man you knew as Bill Foster.”
She sniffed. “If you think I knew him, prove it.”
Gabe pressed his lips together and blew out an exasperated breath. He was frustrated beyond measure.
I, however, had realized something. “I can prove it,” I said. “I can prove you knew him and that he cared for you.”