If his intention was to disarm the hostile Miss Robinson, he apparently succeeded. “I wouldn’t want to get you in any sort of trouble,” she conceded grudgingly.
“Oh, I doubt I’d get much more than a tongue-lashing,” he assured her. “Still and all, Mr. Brundy’s been good to me, so I figure the least I can do is abide by ’is wishes, leastways until I can persuade ’im to give mine a try.”
Upon sensing Miss Robinson’s thinly veiled hostility toward the weaver’s foster son, Pickett’s loyalties had ranged themselves firmly with his hostess; now, however, he found himself wavering. He too felt an unpaid debt to a man who had, without the obligation of a blood tie, taken an interest in him.
“If you don’t mind waiting, Mr. Brundy,” Miss Robinson said, “I can offer you and your men something hot to drink and a place near the fire until Papa returns.”
Young Brundy agreed to this plan, and Miss Robinson turned to her father’s apprentice. “Andrew, if you will mind the shop, I will go upstairs and fetch what remains of yesterday’s wassail.” To Pickett, she added, “Thank you for calling, Mr. Pickett. When may I see you again?”
“Tomorrow,” he said promptly. He would have preferred that afternoon, but he had no idea how long the wait might be for Mr. Robinson’s return, much less how much time it would take to unload the heavily laden wagon. He would hate to put Miss Robinson in the uncomfortable position of having to arrange a second visit within the weaver’s hearing, while not disclosing any hint as to its purpose.
“Tomorrow would be lovely,” she assured him warmly. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Brundy, I’ll see Mr. Pickett on his way.”
She tucked her hand into the curve of his arm as she led him toward the door, addressing him in such low tones that he was obliged to bend to hear her—which, he supposed, added verisimilitude to her claim that he was courting her.
“Thank you for not betraying me, Mr. Pickett,” she confided. “I’m sure you can understand why we don’t want our suppliers to know about the theft. It wouldn’t do for word to get out that Papa might be unable to pay.”
“Of course,” Pickett agreed, taking her hands in his and schooling his features into what he hoped was a suitably loverlike expression. “Still, it’s best in such cases to make a thorough examination of the scene as soon as possible. I would be obliged if you would see that nothing is disturbed until I am able to make such an inspection tomorrow morning.”
“I will do my best, and I shall warn Papa as well,” she promised, giving his hands a squeeze. “Until tomorrow, then.”
The following morning, Julia arose from her bed with a lighter heart than she had felt for many a long day. She had spent the previous evening poring over the fashion plates in
La Belle Assemblée
, and had chosen four of the illustrations to take to her dressmaker: two morning gowns, a dinner dress with a short demi-train, and (her one extravagance) something suitable for evening wear: a low-necked, high-waisted gown with a sheer overskirt adorned with silk embroidery in a pattern of lilies along its hem.
Now it remained only to select the fabrics before consulting with the very expensive dressmaker who had been charged with making her wardrobe ever since she had first come to London as Frederick’s bride. Impatient to put this plan into action, she made a quick breakfast of rolls and chocolate, then instructed her footman, Thomas, to send for the carriage while she made her toilette. By the time she came downstairs again, having washed, donned a carriage costume in the despised gray of half-mourning, and allowed her abigail to dress her hair, the vehicle was at the door.
“Where to, your ladyship?” called the coachman from his perch, as Thomas handed her inside.
“Number nineteen, Piccadilly,” she said. “The shop of Mr. George Robinson, linen-draper.”
* * *
Meanwhile, John Pickett had already set out on foot for the same location, having spent a very uncomfortable quarter-hour with his magistrate, during which he had been obliged to explain why he had elected to abandon the scene of the crime without having made even the most cursory of inspections—and making, he feared, a very poor job of defending his actions. When he reached his destination, his ears were still ringing with the vehemence of Mr. Colquhoun’s unequivocally stated displeasure, and so he lost no time in examining the locks of both the safe and the shop itself in an attempt to redeem himself in his mentor’s eyes. Unfortunately, these did not tell him much. Both locks were of a sort that would have been easily penetrated by any long, pointed instrument—a lady’s hairpin, for instance—by anyone who knew how; he himself could have done the thing in a matter of seconds. Still, only the most consummate of thieves would be able to accomplish the feat without leaving telltale scratches on the metal surface—and any burglar of such a caliber would be unlikely to waste his time on a linen-draper’s shop when he might more profitably exercise his talents on, say, the Bank of England. But even a thorough examination with the aid of a quizzing-glass (purchased at secondhand from a pawnshop, for reasons having more to do with practicality than personal adornment) had failed to expose the slightest mark that could not be explained by over a century of daily use.
He would have reported this lack of progress to Mr. Robinson, but the proprietor was once again absent, having departed for his bank only moments before Pickett’s arrival, for the purpose of withdrawing sufficient funds to repay those friends who had come to his rescue on Boxing Day.
“But if you would care to tell me,” Miss Robinson assured him, “I shall be sure to pass it along to Papa.”
“I’m afraid there isn’t much to tell,” Pickett confessed. “Whoever your unwanted visitor was, I don’t see how he could have come in that door. Even if he had picked the lock—and I can’t find the slightest evidence that he did—the bell over the door must have warned anyone within hearing distance that something was amiss. I suppose the shops on either side were closed as well, so late on Christmas night.” Recalling his own living quarters over a chandler’s shop, he gestured toward the ceiling. “Tell me, does anyone live up there?”
“Why, yes. Papa and I do.”
Pickett was surprised by this revelation, having expected the prosperous shopkeeper to have made more luxurious living arrangements for himself. “And neither of you heard anything?”
She shook her head. “Not a thing.”
“What about the shops next door? Are there any tenants in the upper floors?”
“The boot-maker just west of us has his workshop upstairs. I believe a clerk and his wife live in the flat over the glove shop to the east.”
Pickett made a note of it in his occurrence book. “Very well, I’ll have a word with them. Perhaps one of them heard some noise that might suggest an intruder.”
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Pickett, but you do know, do you not, that there is a door in the back?”
Pickett, feeling more than a little foolish, admitted that no, he had
not
known. He attempted to justify himself with the recollection that he hadn’t been permitted to stay long enough to find out, but suspected Mr. Colquhoun would not find this excuse any more acceptable than he did himself.
“Come here, and I’ll show you.”
She led him through the narrow door into the back room, then pointed toward one of the shelves stacked floor to ceiling with bolts of cloth. “Behind there,” she said.
Upon closer inspection (now that he was allowed to make one, Pickett thought indignantly), the end of the shelf was not flush with the adjacent wall, as it had appeared at first glance, but offset by about three feet. A stout oak door filled the gap, looking no more promising than the front door had; in addition to a lock of the same sort that he had just inspected, this one had been fitted with a hook fastened to the door, which fitted through a corresponding eye bolted into the doorframe at about the level of Pickett’s chin.
“May I?” he asked.
Upon receiving permission, he unlatched the hook and undid the lock with the key provided by Miss Robinson. He pushed the door open and leaned out. This rear door opened onto an alley, empty save for a wagon stopped some distance up the narrow street, apparently making a delivery to one of the other Piccadilly shops. Which raised another question, albeit one unrelated to the case.
“I should have thought your father would take deliveries here, instead of having workers tramping through his shop,” Pickett remarked.
“And so he used to do,” said Miss Robinson, her lip twisting scornfully, “until he allowed Mr. Brundy to persuade him that it would be good for sales if people could see when he was receiving a new shipment. Never mind the fact that traffic in Piccadilly would be tied up until the wagon was unloaded; the idea was that potential customers would be curious enough to come inside and see what new fabrics were on offer, thus stealing a march on their friends.”
“Did it work?”
“It did,” she conceded grudgingly.
“You don’t like Mr. Brundy, do you?” Pickett observed.
She considered this statement—it wasn’t exactly a question—for a long moment. “I don’t
dis
like him, precisely,” she said at last. “But I haven’t the least desire to marry him.”
“Has he asked you?” Pickett had thought the fellow looked a bit young to be thinking of marriage.
“No, but Papa has been dropping the most flagrant hints about contacting the elder Mr. Brundy and arranging a match. My only other prospect at present is Papa’s apprentice, and although Papa likes Andrew well enough, he isn’t at all certain he wants him to inherit the business—which my husband must eventually do, since Papa has no sons. But Papa says Mr. Brundy has a head for business, and predicts he’ll do great things as soon as the elder Mr. Brundy retires and turns the reins over to him. And all of that may be true,” she concluded emphatically, “but it wouldn’t make up for having to hear that voice every morning over the breakfast table!”
There was nothing Pickett could say to that. His own speech had not been much better before he’d been thrown into contact with the upper classes and began, almost without conscious effort, to modulate his voice after theirs. He suspected, moreover, that one would not have to go back many generations to find the Robinson family in a very similar case—hence Miss Robinson’s desire to distance herself from her own humble origins.
“But enough about me,” she said, returning the subject to the business at hand. “I suppose you’ll want to examine these locks as well, so I shall leave you to it. I shall be in the showroom, as will Papa after he returns, if you should need either of us.”
Pickett thanked her, and after she had gone, examined the hook and eye arrangement for any sign of tampering, but found the bolts tight. He supposed the hook might possibly be lifted from the outside by means of inserting the blade of a knife between the door and its frame, but found no scratch marks on either door or frame to suggest that such an operation had been attempted. Heaving a sigh, he dropped to his knees and subjected the lock on this back door to the same inspection he’d given the one in the front—with, alas, as little to show for it. He rose to his feet and dusted off the knees of his breeches, then went to report this lack of progress to the linen-draper’s daughter. He passed through the door into the showroom, and froze in his tracks. Miss Robinson was there, just as she’d said she would be, engaged in showing a selection of filmy fabrics to a customer. And not just any customer, but a lady: a golden-haired lady clad in the lusterless gray of half-mourning.
Lady Fieldhurst, or—at least in the eyes of the law—Mrs. John Pickett.
Pickett ducked back through the door into the storage room and sagged against the wall, breathing hard. She was here! The lady he’d told himself he never wanted to see again was here, so close that if he were to call out to her, she would hear him. Every instinct urged him to open the door just a crack, just enough to catch one more glimpse of her, to assure himself that she was well and happy. But if she were to see him, he would be obliged to speak to her, and what could he possibly say that would not end with him begging her to drop the annulment proceedings—thus embarrassing her and humiliating himself still further? No, it was best that he remain safely out of sight until she had gone. And yet—and yet she was
there
—so close, so very close—
A low growl close at hand informed Pickett that an even nearer danger existed, and thoughts of Lady Fieldhurst were temporarily set aside in favor of low-voiced assurances to Brutus that he was a good dog. Brutus, unimpressed, seemed much more concerned with ascertaining whether or not Pickett was a good man. Finding a tentative hand stretched out toward him, Brutus instantly cast his vote for the negative, and sank his teeth into the fleshy part of Pickett’s hand. Choking back the howl of pain that would certainly have brought Lady Fieldhurst and everyone else in the shop running, Pickett satisfied himself with making an awkward, one-handed job of wrapping his bleeding hand in his handkerchief and tugging the knot tight with his teeth, all the while telling Brutus in an undervoice exactly what he thought of that animal’s manners, morals, and parentage—a recital interrupted when the door swung open abruptly to reveal Miss Robinson, standing in the doorway exclaiming, “Why, Mr. Pickett, whatever is the matter? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost!”
* * *
Julia had been prepared to wait patiently in the showroom while Miss Robinson went to fetch the pale blue satin which the linen-draper’s daughter was certain had been delivered only the week before, but at the sound of a familiar name, her ears pricked up. Was it possible? Could it be? A quick glance about the shop, however, revealed no glimpse of a tall young man with brown curls tied at the nape of his neck in a queue.
And what did you expect?
she chided herself silently, conscious of a vague sense of disappointment. Mr. Pickett could have no reason to patronize a linen-draper’s shop, as it was unlikely that his wages, whatever they were, ran to bespoke clothing.