Page 34

I n talking to ticket collectors at Folkestone Harbour, Constance and Solomon discovered no trace of anyone like Audrey Lloyd, either alone or with a man of Tybalt’s description, going forward to the Boulogne ferry.

“It doesn’t mean they’re not in France,” Solomon said discontentedly when they had returned to the carriage. “It just means no one noticed them. But I suppose before we comb France, we should first seek them out in the innumerable hotels and short-term lodging houses in the town.”

Constance thought about that. “Audrey is actually quite memorable in her own way. I suspect it’s only among her family that she merges into the background where they put her.

The servants think well of her. Tybalt seems to have remained loyal to her for most of his adult life.

Your hackney driver remembered her well enough.

And so do you, judging by the descriptions of her you gave at the harbor. ”

“Perhaps you are right. And so we shall find her more easily.”

This did not, however, prove to be the case.

With Constance masquerading as Miss Lloyd’s niece, and Solomon, occasionally, as her man of business who needed to speak to her urgently, they scoured the hotels and lodging houses.

Their lack of success was disheartening until, toward the end of an exhausting afternoon, Solomon called a halt and insisted on taking Constance to a hotel for the night.

Constance, whose head had indeed begun to pound again, did not argue.

“We can begin again early tomorrow morning,” she said optimistically. “Shall we be Mr. and Mrs. Smith?”

Solomon did not answer, and for a moment she thought he had missed her provocative joke, for he was staring broodingly out of the carriage window. Then he suddenly straightened in his seat and thumped on the carriage roof. The coachman slowed the hired horses to a halt.

Solomon already had the door open. “It’s Tybalt,” he said, and flew down the road the way they had just come, slowing only to pass pedestrians without jostling them.

Constance kicked down the step and followed at a more leisurely pace.

Solomon had not caught up with Captain Tybalt.

In fact, he was following him from a few yards’ distance, until the captain turned into a gateway right next door to the small lodging house they had just left.

This one bore no sign of any purpose other than a home.

Constance, headache forgotten, hurried to catch up. Ahead of her, Solomon sped through the gate and laid a hand on Tybalt’s shoulder. Tybalt spun around, jerking into the defensive posture of a man who had experienced many dangers on the world’s docksides over the years.

Constance’s stomach heaved with fear, but Solomon, despite the poise that told her he was ready for attack, did not react. He merely stood still, gazing down at Tybalt, who dropped his hands.

She had seen this happen before. It was as though he quelled would-be opponents with the sheer force of his presence.

Not that it always worked, of course, and she was somewhat surprised that it did now, considering Tybalt had already coolly stolen from his employer, killed his partner in crime, and whacked Constance over the head.

“Mr. Grey.” Tybalt sounded both surprised and bewildered. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” Solomon replied. “And Miss Lloyd.”

Tybalt’s gaze flickered to Constance, who waited now at the gate a few paces behind Solomon. “Then let us repair next door to my own lodgings. I am only visiting here.”

Tybalt even took a pace toward the gate, but Solomon did not budge, still blocking his exit.

“Let us all call on Miss Lloyd together,” he suggested.

Tybalt searched Solomon’s face, as though he could thus dig out his thoughts. “Why should you imagine Miss Lloyd is here?”

“Because you are,” Constance said. A door opened across the road. Someone else was talking in the street. “Shall we go inside before we are observed by too many gossips?”

Tybalt glanced from her to Solomon, determination and decisiveness in his hard eyes. “She is not going back to her brother’s house.”

“I see no reason why she should,” Constance said.

“Don’t lie,” Tybalt snapped. “You work for Barnabas Lloyd.”

“So do you,” Solomon pointed out.

“Not right now, I don’t. My obligation to him ended when I left his ship a week ago.”

“With his treasure,” Solomon said.

Tybalt’s eyes widened. “I did not take his damned—”

He was interrupted by the front door flying open.

Audrey Lloyd stood there in her untidy, ill-matched garb of dull colors, except for a brave, bright red and blue shawl worn over her coat. Behind her spectacles, she blinked rapidly at the delegation before her.

Tybalt jerked around to face her. “You had better go back inside,” he barked.

She sighed. “We had better all go inside. I am prepared to postpone my walk.”

As she turned away, Tybalt glared at Solomon and then Constance. “I won’t have her upset,” he growled. “Understand?”

“Perfectly,” Constance said, sailing past him into the house.

Audrey led them to a small parlor at the back of the house. “Everyone else is having tea in the dining room, so this room is usually quiet at this time of day…”

The furniture consisted of a small sofa, several comfortable old armchairs, a low table, and a bookcase containing a variety of literature, from worthy tomes to cheaply bound novels and magazines.

Audrey sat on the sofa. If she expected Captain Tybalt to join her there, she was disappointed, for Constance, quite deliberately, took the place instead. Despite the woman’s calmness, she was tense, her eyes shadowed from more than one sleepless night.

She was worried, as she had not been by the loss of her brother’s treasure. Had she found out what a dangerous man she was tying herself to?

“Why are you here?” Audrey asked bluntly, as Solomon closed the door and leaned negligently against it.

“ I came to escort you on your walk,” Tybalt said.

“And you, Mrs. Silver? Mr. Grey? Did Barnabas send you?”

“He asked us to find you,” Solomon said, and she glanced up at him quickly.

“Does he know I’m here?”

“Not yet,” Constance said. “We need to know why you left first.”

Audrey blinked and smiled. “I am of age, dear,” she said wryly.

“Then no one drove you out or compelled you to come here?” Constance asked.

“Oh, dear me, no.”

Quite suddenly, gazing at her, Constance thought it would not be quite so easy to compel Audrey Lloyd as she had imagined. There was a firmness about the set of her mouth, a stubbornness that was not obvious on first acquaintance.

“The thing is,” Solomon said gently, “it is likely the police will be looking for you now.”

“The police?” she said, startled. “Why, what do they think I have done?”

“Your visits to Mr. Clarke’s sister must have been noted by someone,” Constance pointed out. “Particularly since he didn’t have one. It gives you a questionable connection to the murdered man.”

A frown formed between her brows. “What murdered man?” she asked in what appeared to be genuine bafflement.

Solomon straightened, watching Tybalt as Constance observed Audrey. “There have been some developments in the case since you left home, ma’am. Did Captain Tybalt not tell you that Mr. Clarke was murdered?”

The lady’s lips parted. She stared at him, then suddenly jumped to her feet, wringing her hands together so tightly that her knuckles were white. “Don’t lie to me! Don’t say such things! Oh God, please be lying to me!”

Even as Constance rose and caught the older woman’s hand in instinctive desire to comfort, she began to think they had got everything horribly wrong.

“Who is this Clarke?” Tybalt demanded. He too had risen, and his frustration looked as genuine as his concern for Audrey.

“Samuels,” Solomon said. “Your ship’s carpenter. The one who made the duplicate chest that enabled you to steal Mr. Lloyd’s treasure.”

“What? I didn’t take his damned… Audrey—Miss Lloyd, please don’t distress yourself. Please sit down.”

But Audrey seemed incapable of it. She was grasping Constance’s hand so hard that it hurt, her eyes so full of anguish that it was impossible to doubt her.

“Joshua is not dead,” Audrey whispered. “Tell me you made it up. Joshua is not dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Constance said helplessly. Tears were spilling unnoticed down Audrey’s cheeks. “We didn’t know it would upset you like this.” Was the woman weeping for Clarke—whom she called Joshua—or because she suspected Tybalt of his murder?

“Did you shoot him when you took the treasure from him?” Solomon asked Tybalt.

“Dash it, I didn’t even know he was dead!” Tybalt exclaimed. “Where and when was he shot?”

“In his own home. There was no sign of the treasure, but his bag was packed—before someone flung the contents all over the room.”

Audrey let out a low moan and would have collapsed had Constance not put her arm around her.

Tybalt was staring at Audrey. “ He was the one? Samuels?”

“ What one?” Solomon demanded, but Tybalt’s attention was all on Audrey, pity and hopeless love softening his harsh face. “Captain!”

Tybalt spared him a glance. “What?” he asked without interest, returning his gaze to Audrey, now being coaxed back onto the sofa by Constance.

He took a flask from his pocket, unstoppered it, and thrust it into Audrey’s hand.

“Drink,” he said gently. “Just a spot. We have to decide what is best to do.”

When he urged her hand upward, she drank obediently like a child, just one swallow. She didn’t choke on its fire, but it did seem to shock her back into awareness.

“To do?” she said. “I don’t care now. No wonder he didn’t come…”

“You were waiting for Mr. Clarke,” Constance said cautiously. “Not Captain Tybalt?”

“Then what, sir, brought you here?” Solomon demanded.

“I have friends in Lloyd’s house who sent me word that Miss Lloyd had disappeared,” the captain said.

“Garrick,” Solomon guessed.