“Did she stop worrying?” I asked.
He shook his head.
I pressed on. “Could there have been another problem?”
“No.” He snapped his answer.
A woman comes back upset after talking to another woman, and the only problem was business? I was certain something else was wrong.
“Here.” He slid the drawing of his attacker across the table to me.
“This is very good. I didn’t realize you’re an artist.”
“Comes from learning drafting at a young age. You start to see everything on a grid. Even faces.”
As I put the drawing of the killer in my bag, Blackford said, “Who raised the question about the calculation?”
“Sir Henry Stanford.”
“The shipbuilder?”
Gattenger’s look at the duke said there couldn’t possibly be two Sir Henry Stanfords. “Yes.”
“Did you and Stanford discuss the problem at the Admiralty the day of the break-in?”
“Yes.”
“You and Sir Henry Stanford were together in the Admiralty records room that particular day discussing your calculations in tones that could be overheard?”
Gattenger and I gave each other a puzzled look. “I suppose,” he said.
The duke rose from his chair so quickly he nearly knocked it over. He strode to the door but stopped before the guard reached the iron-barred gate to let him out. Then he marched back and sat down again.
“Who else was in the records office?” I asked.
“The clerks who work there. No one else.”
“Did any of them comment on your discussion of this problem with the calculation, or on your removing a drawing from their files?”
“No. They were all busy. Too busy to do more than fulfill my request.” Then Gattenger leaned toward me. “You don’t think Sir Henry Stanford was behind the theft, do you? He and Clara got on well. Clara got on well with everyone.” He loosed one sob and then fought to regain control.
“How would Sir Henry know anything about your calculations? The people at the Admiralty aren’t that far along in having your battleship built, are they?” the duke asked.
“Yes, they are. The drawings have been shown to three shipbuilders with instructions to bid on the work without taking the drawings outside of the records room. That’s where Stanford saw them.”
“Who are the other two?”
The names Ken Gattenger provided, Lord Porthollow and Mr. Fogburn, must have meant something to Blackford. I had never heard them before.
“Nothing is missing from the Admiralty and no one outside the records office has made any copies,” the duke murmured. “Thank you, Gattenger. That’s all we need for now.” He stood and waited for the guard to unlock the door.
“Wait!” I said as I sprang to my feet. “What about the fire?”
“What about it?” Gattenger asked.
“Who asked for the fire to be lit in the study?”
He huffed out a breath as he stared at me. Then he lowered his eyes. “Clara. She’d not been feeling well, and she was cold.”
I didn’t believe that any more than I believed his story about Clara’s worries concerning ship design flaws. And I hated being lied to by someone I wanted to help.
Blackford snorted and walked out of the sarcophagus-like space. Afraid I’d be trapped in this impenetrable fortress, I said good-bye to the prisoner.
He grabbed my hands and said, “This is all my fault. I’m to blame.”
I saw the anguish in his eyes, but I also heard Blackford’s footsteps marching away from me. “Why?” came out as a demand as I pulled my hands free.
Kenny Gattenger covered his face with his hands, shook his head, and sobbed.
“Why?” I asked again, torn between the fear of missing something important and the fear of being lost in those twisting, unforgiving corridors. When he didn’t speak, I left the room and rushed down the stone-paneled hallways, trying to catch up with Blackford and anxious to be out of this prison. I was out of breath when I reached the duke and then had to struggle to keep up with his long strides. As we crossed the last gate and exchanged the prison gloom for London’s sunny, humid streets, I grabbed Blackford by the sleeve. “What’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer until we were both in the carriage and riding away from Newgate Prison. The smell of mildew and rot stuck to my clothes and remained in my nose. The duke didn’t appear to notice anything amiss. “Stanford is in financial trouble. I didn’t think he’d turn to treason to buy his way out.”
“You think he’s the link to the German spy?”
“I know he is. And I can’t question him. You, as Georgina Monthalf, will have to learn his secrets and retrieve the plans alone.”
“Why can’t you?”
“We aren’t on speaking terms. Haven’t been for years.”
He wanted me to accomplish all this while inhabiting another woman’s skin. I’d played this type of role before, but never for so long a time as this promised to be or in such a complicated investigation. If it weren’t for Phyllida, I’d have quit that instant.
* * *
THE NEXT FEW days passed in a blur. When I wasn’t in the bookshop, I was constantly at Sir Broderick’s, ensuring I’d planned for every possibility. We seemed to have more customers than ever, but Frances acted as if she were born to be a shopkeeper. Our elderly patrons thought she was a joy. Our other regulars loved her. I’d have been jealous if I weren’t so busy.
The telephone was installed on the shop counter only three days after the meeting at Sir Broderick’s, setting a record in our part of town. Emma immediately called Sir Broderick’s and got Jacob. She and Frances had great fun practicing with the instrument. I knew I’d be able to measure their squeals of delight in shillings when the bill arrived.
The next afternoon, Adam Fogarty came in the shop, nodded to me, and walked toward the back. I signaled Emma to watch the shop and followed him into our office.
“We have a problem.” Fogarty paced the narrow space like a caged animal. He’d been a Metropolitan Police sergeant before an injury shortened the career he loved. Most of that career was spent outside on his feet. We’d worked together on Archivist Society investigations for nearly a dozen years, and I knew better than to even think of offering him a chair.
“Only one?” We were trying to help a man in prison who didn’t appear to want help.
“One of my sources, a desk sergeant, told me the highest levels of Scotland Yard have decided Gattenger is guilty of murder and treason and they aren’t looking any further. No one knows what kind of evidence they have, but it must be conclusive. They’re going to keep holding Gattenger, but Whitehall and the Admiralty are in charge of the investigation now, not our guys.”
“Murder and treason?” Good heavens. This was worse. Much worse, since they were adding treason.
“Yes. The whole case has landed in the steamy pits.” Fogarty picked up a book and set it down again.
“Thanks, Adam. We need to learn what the evidence is.” When the duke and I were at Newgate Prison, Gattenger had said everything was his fault. Was he guilty? Being blackmailed? Or a heartbroken and wronged man?
Fogarty stuck his head out the window and looked up and down the alley. When he pulled his head and shoulders back into the room, he said, “I met up with Inspector Grantham. He told me the case had been taken off his hands and placed with someone senior. He doesn’t know what the evidence is, but he believes it’s enough to hang Gattenger.”
He marched to the doorway and back. “I’ll see what I can find out from my sources in the police force, but they’re all too low level to know anything if Grantham doesn’t. I think we’ll need the duke to talk to Whitehall. Ask him, Georgia.”
“I will. Whether he decides to share that information is another question.”
“He needs to understand he isn’t the only one working on finding those warship plans.” Fogarty limped out of the office and waved good-bye to Emma, jingling the bell over the door as he left.