And he’s in his study, reading it, and he starts laughing. You heard it, sir – that high, loud laugh he was doing last night. And he’s half-laughing, and half-crying, and Mrs Harkness here comes down to him and she asks what’s wrong, and he says, ‘Everything. Nothing. It is—’” The footman creased up his face, trying to recall. Eventually, he shook his head. “Don’t rightly know what he said, sir – it were French, or something.”
“Never mind that. What next?”
“And – and he says to Mrs Harkness, ‘I can make this right. Just remember, my dear – I did this all for you.’ And Mrs Harkness is asking what’s the matter, and carrying on, like, but that’s the last he says. And he picks up his hat and his walking-stick, and he walks out of the house. Just like that.”
“He didn’t say where he was going, or what he meant to do?”
“No, sir.”
“In which direction did he walk?”
“South.”
“You didn’t follow him?”
The man shifted. “Mrs Harkness, she were screaming and carrying on, sir. We’d enough to do with her.”
James nodded. “Very well. Does Mrs Harkness have a relation – a sister, perhaps – nearby who could come to help her?”
The footman nodded. “Mrs Phelps, sir. I’ll go and fetch her this minute.”
“Wait a moment. Stay with Mrs Harkness until the doctor comes, you and her maid both. Once the doctor’s here, then fetch Mrs Phelps.” The man nodded. He was accustomed to taking directions and, once instructed, showed something of a return to the footman’s orderly manner. James turned to Mrs Harkness, who lay motionless and silent on the sofa. Her eyes were closed and she looked so still and calm James felt the need to touch her wrist. It was warm and her pulse, though rapid, was strong. “Madam. I’m going in search of your husband. I’ll send word once I find him.”
No response, not even a fluttering of the eyelids.
James’s hat still hung neatly on a hook in the hall, and it seemed peculiar that it, of all things, was undisturbed and in the right place. Climbing back into the carriage, he touched his breast pocket and felt the reassuring presence of that foreign envelope. He didn’t need to consider where Harkness might have gone in the seven hours he’d been absent. There was only one possible destination.
“Home, sir?” asked Barker, without much hope.
“No. St Stephen’s Tower.”
* * *
Jenkins was still suffering as a result of Keenan’s thrashing: that was obvious to Mary, although he tried to deny it. The best pace he could manage was a steady walk that soon slowed to a hobble. It cost him enormous effort: he was sweating profusely, his complexion grey, trying to suppress a wince with each step.
“Almost there,” said Mary encouragingly. “Aren’t we?” While Jenkins hadn’t asked how much she knew or why she was curious, it was still safest to play the role of sidekick for as long as she could.
He nodded grimly. “Just round the corner.”
“Shall I go ahead and see? It’s number nine, right?” This second visit to the Wicks was pure optimism on Mary’s part. She doubted Reid was there, but for once she would be happy to be wrong.
He nodded. “Go on.”
As she scanned the row of houses, a couple of curtains twitched: nosy neighbours, once again. But Wick’s house had no curtains – and who washed curtains on a Sunday? – which gave the house an abandoned feel. The black crape bow was gone, its absence a vivid suggestion of how quickly a life could be forgotten.
“You moving in?”
Mary turned. A solemn, red-haired girl of about nine regarded her from the door of the house opposite. “Where?”
“There. Number nine.”
“It’s – empty?”
“They went this morning.”
“Wasn’t that quite sudden?”
“I seen them packing up, all night.”
“Where did they go?”
She shrugged.
“Did the woman – Mrs Wick, that is – pack everything on her own? Or was there a man helping her?” There had to have been. Jane Wick was neither decisive nor quick-moving, by nature. Any sudden removal must have been at someone else’s behest. The real question was, had Keenan or Reid moved the Wick family?
“Quinn! Quinn! What you doing?”
Both Mary and the girl jumped at this interruption: Peter Jenkins, of course, bearing down on them like a limping wolf. With a slight squeak of alarm, the girl promptly vanished into her house, the door thumping decisively behind her.
Mary sighed. “Jenkins.”
“This ain’t a time to muck about! Don’t you understand?”
“I understand, Jenkins. That girl just told me