Sweet Revenge Page 8

  Five seconds after Ron and Ivy left, she bade a preoccupied goodbye to Ratz and stepped onto the sidewalk. Both agents had disappeared.

  The day was muggy and close with a high overcast typical of London in late spring. The air smelled of baking, flowers and the sooty aroma of old buildings. The hawkers were out and hard at work, selling their “caulies and green veg” to any passerby whose attention they could attract.

  Ragamuffin children, playing tag and urging their dogs to beg for scraps, added to the Dickensian feel of the area, but as she gazed around, it occurred to Victoria that there were entirely too many children doing too many things that had nothing to do with school.

  A man’s hand snagged her arm from behind, halting her in her tracks. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Her heart jumped into her throat, but she managed to force it down and snatch her arm free. “Trying to find a cab—and wondering why these children aren’t in school on a Monday morning.”

  Torbel wore a black jersey today, with the sleeves pushed up over his lean, tanned forearms and the three top buttons undone. His brown hair was clean and shiny; the stubble on his chin had not been shaved. He looked predatory and dangerous and altogether too sexy for her to cope with on an empty stomach.

  One of those damnable mocking brows rose. “Can’t you figure it out?”

  “If I could, I wouldn’t ask.”

  “Those particular children belong to the Pottses. Both parents work at the garment factory. They’re there from seven till six and can’t always be sure their offspring get away on time, or at all for that matter. There’ll be a note from the teacher about it.” He trapped her wrist before she could flag a passing taxi. “I’m on my way to the local precinct house. I’d like you to come along.”

  “Is it about last night?”

  “Not in the sense you mean. One of my agents, Tristan, was involved in a fight behind the pub.”

  She thought back. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “He knocked his opponent out with one punch.”

  “How does that involve me?” As if she couldn’t guess.

  That same wicked brow arched again.

  She endeavored discreetly to extricate her wrist. “You’re crazy, Torbel. I don’t defend ex-cat-burglars who brawl behind bars in their spare time.”

  “Not even one whose opponent was getting rough with his escort? Doris has a bigger black eye than her so-called companion.”

  She stopped tugging. “That’s terrible.”

  “I know.” Giving her no chance to object, he propelled her firmly along the narrow street.

  Although she wished he wouldn’t walk quite so close, Victoria made no further attempt to break free. It was too crowded in any event, and as she recalled, the police station was only a few blocks away.

  Even so, it took an eternity to forge a path along the sidewalk. The corners were the worst. Carts, trolleys and barrows vied for position. Thank heaven she found a vendor selling hot scones. She ordered one smothered in strawberry jam, with a cup of tea and milk on the side. Apart from satisfying her overwhelming hunger, the food also kept her from dwelling too deeply on the man beside her.

  She managed only one question between the corner and the precinct house. At that, she sensed Torbel didn’t appreciate it. “Why do you and Judge Hollyburn hate each other so much?”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Isn’t the trial reason enough?”

  “Zoe thinks there’s more to it, some earlier clash between you.”

  “Yeah, well, Zoe doesn’t know squat when it comes to Augustus and me. Clover knows even less if that’s her source.”

  “That isn’t quite—”

  “Morning, Torbel. Morning, Ms. Summers.” Tito fell into step with them near the precinct house. Sticking his head out, he greeted a man seated on a black case. “Morning, Boots.”

  Victoria immediately perceived why he was called Boots. The man wore a beautiful pair, made of black leather, with polished gold buckles on the top. The rest of his clothing consisted of a tattered 1920s tuxedo, a top hat with the top punched out and a red ascot tied around his sagging throat. He looked to be about seventy years old. He had a round, smiling face and white hair that fell in wisps to his shoulders.

  He said nothing, merely beamed at Tito then more broadly at Torbel.

  “Boots isn’t much of a talker,” Tito confided to Victoria. He twisted off one of the five rings on his left hand. “Got a bauble for you, Boots,” he said. “Yours to keep or pawn. Pure gold it is, ten karat.”

  Not quite pure, but more than Tito could likely afford to purchase. Victoria kept her mouth shut, finished her scone and, licking her fingers, trailed Torbel into the station.

  A chimney sweep with a grimy face and cap pulled low over his eyes paused to let her pass.

  Sergeant Peacock stood behind the desk, looking formal if somewhat harassed. Officers and civilians buzzed around like flies. In the background, Inspector Fox talked to one of his female officers—a charming smile on his lips.

  Seeing him reminded Victoria of something. “Ratz mentioned a woman called Doris that Fox likes. Is she the Doris with the black eye?”

  “She likes dangerous men.”

  Two thoughts sprang to mind. Victoria voiced only the second. “Inspector Fox isn’t dangerous, is he?”

  “He’s killed people in his time.”

  “Before he joined the force, of course,” Tito put in.

  Victoria studied the man from a distance. He had straight dark hair, parted in the middle and slicked back, with a neat little mustache to match. She estimated that he was the same height and build as Sergeant Peacock, six-one or so. “How old is he?” she asked Torbel, who now stood disconcertingly behind her shoulder.

  “Forty-six.”

  “Nah, he’s fifty if he’s a day,” Tito declared, then snatched his hand from the air and tucked it behind his back.

  Peacock regarded him sternly. “Come here, Tito.”

  Tito looked around innocently. “I’m with them.”

  “We had a report of a stolen ring last week,” the sergeant said. “A gent’s ruby. Show me your right hand, please.”

  “Damn his eagle eyes,” Tito muttered. Reluctantly he shuffled forward.

  The sergeant regarded the ring, hesitated, then took it. “M.V. Martin Valder.” His graying brows went up. “Would you mind telling me how this came to be in your possession?”

  “I—”

  “Found it,” Torbel supplied smoothly.

  Tito’s head bobbed. “That’s right, I did. In Mersey Lane near the pawnshop. I figured some bloke must have dropped it. I would have turned it in, but I was hungry and it slipped me mind.”

  Peacock set the ring down, wiping his hands thoroughly on a handkerchief. “Gold gives him a rash,” Tito whispered to Victoria.

  “Stolen gold gives me more of a rash, Tito. It also gives me problems.”

  Victoria came to life. “What kind of problems, Sergeant?”

  “Legal ones.” Pocketing the handkerchief, Peacock inspected his contaminated fingers. “Is this man your client?”

  “That depends. Are you going to charge him with possession of stolen merchandise?”

  A derisive snort brought her attention to Inspector Fox, who’d joined them. “Might as well try to catch water in a sieve. Confiscate the ring, Sergeant. Bugger off, Tito.”

  With a grin for Torbel and Victoria, the little man shrank out of sight.

  Fox came to stand beside the sergeant, his long fingers splayed on the desk. “What brings you here, Torbel?”

  “Tristan Law, sir,” Peacock reminded in an undertone.

  “Yes, of course. Brawling in public, making an affray.”

  Privately Victoria thought the inspector’s smile was too smooth.

  “Defending a woman was how I heard it,” Torbel returned. His tone and expression were both unreadable.

  A chilly female voice cut in. “You would defend him, wouldn’t you, To
rbel. You’d lie through your teeth to save any of your smarmy cohorts.”

  Clover Hollyburn. Victoria tried hard not to stare. For all their differences, the physical resemblance between her and Zoe was staggering, right down to their double-pierced left earlobe.

  Inspector Fox straightened. “That will be all, Clover. Torbel has paid his debt to society.”

  Clover’s lip curled, but she obeyed. With a stilted “Yes, sir,” she turned and marched down a narrow hall.

  Sergeant Peacock smothered a cough behind his hand. “You say you’ve come to see Tristan Law, Torbel?”

  Victoria watched Torbel’s discerning eyes as they assessed Clover’s receding back. “Has bail been set?”

  “I believe—uh, was there something else, sir?”

  Inspector Fox had stretched his neck to follow Torbel’s gaze. “Dammit, what are you looking at, Torbel? Clover’s gone.”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “Yes, well, don’t do it here. It makes me itch. At any rate, I took Doris’s statement, as well as the statements of the two witnesses.”

  Which was more than he’d apparently done during the Robbie Hollyburn murder investigation. “Can I talk to Tristan Law?” Victoria inquired politely.

  “Of course. He’s in the lockup if and until someone posts a bond for his release.” The inspector smiled. “We put him next to Lenny Street.”

  Torbel didn’t bat an eye, so Victoria asked, “What did Lenny Street do to be arrested?”

  “Drunk and disorderly, together with attempted robbery.”

  The look on Torbel’s face caused the inspector to take an involuntary step backward. “Street’s no thief, Fox,” Torbel growled. “He ran cons.”

  Sergeant Peacock endeavored to keep the peace. “I assure you, Torbel, Street was apprehended in Lammeth Lane. He had smashed the front window of Bottle’s Clock Shoppe.”

  Inspector Fox sighed. “Street was holding a broken pendulum like a cricket bat, for God’s sake. Ask him yourself if you doubt me. He’s sleeping it off downstairs.”

  Victoria shivered at the unpromising set of Torbel’s features. His eyes glittered with a warning light. He said nothing, but then he didn’t have to. Fox got the message. So did she, and she hardly knew him. He didn’t trust the inspector or the Stepney police.

  “I’ll see Tristan now,” she said quickly.

  Torbel’s gaze remained locked on Oliver Fox. “I’ll see Lenny Street.”

  “And I’ll see you in hell, Torbel,” a woman’s voice hissed from the hallway to their left. Pale and furious, Clover Hollyburn aimed an accusing finger at Torbel’s face. “You’re going to pay for what you did to Robbie. Grandfather would forfeit his knighthood in order to see justice served, but he won’t have to do that. Justice will out, Torbel. Your blood’s as red as Robbie’s—and just as readily spilled from the back.”

  AUGUSTUS HOLLYBURN HAD never seen fit to update his mansion to include a proper ventilation system. That is to say, he was cheap. As a result, he sat in his conservatory surrounded by a lush variety of green plants and sweltered in the afternoon heat.

  The view from the large windows should have soothed his frayed nerves. The garden of his late wife, Blanche, spread out in a pleasing array of roses, violets and lilacs. The magnolias still showered the lawn, and the pansies might have been a velvet carpet, so thick was the bed that bordered the glass doors.

  But he appreciated none of Blanche’s efforts today. His old hands trembled as he sorted through papers from the open file on his desk.

  Why had fate, or whatever force controlled such things, allowed Robbie to die? And at that bastard Rag Man’s hands, no less.

  One aged fist struck the blotter. If only he could be in league with the devil for five minutes, Torbel would be as dead as the doornail Charles Dickens had spoken of in A Christmas Carol. Deader, in fact. Jacob Marley had returned as a ghost. Torbel deserved no chance at spiritual redemption. Lenny Street, either, for that matter. Both men should rot in hell for the crime they’d committed.

  A soft footfall from the doorway alerted him to another presence. He brought his head up, and his baleful eyes focused on the figure standing just inside the threshold.

  His fingers went cold on his papers. His neck, however, throbbed, deep red beneath his ascot. “You,” he breathed, too enraged to hurl the epithets he would have preferred. “How dare you present yourself to me!”

  “Good afternoon to you, too, Grandfather.” Zoe strolled brazenly into the conservatory.

  She wore plain black pants and a white shirt that might have been mistaken for a police uniform. But Augustus knew Zoe when he saw her. She was a hussy, a witch and a thief, and he would never, never acknowledge her, not as a person and certainly not as his granddaughter.

  He’d only felt this way once before that he could remember, the morning he’d woken up in Wales next to a witch. Oh, yes, she’d been a witch, all right, an emissary of the devil, truth be told. Blodwyn, she’d called herself, a flame-haired demon sent to lure him straight into purgatory. Of course, he hadn’t known that at the time. Not until…

  His blood boiled, shattering the memory. All thumbs, he stuffed the papers back into the file and shoved the whole thing into the first drawer he could locate. The pain in his chest started as it always did with a faint twinge, one he almost missed in his mounting rage.

  Rubbing the affected area behind his ribs, he spluttered, “Get out!” He rose on unsteady legs. “Get out before I have Chivers throw you out.”

  “Chivers goes to market on Monday afternoons,” Zoe returned in a level tone. “Don’t excite yourself. I haven’t come here to flaunt my worthless existence in your face. I have a question to put to you. When you answer it to my satisfaction, I’ll leave.”

  The pain intensified. “Blast you,” Augustus charged. He groped for the arm of his chair, subsiding into it with as much dignity as his stiff bones would allow.

  He absolutely could not look at her, not out of any latent sense of sentimentality or affection, but because doing so would take the pain in his chest to heights that frightened even him. He wasn’t done with life yet; he wouldn’t be until the Rag Man paid the price for murdering Robbie.

  “Ask your question then, and leave,” he ordered roughly.

  She moved to the front of his desk. Her fists were balled. He closed his eyes briefly, not wanting to view even that much of her.

  “Are you behind the attacks on Torbel and Victoria?”

  His eyes snapped open. Pain surged through his veins like broken bits of glass. “Damn you, woman! Are you accusing me of skulduggery? You who’ve thieved for more than half your—” he broke off, unable to continue. Gasping, he lay back in his chair and fought for breath.

  He didn’t know whether she reacted or not. Likely not, he reflected bitterly, although a glass of water did seem to have materialized on the blotter.

  He needed his pills badly, but he’d be damned if he’d show dependency in front of her. Nor would he die at her feet. No, by God, he would fight this thing that weakened him. He would calm his temper, give her the answer she desired and forbid her to set foot in this house again.

  Fingers strangling the chair arms, he said stiltedly, “I’ve had no part in any attacks on anyone.”

  Blast her, she didn’t budge. “You know what I’m talking about, though, don’t you?”

  “I like to keep up to date where the murder of my grandson is concerned.”

  “Do you know Victoria?”

  He grunted. “Victoria Summers. Twenty-nine years old, American-born lawyer, once the late Lord Hobday’s junior assistant, now a solicitor at the firm of Bock, Press and Woodbury. She’s been threatened, or so she claims, a number of times, after which she had the spectacularly bad sense to turn to that piece of scum Torbel for assistance. Beyond that, I know nothing about the woman. Now, get out and leave me be.”

  “Your pills are in the top right desk drawer,” Zoe told him. “I can see them from here.”


  “I don’t want my bloody pills—I want you gone!”

  “You swear you’re not in league with anyone regarding these attacks?”

  “I swear,” he said through his teeth.

  Blindly he hunted for the top right drawer. It took him several seconds to locate the open edge. When he did, he very nearly yanked it off its track.

  He needed two of them, he thought, panting. One to stop the pain, the second to keep it at bay.

  He shook them out, spilling the bottle in the process. He managed to get them into his mouth and sat breathing heavily for a full sixty seconds.

  Thank God, the stabbing behind his ribs eased. He massaged his left arm, sighed and, eyes closed, rested his head against the chair back.

  “Goggy, you old adulterer. How are you this fine spring afternoon?”

  Scratch? Augustus’s eyes popped open. When had Zoe left? He’d heard nothing. He, whose hearing had always been as sharp as a cat’s.

  Scratch peered at him, his expression solicitous. “I say, you look a bit blue around the edges.”

  Augustus sat up. “Where did she go?” he demanded. “Did you see Zoe leave?”

  Scratch shook his elegant head. “Sorry, no. Should I have? It’s been years since I’ve seen, er, Zoe. I came by to finish last night’s game. We packed it in rather abruptly.” His golden eyes sparkled. “On my turn, as I recall.”

  Augustus grunted. “Why not? As I recall, I was winning.”

  “Game’s not over yet,” Scratch reminded in amusement. “There are still several moves to go.”

  Yes, there were, Augustus agreed, spitefully silent. But the moves he wanted to see played out had nothing to do with a wooden board and little bronze men.

  “I’ll win,” he assured Scratch. He permitted the other man to help him up. On his feet, he swayed for a moment, then growled, albeit with a completely different subject in mind, “I’ll dance on that bastard’s grave, Scratch, if it’s the last thing I do.” He eyed his friend critically. “You sure you didn’t see her?”