The Gray Ghost by Clive Cussler
She looked over at her son, who had opened the refrigerator, his back to them, taking an abnormally long time to search through the three items within. Somehow, she’d fix this. All she needed to do was get him out of the house. “Trevor,” she said, “I need you to leave. Go stay with one of your friends.”
“The boy stays here,” Dex said.
“Now,” she ordered, in the voice she reserved for Do it or else. “You can come home when your father leaves. I’ll be okay.”
Trevor closed the fridge, turning toward her, the mark on his face still red. She saw the fright in his eyes and knew he didn’t believe her. He’d seen some of her bruises.
She didn’t care. “Go.”
Trevor started to edge away, and was nearly out of the kitchen, when Dex set his ale on the counter, pulled a gun, pointed it at her. “Maybe I wasn’t clear enough. The boy stays.”
Trevor froze, his face paling.
She couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to. Pulse pounding in her ears, she stared down the barrel of Dex’s gun. He’d kept it hidden until now.
Seconds ticked by, as she frantically tried to think of what to do.
“Mum?”
The look in Trevor’s eye, him realizing what sort of monster his father was, broke her heart. Her mind raced. The only reason she and Trevor were in this mess was because she’d wanted to keep him safe. She had to concentrate on that. Thinking about anything else was not an option.
“It’s okay,” she said, as calmly as she could manage. “Your father’s not going to hurt anyone. Are you?” she said, trying her best to focus on Dex, not the weapon he held.
He studied her for a moment, his eyes devoid of any emotion.
That, more than anything, frightened her.
“Let me tell you how this is going to work,” Dex said. “We’re going to spend the next week cozy on the couch.” He used his gun to motion them toward the front room. When they both sat, he took the armchair. “One of you will always be with me. If either of you tries anything, leaves, doesn’t come back, I’ll kill the one left.” He gave a shrug, took a long sip of his ale. “Not like I haven’t done it before.”
Don’t show fear, she told herself, willing Trevor to follow her lead. He was a smart boy, always had been. He’d learned long ago that the best way to keep his father calm was to not cry, not show fear, and not raise his voice. To do otherwise resulted in a beating.
As promised, Dex refused to let either of them out of his sight at the same time. If she left the room, he held the gun on Trevor. And, likewise, if Trevor left the room, the gun was turned on her. That night, the three of them slept in the same room, she and Trevor on the floor, Dex pulling the mattress up to the door so that neither of them could escape.
The thing that frightened her the most was Dex’s promise that if anyone attempted a rescue, he’d kill Trevor first and then himself, leaving her alive to suffer. There was no question in her mind that he meant every word and so she dutifully did his bidding, knowing that her best hope was to cooperate and wait.
She’d lost count of the time as the three sat in the front room, she and Trevor on the sofa, pretending to watch the game, Dex in the armchair, drinking a bottle of ale, still trying to read the journal.
A knock at the door startled her and she almost spilled her glass of water. She reached over, grasping Trevor’s hand in hers, willing him to be silent.
35
Dex set the journal on the table, drew his gun, walked to the door, looked out the peephole. He looked back at her, putting his finger to his lips.
A second knock, this time a man calling out, “Allegra? I can hear the telly. I know you’re in there. I’m not leaving until we talk.”
Dex, using his gun, motioned her over.
She lowered her glass to the table, walked to the door.
“Find out what he wants,” Dex whispered, “and get rid of him.”
“Who is it?” she called through the door.
“Bill Snyder. I’m the private detective. I work for your uncle’s solicitor. I have a couple of questions. About your uncle’s case.”
“Would you mind coming back? I’m not feeling well.”
“It’ll only take a few minutes. If you can open the door.”
Allegra looked at Dex.
It was several seconds before he responded, leaning in close, whispering, “Try anything funny, Trevor’s the first to go.”
She nodded, and he backed up, motioned for Trevor to precede him from the room down the hall into the office, closed the door behind them.
Taking a deep breath, Allegra told herself it was completely reasonable that a private detective would come talk to her. Her uncle was in custody for murder, after all. When she opened the door, she remembered to smile. “Mr. Snyder. How can I help?”
As much as she tried to block his view, he stood about a head taller than her. “May I come in?”
“I’d prefer you didn’t.”
He looked past her into the front room. “I take it your uncle’s housekeeper rang?”
“Mrs. Beckett? Perhaps when I wasn’t home. Has something happened?”
“She mentioned that the last time you popped in, you took a book from the library. She thought it might be the missing journal that your brother was looking for. We think it might help with your uncle’s case.”
It took her a moment to process the man’s words. The only thought going through her head was that Dex was in the office, holding a gun to her son.
Focus. Breathe. Appear concerned.
“The journal? What does that book have to do with my uncle?”
“We’re not sure, of course, but your brother seemed to think there were some entries in that particular volume that related to the stolen car.”
“What’s in there was written over a hundred years ago. Why would it be important?”
“That’s what we hope to find out. And why Mrs. Beckett said she’d call ahead.” He stepped to the side, looking at something behind her. “Naturally, that’s why I assume you have the journal there on the table. You knew I was coming by for it.”
She realized that if she objected, it would bring even more attention to her possession of the book—still, she needed to try. “I— I was hoping to keep it for a few days. I brought it home for my son to read. Ever since he went to live with my uncle, he’s been fascinated with the viscountcy.”
“I didn’t realize anyone else lived at Payton Manor but your uncle and Oliver.”
“This was a few years ago. Back when my husband and I were getting our divorce. I— I just felt it was best.”
“I’m sure your son must have enjoyed his time there. It’s a beautiful estate.”
“Trevor loved it there,” she said, wishing she’d let him stay, as he’d wanted, instead of forcing him to come home because of her misguided maternal notion to be near her son. What she needed now, though, was to get this man away from her house—the sooner, the better. “You said you had a couple of questions. What are they?”
“The journal, of course. We’ll need that for the investigation.”
Dex would object, but there was little she could do. It was clear the man wasn’t going to leave without it. “Is there anything else?” she asked, retrieving the journal and handing it to him.
He slipped the small volume into the breast pocket of his suit. “Actually, yes. Your brother mentioned that there had been an offer on the estate. He thought you’d know who it was.”
“The name escapes me.”
“He thought it was some distant relative.”
“Something makes me think it was some cousin to one of the viscounts generations ago.” Trying to hurry him along, she said, “If you have a card, I’ll give you a ring if I remember it. Right now, I’m too tired to think.”
“Of course,” he said, reaching int
In fact, she did, not that she was about to tell him. “People asking about the car? Honestly, I paid little attention. Oliver handled all that.”
“What about here?”
“At my house? No. Just me and my son.”
“You’re the only two that live here?”
“Yes.”
“He’s how old?” the PI asked, finally handing her his business card.
“Sixteen.”
“Is he home?”
“No. I’m here by myself. Why?”
“Just curious. I see the Toffees still have the game tied.” He nodded at the television when it was clear she had no idea what he was talking about.
“Oh. Right. I have it on more for background noise.”
He gave a benign smile, thanked her for her help, then left.
The moment she closed the door and turned the lock, Dex stepped out of the office, shoving Trevor in front of him, forcing the boy to the couch. Dex looked at the table, gave her an accusing glare, as she took a seat next to her son. “You gave him the book?”
“What was I supposed to do? He came here precisely because Mrs. Beckett saw me take it.”
“You were supposed to get rid of him.”
“I did. If you’d let me answer the house phone once in a while, I might have taken her call and been forewarned that she was sending him here. How was I supposed to know that’s what he was after?”
“Not that we need it,” he said, looking at Trevor. “You seemed to figure things out. Tell me what’s in that journal?”
When Trevor didn’t answer, Dex pointed his gun at him.
Slowly, she reached over, placing her hand on Trevor’s, feeling his fingers trembling beneath hers. “Trev,” she said, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze as she took a steadying breath. “Tell him what he wants to know.”
“They— They found a boy who they thought might have seen the train robbery.”
“Keep talking,” Dex said. “What else did you read?”
36
JOURNAL OF JONATHON PAYTON, 5TH VISCOUNT WELLSWICK
1906
I refused to think that my Cousin Reginald was part of the train robbery, certain that the boy was mistaken, and that Isaac Bell’s detective skills were lacking. And yet, there we were in his hotel with a child who insisted that my cousin was the very man who had killed the detective and the two train engineers. As much as I wanted to leave those premises, the only way to prove my cousin’s innocence was to assist Mr. Bell in his investigation. Clinging to my certain belief, I was relieved when Bell suggested he must find a way to view the ledgers at the orphanage without drawing attention . . .
“We need to create a distraction,” Isaac said. “Get the headmaster’s attention so that I can go in and examine the books.”
“I can help,” came a small voice from the next room.
Isaac and I looked over at the boy, Toby, who was now sitting up in the bed. He seemed to have a bit more color about his cheeks, I hoped from eating a good meal and not from any illness.
“How?” Isaac asked.
“I can show you how to get in.” When Isaac turned his full attention to the boy, he added, “I’ve run away before, trying to find my mum. You can say you found me and were bringing me back.”
That’s exactly what we did, but not before Isaac instructed Toby and me on what to say and do at our arrival, warning us that we had no way of knowing if the headmaster was involved. If he was part of the plot, we couldn’t walk in and simply ask to see the books without arousing his suspicion.
At the orphanage, we left Isaac to find the way in through the back while I took the boy through the front door, asking to see the headmaster. The gray-haired man didn’t question Toby’s running away. Merely tousled the boy’s head. “Off with you. To your lessons.” His smile seemed forced. “Very kind of you to go out of your way to bring young—” He looked over at Toby, as though suddenly forgetting his name—assuming he ever knew it. He cleared his throat and smiled. “Yes, well, we were quite worried when we discovered him gone.”
A loud thump came from the floor above us. The headmaster’s eyes narrowed as he looked up at the ceiling. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“I’d like to see the classroom,” I said quickly.
“Another time, perhaps.” A second thump above us was even louder than the first. “I have work to do. And, apparently, rats to ferret out.”
I froze. The truth was, I’d never stood up to anyone. Not my father, not Reginald, not anyone. But I pictured Isaac in the midst of burgling the office, his warning about the headmaster echoing in my head. When the man started to move past me, I stepped in front of him. “I— I did not give you leave.”
Surprise, then suspicion, clouded his eyes. “I doubt your father would approve of this intrusion.”
It was a tactic Reginald had often used, invoking my father’s name. Even now, my instinct was to back down, apologize, just as I’d always done—lest word get back. “Intrusion?” I said, trying to sound offended. And though I knew I’d never be able to withstand the challenge, should he decide to call my bluff, I added, “Shall we go fetch my father to ask?”
The man’s brows went up. Surprisingly, though, he turned and led me down the hall, opening the door to the classroom himself.
There were at least fifteen boys sitting at tables, listening to a woman, who stood at the front of the room, reciting the alphabet as she wrote each letter on the chalkboard. Her brown hair, tied back with a black ribbon, fell to below her shoulders. When she turned to address the classroom and noticed us in the doorway, I was struck by her beauty. Her blue eyes met mine, and it was several seconds before I was able to move.
I’d wished everyone else in the room gone so that I could talk with this vision uninterrupted, but any courage I’d mustered with the headmaster’s help fled as I looked upon her.
I forced my eyes away, spying young Toby sitting at the back of the room, his attention on his writing slate. His presence reminded me of our mission: creating a distraction so that Isaac could gain access to the ledgers. I looked around the classroom, searching for something I could use as an excuse to capture the headmaster’s attention, keeping him from his office. And then it struck me. “Madam, why are there no young ladies in this class?”
The woman glanced at the headmaster, who suddenly remembered his place and made the introduction. “Forgive me. Mr. Payton, may I present Miss Lydia Atwater.”
She curtsied, and I gave a nod. “Miss Atwater, why are there no girls present?” I repeated.
“A question I have asked since me first day here.”
I looked at the headmaster, waiting for an answer.
“We find,” he said, “that training the young girls to work in the kitchen and the scullery better prepares them for life outside the orphanage.”
Miss Atwater’s chest rose, her cheeks turned a becoming shade of pink, but she said nothing. She didn’t need to. I saw it in her eyes.
Emboldened by her presence, I said, “The young ladies living here are not servants. They’re children. I expect their presence in the classroom at once. And bring these children something to eat. How can they possibly learn if they’re hungry?”
He stared at me, aghast.
“Perhaps you failed to hear my directive?”
“At once, sir.” He hurried out the door.
I was vaguely aware of the boys looking at me with a new admiration. But I only had eyes for Miss Atwater. I wanted to approach, to hold a simple conversation, but all the insecurities of my childhood, and my father’s domineering rule, rushed bac
She smiled. “You’ve done us a great service.”
I wanted to stand there forever. I wanted to ask her to walk with me, to accompany me somewhere, anywhere, even though I knew my father would disapprove of such a match. A viscount’s son and a governess? He wouldn’t stand for it.
And I had never gone against his wishes.
Aware that there were fifteen pairs of eyes watching me, I bowed. “Miss Atwater.”
She gave a slight curtsy. “Sir.”
I wondered if I’d ever have the nerve to talk with her again.
Tempted to turn back, I forced myself out the classroom door, stopping short when I saw my cousin striding down the hall toward me.
His steps faltered when he saw me, a look of surprise on his face. “Payton, old boy. What are you doing here?”
Unable to think of a thing, I blocked his view into the classroom where young Toby sat, telling myself that I’d grown up with Reginald. My cousin was not a murderer.
He couldn’t be.
When I looked back, I saw Miss Atwater continuing her lesson on the alphabet.
Reginald followed the direction of my gaze, laughed. “I’d quite like to see your father’s face when he discovers his dutiful son and heir has fallen for a common governess. You’re likely to send him to an early grave.”
It occurred to me that I’d been given the perfect excuse for being there. I drew my cousin from the door. “You won’t tell Father, will you?”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
“I say, why are you here?”
“I left my gloves when we came by a few days ago, to look over the ledgers. I thought I’d dash in and get them.” He started past me.
Worried that he’d discover Isaac’s presence, then realize we suspected him of embezzlement, I blocked his way.
A look of suspicion crossed Reginald’s face, and I knew I needed to think of something fast.
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