Page 69
They were interrupted by a noise from the fireplace.
“Good morning, Norman,” Reina said, seeing the footman arranging coal in the grate.
“Ma’am,” he replied, his gaze respectfully averted.
Pembroke withdrew his hands but remained close to Reina, as if he thought she might fall off the chair. “Why didn’t you go to bed last night?”
“I had to finish my article for The Economist,” she said, “which I did—and now I’d like some tea, please.”
“I recommend sleep,” Pembroke replied firmly, “unless you intend the article to be published posthumously.”
“No, it must be delivered to my editor by noon, and the second half is still in rough draft form, in pencil. I have to copy it in ink on good paper.”
“You can’t even see straight,” Pembroke said. “How do you expect to copy it without errors?”
“I have no choice, and I don’t have the energy to quarrel, Pembroke. I need help. Will you have someone bring me some tea, or—”
“Miss Martin,” Norman interrupted meekly, “I could copy it for you.”
She regarded the footman with bleary surprise as he approached. As far as she knew, it was the first time Norman had ever volunteered to do anything. He was a fussy, apathetic sort, but there was no malice or meanness in him. If he wanted to help by doing a bit of secretarial work, she was more than willing to give him a chance. But not now, when there was no time to allow for mistakes.
“Norman,” she began regretfully, “I appreciate your offer, but it’s a complex financial article, and—”
“I’m familiar with financial terms, ma’am. I could proofread for basic grammar and spelling while I copy it.” Seeing her exhausted indecision, Norman said, “As a lad, I worked at my father’s sign-painting shop. I learned Copperplate, Spencerian Script, Business Hand, Print Script, and Italic Cursive. Later I was hired as a clerk at a shipping company. For five years, I copied and filed legal and financial documents. One day an older colleague asked me to help with a bit of extra work, which turned out to be creating a fake invoice . . . and that led to other schemes involving bank documents and checks.”
“Which eventually landed you in Millbank Prison,” John said.
“That is true,” Norman said, looking contrite. After a moment, he added, “But being caught doesn’t mean I wasn’t good at it.”
Reina rubbed her face with both hands, trying to conceal a grin. Feeling as if a bit of moral guidance was called for, she said, “Check fraud may seem like a crime without victims, particularly when the targets are large banks. But it’s still harmful, of course.”
“Yes,” Norman said. In a not-entirely-successful attempt at sincerity, he remarked, “Poor banks.”
She looked at him through her spread fingers. “I’m afraid there’s not enough time for you to copy it from start to finish. It’s a long and comprehensive article. I’ve already copied the first ten pages in ink, but if you wrote the second half in different penmanship, it would look unprofessional.”
“I’ll match your penmanship.”
Her hands lowered. “You will? You . . . you could do that?”
“I’m sure the magistrate at my trial would vouch for me,” Norman said. “He said my skill at forgery not only made me a danger to the integrity of British commerce, but also a threat to the very foundations of trust and order.”
“Did he? Norman, you must be gifted!”
“Sentenced to five years of penal servitude,” he boasted. “Despite being a first-time offender.”
“I call that impressive,” Reina exclaimed.
Pembroke interrupted curtly. “Can you be trusted with this, Norman? I ask only because of the issues we’ve had with your reliability.”
“I understand, sir. My answer is, if it involves carrying heavy parcels without dropping them or accompanying Miss Martin to the park on horseback without falling off, I shouldn’t be trusted. But if it’s this”—Norman nodded toward the stack of pages on the table—“you may rely on me, sir.”
Reina believed him. Or at least, she wanted to believe him. He seemed so confident. She glanced at Pembroke. “Do you think—” she began.
A scream resounded through the house accompanied by an explosion of barking and screeches.
“What the devil—” the butler exclaimed savagely, and left the room at a full-bore run.
Reina stood and staggered a little. She pushed back a swath of hair that had fallen over her eyes. “Good heavens. I hope no one’s been hurt.”
