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Anyone coming in that day would’ve thought it was business as usual. But Will saw the nervous glances toward the windows, saw the way the girls flinched every time there was a noise from that direction. A note found in his top desk drawer, written in Jacqueline’s hand, informed him that MacCallum hadn’t been told about recent events. Work would go on uninterrupted for the time being. She went on to say she’d informed Mrs. Sloane about the anticipated event two days hence, and that preparations would be made accordingly.
Under the guise of adding a scoop of fresh coal to the grate, he tossed the note into the fire and watched it turn to ash. Time seemed to slow, each minute passing at a snail’s pace.
It was a quarter past one when Mrs. Sloane poked her head around the door. “Mr. Woodson? I’m sorry to disturb you—an urgent message has just arrived addressed to you.”
Looking to the girls, he marked how still and quiet they’d become. “I’ll be just a moment,” he told them, stepping out into the hallway and closing the door behind him.
“Here it is,” said Mrs. Sloane, holding out a letter. “The man who brought it—a Mr. Bartleby—said he came from Mrs. Hayton’s and was told by the man who delivered this to tell you to read it immediately.”
Will was already breaking the seal. A cold sensation spread across his skin as he scanned the spidery lines.
Mr. Woodson,
Regarding the incident to which you referred, the man you spoke with, Coombs, is not employed by the magistrate of this district and is unfamiliar to me. As such, I received no report of any disturbance at the address you provided. I suspect this Coombs was an impostor. Please reply to this message with his description so that I may caution my men to have an eye out for him.
We are aware of the suspicious activity along Dover Street and request that you convey to your fellow residents at Number 16 our assurances that we are doing everything possible to ensure their safety.
I thank you for your information and await your prompt reply.
With Respect,
Edward Deering,
Chief Constable, Piccadilly
P.S. Birdsley sent a message this morning informing us he was ill. In light of the circumstances, I am sending someone to his house to be certain he has not run afoul of trouble.
“I suspected as much,” he said, biting back a curse. He handed Mrs. Sloane the letter and watched her eyes widen as she read. “I must speak with the headmistress at once. Will you watch my class? I shan’t be long.”
“Of course, sir,” she replied, handing him back the letter. “She was going to her office when I passed her on the way to answer the door,” she added as he strode away.
Taking the steps to the second floor two at a time, he didn’t bother knocking before he entered. “I was right. Coombs was not who he said he was.”
She half stood, her face paling. “What do you mean?”
“He did everything correctly,” he said, handing her the letter. “I watched him. He knew exactly what to do to be convincing. But his behavior was odd as I was leading him back to the front door. He kept looking about the place as if searching for something. At first, I thought it was just me being overly suspicious. Now I know better.”
Glancing up from the paper in her hands, she fixed him with sharp eyes. “You think he was working for Boucher?”
“It’s the only plausible explanation. Someone cut that chain and set up that nasty scene knowing you would call on your neighborhood constable—”
“So they had Coombs take his place as a means of getting inside. Mon Dieu—what of Monsieur Birdsley?”
“It may be that he’s ill.” He nodded at the letter, urging her to read on. “Remember, Coombs said he and the night watchman on duty last night met Mr. Young on his way to fetch Birdsley. If we ask your man, I’m willing to wager the watchman was a new face, as well.”
Her eyes were shadowed with worry. “I’m concerned for Monsieur Birdsley. For two years now, he has stopped by every day to inquire of Mrs. Sloane after our well-being. It surprises me that she made no mention of his absence.”
“A lot happened yesterday. We were all a bit distracted.”
“Will they let you know if anything has happened to him?”
“I’ll ask that they do so,” he said, taking back the letter. “But I must send a description of Coombs to Deering at once. May I borrow your writing table?”
“Of course.”
“Deering has a good reputation,” he said, desperate to fill the silence as she fetched a lap desk and implements for him. “You may be certain he’ll follow up on this. I’ll be surprised if he does not come to speak with you at some point today.” Gritting his teeth, he made himself say it. “If he does, I would appreciate it if you did not mention me. I’ve never worked directly with him, but I know several of his men—Geoff Birdsley being one of them.”
A single dark brow arched. “I wondered what prompted your sudden confession.”
