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“The treasure. From the train robbery.”
“No one has, though we all looked. Wasn’t in the Ghost. Wasn’t anywhere. I expect Reginald buried it, expecting he’d be able to come back one day. That’s what I would’ve done.” He looked around the table, his expression one of confusion. “Is it somebody’s birthday?”
Oliver smiled. “We’re celebrating your return home.”
“Are we? I daresay, it’ll be a long time before I decide to stay in a hostel again. Ghastly place. Not sure it’s worth celebrating.”
Mrs. Beckett, hovering nearby, walked over, putting her hand on his shoulder. “It’s getting late. How about we pop over to the cottage for some lemon ice?”
“Jolly good idea,” Albert said, standing. He cocked his head toward the table. “They’re not all coming, are they?”
“No, M’lord,” she said.
“We’ve talked about this ‘M’lord’ thing, haven’t we?” he asked, as she led him from the room.
“Yes, M’lord.”
“Thought so.”
Oliver watched them until they disappeared through the doors. “Well, at least we know he didn’t seem to suffer any lasting damage from his incarceration.”
Allegra stared down at her plate, clearly weighed down by her guilt.
Trevor, however, didn’t seem to notice. “I think Uncle Albert’s wrong about Reginald burying that treasure.”
Everyone turned toward him at once, Oliver asking, “Why do you say that?”
“Because of the journal.” Trevor seemed hesitant to continue. “What I remember of the last entry and what Reginald said about Payton.”
“The lad has a remarkable memory,” Oliver explained. “Like Remi’s. Look at something once and it’s imprinted in his brain.”
Sam glanced at Remi. “You read it. What do you think?”
“Sorry, Fargo. The furthest I read was when Payton, Miss Atwater, and Isaac Bell were coming up with a plan to find out who hired Reginald Oren to steal the Gray G
host.”
Almost at once, they turned toward Trevor. Allegra nodded at him. “Go ahead, Trev. Tell them what happened.”
84
JOURNAL OF JONATHON PAYTON, 5TH VISCOUNT WELLSWICK
1906
I noted the time on my gold pocket watch, precisely eleven p.m., before settling back in my seat, ignoring my cousin, who was slumped on the floorboards of the coach, hands tied, mouth gagged, barely stirring the entire time, perhaps because of the laudanum we’d dosed him with. Byron drove the coach, while Mr. Bell stood on the footman’s platform, and Miss Atwater sat across from me, a determined expression on her face. I looked down at my cousin, half tempted to cosh him on the head over the trouble he’d caused. But Mr. Bell said we might find use for him before the night was through, and so I resisted.
When the coach slowed, and I felt Isaac Bell jump off the back, I pulled the curtain far enough to see out, watching, as he walked off, stirring the tendrils of fog that snaked out across the cobblestones.
The vehicle lurched forward, the steady clip-clop of the horses’ hooves picking up speed. We neared the tavern where I’d found myself earlier that night, but then continued on, stopping farther up the road in the shadows to watch and wait. I looked down at Reggie, whom eventually we’d be turning over to the police. Our goal this night, however, was to find the buyer, the one who set out to ruin Rolls-Royce and bankrupt the investors. The only bit of information Mr. Bell had managed to wrest from my cousin was the name of a man who was acting as a liaison between him and the buyer. That, Bell said, was all that he needed.
When the carriage came to a stop, I again pulled the curtain to peer out, seeing that the fog had thickened considerably in the few minutes it had taken us to circle around. I searched for Mr. Bell and saw him lingering beneath a gas streetlamp, the flickering light reflecting off the grey mist around him. A moment later, he stepped inside the tavern, looking for the man that Reggie had said was waiting there to buy the Grey Ghost.
* * *
—
MY COUSIN BEGAN TO STIR as the laudanum wore off, and I reached down, lifted his head so that I could see his face. “You’re awake,” I said.
