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“As a matter of fact, yes. A rather unusual story, in fact.”
20
Maybe more tragic than funny,” Oliver began. “Back in 1906, when the Gray Ghost was stolen, the current viscount, being friends with Rolls and Royce, invested everything in their company. More specifically, in the development of the forty-fifty. He was counting on the return on his investment to pull him out of the debt incurred by his nephew’s gambling. Very much like my uncle’s situation, he was worried about his tenants. And there was an orphanage he supported. And, well, the point is, he was counting on that car making the Olympia show to make him money.
“It’s been a while since I read the history, and some of the details are fuzzy. Something to do with an American detective, Isaac Bell, from the Van Dorn Detective Agency, on the hunt for two men wanted in New York for bank robbery and murder. Thanks to Isaac Bell, the man and his gang were caught, and Bell was rewarded by the Crown for the recovery of the treasure—well, part of it at least.”
“Exactly what did that have to do with the Gray Ghost?” Sam asked.
“As I said, a bit of a tragic story. Especially considering how it was this detective crossed paths with the Payton-Orens and the train robbers.”
“Payton-Orens?” Remi said.
“The former family name before the Fourth Viscount had a falling-out with his younger brother, the older taking the name Payton, the younger Oren, the two never talking again.”
“Must’ve been some argument,” Sam said.
“Over a woman, I believe. Though, not as bad as what came later. At least no one lost their life over it. In truth, it might be easier if you read about it yourselves rather than trying to glean anything from my faulty memory. The early viscounts all kept a family journal.”
“You think there’s one from the time period when the Gray Ghost was stolen?”
“Absolutely. I was duty-bound as the heir to learn family history. Some of the journals were rather dry. That one, however . . .” Oliver stood. “Let’s have a look, shall we?” He led them down the hall into the library, pausing in the doorway. “I’ll get the curtains. It’s a bit dark in here.” He crossed the room and pulled open the drapes, light spilling across a bare parquet floor into a room devoid of all furniture. Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books lined all four walls, however. “My uncle couldn’t bear to part with the books . . . Some have been in the family for centuries.”
“Impressive collection,” Remi said, examining a few.
He smiled to himself as though remembering happier times, then walked up to one of the shelves, his fingers skimming over the spines of thin leather-bound volumes. “Should be here somewhere . . . Odd,” he said, looking on the shelf above it and the shelf below. “I don’t see it.”
Sam joined him, searching through the volumes. “Maybe out of order?”
“They’re numbered,” he said. “Volume five is missing.”
“Or misfiled,” Remi said.
They started searching the shelves, though Sam doubted they’d find it. With everything that had happened to Oliver and his uncle so far, no doubt someone had taken that volume. “Any idea what was in it?” Sam asked.
“Read it a few times, as a lad. Quite the writer, my ancestor. I daresay, a few of his stories were worthy of being published. Less a journal, more like a novel. The story of that detective and how he rescued the Gray Ghost was as exciting to me as any modern-day superhero. But that was many years ago. Some of the finer details escape me.” He stood there, staring at the shelves, then pulled a slim volume out, handing it to Sam. “This might be a good one to start with. It’s the journal right before the theft of the Gray Ghost.” He opened it, quickly turning through the pages until he was close to the end. “This is the next-to-last entry in this volume. And where I think it all started.”
21
JOURNAL OF JONATHON PAYTON, 5TH VISCOUNT WELLSWICK
1906
Nearly a week after the Ghost was stolen, Mr. Royce called me into his office and handed me an envelope, asking me to take it to the address given, then wait for an answer.
My being sent on an errand wasn’t unusual, and so no one seemed to notice when I took my overcoat and left. I looked at the envelope, saw it was addressed to a Mr. Isaac Bell at the palatial Midland Hotel, the same establishment where Mr. Rolls and Mr. Royce first met when they decided to form Rolls-Royce Limited. When I arrived, I was met by a tall blond-haired mustachioed man dressed all in white who’d, apparently, been watching for me.
I handed him the envelope.
He opened it and read the missive, his eyes moving from the letter to me on occasion. When he finished reading, he tucked the letter and envelope into his breast pocket, telling me that his answer was yes, that he accepted the offer of my assistance . . .
* * *
—
I STARED AT THE MAN, who’d introduced himself as Isaac Bell. “Forgive me,” I said. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Your employer didn’t mention that I’m a private detective?”
