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“Steed, have you been in the library today?” Emma asked. Steed was crouched in front of the oven peering through the glass window at the garlic bread that was toasting inside. “I haven’t boiled the spaghetti yet,” she added.
Steed straightened looking guilty.
“The garlic smells heavenly,” he said.
“Siobhan prepared it,” she replied, squelching his planned flattery.
“No. I haven’t been in the library, why?”
Emma picked up a thread of tension in his voice so subtle only she could have noticed it.
“Something is missing,” she said, watching him closely. The corners of his mouth curled ever so slightly, confirming her suspicion. “And you know about it,” she added, eyes narrowing.
“What are you suggesting Mrs. Peel?” he asked. His widening smile softened his otherwise harsh words.
“I’m not sure,” she said, inclining her head in a familiar expression of inquiry. She walked slowly toward him across the kitchen. Despite her bulge there was something threatening in her approach. If he did not level with her she would take some sort of action. For a moment he wondered what, and whether it might be more pleasurable to let her. When she got close enough he reached out and settled his hands on her waist in an intimate, if loose, embrace. She stopped, watching him expectantly.
“Siobhan called me this afternoon while you were out. She saw a man leaving the house. I believe that he removed something from the library.”
“Yes,” Emma nodded, curious about his lack of concern. “The plans to our missile guidance system.”
“Yes, I hoped so,” he replied, his smile wider still.
“So everything is going according to plan?”
His grin turned to surprise and then disappointment. He so loved to maintain an air of mystery. She felt decidedly triumphant.
“You planted false information in the hands of any likely target in the neighborhood, didn’t you? You were waiting for another theft and for the stolen information to turn up in the hands of Gambit’s contact.”
He eyed her warily. “Of course I can’t conceal anything from you,” he said.
“If it’s any consolation, I only took the time to work it out because it affected Siobhan,” she offered.
“Yes, well, she still has some things to answer for.”
“I believe she is innocent in this matter, I’ve questioned her,” Emma replied, trying to keep him from dragging the conversation onto a siding.
“You questioned her?” one brow arched.
Her eyes narrowed once more. He had never questioned her tactics before. But then, she had never involved herself uninvited before. But if he’d leveled with me earlier we could have coordinated our efforts, she reminded herself.
“She knows very little, and she knows she should have told us on Sunday when she found out.”
“And why didn’t she?”
“She only knew as much as we – you – do. She wanted to get the names of the thieves first.”
“That’s a thin excuse,” he shook his head slightly, eyes drifting down to her bulge. The sight of it reminded him of how valuable Siobhan was to them. He slipped his arms further around Emma and felt tension in her body. He returned his gaze to her eyes. “I’m not out to sack her. But if she compromises this investigation I have no choice,” he said with sincere regret.
“I know. I told her the same thing. I don’t think she’s compromised anything. And she knows now how wrong her actions were.”
Steed watched her eyes harden, imagining the scene between her and the nanny. Emma was much more experienced at dealing with employees than he was anyway. “I’m sure she does,” he managed a smile. He felt Emma relax a little in his arms.
“But back to your plan,” she said, placing both hands on his chest. His flesh prickled automatically at her touch.
“Yes. My plan,” he acted slightly perplexed. She wasn’t fooled.
“You planted false information in the hands of all the likely victims but one – us.”
“Ah,” he nodded. She was right. He had been relying on their security system to prevent them from being the next victims. When that had failed, fortunately not through Siobhan’s actions, he had assumed that they could substitute false data when Oxley handed over his goods to Gambit. When Gambit reported that Oxley wasn’t going to do so, he’d reverted to plan “c” – not to let the plans fall into the wrong hands. Even though that had been plan “a” the night of the auction at Nancy’s and had failed, he was confident that it would work this time.
But Emma knew none of that, which was hardly fair, he realized. They were her missile guidance system designs, after all.
“Here,” he shifted his arms around her to guide her to the kitchen table. “Let’s review the whole thing.”
He sat down opposite her and began a quick recount of events. Emma quickly fell in with him, adding her observations from the night of the auction. He told her about his visit with the Air Commodore and identifying Skinner’s body in the alley, and she described her discussion with Siobhan.
“This afternoon Siobhan called to tell me she’d seen a man leaving the house. He wasn’t carrying anything that she could see, so I surmised that he had taken something small enough to put in a pocket, or tuck into his shirt. A file, perhaps.”
“A Knight Industries file with our missile guidance system plans,” Emma nodded. Her devious smile made him raise one brow in curiosity. “Steed, when have I ever left secret information sitting on my desk?” she asked.
He shrugged, realizing that he could not think of a single example of her failing to safeguard the information with which she was entrusted.
“Precisely. And I didn’t this time either. The real plans are in the safe. I doubt this ring of amateur thieves could open it. What that man stole are decoy plans I had our art department make up. They’re for the illustrations in our annual report. They look very convincing – we wouldn’t want to insult the shareholders’ intelligence after all.
Steed laughed with delight, reaching across the table to take her hand. “You are brilliant Mrs. Peel.”
She shot him a diffident smile that transformed into her own delighted grin. In fact she felt both victorious and relieved at having been brought fully into the case. And a moment later, as Steed rose and came around the table to place a kiss on her temple, she felt foolish for being concerned in the first place.
* * *
Emma had consulted with the gardener weeks ago about the best place to build the bonfire and they had settled on the stretch of lawn where Steed sometimes exercised his polo ponies. The gardener had removed a circle of lawn in big chunks to create a bare patch ten-feet wide. He was optimistic that he’d be able to replant it later. Emma researched proper bonfire construction and ordered firewood from a local supplier. It was delivered late in the afternoon and Emma supervised the construction and piling of spare wood to be added as the evening went on.
They had invited friends and neighbors, the latter all readily accepting. This had surprised Emma just a bit until one of them told her several stories about mishaps with such parties over the years. Emma had attended many successful Guy Fawkes celebrations, but never hosted one. The disasters described by the neighbors sounded more like elaborate comedies of errors than simple bad luck to her. She was certain that with proper planning and safety precautions, and suitable restraint of Steed’s more dramatic tendencies, they could stage a pleasant traditional celebration.
She had ordered a case of wine and a small keg of local beer that was placed near the fire in a tub of ice. She had also ordered a feast of cold chicken and roast, salads, and breads, and a mound of marshmallows for toasting on twigs. Tara helped Siobhan move chairs and lounges from the pool deck and placed them fireside along with a stack of blankets for sitting on the lawn.
Their guests – about twenty – arrived as invited around dusk and soon enough the provisions began to diminish so that Steed’s comments about feeding a regiment were squelched. He accepted the privilege of lighting the blaze from a smoldering punk and the party oohed and aahed as the enormous pile of wood whoshed into flame, assisted by some judiciously applied starter fluid. Steed then produced a packet of hand-held sparklers and began handing them out. From her seat on a lounge with John she watched him place one in the hand of a neighbor girl of about eight and show her how to light it on the punk. His delighted grin reflected in the sparkler’s glow was broader than the child’s. Emma stroked her bump and wished once again for a daughter.
Siobhan was uncharacteristically subdued. Two of the neighbor families had brought along their nannies, but the three young women did not congregate. Rather Siobhan stayed near Emma and John on the pretense of taking him when she wanted to entertain her guests. The other two girls seemed to be unusually watchful of their young charges as well, although Emma thought this might be on instructions from parents concerned about the fire. She didn’t think that either of the young women were Siobhan’s “former” friend Dolly, and she realized that she should find out who she worked for.
Baby John was fascinated with the fire and the sparklers, and the rockets that Steed began setting off once he’d grown bored with the sparklers. Emma cringed each time he held the punk to the wick of one of the small explosives on a stick. But each one flew skyward as intended, and Steed insisted that he’d purchased them from the best Chinese source.
The guests played court around Emma and John, joining her for a few minutes chat before moving on to get more food or catch up with someone else. Nancy did not mention the auction or her displeasure with being involved with Steed’s case, perhaps because she was escorted by a very attentive Kevin. Freddy Leighton and his fiancé put in a brief appearance to sip a glass of wine and admire the fire before moving on to their next party of the evening. Emma wondered how many they were invited to. Cathy Gale came alone, although Emma had made it clear she could bring a guest and expected her to. Emma watched her move with practiced ease from group to group, mostly socializing with the neighbors who she obviously did not know. It struck Emma that Cathy was trying to avoid anyone who knew her well enough to allow asking personal questions, so she refrained from doing so when Cathy inevitably came to sit with her for a few minutes. Curious as she was, she would not want to make her guest uncomfortable.
Tara had spread a blanket on the lawn a comfortable distance from the fire. She sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, staring into the flames. Few people knew her, and those who did could see that her posture did not welcome company, so she was left to her thoughts. There was a wooden box on the blanket next to her. Emma had noticed it, and noticed the way that she placed her hand on the lid every now and then.
“My turn,” Steed materialized at Emma’s lounge with a cup in his hand. He handed it to her and reached down to take John from her lap. The boy’s gaze flicked to his father as if to confirm his identity, then returned immediately to the flames.
“Do try to avoid setting off any rockets while you’re holding him,” Emma suggested dryly. He danced away with a grin, forcing John to whip his head around in order to keep an eye on the fire.
Freed of responsibility Emma sipped the sweet mulled wine that he’d brought her and stretched her legs out on the lounge. A movement to her left caught her eye. Tara had arisen and was pacing toward the fire, the wooden box in her hands.
Sensing a ritual, Emma teetered between curious and respectful. What if she’s feeling very low? She might do something she’ll regret later. This argument won out, and Emma rose and approached the other woman slowly.
The heat of the fire was much greater than Tara had expected, but it felt good after sitting in the chilly evening on her blanket. Her purple velour outfit looked cozy, but was intended for summer wear and didn’t provide much insulation on a November evening. Tara held the wooden box on one hand and lifted the hinged lid with the other. She had organized its contents earlier, placing them in roughly chronological order with the oldest on top. She took out a letter and unfolded it a little awkwardly with her right hand. “Dear Miss King, It is with great pleasure that I welcome you as a trainee in Her Majesty’s Secret Service . . .”
Tara smiled at the memory of her happiness when she’d first read those words. It had been all she’d wanted, and even now she didn’t regret the course she’d taken back then. All that had come since did not tarnish that initial pleasure at success in gaining admission into the service. But that chapter was over now, and she had to move on. She crumpled the letter and tossed it into the fire. It ignited in a tiny blaze of glory, insignificant compared to the greater fire, but noticeable nonetheless, at least to her.
The next item was a photograph: Steed in a suit and bowler, leaning against her car with both hands on his umbrella. She was sitting behind him on the bonnet, her hands on his shoulders, her head next to his, face turned slightly toward him as if whispering in his ear. The look on his face suggested that what she had to say both pleased and embarrassed him. She didn’t remember the moment exactly, but she knew the general timeframe: the months after he’d finally noticed her and acknowledged that she was more than his hangover nursemaid. She’d been deliriously happy and frightfully in love with him. He’d been desperately unhappy still, but working on his emotional armor through his relationship with her.
She stared at the photo for a few minutes, forcing herself to recall the emotions of that time without the bitterness that followed. She felt incredibly light, the burden of truth lifted as she lived for a few moments in those days when Steed was hers. But that was over as well, the truth of his emotions finally understood and, as she tossed the photo into the fire, accepted.
Emma moved closer as Tara stared fixedly at the photograph. As it landed in the flames she recognized the image – not that she had seen it before, but even from a few feet away the man’s pose was unmistakable and she could guess who the other figure, already consumed by the fire, had been. She inhaled a short breath of surprisingly searing heat. But the sound of her gasp was concealed by the crackling of the flames.
Tara removed a bundle of letters tied with a ribbon from her box and held them to her face. The scent of her perfume was difficult to detect beneath the overwhelming odor of woodsmoke, but she knew it was there, absorbed by the paper years before when she’d sprayed each letter before sealing it in its envelope. These were her words to Robbie, her husband, during the first months of their marriage when they’d had to live apart because of their work. She shut her eyes tight for a moment, surprised that these were so difficult to part with. Perhaps it was because he had kept them.
Emma held back watching Tara hesitate, the bundle of love letters pressed to her cheek. She didn’t know if they were from Tara to her husband or from him to her, and it hardly mattered. She had every letter Steed had ever sent her, and most of the myriad “Mrs. Peel, We’re needed” messages too. She had often been accused of being unsentimental, but she truly understood the importance of a lover’s messages, even the mundane ones. Tara was struggling to move on, and Emma was certain that she would be stronger if she did it on her own.
Tara swallowed down a wave of grief, knowing even as she did that she could not ultimately defeat it, only postpone it. She opened her eyes and peered into the hot flames, then, before she could think more about it, tossed the bundle of letters in and reached into her box for the other, thinner bundle. His letters to her.
They entered the flames before the first batch had finished burning, much more easily released. Tara stared at the withering pages, watched them turn into bright flecks that rose in the private drafts of the conflagration, then cooled and fell transformed, ash to be swept up in the chilly morning.
She swallowed again and reached into the box a final time.
“Oh Tara, are you sure?” Emma’s spoke softly, at last unable to refrain when she saw the photograph in Tara’s hand. Tara in a white -- or nearly white -- dress, Robbie in a suit, their hands clasped in a typical wedding pose. Tara and Robbie had eloped, so there had been no elaborate ceremony with guests and caviar starters. It jarred Emma when she realized that the wedding had been just as real, that there was a photograph and important memories for Tara.
Tara’s head jerked up and turned to look at Emma. She was instantly embarrassed, then annoyed, and then resigned to the intrusion.
“It’s your wedding photo,” Emma put in, feeling foolish for the obviousness of it.
Tara pursed her lips in contrition. “It’s not the only copy,” she admitted, looking from the photo to Emma and back. Emma resisted a smile at Tara’s practicality. Some day she might want a wedding photo, but today she needed to end the marriage.
“And it’s time to move on,” she said gently, hoping to lend support without seeming to push.
“Past time,” Tara nodded, tossing the picture into the flames.
They both watched it vanish and Tara sighed heavily, then shut the box and half turned toward Emma.
“I’m going to find a studio in London,” she said.
Emma nodded, seeing no value in arguing. Tara could not stay here forever and they all knew it.
“I’m going to try something entirely new. I’m going to take a course in teaching English as a second language.”
“And then?” Emma nodded, surprised at Tara’s decision, and impressed.
“I’ll go somewhere where I can be useful and do good for people.”
“You can’t imagine that all you’ve done before has not been for the good, Tara.”
Tara’s gaze returned to the flames as she considered a response. Emma waited.
“It was for me. I became a spy because it excited me. I cared about the people I protected, but they were never my motivation. Not like Steed, or you.”
Emma considered this for a moment. What had motivated her to help Steed so long ago? His sparkling eyes? His flirtatious persuasion? No, it was the challenge: the challenge he’d leveled at her to test her mathematics knowledge against a traitorous expert. There had been no call to aid those less fortunate than herself, only the desire to prove herself.
“We all have complicated motives, Tara. Yours was no less noble than anyone else’s. The truly selfless rarely become spies, or run businesses, but the world needs us nonetheless.”
“I just need to give for a while. I feel as if I’ve been taking, demanding, begging. So self-absorbed for so long…” Tara’s voice trailed off as she swallowed down another wave of grief. To her surprise this one was not as powerful as the last.
“Will you go abroad?” Emma asked to draw her back from the brink of tears.
“Maybe. Or just to some immigrant neighborhood where poor people need help understanding Merry olde England. I don’t know – I’ll have to see where the training takes me. The school places their students.”
“So you’ve looked into this?”
“Yes, I’ve picked a very reputable school.”
“What will you live on while you take the course? Do you need a job?”
Tara looked back at her, surprised. “Is that an offer?”
“I could probably find a place for you at Knight – a consulting contract if not a staff position. We are hosting several events in the next few months that will need security arrangements.”
“I --,” Tara hesitated, overwhelmed now not with grief but surprise. “I don’t know what to say. Other than ‘no thank you.’ Robbie died in the line of duty no matter how poor his judgment was at the end. If nothing else, he left me with a full pension. It’s enough to live on – not like you and Steed live, but well enough.”
“I understand,” Emma replied, and Tara knew that what she understood was not so much about the pension, or Tara’s standard of living, but rather that she wanted to make it without the charity of her friends, no matter that came in the form of legitimate employment.
The stood watching the fire for a few minutes more until Steed danced around from the other side, spinning merrily with John still in his arms. The baby was giggling madly, overexcited by his father’s romp.
“I’ve always thought that he’ll never grow up. I don’t think fatherhood is helping,” Tara observed with a wry smile as Steed and John moved off into the cooler darkness.
“I hope not. That boyishness is what protects him from the dark side of what he does,” Emma replied, waving at her son as he was carried away. She smiled at Tara. “Obviously you’ll stay here until you have your new place arranged.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it Emma. I know it’s a strain having a constant houseguest.”
“But it isn’t – you’re an excellent guest and we have more than enough room. And now that Gilbert and Sullivan have accepted Pierre you may have a hard time taking him away.”
* * *
Steed set his cup and saucer on the built-in desk in the tiny security room off of the kitchen. The room was equipped with black and white monitors connected to cameras in strategic locations around the estate. The cameras were also connected to videotape recorders that each recorded in a twenty-four hour loop. Steed ejected each of the tapes and replaced them with new ones. Then he turned to a player connected to a separate monitor and inserted the tape from the front of the house. He had waited until Emma had left for the office, Tara had gone to the basement, and Siobhan took John out for a walk. But it was still morning and the events he wished to see had occurred yesterday afternoon.
The timestamp on the tape rolled backwards in a blur as he rewound it. He sipped his coffee and watched it. The camera automatically switched in and out of infrared mode based on its light sensors, so he watched three deer browse their way across the drive in the middle of the night. Then parked cars drove away, their owners the guests at last night’s Guy Fawkes bonfire party. Shortly after that the guests arrived. Then evening retreated into late afternoon and the camera switched to normal mode. He saw himself arrive home and Emma before him. He sat up straighter, finger poised over the “play” button.
Time reeled backwards. Steed smiled at the sight of Gilbert the basset hound walking backwards across the drive. A minute later a man appeared in the shadows of the trees along the drive. He progressed backward toward the house. It was just as Siobhan had said – he walked with his arms swinging at his sides. But the advantage of the camera was its location on a tree along side the gravel parking area in front of the house. While Siobhan had only seen the man’s back from the front door, the camera had captured his face. Steed reversed the tape and watched the man come out of the door. This time he noticed Siobhan appear in the doorway for a moment and then disappear as the man walked into the trees.
Steed rewound to a frame where the man’s face was clear. Then he ejected the tape and slotted in the one from the front gate. The man in the green plaid shirt walked up to the gate and pressed the button to open the smaller human-size gate, then strode out. Steed switched to the tape from a camera at the back of the house. He sipped his coffee as it rewound through the night. The bonfire across the yard had befuddled the light sensor, and all evening the camera had switched between infrared and normal depending on the brightness of the flames. Finally it settled on normal as it ran back into late afternoon. He stopped and played it forward for a moment to watch Gilbert, Sullivan, and Pierre, run past chasing a rabbit. Before that the local woodmen made several trips hauling firewood at the extreme edge of the camera range.
Steed reversed quickly toward the mid-afternoon. A man was walking away from the house toward the stable. In reverse he came toward the camera with his back turned. He was not wearing green plaid, but Steed recognized him anyway. His heart sank as events played out backwards: Hal the groom had brought the man in plaid to the house and used a key he should not have to unlock the French doors directly into the library.
Hal had been in their employ since Steed had bought the horses, Dancer and Commander, for Emma as a wedding present. The ministry had run an extensive background check on him that was updated annually. Steed felt betrayed as he rewound and replayed the scene. He was fond of Hal. They had sat in vigil in the stable together when Commander was sick. Hal had found Cowslip and Honey, the polo ponies that Steed had bought. Steed had rewarded Hal for that and for other tasks beyond the call of simple horse care. He had never sensed the sort of unhappiness that would spur a man to betraying a good employer.
There was no sign that the man in plaid had coerced Hal. The groom strode up to the door and unlocked it, then pushed it open and stepped back so that the other man could enter the house.
“Hal old boy, what have you come to?” Steed wondered as he stopped the tape. At least, he thought as he collected the tapes to take them to the ministry for further analysis, this shows that Siobhan had nothing to do with letting him in.
* * *
“Good morning Hal.”
The groom turned toward the sound of Steed’s voice, one hand on the rake he was using to move soiled straw out of the stalls. He stopped with his mouth open, unable to reply.
Steed, dressed in his city overcoat and polished shoes stepped further into the stable, flanked by two similarly dressed men. The trio was so out of place amid the straw, tack, and horse feed Hal was too astonished to react.
“I’m afraid I have to sever our relationship, Hal,” Steed went on, his mild tone as incongruous as his appearance. “These gentlemen will be taking you away to have some conversations. What you tell them is up to you. But you should know that honesty is probably your best policy.”
Hal frowned, looking past the three men out into the stable yard where Commander and Dancer, his equine charges were cropping at the fringe of grass near the fence. “You don’t know what they said they’d do, Mr. Steed,” he finally said. “You don’t understand.”
“But I do, Hal. Whatever they said, you made the wrong choice by complying with their request. And unfortunately, what will happen to you now may be worse than what they threatened.”
“No! Mr. Steed please,” the big groom dropped the rake handle and stepped toward Steed. The two men started to move in but Steed restrained them with a sharp hand gesture. He drew himself up, seeing almost to expand, and stood nose to nose with the frantic groom.
“I’ve done good for you here, Mr. Steed. Is this how you repay me?”
“Yes, and I’ve compensated you, Hal. Is this how you repay me? By letting a thief into my home where my son lay sleeping? How did you know his intentions Hal? How could you believe him? How could you know he would not kidnap my son or attack my family?”
Steed’s voice rose gradually along with his anger so that his last few words were an enraged growl. Outside Commander snorted and pawed the hard ground. Hal shrank back, his head dropping.
“I didn’t think –.”
“No you did not, and for that you must pay. I am sorry that it came to this, Hal. Really. But I cannot abide a traitor in my household.”
Steed stepped back and gestured again, this time sending the officers, for they were, in fact, police detectives, to take the groom into custody.
* * *
“It’s this evening, the wheels are in motion,” Gambit smiled into Catherine’s eyes, reaching up to draw a stray lock of glossy auburn hair off of her forehead. They were stretched out on a white sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace in her austere London flat. That she had a residence in London surprised him. That it was small and sparsely furnished and the refrigerator contained only bottled water, an out-of-date carton of yogurt, and a suspect jar of chutney did not. Bringing him into the flat she had explained that she spent no more than a few weeks a year in London and that for most of the rest of the time the flat was let out to tourists through an agency. The last renters had left last weekend and she had come to town for some business – just in time for Arnold Bray’s death. The next batch of renters would arrive next week and stay through Christmas. Gambit wondered what it would be like to feel like a visitor in your own home. But, he supposed, she probably didn’t think of this flat that way at all. Which made him wonder where she did think of as home.
She’d asked him to build the fire from a supply of wood next to the hearth while she opened a bottle of wine that had been sitting on the kitchen counter.
It was mid-afternoon. Catherine had telephoned him that morning to invite him to lunch. He had readily agreed, but then Oxley had contacted him to go over the auction plans again and he’d had to postpone their date. Catherine had agreed to reschedule, but she’d changed the venue from a restaurant to her flat when it became clear that a meal was not on the menu.
Gambit was aware that his professional detachment was in grave danger when it came to Miss Banning. She was fascinating and just dangerous enough to be irresistible. If she ran afoul of his investigation he would have a difficult time choosing between helping her and completing his mission. For the first time in his career he had some insight into Steed’s life. All these years, desperately in love with Emma, constantly juggling protecting her with achieving the goals of his work. Not that Emma was usually in need of protection. Nor, Gambit reflected as he let himself lean toward Catherine and touch his lips to hers, was his current companion. And not, he pointed out to himself, that he was in love with her.
“Ummm,” she sighed into his kiss, then pulled away. “I need to be there.”
“Need?” he smiled, nipping at the tip of her nose. He inhaled her scent, something floral and deep; different from the other night, and doubtlessly very expensive.
“Yes. To see if Maxine Tellerman is there.”
“I’ll tell you if she is. Her people were notified.”
“The Chinese?”
He pursed his lips – how did she know that? – but nodded. Her victorious little smile was seductive.
“If she’s there I’ll want to follow her. I haven’t been able to locate her since the auction.”
Gambit interrupted the debate with another kiss. He knew where the afternoon was leading, and he very much wanted to get there in time. Soon enough he would have to leave for the ministry’s auction house to be sure everything was in order.
“It will be dangerous.”
“I can take care of myself,” she placed a series of kisses along his jaw working back to his ear. Her touch left a trail of fire that made him gasp with pleasure.
“I’m sure you can,” he breathed, letting his hands wander over her ribs, stroking the knap of her black cashmere sweater. She pressed him onto his back, one hand on his shoulder the other in the rug next to his head. She extended her kiss trail over his throat, pausing to kiss his Adam’s apple. He swallowed, his hands sliding over her waist and lower, caressing the contours of her body. “You’ll have to stay behind the scenes,” he said.
Her eyes sparkled with victory. She treated him to a deep, demanding kiss, lowering her body onto his to trigger a chain reaction of growing warmth between them. Assured of his cooperation, she felt free to express her gratitude, and he reciprocated.
* * *
The woman entering the gallery attracted Nancy’s attention not so much because she was carrying a familiar flat crate as because she was strikingly tall and muscular. But her powerful shoulders and wide hips were balanced by a well-proportioned waist and bust. She was an outsized version of a WWII pin-up. She easily carried the heavy crated painting by a simple handle affixed to a metal strap.
“Please pardon me for a moment, Mrs. Flax,” Nancy excused herself from the collector she had spent the last twenty minutes entertaining. She signaled to Vivien as she crossed the gallery toward the newcomer. Her assistant moved in to attend their wealthy patron. If it weren’t for the fact that Mrs. Flax did buy paintings on every third or fourth visit she would have handed her off to Vivien a lot earlier.
“Good afternoon. May I help you?” she asked the newcommer, craning her neck to meet the woman’s gaze.
“Yes. I would like to discuss this painting,” she replied. Her accent was harsh, from somewhere in the East. She raised the crate slightly to clarify that she was referring to it, as if it wasn’t obvious.
“Very well. We can speak over here,” Nancy indicated her desk at the back of the gallery. Her guest set the crate on the floor leaning against the side of the desk and sat down in the guest chair.
As Nancy sat down she thought about the succession of determined women she had entertained lately as a result of the charity auction. It’s like Steed attracts them.
“I’m Nancy Belmont,” she said, her tone expectant. Her guest picked up on her prompt.
“Miss Tellerman,” she replied. Nancy busied herself picking up a pen and jotting the name on a pad on her desk to hide the reaction she knew must be apparent on her face. It seemed like the bid list in the drawer with the woman’s scrawled bids must be visible right through her desk.
“Miss Tellerman, how can the Belmont Gallery be of service?”
“I would like to sell back the painting.”
“I see,” Nancy had no doubt about what painting was in the crate. “And was it purchased here?”
“Yes. My client purchased it last week.”
Nancy had the impression that Miss Tellerman had more to say, but stopped herself. She wanted desperately to ask if the woman really thought she was thick, but she also stopped herself. She was beginning to appreciate Emma’s skill at directing conversation. It required intense discipline to say what was needed, not what she wanted.
“Auction sales are final, Miss Tellerman.” And worse than controlling her impulse to say what she thought was deciding what she wanted to do. Should she take it back and, maybe, recover Steed’s microdot? Or should she stand by her policies and send woman and painting away. She was within her rights to stay out of Steed’s business – in fact, she had vowed to Emma that she would. But if this woman was a villain and she had an opportunity to help capture her, should she let it slip through her fingers?
“The purchase price has been donated to charity,” she added, even though she hadn’t yet decided to refuse. She thought she should resist in order to be convincing.
“I would accept somewhat less than the purchase price.”
“The painting was stolen, I believe.”
“It was recovered. I represent the buyer.”
Who is dead. Nancy nodded, narrowly concealing her growing contempt for her visitor. She takes me for a complete idiot. I should hand her to Steed on a silver platter
“Very well,” she said, leaning sideways to look at the crate. “We must examine the work before making an offer.”
Maxine didn’t hesitate. “Very well,” she nodded. Nancy rose and reached for the crate. Maxine began to rise as well.
“If you would care to wait here, it won’t take long,” Nancy said. Maxine resumed her seat, watching intently as Nancy carried the crate into the workroom.
Nancy set the crate on the floor near the end of the worktable positioned so that Maxine could not see it from her seat. She took a screwdriver from an artist’s carousel on the table and went to work on the screws that secured the long, narrow lid.
“May I get you anything ma’am?”
Nancy’s head shot up at the sound of Vivien’s voice. Her assistant was nothing if not diligent. For a moment Nancy feared that she might agitate their visitor, but then she heard Maxine accept a glass of wine: “vite, pleze.”
Vivien came into the workroom, which also housed the kitchenette, just as Nancy lifted the top off of the crate.
“Can I help you Miss Belmont?” she asked.
Nancy looked into the crate at the top of the simple gallery frame.
“No Vivien, you bring Miss Tellerman her wine. This won’t take a moment.”
“Yes ma’am,” Vivien made her way to the refrigerator without another glance at her boss’s activity.
Nancy lifted the painting out of the crate and laid it on the end of the worktable, still outside of Miss Tellerman’s view. She took a magnifying glass from the carousel, then paused to examine the painting as a whole. Vivien left the workroom carrying a glass of white wine on a silver tray.
The painting looked exactly as she remembered it, but it was as if she was seeing it through new eyes. Where before she had admired the subdued palette and angular composition, now she had to agree with Emma. It was inferior to her usual work. It was typical for artists to experiment – any technique or style goes stale after a while. Some experiments – like when Emma switched from watercolor to oil a number of years ago – sparked renewed creativity, but others were merely side trips along the way. This painting was definitely a side trip.
“Thank you.” The sound of Miss Tellerman accepting her wine jarred Nancy into action. Inhaling a nervous breath she lifted the magnifying glass and bent over Emma’s signature.
Nancy had never seen a microdot. She assumed from the spy novels she’d read that it would be dark – a tiny spec of high-density photographic film with a reverse image of whatever information it contained. Emma’s signature was painted in dark brown, which is why the black microdot could be so easily concealed on the dot of the “i.” Nancy studied the “i” and the surrounding area through the magnifying glass. She could not be sure, but she did not think the microdot was there.
Why is she here? She’s taken the information off the painting, why try to sell it back to me?
Nancy quickly went over the rest of the painting, but found no damage or anything unusual. Even the frame, that she had put it in herself just over a week ago, was flawless.
If I refuse to buy it, I’ll never know what she’s up to.
“The painting is undamaged, Miss Tellerman. If you are sure that you – your client – would like the gallery to take it back, I can offer ten percent of the purchase price.”
It was not a paltry sum since the painting had sold for such a high price. But it was less than any of Emma’s other works were selling for. And it was more than Nancy really could afford to pay just now. She was counting on Steed, or Emma, reimbursing her.
She was actually surprised when Miss Tellerman nodded agreement to her offer. Her eyes widened a little as she opened her top desk drawer and withdrew the gallery checkbook.
A few minutes later she tore the check from the book, took one last look at it, and extended it to Miss Tellerman. She should have asked who it should be written to, or asked for verification of Miss Tellerman’s authority, or for the original bill of sale. Either Miss Tellerman would know that she suspected her, or she would think Nancy was a fool. Nancy held her breath, waiting for her guest’s reaction.
“I have some other paintings,” Miss Tellerman said as she took the check.
So it’s not about Emma’s painting at all.
“Yes?”
“The artists are much better known – quite well known. They are important works.”
“I see,” Nancy wasn’t sure what to say to keep her talking, but it didn’t seem to matter.
“They are for sale. But I should like to find the right buyer. Someone who is discrete. You understand.”
Nancy nodded slowly as if considering the question and then realized that she had inadvertently reassured her guest. Miss Tellerman took her for someone with a flexible ethical code. If she had raised any of the protests that she’d considered, Miss Tellerman would have left this second transaction unmentioned. Once again she understood the appeal this business had for Emma.
“I understand,” she said. “This is an unusual request – not the usual business of this gallery. I know of someone who might be appropriate, but I will have to inquire.”
“Discretely,” Miss Tellerman reinforced her warning.
“Discretely,” Nancy nodded. “I will contact you tomorrow if there is interest.”
“No. I will contact you,” Miss Tellerman countered, taking one of Nancy’s business cards from a holder full of them on the desk.
“Very well. In the afternoon please.”
Miss Tellerman opened her handbag and deposited the card, then rose.
“Tomorrow.”
* * *
The room was perfect, Gambit had to admit. It was the basement of a ministry-owned building in Soho, but it looked like a private auction room of an exclusive gallery, right down to the wooden gavel on the lectern and the heavy green velvet draperies separating the lobby from the main room and concealing the door behind the lectern. There were paintings on the walls and stands supporting small sculptures, all reproductions from ministry stores. Two desks along a side wall had two telephones each. The chairs set in rows facing the lectern were armless and upholstered in green and gold brocade. Borrowed, Gambit thought, from an upscale hotel somewhere.
Oxley would be satisfied. Gambit straightened his tie in an oval mirror framed in elaborate gold leaf, then ran a finger over his chin to check his shave. He’d ended up rushing to get ready after all, but the afternoon spent with Catherine had taken the edge off and he was feeling confident about the evening’s events. He had tried to talk her out of coming once more while he dressed, but she had been ready ahead of him and followed him out to his car. He had capitulated in the face of her dogged determination.
He had ushered her straight through the auction room and the door behind the heavy green curtain. If the room had not been stuffed with surveillance equipment he was sure she would have come back out again. But he'd introduced her to agent Mayhew, and she'd immediately asked him all the right questions about the equipment he had set up to document the auction. Gambit had left them with their heads nearly touching as Mayhew showed her the camera remote controls. He was embarrassed at the pang of jealousy he'd felt as he shut the door and adjusted the concealing curtain.
There were three other agents in the auction room – one was Aberdeen, the auctioneer Gambit had requested. One was a decoy bidder. Gambit hoped he would not suffer Skinner's fate. There as a knock on the door that separated the lobby from the external stairs. The third agent, acting as doorman, slid open a brass panel to look through a peephole.
* * *
“Good evening,” Steed’s face lit with a genial smile as he crossed the Belmont gallery. His gaze flicked to a painting to his left and he stopped to look at it. “I remember this one! Emma worked on it all summer.”
“Steed!” Nancy left her desk and moved toward him, waving Vivien away as she walked.
“Hello Nancy,” Steed focused his attention on her. “I got your message. I owe you an explanation and an apology. I’m sorry for not coming by sooner.”
“That’s not why I called today Steed. Come to the back,”
Steed shot her a habitual flirtatious smile as she took his arm to guide him to the workroom. She rolled her eyes and smiled back.
“I had a surprise visitor this afternoon,” she said as she stopped him in front of an easel draped with a dark cloth. “She wanted to sell me this.” She dragged the cloth off of Emma’s painting.
Steed’s brows rose in surprise, then dropped as he squinted and bent to examine the signature. Nancy picked up the magnifying glass and held it in front of his face. He glanced up with a smile of thanks, then took it.
“It’s not there,” she said. Steed grunted as he finished his examination and straightened.
“Emma told you.”
“I guessed. She confirmed. I checked for it when Miss Tellerman brought it in.”
Steed’s expression grew thoughtful as he set the magnifying glass on the table.
“There’s more,” Nancy went on. “She said she had several other paintings to sell. She called them ‘important.’ In art speak that either means something by an unknown that you want to promote, or something by a well-known artist that has something wrong with it.”
“And did she say what is wrong with the paintings she wants to sell?”
“Of course not Steed, they’re stolen. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Steed looked again at Emma’s painting, his lips pursed. “You said she asked to sell this back to you? I take it you bought it?”
“Yes. I –.”
Steed stopped her by placing both hands on her shoulders. “Thank you Nancy. I know Emma promised you that we would not involve you again. I never expected Maxine Tellerman to return here. I owe you a great deal for your cool head, and your indulgence. I’ll buy the painting, of course.”
Nancy felt a wave of relief. She had not realized how concerned she was about the expenditure. “Thank you Steed. What shall I do when Miss Tellerman calls about selling the other paintings? I put her off until tomorrow afternoon, but –.”
“I don’t expect her to contact you again,” Steed dropped his hands from her shoulders and moved toward the door. “But just in case, tell her you’ve got a buyer.”
“I do?”
“Certainly Nancy. He’s a serious collector, and very discrete – she did ask for discretion, didn’t she?”
“Yes she did, how did you know? And who is the buyer?”
“They always want discretion when they’re breaking the law. And the buyer is me.” He was through the doorway now, leaving Nancy standing in the middle of the workroom. “I’ll be in touch in the morning to tell you exactly what to tell her. Thank you again, Nancy.”
And with that he was gone, leaving Nancy realizing that rather than washing her hands of his business as intended, she was as involved as ever. At least I know what to expect next, she thought with a sigh.
* * *
“Old plaster,” someone outside said. The agent opened the door to admit Andres Coachella, an information broker with contacts all over South America. He acknowledged Gambit with a curt nod and proceeded into the auction room through the curtain, which Gambit held aside.
Gambit wished he was wearing a wire so that he could communicate with Mayhew, but in such close quarters Oxley would certainly notice it. He had to settle for the previously arranged visual signals.
Several more bidders arrived, two of them agents, but none of them Maxine Tellerman. The second man was Asian, and unknown to Gambit. He longed to go to the back room where Mayhew would be scanning his database of known operatives trying to identify the man. If the unknown man was representing Chinese interests, what had happened to Maxine? Gambit could practically sense Catherine’s frustration. He imagined her hanging eagerly over Mayhew’s shoulder.
Oxley finally knocked and gave the secret password. Gambit had regretted inventing it when he'd realized that he would have to inform all of the bidders, but Steed had assured him that it leant credibility and employed a network of contact to deliver the information this morning.
Oxley stepped inside and met Gambit's gaze with a chilly stare. Gambit arched both brows expectantly and the other man came over to him, reaching into his breast pocket. Gambit felt himself tense and then relax as Oxley withdrew a sheaf of folded papers, not a weapon.
“The item,” he said, handing the papers to Gambit.
Gambit unfolded them. Oxley looked on while he inspected the drawings, both of them knowing that he lacked the expertise to know whether the plans were genuine. There was a Knight Industries logo in the corner and the handwriting of written notes in the margins looked terribly familiar. A wave of fear shuddered through him but he maintained his all-business grimace under Oxley’s gaze. How did Oxley get these? I can’t sell Knight plans. Maybe Steed knows. Maybe they’re fakes.
He folded the papers and tucked them into his own breast pocket. “Right. Go in and have a seat.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “We’re scheduled to begin.”
“How many bidders are there?” Oxley asked, sounding nervous all of a sudden. Gambit eyed him, curious but hiding it. Then he stepped over to the drapery and drew it aside so Oxley could pass into the main room.
“Enough,” he replied coldly. Oxley looked into the room but didn’t enter. Alarms were going off all up and down Gambit’s spine. He’s suspicious.
But after taking in the auction space Oxley shot Gambit a pleased smile and went on in. Gambit relaxed a bit, but not entirely. The afternoon had been so pleasant he’d forgotten that a little edge of nerves kept him alert. He wondered whether Oxley was merely pleased at the number of bidders, or if there had been someone in particular that he had hoped to see. Again Gambit wondered what had become of Maxine Tellerman.
He glanced over his shoulder at the doorman, who nodded at him, then stepped into the auction room and dropped the drape. Oxley had taken a chair in the back row. Gambit went to Aberdeen and withdrew the sheaf of papers from his pocket.
“It’s plans for a missile guidance system. Top of the line. Not yet in production,” he said. Aberdeen glanced at the top sheet with its spider web of lines and cryptic notations.
“Genuine?”
“I’m not sure. Possibly.”
Aberdeen pursed his lips, considering the bidders, who he had been watching as they arrived. “I’ll try to place it with Franks, let Ramesh bid him up for good measure,” he said, speaking of two of the agent bidders.
“Just keep it in our hands. We’re here to find out who’s interested. If one of them does get a hold of this, we’ll have to take them all in tonight and that’ll end my investigation.”
“I understand laddie. I have done this before,” Aberdeen replied, looking mildly annoyed.
“Fine. Let’s get started.”
Gambit went to stand at the back of the room where he could keep an eye on all the bidders as well as Oxley.
* * *
“That’s right Mother, Miss Tellerman has the microdot. I have no doubt that she murdered Arnold Brey to get it. But she’s trying to sell his other paintings. Why go to the trouble, and risk the exposure?” Steed had pulled over on a quiet Soho street to finish his report to his superior via car phone. Accustomed as he was to having a phone in the car, he still found it difficult to drive and talk at the same time. It was almost an afterthought this report of his progress, but since the case was beginning to show up as a noticable deficit on the covert operations balance sheet protocol demanded it.
“Why indeed?” Mother replied. “You obviously have an idea.”
“She's doing what any freelance operative does when a deal goes bad,” Steed replied, scanning the street out of habit while he spoke. “Liquifying her assets. I think the Chinese have cancelled her contract. I'd like to know why, but for some reason she’s on the outs and needs to go into hiding. She’s probably also trying to sell the microdot – that’s where I need your help – can you put someone on it?”
“I can scare up someone to check the usual lines of communication, Steed. But why not you?”
“I can't get on it just now Mother. I have to go to an auction.”
Steed smile smugly as he pictured Mother's slightly perturbed expression. He replaced the car phone receiver in its cradle concealed under the dashboard and got out of the car. London winter was halfheartedly asserting itself with a fine drizzle – he’d had to put the top up.
***
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