“Didn’t interview them?” she spluttered in disbelief.
“We didn’t have time! I sent informants to watch their houses and report back on any activity, but the only bodies I could spare for thatwere children too young to be conducting interviews. As soon as we clear a few more cases, I planned to send a more experienced team…”
Viv was going to burst into tears. Or go on a murderous rampage. Or shatter into a million heartsick pieces.
Jacob reached for her hand.
She jerked out of reach. “Don’t touch me. I want nothing to do with any of you, except for you to finally take Quentin’s disappearance seriously. Find him. Please.”
“We will,” said Jacob.
She no longer believed him. He’d promised her before. “I should never have trusted you to follow through. I would have dragged your entire family by the ear to each of those lads’ houses if it had occurred to me for one second that you wouldn’t interview the best witnesses we have.”
If the Wynchesters had interviewed the club members as promised, the entire secret society would have stationed itself in the siblings’ sitting room to aid in the hunt for Quentin-as-Horace. There wouldn’t be a bloody fingerprint on a ransom note.
“Don’t panic,” said Marjorie. “We have clues. The latest letter, for one. Blast, I wish I’d seen who brought it. Did you get a good look at the messenger?”
Jacob shook his head. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying any attention to… If I’d known the kidnapping wasn’t a hoax, I would have been on the watch for further missives.”
Graham winced in agreement. “We could have stationed someone to follow that footman back to his employer. Vivian, we’reallsorry. We all deeply regret our lack of adequate resources, and can assure you that from this moment—”
“Five foot eleven,” she blurted.
He blinked at her. “What?”
“The messenger. White, freckled, large mole on his right cheek,light brown hair, dark brown eyes,” she rattled off. “Thirteen stone, give or take half a pound. Gap-toothed. Left-handed. Slightly myopic. Old cricket injury in his knee. Not an employee of the post office. Livery in shades of mustard and brown. White wig in need of fresh curls.”
“Got it.” Marjorie grabbed her sketchbook and pencils. Her drawing came to life as Viv recounted as many details as she could recall.
“With luck, the kidnapper used his own man, or at least a traceable messenger service,” said Philippa.
“Old cricket injury in his knee?” Adrian repeated. “How the devil can you know—”
“Parse the magic later,” interrupted Graham as he scribbled notes. “What about you, Jacob? What did you see?”
“Average… footman?” Jacob guessed. “Honestly, I scarcely glanced his way. I was helping Vivian down from my horse because we’d ridden in together—”
“I heard two horses,” Graham said. “The other one belonged to the messenger?”
Jacob’s face cleared. “Cleveland Bay. Older stallion, with a primarily reddish-brown coat. Black lower legs, mane, and tail. Sixteen hands high, fourteen hundred pounds. Early signs of arthritis in his hind legs. Likely a retired coach horse.”
“Hackney carriage?” Graham asked.
Jacob shook his head. “Too expensive for ordinary hackney drivers, and too big and slow for fashionable bucks racing light phaetons. Think stage-coaches, Royal Mail, and the wealthiest families who can afford fine horses for their coach-and-four.”
“I’ll sketch the horse, too,” said Marjorie.
“I’ll make copies of everything,” said Adrian.
Graham nodded. “I’ll distribute these throughout London as fast as you can make them.”
“What can I do?” asked Philippa.
“If they find out he’snota Wynchester…” Viv ventured, her voice shaky.
Horror flooded Jacob’s face.
“What’s happening?” asked Philippa. “Isn’t Quentin in less danger if the kidnapper realizes he’s not one of us?”
