“Regrettably, not yet,” said Lewis slowly. “However, I have news. Shall we adjourn to the parlor to discuss my findings?” he asked. He extended his hand in Rani’s direction.
The front door flew open. Rani stood, awed, at the woman, no taller than she, who swept into the room, her hands immediately stripping off pale-blue leather gloves and tossing them on the hallway table.
“Mr. Thornbridge! What is happening? What is going on at the docks!” demanded the woman, as she burst among them in the hall, a tall gentleman in a multi-caped greatcoat close behind her. The woman looked about the hall. She had the darkest blue eyes Rani had ever seen, and wavy, pale blonde hair, like the angels she’d seen in pictures in church.
“Why didn’t you send a note with George? Who are these people?” she demanded as she unbutton her pelisse. She looked at Rani. “Isn’t that my dress?” She looked back at David. “What child was kidnapped? And how do you know this? George can be so garbled sometimes. He said something about Soothcoor? We came as fast as we could. Or as fast as James would allow us,” she grumbled, as she shrugged out of her pelisse and handed it to Charwood along with her bonnet.
The gentleman laid a hand on her arm. “Cecilia! Easy, my love. Give Mr. Thornbridge a chance,” he drawled. He looked around the hall. “It appears as if he and this gentleman have just arrived, as well. And this must be the Indian woman George Romley spoke of.” He nodded toward Rani, a slight, reassuring smile on his lips. Rani smiled tentatively back at him, then looked down at the floor.
He took the blonde woman’s arm. “Let’s adjourn to the parlor so we may hear the tale. Charwood, refreshment, please, and I suggest including something stronger than tea. I believe some will appreciate it,” the man said in his calm, urbane manner.
David Thornbridge gave a visible sigh of relief. “Thank you, Sir James. Lady Branstoke, I admit I was deliberately vague with Mr. Romley. But it is as I told him, someone has kidnapped a child off the East India Docks. This is his ayah, Miss Rangaswamy, and this gentleman is Mr. Lewis Martin, from Bow Street. The child is Christopher Sedgewick.”
“Yes, yes, Krishan,” Rani piped in, stepping further into the hall. “He is only five. And so small. It is my fault. All my fault,” she said, tears springing to her eyes.
“Miss Rangaswamy, you are too hard on yourself,” put in Lewis. “I have spoken to witnesses. I think it would have happened one way or another.”
“Sedgewick, you say. Romley suggested the child has a relationship to the Earl of Soothcoor.” James said.
“His nephew,” David Thornbridge said heavily. “But how did he know that? I never said the child’s name to him.”
“I told him,” said Charwood, “for I felt that alone made the tale improbable. I told Mr. Romley I fear you are being scammed,” he declared, lifting his chin.
“No!” Rani declared, her hands bunching into fists at her side. “I know you not like me because I am Indian, but I speak truth! He is nephew to Earl of Soothcoor!”
“And for that reason, the victim,” added Lewis dourly.
“What?” David spun around to stare at Lewis. Rani and Cecilia gave inarticulate sounds of distress. Rani stumbled backward, sagging against the parlor doorframe.
James took in a visibly deep breath. “Let’s go into the parlor. I think these events will require some telling. And Charwood,” James said, looking at him levelly, “if you feel you have information to contribute, please join us as well.”
“I shall get the refreshments,” Charwood said, scowling.
Cecilia led the way into the ground floor gold parlor. David solicitously escorted Miss Rangaswamy in.
“She angry I wear her dress,” Rani whispered to David.
“No, she’s not. She just noticed it.”
Rani shook her head. “I should not. I should wear my saree.”
“No,” David insisted. “You shouldn’t. It is too cold in England for your saree. It’s colder today than yesterday, too. We will order you some clothes.”
She looked up at him doubtfully but compressed her lips and nodded.
David led her to sit on a gold and Egyptian-brown striped damask sofa near the fireplace. He took a chair near her. Lewis did not sit. He stood by the fireplace. The Branstokes sat on the matching sofa across from Rani.
“Who should begin?” asked James. “David?”
“I think Miss Rangaswamy should start, then I will continue and advise on what I have discovered,” suggested Lewis.
James noncommittally studied the Bow Street officer, then turned to Rani. “All right. Miss Rangaswamy, if you would, please,” he invited.
“Yes, yes,” Rani said, in her bright manner. She sat straighter on the sofa, perched on the edge. “Please forgive my English. My uncle, my teacher, would be unhappy. I will try to do better.”
“Do not concern yourself with your English, Miss Rangaswamy. You have been under a great deal of stress,” James said. “I’m sure speaking in another language would be difficult for anyone under the circumstances.”
She nodded. “Thank you, Sir James.” She took a breath. “Sahib—Mr. Sedgewick—he write a letter to his brother and say to me to have it delivered when the ship dock. This I do. Sahib say his brother would send people to get us when he gets the letter, but no one come. We wait and wait. Lascars take our things off the ship, and we wait more. No one comes.” She looked down at her fingers, twisting together in her lap. She looks up again.
