The mooring rope came free and the woman pulled her wrist away—but the purse had caught on the cleat, and tore in two with a sound that made half the listeners flinch.
One thousand pounds in Carrisford bank notes burst out into the air and were immediately snatched up by the wind.
They spun tight and thick at first, then less so, some of them landing on the surface right away and some of them dancing down more leisurely. But all of them, all of them lost in the cold rush of the river, a fortune borne away beneath the roiling waves.
Mrs. Money’s boat was caught by that same current, too swift for any runner to catch. She sat there, head bowed and hands empty, as the River Ethel carried her away.
Chapter Eighteen
Sophie basked in the chaos in the concert hall.
Everyonewas talking. As the story of Mrs. Money’s perfidy spread through the audience, it quickly came out as well that in order to meet her price Mr. Giles had mortgaged his shop to the Carrisford Bank—the trustees of whom were almost all present in the audience. The gentlemen held a hurried and anxious conference to one side of the hall. It was clear they were most upset to see their faith had been so misused. They had entrusted him with a great deal of money in a very short span of time—but evidently Mr. Giles’s judgment was not to be relied upon.
Sophie watched the hungry sharks turn to rend one of their own.
Mr. Roseingrave returned and explained what had become of Mrs. Money. “I know just how you gentlemen feel: I have been the victim of a very similar swindle not so long ago...” His open face and kindly manner had the usual effect as he told the story. The relieved trustees shook his hand and clapped him on the back and thanked him for his sympathy.
Sophie went to compliment Miss Muchelney on her performance, and saw Mr. Frampton and Miss Slight slip out the side door, with Miss Narayan and Mr. Samson following soon after. She held her smile and did her duty until the Moot Hall was mostly empty, with only Roseingraves and members of the Weavers’ Library left. The latter began vanishing as well. Sophie fought against impatience and exhaustion both. It had grown late by now, but they had not played the finale quite yet.
Sophie and her father bid good-night to her mother and siblings, and walked down the road to St. Severus’s Church.
The graveyard that had seemed so stark and sinister before now glowed sweet and silver in the moonlight. Tombstones with faded letters listed as if they, too, had been worn out by the evening’s events. Night birds called out from the nearby trees, and old snow crunched underfoot. Sophie and her father went along the path and around the corner, past the great marble stones of the wealthy and to the smaller, humbler set of plots where the weavers and tailors and shoemakers were buried.
Everyone was waiting for them, gathered beneath the concealing branches of an ancient willow. Mr. Samson and Miss Narayan, Miss Slight and Mr. Frampton, Alice Bilton and Judith Wegg and the rest of the Weavers’ Library.
And, of course, Maddie Crewe, her silver spangles now hidden beneath her cloak. Beside her, wrapped in a dark shawl and a plain hat and wearing anything but Pomona green: Mrs. Money.
Sophie and her father joined the loose circle around one small gravestone. “Well?” Sophie asked, hardly louder than the breeze. “Did it work?”
Maddie’s lips opened in a silent laugh. “Almost too well. Mrs. Money’s ‘escape’ looked so real I almost believed it myself.”
Mrs. Money’s head tilt was as proud and pleased as an actress curtseying for an ovation.
“And you, sir,” Mrs. Money said to Mr. Roseingrave. “You missed your calling, not taking to the stage.”
Mr. Roseingrave flushed and ducked his head. “Oh, I think I’ve suffered enough nerves tonight for a whole life’s worth as an actor,” he said.
“How did it go with the bankers?” Maddie asked.
Sophie chuckled. “The last we saw of them, they were trading tales of Mr. Giles’s unreliability, and wondering that he should have gone on so long without being called to account before this.”
“They’re sure to consider him poison after this,” Mr. Roseingrave put in. “I imagine it will be quite difficult, if not impossible, for him to repay them such a sum.”
“They’ll take his shop,” Judith said, satisfaction rich as velvet in her voice.
“Good,” Mrs. Money said. Her vowels had lost their aristocratic patina, and were now as true and honest in accent as Maddie Crewe’s.
“I only wish we could have ruined all the trustees, too,” Alice put in. “They were perfectly willing to go along with his scheme, underhanded as it was, so long as they profited from it.”
“Next time,” Maddie Crewe promised, with a wicked smile.
Mr. Roseingrave, to his credit, only blanched a little at this promise of future crime. “Are you coming home, Sophie?” he asked.
“Not just yet,” Sophie said. She was still quaking too much for sleep.
Her father nodded, bowed to the gathering, and began his cheerful walk back through the stones. One by one, the others followed, until only Mrs. Money, Maddie, and Sophie were left.
The organist of St. Severus’s began her evening’s practice: haunting music and lantern light spilled through the tall stained-glass windows, designed to mimic the effects of woven cloth. Bright bands of every color slanted over and under one another in a dizzying spectrum. Sophie watched the colors fall protectively over the small grave, and let her eyes trace the letters carved there:Marguerite Crewe, Beloved Weaver, Mother, and Friend.
