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She folded her arms around herself and stared into the hearth. Anger had always been a clean burn of emotion. But this was a new kind of anger, a feeling of having been poisoned.
“In the past year,” she heard John say, “complaints were brought to the Board of Trade from depositors at three different branches of Farlow’s. One customer was repeatedly delayed when he tried to withdraw money from his account. Another noticed that the past two quarterly interest payments on his account hadn’t been made. The bank took months to correct the errors. One customer became concerned about how depositors’ money was being invested, but he couldn’t get answers from his local branch or the main office.”
“None of those examples are out of the ordinary,” Reina said curtly. “Delays on withdrawals or payments can happen when there’s a high volume of transactions. And no bank likes to reveal the details of its investment strategies.”
“That’s what Farlow said when the Board of Trade made inquiries. But then an employee at Farlow’s main office anonymously tipped off the police about unusual financial practices.”
Reina blanched and turned toward him.
John looked grim. “There’s been suspicious movement of money between accounts, and signs of over-leveraging. And the interest rates Farlow’s offers are twice as high as any other bank. If that money is coming from high-risk speculation, Farlow is gambling with the life savings of hardworking people. Or even worse—if he’s taking money from new customers, and using it to make interest payments—”
“William wouldn’t do that.”
“—it’s a house of cards. And when it collapses, the devil knows how many people will be ruined.”
“The man I know is responsible and careful—he’s averse to risk-taking. He would never stoop to falsifying accounts—there’s just no need. I would stake my fortune on it.”
John tilted his head slightly, regarding her with patent skepticism. “Would you?” When it became clear she wasn’t going to respond, he asked, “What about the Mendietas?”
Reina shook her head in confusion. “Who?”
“The tile maker and his wife. We met them the night of the tertulia. They’d recently arrived from Valencia with money they’d saved to start a business here. Señor Mendieta asked you to recommend a safe bank that was friendly to immigrants, and you told him to go to Farlow’s.” He paused. “Are you comfortable staking their life savings on your faith in William Farlow?”
Damn the man and his memory for detail.
“Do you have any proof?” she asked.
“Not yet.” John stood and began to pace restlessly. “The police can’t officially question Farlow or demand records without direct evidence. And the bank isn’t subject to anyone’s oversight. Something about the way it’s registered . . .”
“It’s classified as a credit bank. The audits are overseen by William and his chief accountant.”
“A bit like the fox watching over the henhouse, aye?”
Reina scowled. “Suspicion alone isn’t enough to warrant an investigation. And you certainly haven’t learned anything about the case while pretending to be a butler in my house.”
At the word “pretending,” John stopped in his tracks and sent her a narrow-eyed glance that made the skin of her shoulders and back crawl with unease.
“Among other things,” he said, “I learned you and William Farlow aren’t lovers or conspirators. I learned that your desire to found a women’s bank has nothing to do with enriching yourself. I learned your staff of paroled prisoners wasn’t hired to help you break the law. I was also witness to a partnership negotiation in which Farlow made it clear he plans to use your name and reputation to attract a flood of investments and deposits to the women’s branch—and turn you into nothing but a figurehead. And when he siphons off all the money to cover losses at the parent bank, there won’t be a bloody thing you can do to stop him. What’s more, you’ll be left to take the blame.”
Reina glared at him. “What a remarkable ability you have to reach a conclusion without so much as a glimpse at a ledger or balance sheet.”
“I’d ask for your help in viewing the bank’s records,” John said coolly, “but since you’ll never be allowed within a mile of them, there’s no point.”
At that moment, Reina discovered there was a difference between hating someone from the start and hating someone you used to love. When you hated someone you once loved, you had to carry two versions of them in your head, and one of those was a ghost.
“Why was Farlow so adamant about registering your women’s bank as one of his branches, instead of as a separate entity?” John asked, turning ruthless. “Why is he so determined to keep you out of accounting and auditing? You know there’s something dodgy about this.”
Reina had never felt so overwhelmed. She couldn’t face any of it at the moment.
“I want you to leave my house tomorrow morning,” she said stiffly. “For good. You may say goodbye to the rest of the staff if you like, but I’d prefer you didn’t tell them why. I’ll have to explain it later in a way that won’t devastate them.”
John’s face was hard, his jaw clenched. As Reina headed to the door, he went to open it for her.
“No,” she said, wanting him to stay back. “I’ll see myself out.”
But she paused as her fingers closed around the doorknob. A scrap of memory fluttered like one of the printed handkerchiefs they handed out to wave at parades. Don’t let him touch anything after he’s washed—not a doorknob—Dr. Gibson had said, after John had disinfected himself in preparation to carry Tuppence to surgery.
Reina’s cold fury subsided as she realized something: John had known that if he went to fetch Dr. Gibson, it would end up exposing his identity. But he’d done it anyway, even if it had meant giving up a job on the Metropolitan force.
