“Was it Kincaid?” Sir Arthur asked.
“It seems possible, even likely, but to confirm it I need to have a detailed description of the man. Madame Chabrier offered information in the most general terms. Further inquiry on my part of so specific a nature would not have been prudent. You will understand that I did not want to entertain questions from the milliner.”
“While there is much I have yet to comprehend,” Sir Arthur said, “that particular point I can grasp. You must explain to me why you trifled with the milliner when you could have the whole of it from Kincaid.”
“Madame Chabrier is easily found in her establishment, while Mr. Jonathan Kincaid does not seem to have established an address in all of London.” Restell heard Emma’s sharp intake of air, the exclamation point of her surprise. She was also in the line of sight of her uncle’s disapproving glance. It occurred to Restell that permitting Marisol to leave had the consequence of bringing the full force of Sir Arthur’s displeasure down on Emmalyn’s head. She did not sink more deeply into her chair as he might have expected. This time she met her uncle’s eyes full on and refused to accept responsibility for what she could not have known.
Restell brought Sir Arthur’s attention back to him as he continued explaining. “There are nine adult men answering to the name Jonathan Kincaid that I was able to locate. Five of them could never be mistaken in any company as gentlemen, residing as they have for years in Holborn, St. Giles, and the Blackfriars. Of the remaining four, one is in his seventh decade, another so portly and ill with gout as to be confined to his bed. The third is a student at Cambridge and was not in town a month ago, and the last is the Negro manservant of Lord Honeywell.
“None of this means that Mr. Kincaid does not exist, but it casts suspicion on how he represented himself to Miss Vega. Indeed, for him to move with some freedom in the same circle as your daughter and Miss Hathaway, he has played false with many more of their society.”
“There are rooming houses all over London,” Sir Arthur said. He folded his hands, exposing his knobby, arthritic knuckles to some painful pressure as he squeezed his fingers together. “Gentlemen of modest means often reside in places of that sort when they are in from the country.”
“They do indeed, yet none of my informants found a man answering to that name in any of the reputable houses. To the extent that he truly existed under the name of Jonathan Kincaid, he has disappeared. He might well be in London, but he is employing another alias, thus, the necessity of a respectable description of the man.”
“You shall have better than a description,” Sir Arthur said. “On the morrow you shall have a sketch of Kincaid. Marisol and Emmalyn will provide sufficient detail to render a drawing that you may use, within sensible limits, naturally. Is that satisfactory?”
“It is.” Restell did not reveal his annoyance at the interruption caused by the arrival of tea. A maid set the tray beside Emma and disappeared without fussing over the service or inquiring if she might be of further assistance. At the brief entrance and exit of the maid Restell was able to see that Marisol was still hovering in the hallway. He had an unflattering picture of her pressing her ear to the door, hoping for some clear words that would indicate the depth of the trouble she was in with her father.
“There is another construction that might be placed upon Mr. Kincaid’s disappearance,” Restell said after he was seated again and served a cup of tea. “One must at least entertain the notion that he is dead, murdered perhaps during that assault on Miss Hathaway. It is not entirely satisfactory as an explanation, not if he was a gentleman. It does not account for the difficulty in locating his residence or the fact that no one save me appears to be looking for him. It does not account for the fact that precious little is known about him, even by those who engaged him in conversation or invited him to their homes.”
Sir Arthur frowned deeply again. His tea sat beside him, untouched. “Emmalyn, did you or did you not meet this villain at the milliner’s?”
The steadiness of her voice surprised her. She expected to open her mouth and reveal nothing but the echo of her thundering heart. “I cannot recall, Uncle. I think I remember looking at Madame Chabrier’s hats, then the illustrations she put before me, but it may be because I have had other occasions to do those things. Sometimes I believe I spoke to Mr. Kincaid, but it has the flavor of a dream and I cannot give it the weight of fact. The scent of the alley, though, is in my memory, so I have to believe I used the back of the shop to make my exit. Do you see? I have to allow that I reconsidered meeting Mr. Kincaid and fled through the back door upon his arrival, or mayhap I fled before he arrived.”
“Why can you not remember?” Sir Arthur asked. “You have no difficulty recalling all manner of inconsequential details. You manage my schedule with remarkable efficiency, keeping most of the appointments in your head, I have noticed. You can recall where I mislaid my brushes, what the cook charged at the greengrocer, and which slippers Marisol wore when she attended the Tidwell ball. It escapes me how you fail to recollect so many of the particulars about this…this…this thing that happened to you.”
“I am given to understand that is often the way of it,” Restell said. “This thing, as you call it, was an assault of the most vicious kind. You, who saw the full extent of her injuries, must know she is fortunate to have survived with any of her senses intact. That she cannot remember the details of a beating that nearly took her life, nor recall the moments leading up to it, seems more a gift of Providence than a curse. How much more might have been accomplished by this time if you had sought me out immediately is now only a matter for conjecture. In your eagerness to avoid attaching scandal to the family, you have allowed the full weight of shame to be carried by Miss Hathaway.”
“You forget yourself, Mr. Gardner.”
Restell was having none of it. “No, Sir Arthur, I do not. You would have Miss Hathaway remember details of her ordeal as it serves you, yet through your actions have demonstrated your desire that she never speak of it. In spite of that, she came to me, knowing it would displease you, but recognizing a greater risk. She is unconvinced, you see, that the assault was random, and further, that she was the intended mark.” Restell set his cup and saucer aside, leaned forward in his chair, and made a steeple of his fingers. His regard was as frank as his speech. “When you feel compelled to upbraid Miss Hathaway for failing to recall all the particulars of her abduction, I hope you will not forget yourself, Sir Arthur, but keep in mind that it is your daughter who deserves the sharp edge of your tongue and perhaps the flat of your hand on her backside.”
Sir Arthur actually flinched. Tea sloshed over the rim of Emma’s cup as she did the same. Neither of them found their voice before Restell spoke again.
“I will want to interview Miss Vega, speak at length with Miss Hathaway, and discuss the course of further investigation with you. My arrangement, however, is with Miss Hathaway, and she is the only one whose opinion is of consequence. I will also want to speak with Mr. Charters and Mr. Johnston.”
This last name caused Sir Arthur visible discomfort. “Johnston? Why? What can be the connection?”
“Did you not release him from your employ after years of service? You provided no character and replaced him with Miss Hathaway. Revenge is not a terribly complicated motive, but the manner in which it is carried out is often as involved as it is inventive. It is also an emotion in want of resolution. Miss Hathaway’s escape suggests to me that someone is frustrated, not satisfied. Your daughter and your niece require protection such as you have no experience providing. You may require the same.”
When Restell stood this time, he inclined his head a fraction. It was less a sign of civility than