My father tried to talk to him, to bargain with him. “We don’t have a Gutenberg Bible. We don’t have anything that expensive. Why don’t you let my wife and daughter go? You can have anything you want—”

“I want your Gutenberg Bible.”

“I don’t have one,” my father wailed.

The look the man gave us—cold, ruthless, unyielding, indifferent—stopped all further talk.

I couldn’t find a chance to unlock the door and jump from the carriage, so I spent my time memorizing his details. His boots were polished. His linen was sparkling white and not frayed. He wore a cravat tied in a high, elegant flourish.

When the vehicle paused and we climbed down, he sent the unmarked carriage off with just a gesture and marched us into an isolated cottage. Work was being done to the building and some of the interior walls were gone. Construction debris was everywhere. But there was no one around, inside or out, whom we could call to for help.

Several steps in, my father turned on the man, although he was taller and heavier than my father. My mother shoved me toward the door as I saw the fiend hit my father in the face with the butt of the pistol.

I ran.

Dear Lord, how I ran, sides aching, legs wobbling by the time I reached the suburbs and an omnibus line. I was lost, and it took three buses before I found an area I recognized. All that time, I knew that monster had my parents. What would he do to them?

It was midafternoon by the time I arrived, weary and tearstained, at the home of my father’s partner in the business, Sir Broderick duVene. He was in his thirties then, an Oxford graduate, fencing enthusiast, and antiquarian collector. Since I thought I could lead him to the farmhouse, he secreted two knives on his person and hired a carriage to follow my directions. They were jumbled directions, and twice I got lost.

On the way there, I told him every detail I could think of. The man’s expensive tailoring. The unusually pale shade of his hair and side whiskers. His fearsome glare.

We arrived at sunset. The cottage appeared deserted. Sir Broderick sent the driver to the nearest village to request the help of the local bobby and then return to us.

Just as we entered, the building exploded into fire. Sir Broderick pushed his way through the flames and debris. I followed and saw my parents tied up at the far side of the cottage. The evil man was gone.

Smoke made me gasp and stung my eyes. I screamed my parents’ names over the fire’s roar. We’d made our way about halfway across the inferno, pieces of plaster and roof raining around us, when a roof beam crashed down, striking Sir Broderick.

My parents were on the far side of the beam and Sir Broderick was directly in front of me, pinned under the beam. I could hear my parents screaming to me. I could see them struggling against their bonds through the smoke. Sir Broderick was groaning, trapped, right in front of me. If I could get him out, then I could get past the beam somehow and save my parents.

Coughing and sniffling, I rushed to save them. I managed to wedge wooden boards from the construction debris under the beam enough to free Sir Broderick. He couldn’t move his legs. As I dragged him out of the house, the carriage driver returned and jumped down to help when I stumbled out the door.

As we pulled Sir Broderick to safety, I saw my parents’ abductor standing nearby. He waved and then walked away.

I didn’t have time to chase him. I grabbed one of Sir Broderick’s knives and turned to run back in to free my parents, when the roof crashed down. I screamed, running toward the door. Strong arms stopped me as I struggled against the carriage driver, who held me back from running into the wall of flame. I shouted my parents’ names, I cried, I wished I could stop the flames, but I knew I had failed.

There was nothing but an empty lake of flame where a cottage, and my parents, had been.

Blinking away the tears those memories always brought, I kept hurrying down the sidewalk, looking into the face of every top-hatted man I passed. For the first time since that day, I’d seen him. I had a chance to find the murderer and learn his name. To get justice for my parents.

Walking for blocks, I peered at the faces of a hundred men, but none of them resembled my parents’ killer in the least. I passed upscale homes that overlooked Hyde Park. Had he turned into one of these elegant brick buildings or walked off onto a side street? Did he live in one of these houses, even now looking down on me as I rushed by in search of him?

No. I would have felt his presence. His evil.

I was frustrated I hadn’t caught him today, but at least now I knew he was in London. There was a chance I might finally find my parents’ killer, but today’s opportunity was gone. I released my fists and took a deep breath. It was time to go in search of Nicholas Drake.

In the dozen years since my parents’ death, I’d eased the pain of not seeing justice done for my parents by helping to rescue others. When there was no hope of rescue, I helped their loved ones find closure. And many of the people we assisted went on to aid the Archivist Society.

I glanced along the sidewalk once more, knowing I’d return here soon. This was the place to begin to solve my own investigation.

Chapter Two

RETURNING to the omnibus stop, I caught the next, equally crowded vehicle to take me into the suburbs to learn what I could to help Nicholas Drake.

Drake’s house was one in a redbrick row a few chilly minutes’ walk from the omnibus stop, above working class in attitude but not in cash. There was no rubbish lying around, but mildew had already appeared on some of the wood trim and the sidewalks were starting to crumble.

I checked the address again. Not what anyone would expect for a man who traveled in society’s upper strata. As I walked to the door, I passed by a tiny front garden holding only a single, scraggly bush. When I rapped on the door, a wrinkled woman with a mop of white hair stuffed under her cap opened the door a few inches.

“I’m looking for Mr. Drake. Are you his housekeeper?”

“Aye. Mrs. Cummings.” She crossed her bare forearms over her ample chest and blocked the doorway.

“I’m Miss Fenchurch. Miss Carter has me looking into the whereabouts of Mr. Drake. Could you spare me a moment of your time?”

“I told that woman—” She looked me over and glanced at the rain. “Well, never mind, come in and I’ll tell you, too.” She stepped aside and I walked into the front hall.

In the dim illumination coming from the fanlight, I saw a closed door on one side of the hall before a flight of stairs that rose steeply upward. Next to the stairs, the hall leading to the back of the house was barely wide enough for one person to walk. The walls were painted, not papered, and the coat tree held one short garment. Mrs. Cummings’s, I guessed.

“I believe you told Miss Carter that Mr. Drake has gone to visit friends in Brighton.”

“That’s right.” The housekeeper smelled of cabbage and bread dough, but the hallway smelled of polish.

“Could you give me their name and direction, so I can verify his safe arrival?”

“Why would I do that?”

Wonderful. She was as obstinate as Miss Carter. “So I may put Miss Carter’s fears to rest.”