Page 72 of A Treacherous Trade
He whirled on me. “What are you suggesting we do, exactly? Subvert the entire rule of government? Create anarchy? Abolish the institutions of law and order?”
I gulped, realizing I was woefully out of my depth when it came to the information I needed to engage in such a conversation. “I’m not suggesting anything, per se. Just making an observation.”
“Well, I think—”
“Look!” I gripped a gather of his coat at the shoulder, motioning down the way where a well-dressed man held open the door for his wife and two children. “Those were the only customers left in the shop. We should go.”
Glad to escape whatever disparaging thoughts Croft might have been about to elucidate, I set off toward the shop at a brisk pace.
“Remember not to shut the door if you can get away with it,” Croft said as he fell into step beside me. “And to disassemble any notification bells if at all possible so I can position myself inside if you go to the back.”
“I know,” I said curtly. “We went over this at breakfast.”
“Photographers work in the dark, so he might have a hidden room somewhere. Whatever you do—”
“Don’t go into it, nor will I let him lure me into a basement or an attic, Iknow,” I finished for him. “I’m not an idiot.”
“Life would be easier if you were,” he muttered.
“For you, perhaps.”
“Fiona.” He gripped my elbow and didn’t let go when I made to jerk away. The gravitas on his features actually cowed me into silence for a rare moment. “Do not endure any indignities for the sake of information, is that clear? The moment he touches you, you scream for me. You run. You strike him in the nethers. You do whatever it takes, understood?”
“I understand,” I said, so he would release me.
But as I made the rest of the way toward the shop alone, I added,I understand that I decide how far this goes.
A small porcelain bell affixed to a Christmas ribbon jangled merrily from the door latch as I poked my head inside.
The actual shopfront was equal parts charming, gloomy, and small. The bronzed register sat on what might have once been a tavern bar next to several Christmas postcards. Behind them hung a wall of dark velvet drapes obscuring the rest of the building from view. A few waiting chairs littered a veritable gallery of photographs, upon which several one-way lamps shone to most appealing effect.
“I’ll be right with you!” called a cheery, masculine voice from somewhere behind the curtain.
“No rush at all,” I called back, tugging on the ribbon to no avail.
Bugger. How was I supposed to disengage it without garnering suspicion? Alas, why did Charles Hartigan have Christmas decorations still displayed well into January?
Having retrieved another knife from my home—this one of the kitchen filet varieties rather than the utility knife I’d lost to shoulder sinew—I now drew it from my sleeve. I silenced the bell against my skirts whilst slicing through the ribbon.
After returning my knife, I debated on what to do. I couldn’t very well keep the bell on me. Nor could I put it outside, lest he get suspicious.
Struck with an idea, I lifted it above my head and let go.
It fractured against the parquet floor.
“Oh lands!” I called in mock distress. “I’m awfully sorry! Your ribbon seems to have given way and your bell is shattered. I do hope it wasn’t a keepsake.”
“It’s nothing at all,” offered the disembodied voice. “I’ll fetch a broom. Mind you don’t get cut. Please do look around the shop whilst you wait.”
“You’re too kind, really. I feel just terrible.”
“Think nothing of it,” he called back, his voice getting farther away. Presumably he was going to the back to fetch supplies.
Reaching out of the door, I made the agreed-upon gesture to Croft, who loitered on the walkway outside. He would listen in and enter only if we moved behind the curtain or to another part of the shop.
I leaned the door against the jamb, rather than closing it, and thanked whoever was in charge of my luck that this’d gone so smoothly.
Well,smoothlywould have been a brass bell easily taken from a ring, but this ended up all right in the end.
