“But there’s our good word,” I said. “And that of Miss Atwater.”
Miss Atwater reached out, placing her gloved hand on my arm. “What is it you suggest, Mr. Bell?” she asked.
“We wait at the warehouse for this Barclay Keene to bring the money. He can hardly deny his involvement, then, can he?”
Though it was a tense hour waiting in the cold warehouse, Miss Atwater and I hid in the shadows, along with two constables, whom Mr. Bell had called in. Finally, Mr. Keene and his man arrived. Byron, still playing Reggie’s coach driver, met them at the warehouse door, and the two men walked in, Keene’s eye on the Grey Ghost, which we’d parked inside.
“Nicely done,” Keene said, trying to hand his satchel of money to Reggie, who was seated in a chair, with Mr. Bell standing right behind him. Keene, apparently, failed to realize that something was amiss until he noticed Reggie wasn’t reaching out to take it.
He couldn’t. His hands were tied behind his back, though that detail was concealed by the cloak Mr. Bell had put over my cousin’s shoulders.
“What on earth?” Keene said.
Reggie gave him a cynical smile. “I have some bad news, Keene.”
The older man frowned, not understanding until the two constables stepped into the light, surrounding him. The man from the tavern drew a dagger, lunging at one of the constables, but Isaac Bell was quicker. He tackled the younger man, and the blade clattered to the floor. I stepped forward to help, but Keene drew a pistol. I stopped as he fired, the bullet so close that I felt my cloak move as it passed. Had he not hesitated before taking a second shot, distracted by Bell calling my name, I’d be dead. I knew instinctively what Bell wanted. I tossed my father’s cane. It barely hit Bell’s hand, the shaft almost a blur as he swung it toward Keene, knocking the pistol from his grasp, then bringing it upward in one fluid motion, striking Keene’s jaw with the brass handle. As Keene stumbled, Bell recovered the man’s gun, aiming it at him. “I believe our work is done here,” he said, when Miss Atwater cried out.
We all turned to see Reggie slumping to the floor, shot by Keene’s pistol.
I rushed to his side, kneeling. “Reggie . . .”
His face ashen, he looked at me, asking for his wife.
“Of course,” I said, looking around for help. “Let’s get help first.”
But Mr. Bell, seeing the growing stain on Reggie’s torso, shook his head. “Bring her here,” he said quietly, as he folded Reggie’s cloak and pressed it to the wound.
“Byron,” I said. “Would you . . . ?”
My friend nodded, ran from the building. Mr. Bell and I laid Reggie on the floor, while Miss Atwater took her own cloak, fashioning a pillow for Reggie. I was at once amazed by her fortitude, as well as by her forgiveness of the man who’d kidnapped her.
After several minutes, his breathing grew shallow, and we knew his time with us was nearing an end.
“The treasure, man,” Mr. Bell said, patting him on the cheek to rouse him. “Where is it?”
“My wife . . . Where . . . ?”
“On her way,” I said.
“Tell her . . . The music . . . Give it to her, would you, cousin?”
“What music?”
Bell said, “I saw sheets of music in the chest with the car parts.”
“Miss Atwater,” I said. “Would you mind?”
She stood, her gaze lingering on Bell’s bloody hand as he pressed the cloak to Reggie’s stomach. Looking away, she hurried to the chest on the floor beside the Grey Ghost, lifted the lid, and pulled out several sheets of music. She carried them over to us. “This?” she asked him.
He opened his eyes. “She wanted . . . to learn . . .”
“Save your strength,” I said, seeing what an effort it was for him to speak. “She’ll be here.”
“The treasure!” Bell asked again. “Tell us!”
And just when I thought he’d left us, he looked right at me. “You . . . helped . . .”
“Helped what?” I asked.