“The girl whom you condemned to certain death would be about six had somebody intervened to spare her life. You contend that this girl is the right age to be your alleged ward?”
How could Michael be so calm? So detached? Psyche wanted to fling the vilest profanities at Arbuckle, but for Michael’s sake, for the sake of the child, she held her tongue.
“Of course she’s the right age,” Arbuckle snapped. “That is my ward, you are her kidnapper, and I have reached the limit of my patience with you.”
“Very well.” Michael dropped the child’s hand, and a vast emptiness opened in Psyche’s heart.
The girl looked up at Michael, who smiled slightly. “He says he’s your guardian. I dispute that claim.”
“For God’s sake,” Arbuckle said, snatching the child by the arm and starting down the terrace steps. “You can dispute my claim with the hangman. My next stop is the magistrate. Helmsley, I have given this scoundrel enough warning that he can decamp for the Antipodes and spare the busybodies at Lambeth any scandal. I vow, the Lord’s work grows more onerous—”
“You come back ’ere!” the nursemaid shrieked, starting after him. “You get your filthy, lying paws off my Jenny.”
The girl shook free of Arbuckle, and for the first time, Psyche saw her face.
Not Bea. About the right height, but not Bea. And the “nursemaid” was Meg, the lady from the St. Giles pub. What was Michael about?
“He tricked me!” Arbuckle said, stepping back from the girl and aiming an accusatory finger at Michael. “Once a deceiver, always a deceiver. A noose is too good for you, Delancey.”
“You tried to make off wiv my Jenny!” Meg bellowed. “I seen you wiv my own eyes, and my Jenny will tell the world what you tried to do.”
Jenny bolted to her mother’s side and clung to her skirts.
Michael gestured to Meg. “May I make known to you Mrs. Megan Miller, late of St. Giles, and her daughter Jenny. Jenny is ten. If you attempt to make off with her again—assuming you survive your villainy—Mrs. Miller will cheerfully lay information against you.”
Well, then. Michael’s weapon today was feigned appearances, and it was a good weapon, though Psyche feared it would not be enough to win the battle.
“You hire some strumpet,” Arbuckle rejoined, “and her guttersnipe to perpetrate a falsehood upon a man of God, while my ward—my legal ward—is kept from me. Helmsley, the law must be notified and Delancey prosecuted to the fullest extent—”
Psyche put herself before Arbuckle and planted her hands on her hips. “I was present when you accosted Michael and his daughter three days ago. The day was mild, and the girl was not wearing a bonnet. Her appearance was plain to you, and yet, you would not recognize her again if you did see her. Why on earth should any sane person surrender a child into your keeping when, after years of supposedly praying for her soul and mourning her loss, you did not so much as look at her?”
By some peculiar coincidence, when Psyche concluded her diatribe, the street before St. Mildred’s was free of passing traffic. The only sound was the sweep of the cold wind, while Arbuckle remained silent.
He shattered the stillness by slapping the head of his walking stick against his gloved palm as if working himself up to a grand rebuttal. Psyche swung on her heel and took Michael by the arm rather than grant him a public stage.
“Whatever you have to say, sir, need not be said on the very street. Mrs. Miller and Jenny are welcome to wait in my coach, but Mr. Delancey and I are going inside.”
She was being very forward, intruding into the situation when Michael had asked her not to. A pity, that. He’d shown Arbuckle up for the empty, bloviating disgrace he was, but Arbuckle was far from vanquished.
For that, Michael would need reinforcements and lots of them.
Chapter Seventeen
To an artist as talented as Psyche, the fact that Arbuckle could not tell two very different little girls apart had to be nigh incomprehensible, and she’d made a point Michael hadn’t articulated.
Arbuckle hadn’t even looked at Bea. He might have satisfied himself earlier in the week that Michael had a girl child in his keeping, but Arbuckle had not seen Bea.
“You hoodwinked me,” Arbuckle said, marching through the doors of St. Mildred’s, only to come to an abrupt halt. “Who are these people?”
To Michael’s surprise, the vestibule was occupied. “Thomas Delancey, Major MacKay, may I make known to you John Helmsley of Lambeth Palace and Hannibal Arbuckle, under whom I served as curate in Yorkshire.”
Papa smiled slightly, while MacKay’s expression… How could a mere grin be both genial and menacing?
“Helmsley,” Michael went on, “I believe you know my father, and Major MacKay is my brother-by-marriage.”
“I will not be intimidated by numbers,” Arbuckle said, marching past the baptismal font and stopping at the arch that led to the nave. “I am the legal guardian of a child whom Michael Delancey stole from me. I saw that child with my own eyes, and attempts to deceive me aside, a great crime has been committed against an innocent child and against the laws of God and man.”
Michael could feel Psyche filling her sails, feel her winding up for another verbal onslaught. What Papa and MacKay were doing here was a little harder to puzzle out, but Michael was glad to see them.
Very glad.
“Two members of my family is hardly a heavenly host,” Michael said. “As it happens, I also brought documents.” He passed Helmsley the small work of art Ricardo had created. “That purports to be the last will and testament of Cromwell Crowley, who died of influenza nearly six years ago. I gave him last rites, and he bade me to look after his daughter.” That much was true, in a loose sense. Poor Crowley had hoped his daughter would be raised in comfort at the vicarage, where Michael could serve as a sort of honorary uncle.
Helmsley scowled at Ricardo’s handiwork. Papa ambled over to peer at it too.
“Looks valid to me,” Papa said. “Properly witnessed and legible enough. Helmsley?”
Helmsley passed the paper back to Michael. “I am not an expert, but the basics appear to be in order.”
“That is a damned forgery,” Arbuckle said, stalking back to the baptismal font and thumping his fist on the marble lip. “A man who’d steal a child would dabble in false documents.”
“Language, sir,” Psyche said, quite severely. “And a devil who consigned an innocent to death at the poorhouse would stop at nothing to ensure his crime remained hidden.”
Helmsley’s brows rose. “Let’s have no talk of consigning innocents to death. The will Delancey has might well be a forgery, and Arbuckle also claims to have a properly witnessed will.”
“Where is it?” MacKay asked. “If yonder saint’s intention was to rescue his orphaned little ward from the clutches of a kidnapper, why not bring the one document that would prove a crime has been committed?”
Michael generally found the Scottish burr pleasant on the ear, but MacKay’s question presaged serious violence. Had the infant indeed died at the poorhouse, the genuine will was also the one document that could prove Arbuckle had committed the next thing to murder.