Toby went on, “Drake and his men persuaded the counterfeiter to tell all. Or at least all as pertains to this caper. Apparently, they didn’t have to persuade too hard—by all accounts, the counterfeiter was disgusted with himself for becoming involved. His opinion of the man behind the scheme is not high, but more on that later. The first bit of pertinent news is that the counterfeiter confirmed that the earlier, smaller shipments of fake notes were intended to test the distribution system on this side of the Channel. More importantly, the very large shipment that’s presently on the way was intended to be the last, at least for now, the plan being to use the established and proven distribution system to exchange the fake notes for real ones, with the fakes being subsequently dispersed throughout the country.”
Christopher frowned. “Any chance of halting the large shipment on the Continent?”
Toby shook his head. “By the time Drake’s men seized the plates and the counterfeiter, the network used to move each shipment to the coast—presumably into the hands of French smugglers who would run the notes across the Channel—had completed the task, and those involved had scattered. There was no one to ask, no trail to follow.”
Christopher settled in the chair and stretched out his legs. “I assume Drake wants this large shipment found and seized. What’s known of the route by which the notes enter Kent?”
“Not a lot,” Toby replied. “All the counterfeiter had heard was that the notes would come in via the southeast coast. Drake’s men narrowed it as much as they could, but the best they could manage was somewhere between Hastings and Deal.”
Christopher snorted. “That’s a lot of coast, and all of it the home of longtime smuggling gangs, even if, in recent years, they’ve been inactive.”
“Given that last, Drake is hoping you’ll be able to pick up whispers of which gang has come to life again. It seems likely one of them will have.”
Christopher nodded. “Difficult to see how else French smugglers would find the right sort of helpers on this side of the Channel, and it isn’t that long ago that the gangs in Kent were still active—there are many around who remember the old routes as well as their erstwhile connections with the French. No reason the French side wouldn’t have approached the same group they worked with in the past.”
“So everyone thinks.” Toby’s expression suggested he was reviewing all he’d said. “While the counterfeiter couldn’t give us more details about the shipment other than confirming the size of the threat, his other unwelcome revelation concerns the man Drake has labeled the mastermind—the man behind the scheme. He personally recruited the counterfeiter, who had been quietly enjoying a well-funded retirement.”
“Did the counterfeiter know who the mastermind is?”
Toby sent Christopher a long-suffering look. “When are Drake’s missions ever that easy?”
Christopher had no answer to that.
Toby went on, “Firstly, as Drake had suspected but had hoped wouldn’t be the case, the counterfeiter is prepared to swear that the mastermind is an Englishman. The counterfeiter met him, but only in poorly lit surrounds—the counterfeiter couldn’t give any better visual description beyond tall, dark-haired, and well-dressed. But as to voice, the counterfeiter was certain—the man was fluent in French, but with an accent and idiosyncrasies that, to a French-speaking Belgian, marked the man as unquestionably English.”
Toby grimaced. “Bad enough, but from the counterfeiter’s description of the man’s clothes, the degree of his fluency in French, and several accessories—a signet ring and a crest on the head of the man’s cane, although the counterfeiter saw neither clearly enough to describe in detail—it seems fairly clear that our Englishman is a member of the haut ton, possibly even from one of the noble houses.”
“Ah,” Christopher said. “And now Drake’s after him in earnest.”
Toby nodded. “I’ll leave it to Drake to explain when he gets down here, but the chance that the mastermind hails from society’s upper echelons makes it even more imperative that whatever you do here in tracking and seizing the notes in no way alerts those further along the chain, or else our mastermind—and Drake didn’t choose that moniker without cause—will vanish into thin air, leaving alive the possibility of him emerging with a similar threat at a later date, or so Drake fears.”
“Presumably with good reason—I seriously doubt there’s all that much that Drake fears.”
Wearily, Toby grinned. “Except, possibly, his wife’s temper.”
Christopher chuckled. “He is a wise man.” Sobering, he reviewed Toby’s news, aligning it with the information he’d compiled.
Toby studied his face. “Have you got anywhere regarding the inhabitants of Goffard Hall?”
Christopher arched a supercilious brow. “As it happens, I have. The principal agent in the distribution system operating via the Goffard Hall card parties is Mrs. Kirkpatrick, the lady of the house.”
Toby’s brows rose. “Not the husband?”
“No. He appears to be a solid sort—a financier, what’s more.” Succinctly, Christopher summarized their findings regarding the Goffard Hall household.
Toby looked impressed. “That was quick. It’s less than a week since I set you on the trail.”
Christopher felt forced to admit, “I had help in the form of Miss Martingale, the niece of our longtime neighbor, Sir Humphrey Martingale of Bigfield House.”
Toby stared at Christopher. “ Miss Martingale?”
Ignoring Toby’s stunned expression, Christopher explained, “Miss Martingale’s younger brother, Robert, regularly attends the card parties, and naturally, Miss Martingale was concerned. We essentially joined forces in furthering our knowledge of the family at Goffard Hall.”
The clocks throughout the house struck twice.
Toby smothered a yawn. “Two o’clock, and my bed calls. But before I collapse, I need to convey just how adamant Drake is that, while exerting every effort to locate and seize the incoming shipment of fake banknotes, we absolutely must not show our hand. Or Drake’s hand, as the case actually is.”
Christopher frowned. “Based on what we know to this point, I’d say we need to lay hands on the fake notes before Mrs. Kirkpatrick receives them.”
“Before she has a chance to stuff them into the pockets of gullible young gentlemen.” Toby nodded and yawned again.
“If Drake wants the mastermind, then it’s possible Mrs. Kirkpatrick knows who he is.”
“But if she doesn’t…” Toby pushed to his feet. “Given how careful this blasted mastermind has been to this point—leaving nothing by which he can be traced—”
“Then,” Christopher said, standing as well, “unless we follow the trail of the notes—be they fakes or real ones exchanged for the fakes—all the way to the mastermind, we’ll likely never identify him, which is probably Drake’s worst nightmare.”
“Exactly.” Toby turned to the door. “Drake said he’ll be down here as soon as he can manage it. He wants you to focus on locating the notes, but if at all possible, to wait until he arrives before seizing them.”