“We going to the warehouse?” Otter asked, shoving his hair out of his eyes.
“Why would we do that?”
“Because the tally is off by four hundred cases.”
“What?”
“The tally is off by four hundred cases, guv, as in cases missing. Somebody helped themselves to half your goods.”
Not half of Rye’s goods, not even half the goods he had on hand in London, but certainly a good portion of his profit. “Did Dorning take his order from the warehouse rather than the dock?”
“Bertie says not. He kept an eye on the unloading, lest somebody get light-fingered between the dock and the wagon.”
Bertie had doubtless kept an eye from some rooftop when he should have been practicing his penmanship.
“Why did Bertie take it upon himself to oversee the transfer of goods?”
Otter glanced about, and it occurred to Rye that the boy had purposely raised this topic on the street, away from home, and away from the others.
“Somebody has it in for you, guv. We all know that. Dorning seems like a good ’un, but we hear things.”
Rye resumed walking. “What things?”
“Whispers. The Coventry has its problems.”
Ann worked at the Coventry, and thus Rye knew some of those problems. “The chef is an idiot. What else?”
“How did you know that?”
“You aren’t the only person with eyes and ears, Otter. Jules Delacourt is probably skimming from the pantries, if not the pantries and the wine cellar.” Would he steal from Rye in an attempt to protect Fournier’s interests? Vive la France and all that?
Somebody had certainly stolen from Rye. The warehouse, usually stacked to the ceiling with cases of champagne and other wines, showed a gaping emptiness near the sliding doors that opened into the yard.
“The thieves weren’t subtle,” Rye said. “They didn’t even try to hide what they’d done.” Warehouses were all too easy to steal from, and artfully rearranging the contents could hide the theft for a considerable period. These thieves had wanted Rye to notice the missing inventory immediately.
“Only the champagne was stolen?” he asked.
“Aye.” Otter ambled off between rows of wooden cases, his voice floating through the gloom. “The other vintages weren’t touched. Louis and I checked twice.”
“When did you check?” The warehouse was a cavernous structure, the better to keep the inventory cool. Rye had chosen a building distant from the wharves because wine preferred dry air and because the risk of theft was less.
Or should have been.
“We came here at first light, and no, your watchman didn’t see us. He were fast asleep, and anybody with a decent set of picks could have got past the lock on your barn door.”
“Fast asleep?”
“He’s old,” Otter said. “Older than you.”
Nicolas was one of Lucille’s many relatives and connections. His instructions were to sound an alarm if he detected intruders, not to put himself at risk over a few bottles of champagne.
“Fetch Dorning to me,” Rye said. “And fetch him now.”
Otter emerged from between stacked cases halfway down the row, something in his hands. “Found your sword, guv. Was lying atop a case of the merlot. Scabbard and all.”
Rye unsheathed the sword far enough to see the Goddard family motto. Cervus non servus, which translated to something like a stag forever free.
Unease uncurled in Rye’s belly as he set the sword against the remaining cases of champagne. “I did not steal my own inventory.”
“I know that,” Otter said, “but somebody made off with a powerful lot of your good wine, and that same somebody was in your study. The lads won’t like this.”
Rye loathed the idea that his citadel had been breached. Children slept in his house, for God’s sake. “Do you trust Victor?”
Otter surveyed the warehouse, his gaze unnervingly adult. “You recruited him. He didn’t come begging to us. He has nobody else, and he’s not stupid.”
“That’s not a yes, Otter.”
“I don’t trust nobody. I could do with a slice of that gingerbread if I’m to hare after Sycamore Dorning.”
Rye unwrapped the loaf, used a folding knife to cut off a thick serving, and passed it to Otter. “Tell Dorning there’s a problem at the warehouse, and mind Mrs. Dorning doesn’t overhear you. I’ll wait here.”
“Wait carefully, guv. Whoever did this knows you’ll be poking about looking for answers.”
“Go,” Rye said, “and then find Nicolas, wake him up, and send him here as well.”
Otter scampered off, gingerbread in hand, while Rye made a circuit of the entire warehouse, counting cases and mentally consulting a map of goods in his head. The thieves had taken the good wine, but unbeknownst to them, the very best of the champagne, the vintage Rye would have proudly served to the monarch himself, sat in a dim corner stacked in unremarkable crates.
Rye opened a case in an abundance of caution and reassured himself the bottles were undisturbed. When he’d counted each case and opened several more, he restored the corner to order and went to the door to wait for Dorning.
Try though he might to assemble only the facts, he could not stop thinking of a new boy who refused to sleep in the house and who frequently skipped lessons.
Sycamore Dorning kept his peace when he wanted instead to shout and curse.
“You were drugged, Nicolas,” Goddard said to the aging Frenchman pacing before the warehouse door. “Somebody stood you to a pint or a dram down at the Coq et Poule and slipped something into your drink. Half an hour later, you’re dozing at your post.”
Goddard was patient with the old fellow, offering sweet reason instead of profanity.
“Easy enough to do,” Sycamore observed. “Most émigrés favor a few specific pubs, and you apparently prefer the Coq et Poule. If the Coq has recently switched to winter ale, then a little bitterness in your pint wouldn’t be noticeable.”
Nicolas, who had the dimensions of a wizened jockey, shook his head. “Not a pint. I drink the brandy before I come to work, to keep away the cold.”
“Brandy is even easier to doctor,” Sycamore said. “My sister-in-law is something of an expert on medicinal herbs. She could mix up a brew that would knock you flat before you could say vive l’empereur.”
The little man still looked unconvinced, while Sycamore could not read any reaction at all from Goddard. The colonel’s calm was unnerving, though Jeannette had that same vast composure in the face of monumental provocation.
“To unload four hundred cases of champagne,” Goddard said, “even with a half-dozen men on the job, would take time, Nicolas. You might doze off for a few minutes or even half an hour, but not for half the night.”
“I do not doze off, Monsieur Goddard. You pay me to keep the wine safe, and I am awake at all times.”
“What of the lock?” Sycamore asked, rather than allow Gallic pride to continue denying the obvious.
“Picked,” Goddard replied, “though not very competently. The tumblers were damaged. Nicolas, you are excused, and because the job has become more dangerous, I will find somebody to watch through the night with you.”