“Someone’s been practicing mimicking the fella’s hand.” The flavor of America sat heavy in Stone’s words though he’d escaped the inhumanity of slavery years earlier.
“The Dread Master wondered what Ambassador von Brunnow was so nervous over,” Brogan said. “Being tied to forged documents’d do it, I’d say.”
Fletcher dropped the papers on the table, jaw tight and eyes narrowed with pondering. “But is the ambassador part of the scheme or a victim of it?”
“I’ve not the first idea.” Brogan had pondered the puzzle ever since snatching the papers, and he hadn’t any answers yet.
“We have to wonder the same thing about Mr. Sorokin,” Stone said. “Participant or victim?”
“And is Miss Sorokina aware of any of it?” Fletcher tossed in.
Both men looked at Brogan. “She tossed me out on m’head this morning. I’ll be getting no more information from that quarter.”
“Why’d she toss you out?” Fletcher asked.
“Somehow or another, she discovered my real identity. And she hasn’t a very high opinion of writers, which means neither of you two could simply waltz in and ask questions.”
“Being unfairly disliked wouldn’t be anything new, Donnelly,” Stone said with his usual direct, matter-of-fact tone.
Someone pounded on the front door.
“Móirín, maybe?” Fletcher guessed.
“She has a key.” Brogan stood and moved to the door.
Though he’d no real guesses as to who he’d see on the other side, when he pulled it open, he was so shocked it took him a moment to speak.
“Mr. Sorokin.”
“You were in my back room.” The man was boiling as blazes.
Fletcher stepped into the entryway.
Sorokin looked at him for only a moment. “I don’t have business with you.”
Fletcher shook his head, as if it were a great shame. “Hate to bob you, chum, but you do, whether you know it or not.” He pulled Mr. Sorokin inside. To Brogan he said, “Shut the door. It’s time we gabbed a spell with our resident printer.”
Without taking his eyes off Mr. Sorokin, Brogan reached back and pulled the door shut.
“I will not be handled this way,” the man spat, his salt-and-pepper beard shaking as he spoke.
“Before you run your mouth, spin on this,” Fletcher said. “We already know what you’re looking for.”
Mr. Sorokin paled.
Brogan took advantage of the momentary silence. “You’ve a daughter and two little ones at your shop. Whatever muck you’re wading in will splatter them too.”
“I don’t—I don’t know what you’re—what you’re talking about.”
Fletcher set a hand on Mr. Sorokin’s back and guided him into the sitting room. Stone remained at the table, watching their return, quite at his leisure. The forged documents had been tucked away again. Stone never missed a thing.
Fletcher saw Mr. Sorokin to the table and “invited” him to sit. Fletcher grabbed a stool and sat as well. Brogan leaned against the nearby windowsill.
“What I can’t sort,” Fletcher said, clearly addressing everyone except Mr. Sorokin, “is why a forty-year-old document would be so important.”
“The past can chase a person,” Stone said.
“Oi.” Fletcher threaded his fingers and tucked his hands behind his head. “But which person is it chasing now?”
Brogan recognized Fletcher’s familiar approach to getting information: giving the impression of near-indifference and having a conversation between each other that was absolutely meant to be overheard.
“There’s risk, for certain,” Brogan said. “The reward’d have to be significant.”
“I’d wager an ambassador is well able to make the danger palatable,” Fletcher tossed in.
Slowly, and in perfect unison, they turned their heads to look at Mr. Sorokin. He swallowed audibly in the silence that followed. They didn’t look away, didn’t speak, didn’t give any indication they were anything but relaxed and perfectly satisfied. Stone had long ago mastered that posture and expression; Brogan wasn’t the least certain how much of it was an act.
“You stole them,” Mr. Sorokin whispered after a moment, the accusation in his tone subdued by the quietness of his words.
“Stole what?” Fletcher asked, the picture of innocence.
“You know what.”
“Cain’t be certain that I do, now can I?”
“Give them back.”
Brogan took the same approach. “Give what back?” It’d help them out if Mr. Sorokin offered his own description of the papers; doing so would tell them a load more about the nature of his involvement and the scheme behind it all.
“I can’t cut you in for any profit, if that’s what you’re holding out for.” Mr. Sorokin’s spectacles slid down his nose.
Fletcher looked away from the man and resumed the intentionally overheard conversation. “I’m not looking to risk being tossed in Old Bailey, are either of you?”
“Not a bit of it, Fletch,” Brogan said. “In fact, I do m’ best to steer clear of any scheme involving someone who holds the ear of two governments. Too much opportunity for being double-crossed.”
“I’m not afraid of Ambassador von Brunnow,” Mr. Sorokin said, shoving his glasses back in place.
Stone didn’t flinch. “He ain’t insignificant.”
“I’m not afraid of him.” Mr. Sorokin’s repeated declaration came, this time, with just enough emphasis on the final word to send Brogan’s mind in a new direction.
Brogan held up a hand to forestall Fletcher’s next comment. To Mr. Sorokin, he said, “Who are you afraid of?”
“Give me back my papers. It’s our only hope.”
Brogan shook his head. “We’re not meaning to turn you over to the police. We’re far more worried about your daughter, those little urchins, even the ambassador, who’ll all be burned if you keep playin’ with fire.”
The man’s face, alternately defiant and angry, held an unwavering note of what looked like fear. “Give me back what you took.”
Fletcher stood. “Don’t think we will.”
“Tell us what’s goin’ on, and we might be able to help,” Brogan said.