Tec Teagan

The strangest thing about the burglaries was not the lack of evidence; it was the lack of suspects.

Documents had been disappearing for months all throughout London yet there was not one prevailing description of a shadowy figure or suspicious character to be had. The documents seemed innocuous pieces, at a glance, the sum of which was far greater than the individual parts. Taken as a whole, the information contained within would likely bring the country to war.

Constable Young had been charged with overseeing Wyndham, Boggs and Hirsch, a firm of financiers and exporters who had been entrusted with deeds of a somewhat sensitive nature by the monarchy. His brothers-in-arms were situated at the Leeds and Tabernacle law offices and the west Parliamentary Hall, which both boasted treasures of a similar nature.

The firm itself resembled a large family estate rather than a place of business, Young was surprised to note. He was greeted at the door by a servant and then led into a small parlor to wait.    

The parlor’s only other inhabitant was the stark figure of a young woman in a black silk dress. Her face was a pale oval framed by tight auburn curls. She was pretty, though not striking; pleasant but unmemorable. She had clearly been crying. Her eyes were red, puffy, and there was a handkerchief crushed in her fist. A widow, then, although of a surprising age, Young decided.    

"Ma’am,"Young said to her. She offered a watery reproduction of a smile but otherwise remained silent and still.

Young had not been waiting long when Mr. Wyndham blustered in.

"Ah Constable! So glad you’re here," Wyndham greeted brusquely, grasping Young’s hand in a firm shake. "If you’ll come along with me I’ll give you a tour of the old girl, get you acquainted with all the likely entrances and exits - "

He clearly meant to go on but was interrupted by the widow, who rose to her feet and said quite desperately, "Mr. Wyndham! Sir, please, if I might have one moment of your time. I simply need a series of signatures to settle my dear Roger’s affairs."

Wyndham shot her a dark look.

"Madame Garrard, can you not see that there are more important matters at hand?" he asked archly. Young felt something twist in his gut at the way the widow’s face fell.

"Of course," she said forlornly.

Wyndham shifted on his feet, straightening the line of his coat.

"Right, well," he continued. "If you’d wait just awhile longer I’m sure one of us will have time to see you soon. Constable, if you would?"

He waved Young out into the hall. Young stopped and shot Madame Garrard an apologetic look. There was the smallest hint of an upturn at the corners of her mouth when she inclined her head, a distant, heavy sadness in her eyes.

As he led the way around the estate, Wyndham wavered back and forth between regaling Young with the history of the manor and complaining about the widow.

"She showed up a fortnight ago and has been here every day since, wasting our time on the minutiae of her dead husband’s contract," he snarled somewhat snidely. "I’ve more important things to do than listen to a heartbroken little girl whinge about past expenses."

"Of course," Young said, though he couldn’t bring himself to really mean it.

"When your men arrive tomorrow, I’d like you to pay particular attention to the sills of the second story windows at the back here," Wyndham continued as though Young had not spoken at all.

Young brought his small contingent of men the next day. He set them up at all of the doors and had a few watching the grounds where he thought someone might try to climb a tree or a wall in search of entrance.

Madame Garrard was in the parlor, again, but this time she held a cup of tea to which she was clinging as if its buoyancy alone might keep her from drowning.

"You are a very persistent woman," Young offered, chancing a smile. The one she returned in kind was wispy and a bit dim, but it would suffice.

"I must confess that I am quite used to waiting," Madame Garrard sighed. "I am certain that if I did not occasionally pose a physical barrier between Mr. Wyndham and his many matters of urgent business, he should forget I had ever come at all."

Young grinned, nodding politely at her as he turned to go.

"Keep at it, good lady," he said. "You’ll surely wear him down over time."

Madame Garrard raised her cup in a silent toast.

"Well?" Wyndham demanded from the head of the table. "Have you any leads?"

Boggs, Hirsch, and their various assistants grumbled their assent. Tensions were running high with all of this waiting. The thief had yet to make a move and everyone involved was growing restless and agitated—quite a feat, considering Wyndham’s usual temperament.

"Not as such," Young admitted reluctantly. "This thief is unlike any others we’ve come across. It’s as if he were some sort of specter."

Wyndham harrumphed.

"I say, you ought to look into that Marchand fellow who came to town a few months back. He’s a Frenchman, you know? And Frenchman are not to be trusted."

"Of course," Young said, meaning no such thing.

The third day found Madame Garrard again in the parlor, focusing on some indeterminate point out the window.

"Lovely weather, for London," Young greeted. She jumped, startled, and turned around, one hand pressed to her heart.

"Oh, Constable!" she said, breathless. "You frightened me."

"I do apologize," Young replied with a shallow bow. "Have you come to make another brave attempt at wearing down Mr. Wyndham’s boundless bluster?"

Madame Garrard shook her head.

"I thought I might try for Boggs, today," she said. "He at least asks if I’d like some tea before he forgets I’m in the room."

Young laughed.

"Best of luck to you, ma’am."

Madame Garrard dipped a curtsy.

The fourth day, in the morning, Wyndham gave a great, spluttering shout from the upper floor.

The safe had been opened, the documents pilfered. His face a massive red mask of rage, Wyndham demanded that the constabulary guard all the exits.

"He must still be here!" Wyndham roared. "I checked this safe myself not ten minutes ago! Find him! Go!"

Young was jogging down the hall, toward the back entrance to the kitchen, when he came across Madame Garrard.

Clearly, having grown weary of the parlor, she had taken to wandering. Her eyes were wide and surprised when she turned to find Young behind her.

"Constable! Hello," she said. "Why ever are you in such a hurry?"

He urged her forward with a hand, falling into stride alongside her.

"I’m afraid it’s dreadful news, ma’am," Young said. "It appears there's been a burglary."

Madame Garrard’s eyes grew impossibly wider.

"No," she breathed, incredulous. "Here? But how? You must have half the constabulary keeping watch about this place!"

Young shook his head.

"I’m not sure," he told her, honestly. Another of Wyndham’s bellows came thundering from the upper floor, at too far a distance for Young to make out the words. He gave Madame Garrard an apologetic look.

"It might be best if you were to take your leave for the day, ma’am," Young said. "Wyndham’s in a right state and he’ll be none too friendly to your plight if he runs across you."

Madame Garrard nodded.

"Yes," she said slowly, eyes fixed on the ceiling overhead, the distant cacophony of Mr. Wyndham's railing seeping down from the upper floors. "Yes, I do suppose that would be the most prudent course of action, given the circumstances."

She turned to head back down the hall, toward the parlor and the front entrance. Young was about to leave, himself, when her voice rang out, "Oh, Constable? Do be careful. And best of luck."

He enacted a sweeping bow, shot her a grin, and turned on his heel to go.

It was late afternoon by the time Young finally sat down. He and the rest of his men had scoured the entire estate from top to bottom, to no avail. There was no sign of forced entry, there were no reports of mysterious figures, and aside from some slight scratching around the lock of the safe, no indication as to who had been into it or how they got there.

Young was gathered around a long dinner table with all of his men and the firm’s namesakes, discussing strategy and how to best move forward, when one of Wyndham’s assistants walked in.

"Er, Mr. Wyndham, Madame Garrard is here to see you," he said nervously. Young had only seen him around once or twice and gathered that he was rather new. He obviously knew little of Wyndham’s distaste for the young widow.

"That damnable woman!" Wyndham snarled, slamming a fist down on the tabletop with a loud crack. "Tell her to go home and not to come back until next week! We’ve got more important issues to deal with."

"I - I'm afraid she's rather insistent," the young man squeaked, wringing his hands.

"Then I shall tell her myself!" Wyndham barked, striding purposefully out into the hall. Young was hot on his heels, not eager to see the poor widow face the full brunt of the barrister’s rage. He stopped short when he saw the woman waiting in the parlor.

She was a matronly woman with white hair pulled severely back from her face, her heavily embellished silk dress the requisite black of all mourning garb.

"Who the hell are you?" Wyndham thundered. The woman simply narrowed her flinty blue eyes and pursed her thin lips.

"I am the widow Garrard," she said, fixing him with an imperious glare, "and I do not particularly care for the tone you are taking with me, good sir."

Young stepped around Wyndham, who was busy attempting to collect himself in the presence of a woman so utterly unaffected by his baying.

"I'm sorry ma'am, but I'm afraid there must be some mistake," Young said to the woman. "Madame Garrard is a young lady with auburn hair."

Her gaze hardened further.

"I most assuredly am not," she said. She stood, brushing a gloved hand demurely along her skirt to smooth it into place.

"Now," she directed toward Wyndham, "shall we adjourn to your office? I should like to settle the matter of my dear departed husband’s affairs in a timely fashion. I've an appointment to take tea with Lady Everley in an hour and I will not be made late simply because you have mismanaged your schedule."

Young looked at Wyndham. Wyndham looked at Young.

"Er, yes, of course," Wyndham said, bewildered and cowed in equal measure. He gestured toward the hallway and dipped into a shallow half-bow. "Right this way, Madame."

Some miles away a small, sturdy carriage came to a stop on the outskirts of London. A young lady in a black silk dress stepped demurely down onto the curb, an envelope sealed in the King’s own wax tucked discretely in her hand.