Wait Until Midnight

TWELVE

An hour later Adam walked into his study and sat down be-hind the large mahogany desk. His thoughts were consumed with Caroline. She was keeping secrets, he reflected. Fair enough. He understood the necessity. He held some closely guarded secrets of his own.

He admired her determination and tenacity. He had been right in his initial assessment of her character. She was a lady of resolute spirit.

Nevertheless, he did not like dealing with the unknown. In his experience, it never failed to lead to complications. A knock sounded on the door.

"Enter."

Morton appeared in the opening. "Mr. Filby to see you, sir."

"Thank you, Morton. Please send him in."

Harold Filby—plump, bespectacled and fashionably at-tired in checkered trousers, a striped waistcoat and a dashing cutaway morning coat—bustled into the room.

Harold dressed as well as—some would say a good deal more fashionably than—his employer. But then, Adam mused, when one hired a man to keep one's confidences, one paid him enough to ensure that he was inclined to do so.

Harold had served as Adam's man of business for more than six years. He could keep a secret.

"I received your message and came immediately, sir," Harold said.

"I appreciate your punctuality, as always. Please sit down."

Harold lowered himself into the chair directly across from the desk, adjusted his glasses and took out a small notebook and pencil.

"You said the matter was urgent, sir?" he prompted.

"I want you to leave immediately for Bath." Adam clasped his hands on the desk. 'There you will make some extremely discreet inquiries concerning a certain scandal that took place there some three years past."

Harold made notes. "These inquiries concern a business venture, I assume?"

"No, they are of a more personal and private nature. I want you to discover whatever you can about a lady named Caroline Fordyce."

"Mrs. Fordyce?" Harold's head came up swiftly. "Would that by any chance be the author, sir? The Mrs. Fordyce whose novels are serialized in the Flying Intelligencer?"

A sense of resignation settled on Adam. "I appear to be the only person in all of London who was not familiar with her work until quite recently."

"Very exciting stuff," Harold enthused. "Certainly keeps one guessing. Her latest is her most thrilling yet, as far as I am concerned. It is called The Mysterious Gentleman."

"Yes, I know." Adam flexed his hands and deliberately relinked his fingers. "I believe the villain's name is Edmund Drake"

"Ah, I see you are following the story, sir. We haven't seen much of Edmund Drake yet but it's plain that he's a very menacing sort. Safe to say that he'll come to a nasty end, just like Mrs. Fordyce's other villains."

Adam tried and failed to suppress his morbid curiosity. "Doesn't the fact that you already know the identity of the villain and that he will meet with an unpleasant fate take all of the surprise and astonishment out of the story? What is the purpose of reading a novel if one knows the ending be-fore one turns the first page?"

Harold regarded him with acute bewilderment. Then Adam saw the light of comprehension strike.

"I take it you are not a great reader of novels, sir," Harold said, sympathy as thick as cream in every word.

"No." Adam sat back in his chair and gripped the arms. "I do not count novel reading among my vices."

"Allow me to explain, if I may. Of course one knows that in a sensation novel, the villain will pay for his villainy, just as one knows that the hero and heroine will be rewarded for their good hearts and noble actions. Those things are givens, as it were. They are not the point of the business"

"Indeed? Well, what in blazes is the point?"

"Why, it is seeing how the characters arrive at their various fates that compels our attention." Harold spread his broad hands wide. "It is the series of startling incidents in the various chapters that entertains and amazes, all the twists and turns and emotional sensations. That is why one reads a novel, sir. Not to discover how it ends, but to enjoy the strange and exotic scenery along the way"

"I shall bear that in mind if I find myself tempted to read any more of Mrs. Fordyce's work." Adam narrowed his eyes. "Meanwhile, speaking of strange and exotic scenery, I think you had best go dⁱrectly home and pack your bags. I want you on your way to Bath as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir." Harold got to his feet.

"Keep me advised of your progress by telegram."