Chapter 2

2

Philip followed the butler down the hall to a small sitting room that faced the west of the house. Sunlight seeped through sheer curtains, bathing the room in a warm glow. He couldn’t see much else with the butler blocking his view, but his first impression registered a feminine room with pale-blue carpets and draperies offset by cream-colored wallpaper textured with some kind of leafy pattern.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Radcliffe.” The butler ventured over the threshold.

“Yes, Fellows?” The genteel voice carried a slight Southern lilt.

“Mr. Carmichael is here to see you, ma’am. From the Pinkerton agency.”

“Send him in.”

Fellows bowed, then stepped aside to allow Philip to enter the room. A woman rose from a blue settee, putting aside a small box from her lap as she moved to greet him. A smile graced her lips, shaving a few years from the age he’d been in the process of estimating. Upper forties perhaps? Shallow lines appeared at the corners of her eyes and around her mouth, but they did nothing to detract from her beauty. Red hair, faded only slightly with age, gave her a vibrancy that the soft gray of her dress could not dim. Her blue eyes lit with welcome as she moved to greet him, yet they assessed as well. Philip wasn’t the only one collecting first impressions.

“Mr. Carmichael. Thank you for coming. I’ve heard good things about you.” She tilted her chin up a notch as she peered into his face. “You’ve been described by your superiors as honorable, discreet, and dependable. Would you say that’s an accurate depiction of your character?”

The woman didn’t beat around the bush. He appreciated forthrightness in a client. Philip inclined his head. “I’d say it’s an accurate description of the man I strive to be.”

Her smile returned. “It seems you strive for humility as well. An admirable virtue.”

Philip grinned. “Yet one impossible to claim.”

Mrs. Radcliffe chuckled, the sound as light and airy as the room in which they stood. “Indeed. The fact that you are clever enough to recognize that truth speaks well of you, too.” She turned and gestured to the seating area behind her. “Please, join me. We have much to discuss.”

Philip followed her to the grouping of chairs arranged in front of a small hearth. He waited for her to resume her position on the settee, then planted himself in the armchair to her right, the one that also offered a view of the doorway. A man in his line of work couldn’t afford to take safety for granted. Danger could lurk anywhere, and his chances for survival increased if he saw it coming.

Philip leaned back in his chair and waited patiently for Mrs. Radcliffe to gather her thoughts and the box she’d set aside earlier.

Pulling a photograph from the box, she ran a finger lightly over the image, her expression softening into a strange mix of tenderness and heartbreak. Her vulnerability lasted only a moment before her posture straightened and she handed the photograph to Philip.

“My daughter, Scarlett.”

Philip gazed at the image of a girl in her late teens. Eyes bright. Hair in braids. Full lips tilted just enough to give the impression of a smile. Her right hand was lifted in a wave, though he recognized the true purpose of the pose. Her sleeve had been pushed up to expose the underside of her wrist and the small strawberry-shaped birthmark that confirmed her identity. In her other hand she held a copy of Peterson’s Magazine . The September 1893 issue. Three years ago. The girl would be a young woman now.

“She’s lovely.” It seemed the expected thing to say. Not that the girl wasn’t lovely. She’d obviously inherited her mother’s delicate features, though the freckles smattering her nose and cheeks hinted at a life lived more in sunshine than drawing rooms.

Philip flipped the photograph over, searching for a watermark or anything that might give a clue to the photographer who’d developed the image. As expected, he found nothing. Except a handwritten inscription. Scarlett—age 17 .

“Is this the most recent photograph you have of her?”

Mrs. Radcliffe nodded. “Yes. The plan was to have one sent every year, but the delivery system is somewhat ... unreliable. I’ve received eight over the last fifteen years.” She pulled other photographs from the box and spread them out from youngest to oldest across the tea table between them. “It’s torture for a mother not to be able to watch her only child grow to womanhood. So many milestones missed. But I’d rather suffer the pain of temporary separation than lose her permanently, like I did her father.”

Philip added the photograph to the tea table and studied his hostess’s face. “And you believe her to be in danger.”

Her mouth pinched. “I know it. My brother-in-law will stop at nothing to claim her shares in Radcliffe Shipping and the fortune my husband left her. Since he stands to inherit, the easiest way to accomplish those things is for Scarlett to die before her twenty-first birthday.”

“And that date would be...?”

“October 23.”

Philip leaned back in his chair. Five weeks. That didn’t leave him much time to find her.

“Why are you convinced Drake Radcliffe intends to harm your daughter?”

The man definitely needed the money, but would he stoop to murder? Philip had seen coldhearted crimes before, but taking the life of one’s own niece in order to gain her inheritance was a level of darkness that went beyond the callous shooting of innocent bystanders in a robbery or gunning down a man out of revenge. How depraved did one have to be to want to kill a child?

“He killed his own brother. A niece he barely knows stands little chance of faring any better.”

Thoughts of theoretical crimes evaporated beneath the accusation of a real one. Philip frowned. “I thought Lowell Radcliffe died in a carriage accident.”

“A carriage owned by Drake. One in which my brother-in-law was also supposed to be riding until an ‘unexpected’ business matter arose to detain him.”

Facts worthy of suspicion, certainly, but just as easily explained by happenstance.

Mrs. Radcliffe’s eyes narrowed, and she held up a hand to forestall the questions forming on his tongue. “Before you give me the circumstantial evidence speech or, worse, the one about overwrought women seeing causality where all that truly exists is unfortunate coincidence, answer me this. If the carriage carrying my husband toppled over the edge of a ravine, rolling down a hundred-foot embankment until it came to rest as a pile of splintered kindling in a shallow creek bed, why were no horses injured?” She raised a brow in challenge. “The driver could have jumped to safety when the carriage first slid over the edge, but the horses? The only way for them to escape unscathed would be if they’d been cut free in advance.”

Philip leaned forward. “Did you see the cut traces?”

She made a shooing motion with her hand. “Of course I didn’t see the traces. The carriage was at the bottom of a ravine. What I did see was the very same team of horses at the funeral the following week, pulling my brother-in-law’s buggy. The moment I saw those bays, I knew that my husband’s death had not been an accident.”

“Did you explain this to the authorities?”

“I did. They patted me on the hand and told me how common it was for people in the throes of grief to search for explanations and meaning in random events. Lowell’s accident was a tragedy, but casting blame and outlandish accusations wouldn’t bring him back. I’d do well to turn my attention to more productive matters, like tending to my daughter.” Mrs. Radcliffe’s gaze fell back to the photographs. “I took their advice to heart. Scarlett needed me. Not only to walk beside her in our grief but to protect her from her uncle. If he would kill his own brother to gain control of Radcliffe Shipping, what was to stop him from eliminating the last barrier that stood between him and the power he craved?”

Philip rubbed his hand against the denim that pulled tight over his thigh. Everything he’d learned about Leah Radcliffe painted a picture of a thoughtful, clever businesswoman. Not a histrionic female prone to dramatic accusations. The employees he’d interviewed from the companies she’d inherited from her husband sang her praises. She’d continued the work her husband had started, eliminating child labor and ensuring safe working conditions in both the Radcliffe Oil Mill and the adjoining Radcliffe Cotton Compress. Recognizing that her gender would put her at a disadvantage, she hired her brother, Stefan, to manage her holdings, but every employee Philip had spoken to had credited her for the running of the company. Stefan Anderson might be her voice, but no one doubted who made the actual decisions.

She’d continued to grow and expand the pair of companies her husband started in the late 1870s and, according to city records, now employed nearly five hundred workers between the two—a miniature cotton dynasty. Not only was she invested in one of the local gins, but she had access to exporting through both rails and sea thanks to her ties to Radcliffe Shipping. The compress allowed her to ship flattened cotton bales that took up a fraction of the space of their noncompressed counterparts, but it was her oil mill that brought in the largest profits. The Radcliffe mill produced nearly a million gallons of crude cottonseed oil a year, not to mention ten thousand tons of oil cake and cottonseed meal.

Yet she didn’t hoard her profits. After paying into the family shipping business and making the occasional investment in local organizations, she contributed large amounts to philanthropic causes, such as St. Joseph’s Infirmary. She also sponsored scholarship programs for the children of her employees who wished to pursue higher education.

Philip studied her as she caressed the face in the top photograph. How painful must it be to be separated from one’s only child? He couldn’t imagine it. He was close to his parents, hadn’t left home until he turned twenty-two, five years ago. Even with his married sister settling near the family farm, his mother still pleaded with him to visit more often. She insisted that a mother needed to see her child regularly, to wrap her arms around him and kiss his cheek, no matter how old he’d grown.

Mrs. Radcliffe must have truly feared for her daughter’s life to send her away.

Philip gentled his voice as he broke the silence that had temporarily drifted over them while they ruminated in private thoughts. “What convinced you that Scarlett’s life was in danger?”

Mrs. Radcliffe glanced up from the photographs, tension etched in fine lines around her mouth. “I didn’t want to believe Drake would hurt her. She was just a child. His niece. Lowell and Drake had grown apart, but they were still family. That’s why Lowell named him trustee. Radcliffe Shipping needed a man at the helm. As much as my husband respected my opinions, he and I both knew that naming me as trustee would erode the company’s standing in the community. The realm of business belongs to men. Women, while tolerated when necessary, are never welcomed into their midst as equals. Lowell had intended to hand down his shares of the company to either a son, should we have one, or to Scarlett’s future husband. His retirement was decades away, though. We never imagined his will would come into play so soon.”

She gave her head a little shake as if trying to rid herself of the melancholy thought, then lifted her chin and continued. “Drake contested the will. He insisted that he be given charge of all the funds in Scarlett’s trust, not the small monthly stipend the will allowed. My husband knew of his brother’s tendency to invest in wild schemes to try to make quick money. Drake didn’t possess the patience to curry long-term investments, and Lowell didn’t want Scarlett’s inheritance to be gambled away, so he’d made provisions. When the judge upheld the will, Drake tried to wrest away the oil mill and compress Lowell had left to me. He argued that they were subsidiaries of Radcliffe Shipping and fell under his control. Thankfully, my brother is a lawyer and was able to document Lowell’s sole proprietorship and my right to inherit.

“After several months of legal battles, Drake finally realized that he’d not be able to gain control of my husband’s fortune through legitimate means. I was na?ve enough to believe that would be the end of the matter until a man approached Scarlett in the park one day and tried to make off with her. Thank God the dog Scarlett had been playing with attacked the stranger, biting the man’s leg and causing a scene that brought her nanny running. I had no proof that Drake was behind the kidnapping attempt, so I could merely report the incident and share my suspicions with the authorities. But I confronted Drake in his home. He played the wounded victim, aghast that I could possibly think him capable of harming his niece, yet his eyes gleamed with the knowledge that I had no weapon with which to strike him. So I changed tactics. I wept and apologized, making an excuse about being overwrought from grief, playing into his perceptions of feminine instability. Then I went home and began to plan.

“When the fire came two weeks later, confirming my suspicion that Drake would not cease trying to get his hands on my daughter’s inheritance, we were ready.”

Philip had taken out a tablet and jotted down a few notes, but he stopped writing and shot a questioning look at his hostess. “ We ?”

Mrs. Radcliffe nodded. “My mother and I.”

“Flora Anderson, correct?”

Drake Radcliffe had suspected her involvement. He’d been unable to offer any of the Pinkertons he’d hired a photograph of the woman, and since he’d only seen her at his brother’s wedding, his vague memory offered few helpful details regarding her appearance.

Mrs. Radcliffe smiled. “Yes, but she’s not gone by that name since the day she escaped with Scarlett.”

“What name is she using now?” Chasing down a woman who’d evaded detectives for years would be nearly impossible. But if he had a name, description, and location, this operation could be relatively simple. He poised his pencil above the page, ready to take down all the important details.

“I have no idea.”

Philip blinked. “What?”

“Mother and I agreed that the best way to ensure that Drake never discovered Scarlett’s location was to keep me in the dark as well. If I didn’t know, I couldn’t be forced to tell. I also wouldn’t be tempted to send a letter or attempt a visit. When Mother left with Scarlett after the fire, I lost all connection to my daughter. The only thing I received were the photographs and drawings that arrived sporadically.”

Philip bit back a groan. How was he supposed to find the missing Radcliffe heiress if the very woman who sent her into hiding didn’t know where she was?

“I don’t remember seeing anything in the Pinkerton case files about drawings.”

Mrs. Radcliffe reached into her box. “That’s because Drake didn’t know about them.” She pulled out eight sheets of paper, each bearing a sketch of increasing skill. “Drake tried several times to have Scarlett declared legally dead so that he could claim her inheritance. Thanks to my brother, we anticipated this move and arranged for dated photographs to be delivered anonymously to serve as evidence of Scarlett being alive and well. We brought them forward at each of the hearings. Drake was furious. He defamed me in the press as a coldhearted ice queen who refused to lift a finger to find her missing child and insisted that detectives be hired to find his beloved niece. He demanded access to any photographs I might receive so that he could search for Scarlett himself, and the judge granted his petition. Thankfully, Mother always sent two copies.”

Philip looked through the sketches as Mrs. Radcliffe continued her explanation. The artist obviously enjoyed the outdoors, filling her landscapes with tall trees and various woodland animals. Birds, rabbits, something that could have been a squirrel, and on the last page, a wolf. Or maybe a coyote. The amateur drawing made it difficult to identify, but Philip knew the difference between a domesticated dog and a wild animal from his days on the farm. This was no family hound. This was a wild animal. One who apparently didn’t mind standing still while his portrait was being sketched.

“We had a close call when this last photograph was delivered, however.” Mrs. Radcliffe’s comment drew Philip back to the conversation. “Each time Mother sends a packet, someone she trusts hides it inside a train passenger’s trunk stowed in the luggage car. Usually a trunk belonging to a woman. Someone likely to be sympathetic to the plight of another woman and her child. That time, though, the person selected apparently had some ties to Drake’s company. Because instead of delivering the packet to the mill office as the instructions directed, the courier took it to Radcliffe Shipping. Thankfully, Drake was out when it arrived, making it possible for the secretary on duty to redirect it to my home without any interference. Unfortunately, word got out about the delivery, enabling my brother-in-law to track down the courier and question her about how she came to find the packet. I worried the Pinkertons he hired might trace it back to its origin, but God proved merciful and kept Scarlett hidden.”

Much to Harper’s dismay. Though, if what Mrs. Radcliffe suspected was true, Philip had to be grateful for Harper and Wendell’s failure. A young woman’s life might have been forfeit had they located her.

“Yet I believe God allowed that scare so I could take precautions to ensure such a thing doesn’t jeopardize my daughter’s return. My mother and I intended to keep Scarlett hidden until after her twenty-first birthday. Then, instead of sending a photograph packet, Mother would send a letter with clues to their location. I was to decipher the clues and hire a man to see to their protection on their journey home. She has no idea how close she came to being discovered three years ago. If the same mistake was to happen again and her letter fell into Drake’s hands, I’d have no way to protect them. My only recourse is to send you to them before they send that letter. I waited as close to her birthday as I dared, knowing it would take time to find her, but I can wait no longer.”

Mrs. Radcliffe’s gaze sharpened and pinned Philip to his seat. “Scarlett’s in more danger now than ever, Mr. Carmichael. That’s why I’m hiring you, not just to find her but to ensure her safety. A job that will require both cunning and courage. Are you up to the task?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Philip met her stare without a single blink. “No harm will come to your daughter while she’s in my custody. But how can you ensure her safety once I return her to you?”

She studied him a long time. Taking his measure. He hid nothing from her, letting her look her fill. He knew the difference between knowing a man on paper and meeting him in the flesh. Paper provided facts, but facts could be skewed. Philip never took a job without meeting the client face-to-face. One had to look into a person’s eyes to confirm his character. When Mrs. Radcliffe’s shoulders relaxed, Philip figured he had passed the gut test. Or maybe with women it was intuition. Either way, she’d decided to trust him, and he’d not take the honor lightly.

“Once Scarlett turns twenty-one, she will gain full control of her trust. My brother will help her draft a will that removes any benefit to Drake. The money will be out of his reach, and he’ll no longer have any reason to see her dead.”

Philip nodded. “So back to finding her. Are you sure there’s nothing you can tell me that can narrow my search?”

“All I know is that when my mother left, her intention was to remain in Texas. Someplace secluded where she could keep Scarlett away from prying eyes.” She retrieved a hinged case from the box and opened it to reveal a daguerreotype of a young man and woman dressed in wedding finery. “This is my mother,” she said, handing the frame to Philip. “When she left, her hair was starting to gray and she’d lost the slim waist she’d been known for in her youth, but this might help you find her.”

She collected the other photographs and handed them to him as well. “As for my daughter, she used to play a game with my husband based on the ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ children’s story. She felt safe whenever she donned her hooded cape. She wore it the night of the fire. I think she wears it still. Well, a larger one, of course.” A fond smile touched her lips as she pointed to Scarlett’s neckline in the top photograph. “You have to look carefully, but there are hints of a cape in every photograph.”

Sure enough, once he knew what to look for, Philip recognized evidence of gathered fabric draping behind her shoulders.

Mrs. Radcliffe grabbed hold of his forearm and held tight. “Find my daughter and bring her home to me, Mr. Carmichael.”

With nothing to go on but an outdated likeness of the girl’s guardian, a train route, some roughly sketched landscapes, and a cape, the task would be outrageously difficult, yet the challenge of it beckoned, fueling his determination and purpose. He didn’t know how he was going to find the Radcliffe heiress, but if God wanted him on this case, he wasn’t about to argue.

“You have my word, ma’am. I won’t come back without her.”