engrossed not even to have heard him depart. Catherine pushed aside a stab of guilt at her ill manners. Though Prescott wouldn’t take it to heart, she knew.
Turning back to the book, she flipped to the next page and read the bottom.
Luckily there’s a trestle, handily placed along the west alleyway. It’s far enough from any traffic to avoid examination and the sun will be late in casting it from shadow.
Doubt slithered through her mind. No. It couldn’t be…
A notation was scratched along the side of the page: Information is the greatest weapon in any offensive!!
She flipped the sheet.
The third Sunday is the propitious night as the housekeeper is off and her second sleeps late. That allows for more time to breach the lock if there’s a snag.
Her heart began to pound as she quickly rifled through the pages.
Westerly . Garamond . Kendrick . The names popped out at her, glaring in their familiarity and the connection between them. Each family had been notoriously burgled by the Thief of Robinson Square. There had been whispers, she recalled, about how these families were particularly clutch-fisted when it came to charitable donations. About how they treated their servants poorly, despite living to decadent excess. Some had even hinted that the thievery was a reckoning, of sorts.
Then there was the matter of how the thief knew the exact locations of hidden valuables. Supposedly all of the Westerly servants had been sacked and quite a few from the other families as well. But the thief had never been caught. Apparently no one had even come close to unmasking the housebreaker.
But just as suddenly as the burglaries had begun, they’d ceased, relegating the Thief of Robinson Square to phantom amongst the score of London’s legends.
Until today, perhaps?
Tracing her hand down the page, she reexamined the bindings.
It couldn’t be the thief’s diary, could it? And if it was, why was it hidden in a secret compartment at Andersen Hall? More importantly, how could they capitalize on this find? Could it somehow help the orphanage overcome its financial straits? Was there even a market for such a thing?
Catherine snorted. There was a market for anything in London these days.
Her eyes narrowed and she stared off into the distance, hashing through the possibilities. Were there any rewards outstanding for such information? Could they sell it to the highest bidder?
Doubts about exactly what she had in her lap plagued her. She wouldn’t want to set up Andersen Hall or Headmaster Dunn for a mockery. This journal would have to be, without doubt, the genuine article.
A newspaper clipping slipped out. She read the headline. “ The Thief of Robinson Square Strikes Again. ” Next to the title was a bold, black handwritten star.
Shocked, Catherine slammed the book closed.
“Oh, dear Lord in heaven,” she breathed, her heart pounding, her mind racing. Still, it seemed too preposterous to believe.
Her eyes flew from right to left, ensuring that no one had seen. She knew that she was being overly fearful; she was on the rooftop for heaven’s sake. Still, on the small chance that this was real…
A plan. She needed a plan.
First she’d hide the book, not let anyone notice her discovery. Yet. Then she would talk to Headmaster Dunn. He would know what to do. He always did.
Chapter 6
A fter slipping the book under her bed in her room, Catherine rushed down the hallway toward Headmaster Dunn’s study. Excitement swam in the pit of her belly. Was the tome actually written by the Thief of Robinson Square? Or simply the manifestation of someone’s obsession with the notorious thief who had the ton reeling shortly after the turn of the century? The fascinating journal not only chronicled the Thief’s exploits, but contained charts, maps and lists detailing robbing London’s finest homes. It was almost a guidebook of how to burgle. Still, it was so far-fetched, her doubts lingered.
Catherine rushed into the
Learning to Kill: Stories