Mr. Fox, ever the gentleman, stood politely as Brynt came in, but Beecher just leaned back in his chair, chewing at his cigar in the gloom.
“And here she is, Big Brynt herself,” Beecher said insolently. “Good of you to bring the kid, sweetheart. This here is Miss Alice Quicke, a private detective from—”
“England,” said the stranger, who was looking at Marlowe curiously.
“—the distant isles of fairest England. Miss Quicke was just explaining how easy it is to mistake, ah, what was it? Yes. One stolen boy for another.”
“I never said stolen,” she said quietly.
Brynt hesitated, peering at their faces, letting her eyes adjust. Then she turned to the third among them. “Mr. Fox, sir,” she said. “What is this regarding?”
“The boy, Miss Brynt. Your Marlowe. Correct me when I say you are not his blood relative, yes?” When she said nothing, Mr. Fox cleared his throat apologetically. “Please, sit. I’m sure there is an explanation to it all. Hello, son.”
Marlowe peered around, silent.
The tent was narrow, lit by an ancient lantern at the corner of the desk. It occurred to Brynt she could go, she knew this, she could just turn around and go, taking Marlowe with her, and not one of the three could stop her, she’d wager, not even the detective woman. She remembered the bad business Eliza had been mixed up in, back in England, and didn’t know if there was some connection to it, but she didn’t really care to find out.
But she didn’t go. The lumbered boards underfoot were loose and scrawled with dried clay and they banged up under her bulk as she came forward and reversed the empty chair and hiked her skirts and sat, her massive arms folded up over the chairback.
“His real name is Stephen Halliday,” said the woman, Miss Quicke. She glanced uneasily at Marlowe where he leaned into Brynt’s arm and then back to Brynt. “Would it be better if he weren’t here, at present? For his sake?” But when no one moved, least of all Brynt, and Marlowe just stayed quietly listening, she seemed to decide some argument inside herself and went on. “Stephen Halliday was kidnapped by his nursemaid eight years ago. That was in Norfolk, England. His family is eager to get him back. I am here on their behalf. I have papers, of course.”
She took from her inner pocket a thick envelope tied with twine and gave it across. Brynt unfolded the documents and, while everyone waited, she began to read. From time to time she would grimace despite herself and look up. The envelope held various forms and files stamped and certified both in London and New York City, not all of which Brynt could understand, but most attesting to the identity and history of the missing boy. There were also testimonials and official licenses for the woman, Miss Alice Quicke, signed by one Lord Halliday, recognizing her as the lawful private investigator in the affair. Marlowe, it seemed, was heir to the vast Halliday estates in the east of England. He had been abducted when just a baby and vanished into the smoke of greater London and the family had been hunting him ever since. Identifiable by a birthmark on his back in the shape of a key.
Brynt, dizzy, felt the heat coming to her face. She knew that mark.
“I’m sorry,” said Miss Quicke quietly. “The family is grateful to you, of course.”
“No,” said Brynt.
It was all she could think to say, and it came out quickly, despite herself, and as soon as she said it she was sorry. She saw Mr. Beecher run a finger over his mustache, look across at Mr. Fox. The cigar fumed between his teeth. She thought of the Dream and her sense that something bad was coming and she tried to locate it but she did not think it was this. Slowly she rolled up her sleeves, baring her thick tattooed forearms. What was wrong with her? It was his real family. His real mother. His home.
Miss Quicke watched closely, as if all this were playing out on Brynt’s face before her. “I am sorry, Miss Brynt. It’s a legal injunction. It’s not a request.”
“She’ll set the law on you,” said Mr. Fox. “On all of us.”
“What law?” said Brynt, collecting herself. “The law in England isn’t the law here.”
“Knowing the boy’s identity,” Miss Quicke continued, “but refusing to give him over, ma’am, would make you an accessory to the abduction. And Mr. Fox and Mr. Beecher too, and their entire enterprise here. You could spend a decade in jail. Or worse.”
“Dear me,” murmured Beecher, enjoying himself. “Oh, oh. Or worse.”
“We are prepared to compensate you, of course,” Miss Quicke continued.