A/N: There will be two uploads this week as a combination of the flu and family plans have prevented me from uploading early this week.

Feedback, as always, would be appreciated. I feel a bit like I'm stumbling around in Wonderland here myself ;)


Chapter 29: Thomas James Fitzgerald III

Impatient. It was a word Remington had freely applied to Laura over the years when it came to cases. Unwilling to sit back and wait when action could solve a case more quickly, is how she would describe herself. The same could be said about this journey into finding out the 'why' of Roselli's obsession with them. At least it had been since she'd finally set her mind to it. New Jersey, North Carolina, Mexico and now London, chasing clues with the single-minded determination for which she was known. And now? Here they were, hurrying up and waiting once again. Why? It was the very first word which had floated through her mind when she'd awakened shortly after dawn that morning after a night of restless sleep.

Easing herself out from under Remington's arm and leg, she slipped out of bed and made a beeline for the shower. Why? Why are we waiting? she demanded of herself silently as the water sluiced over body, revitalizing it and bringing her mind fully awake.

She was sick of it. Damned sick of it, truth be told. The events of the prior May continued to have too much a hold on their lives, and would continue to do so until they had the answer as to why it had even begun. And it had all begun with apathy. Their heads spinning from the arrival of the INS and Remington's disastrous, panic-driven actions afterwards, from which they'd never had a chance to recover, and they'd simply gone where they were pointed. An unwanted Mexican honeymoon. Duped into going to London. A surprise inheritance in Ireland. They'd given little examination to the events unfolding around them, Remington distracted by possibly having lost her, she distracted by punishing him for the decisions he'd made.

When they'd returned from Greece, they'd determinedly wiped the unpleasant events of the six weeks prior under the carpet, immersing themselves in each other, in their still shocking, yet amazingly wonderful, actual marriage. And look where that had gotten them. Four months after her kidnapping and they were both still trying to recover from the maelstrom Roselli had unleashed on their lives.

She knew, without a doubt, the search for the 'why' it had all begun was the right choice… for her. With each day that passed, she felt her footing on the ground beneath her become more firm. They were getting answers to questions. Granted, maybe not to the questions they'd intended, but answers none the less. Johnny and Jenny MacDonald might finally receive some justice because of the information she and Remington had uncovered. They knew, now, why the rooms at Ashford Castle had so quickly filled with uninvited guests. They knew how Shannon had ended up on Remington's doorstep.

Answers. Each one restoring her faith in herself, in her abilities, a little more. She hadn't even realized that somewhere within herself she begun to doubt her skills, her instincts. But she had. The events of last year, Roselli's actions had, unknowingly, impacted her psyche even more than she'd believed the fall prior.


"Roselli took a lot of things from me. My sense of self. I've always believed I'd be able to take care of myself in any situation. I know that's not true now. I can be overpowered. I can be drugged. I can be shackled to a car. Hit, dragged around at will. He took away my sense of safety. Knowing that he'd resort to what he did, I know I'll never be safe as long as he's free. He also left a lot behind. Self-doubt. Fear. Shame. Guilt. Self-blame. I invited this psychopath into our lives. I led him on. I used him to hurt you. This is what happened and I'm the one who opened the door to let it in."


Remington's instincts had told him from the beginning that Roselli was a dangerous interloper in their lives, that he could not, should not, be trusted. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she'd known it, too, but had firmly ignored those little hairs on the back of her neck because Roselli offered her something she'd needed more at the time: retribution for a heart left broken and bleeding. And, by the time she'd started listening to the alarms she'd silenced, it had been too late. And the cost? Far, far, too high.

With each answer they found, a part of her that had been damaged was being restored. But then, last night, for the first time in quite a while, the dream of Paddington Station had returned and Remington was once again lying with head on her lap, as life seeped from him. She'd awakened from the dream holding her breath, keeping the panic at bay, then had rolled over and snuggled into his warmth, pressing a cheek against his chest, easing a leg between his, breathing deeply his scent. A reassurance he was there with her, safe, whole. She'd closed her eyes and was on the verge of sleep when the meaning of the dream came to her. Eyes snapping open, she willed her thudding heart to slow.

Remington was there beside her, but he was anything but safe and whole: he was slowly bleeding. Each day that this quest was extended, so too were the number of days he had to wonder and worry if was he or something he'd done which was at the center of Roselli's quest for vengeance. If this was the beginning of the end them, of the life he'd craved and never believed he was worthy of. Her assurances now offered no solace, it would only come through her action after they discovered the worst… if they did at all.

He was a man who believed the past should be left untouched. A man who lived in the present, had little faith in the future. It was how he'd survived those years on the street. It was only in becoming the man he now was, that he'd found the strength to try to pry from the past the secret of who he was. Then, one evening, as he lay wounded on a bed in a filthy bedsit in London, he'd revealed more than he'd meant to.


"I've always been afraid of looking too deeply into the past. Afraid of…"


His words had trailed off when he'd realized he was about to reveal too much of himself, but reveal himself he'd already done. She'd set the thought aside, then, still reeling as she'd been from learning Kevin Landers, suspected Whitechapel Slasher, might be his father. Then had never returned to explore the thought further. But lying there, pressed against him in the early morning hours, she did and understanding dawned: It wasn't that the past couldn't be changed, but that the past could change everything that was the root of his fear. During his days on the street as a child, he'd clung to the person he believed he was, surviving by is wits, but not allowing the most fundamental parts of him to be altered. It was not in his nature to harm, to exploit, so he hadn't. And he'd made it absolutely clear during their last stay in London: he didn't have it in him to kill.


"I was so bloody tired by time Daniel came along. Tired of being hungry all the time, tired of eating scraps not fit for a dog let alone a human being. I was sick of sleeping upon the streets, tucked into a doorway here or an abandoned building there. I wasn't exaggerating when I told you that someone was likely to put a knife in your back just to get hold of your shoes. Brixton was filled with violence, people desperate to survive. I was bloody well furious with the hand I'd been dealt by then, and cared little of who I crossed in anger. Yet, I didn't have it in me to kill, even to survive. I would have been dead, more likely than not, before I'd reached age fifteen."


Those years ago in that London bedsit, she'd wondered how the gentle man, in who's arms she now lay, would assimilate in his mind being the child of a murderer… of the Whitechapel Slasher. She was absolutely certain of one thing: it would make him question everything about who he believed himself to be and what he deserved in life. The blow would have taken him to his knees. And, she admitted to herself now, would've likely ended in him disappearing into the misty night, believing where he'd come from meant him undeserving of the life he'd found, the dreams he kept close to his heart, and most of all, her.

It was, maybe, one of the reasons she felt compelled to defend Daniel these days. In admitting to being Remington's father, he'd laid to rest a part of the past Remington had feared held the power to eradicate his present.

But now here they stood, at least in his mind, on that cliff again. Standing as they were, teetering on the edge, was nothing less than torture to him, she acknowledged to herself. They needed to dive head first into the chasm and deal with whatever they held in their hands when they came out on the other side. Quick and fast, like a bikini wax. She smiled as the association amused her briefly, but sobered quickly as it was still all too true. Painful enough to suck the breath right out of you when the wax was ripped free, but still infinitely better than it would be plucking one hair at a time.

She didn't know how many more times she'd be able to stand by and watch as Remington paced a room, left angst filled by the latest discovery. For as inclined as he was to protect her first and foremost, so, too, was she compelled to protect him. It had been that way from the very beginning and she didn't see that most elemental part of their relationship ever changing.

Showered, dressed and coiffed, Laura sat down on the edge of the bed, and watched Remington sleep. He'd sprawled out on his stomach, head pillowed by an arm and sheet barely covering his assets, as he was prone to doing when she left his side. She watched as his brow furrowed and lips moved, his troubles having followed him into his dreams as they so often would. Reaching out, she stroked his cheek then watched as bleary eyes opened to meet hers and the corner of his mouth lifted at seeing her. She knew when his brain registered her appearance as he pushed up to roll over. Placing her hand between his shoulder blades, she shook her head in the negative.

"I'm just going to the library. I'll be back by eleven." Ruffing his hair, she leaned down and pressed her lips to the corner of his. "Get some sleep, sweetheart." He never said a word, just closed his eyes. She lingered for a minute, rubbing his back, smiling when he hummed contentedly. With a final brush of lips to cheek, she stood and left the room.

The trip to St. James Square took only twenty-five minutes and another ten to traverse the historic library before she arrived at the help desk in the periodical section. Fishing Roselli's list from her handbag, she handed it to the librarian.

"I was wondering if you could provide me a list of newspaper articles about these men over the last five years?" she asked the spectacled, older woman.

With merely a nod, the librarian took the list from Laura's hand and began tapping on the keyboard of her computer. The idea had come to Laura when she and Remington were at Tate Britain the prior evening. Several photographers and reporters from the society section of the London Times, The Daily Times and even a few publications akin to America's National Enquirer were on hand, snapping pictures, garnering quotes, and noting the who's who of Society in attendance at the fundraiser. If, as Inspector Lombard had said, several of the men on the list were from some of England's most affluential families, it stood to reason they would likely have made an appearance at one time or another in the press. It couldn't hurt to test the theory, and if she was correct, she and Remington could try to wrangle appointments with the men for interviews this weekend instead of at the beginning of the work week.

Eventually, the dot matrix printer sitting on a stand at the right elbow of the librarian began whirring out several sheets of information. Ripping it off the printer when the machine stopped, the Librarian made careful notations at the top of each sheet of paper. All-in-all, five of the seven names on the list were represented, drawing a smile to Laura's lips.

"Where do I find the microfilm?" she inquired.

"I can provide five rolls at a time to you, Miss," the librarian informed her.

Studying the lists, Laura selected the roll on each sheet which contained the most articles about the men in question. After retrieving the film, the librarian showed Laura to the machines, then demonstrated how to set up the film and use the projector before departing.

An hour later, Laura had worked her way through three rolls of film and had shaken her head in disbelief more times than she could count. If these were the men Lombard spoke of, he hadn't been wrong. She glanced at her notes.

Sir Nicholas Ashly: Age 60. Multi-millionaire. Property Investments. Once widowed, twice divorced, currently on marriage four. Two children, twenty-eight and seventeen.

Miles Schroder: Age 68. Multi-millionaire. Entrepreneur. Businesses throughout London, Manchester, Yorkshire, Rome, Naples, Paris and Hong Kong. Married 43 years. Five children, ages 26-40.

Sir Geoffrey Fredrickson: Age 62. Billionaire. Retail and Hotel operations. Hotels span worldwide, cater to exclusive clientele. Never married. No children.

If this is a list of Roselli's potential fathers, either his mother worked in a pub which catered to the most elite of society or the list is made up of whole cloth, she thought to herself. The more she read, the more she was inclined to believe the latter. Sliding the next role of film into place, she made note of the name on her pad of paper, then sped through the film until she reached January of '85. Moving slowly through the pages, she found the one she was searching for then enlarged it to full screen, eyes widening at what she read.

Marquess Westmoreland, dead at 81.

Thomas James Fitzgerald II, sixteenth Marquess of Westmorland, Ninth Earl of Mayo, and Viscount of Stafford died peacefully in his sleep today, it has been reported. The Marquess was preceded in death by his wife of fifty-six years, Elizabeth Victoria Landers Fitzgerald. Despite his advanced age, the Marquess had continued as an active member of the House of Lords where he was seated as Lord Talbot.

The Marquess was much-beloved for his commitment to improving the welfare system and for his well-known dedication to patronage. Amongst his favored charities: the Royal School for the Blind, Welsh National Opera, British Youth Opera, Commonwealth Society for the Deaf, the British Deaf Association, London City Ballet, London Symphony Orchestra and the Malcolm Sargent Cancer Fund for Children. The last of these charities was perhaps his most favored, his sizeable annual donation made each of the last twenty-five years in honor of his daughter, Cecily Elizabeth Landers Fitzgerald, whom died at age six after being inflicted with Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma.

The Marquess is succeeded by his only living heir, Thomas James Fitzgerald III, the twelfth Earl of Claridge. The Earl has lived overseas the last several years, seeing to family interests in Canada. Recently engaged to Catherine Galt of Canada…

Abruptly standing, she gathered the three already viewed reels of film and the one remaining reel not yet viewed and returned to the help desk. There she requested and received four more reels of film on which articles about Thomas James Fitzgerald III, aka the Earl of Claridge, aka Kevin Landers could be found. Glancing at her watch, she mentally committed the forty minutes she had remaining to discovering as much as she could about the Earl of Claridge.


Remington opened the oven to check the progress of the sundried tomato pesto quiche he'd whipped up for Laura and him for brunch. Glancing at his watch again, he scratched at the side of his nose. Anticipating she'd be late, as she was for most non-business matters, he'd purposefully delayed placing the quiche in the oven so that it would be ready right at the noon hour. If she didn't appear in the next fifteen minutes or so, the quiche would go straight from oven to garbage, not exactly how he'd planned the start of their day together.

The sound of the doorbell ringing had him doing a quick assessment of his attire. In anticipation of their travels through town, he'd intentionally dressed complementary to Laura. A proprietary act, he knew, but one she not only didn't seem to mind but seemed flattered by. Grey pants with dark blue bracers, white dress shirt and dark blue tie to her long grey skirt, dark blue blouse and matching wide leather belt that emphasized her small waist. His grey suit jacket to hers, his medium grey trench coat to hers and the ensemble was complete. Satisfied, he flipped the kitchen towel in his hands up to rest on his shoulder, and crossed the house to answer the door.

"Forget your key, love?" he taunted playfully as he swung open the door. His smile faded at seeing the two bobbies standing on the front stoop. "My apologies. Thought you were my wife. What can I do for you, gentlemen?"

"Mr. Remington Steele?" the older of the two officers inquired. Remington's eyes narrowed slightly, the only sign he was even remotely concerned by their appearance on his doorstep.

"That I am," he acknowledged, then turned his head when the alarm on the oven peeled across the house. "Come in, come in. I've a quiche in the oven that I need to remove before it burns," not bothering to look back to see if they were following as he strode briskly through the parlor into the kitchen. With a glance at one another, the bobbies removed their hats and stepped inside, following Remington into the back of the house.

Grabbing a pair of potholders, Remington opened the oven and removed the quiche, setting it on a hot pad waiting on the island. Turning off the oven, he returned his attention to the two men. "Now, how can I be of assistance, gentlemen?"

"Chief Inspector Lombard wishes us to convey an invitation to join him," intoned the older man, taking lead again.

"Always happy to visit the Inspector," Remington agreed jovially. "My wife should be home anytime now. If you'll let the Inspector know we'll be along as soon as we finish our meal?" he asked, indicating the quiche.

"My apologies, I seem not to have been clear. The Chief Inspector has requested your presence immediately." Remington's tongue skimmed his lips nervously.

"Of course. I'll just grab my coat on the way out," he agreed, seeing no choice in the matter.

As he slid into the back of the car, he couldn't help but wonder if his slate wasn't so clean after all.


Laura's heels clicked across the marble floor of the library, as those long-legged strides of hers taking her rapidly towards the front door of the building. She was already forty minutes late, and unless traffic cooperated, she'd be thirty minutes past even that. She ground her teeth knowing, without a doubt, Remington would have a field day with this latest round of tardiness, given it happened to correspond with their plans to spend the afternoon touring London. A tour he wouldn't even be aware, yet, that needed to be cancelled.

Stepping out into the brisk London air, she scanned the street for a taxi cab which always seemed to be in abundance until you really needed one. Spying hacks several making their way down the block, she scrambled down the long stairway towards the sidewalk below. Her feet had no sooner contacted the sidewalk than a hand grasped her by the arm. Turning, she faced two suited men. She gave her arm a firm yank, the beefier of the two men holding firm.

"Take your hands off me," she demanded.

"Mrs. Steele," the slim, short man said while flipping open a badge, "Chief Inspector Lombard requests your presence at once." Giving her arm another hard pull, she nearly fell over when it was released. Rubbing at the place where his hand had held her, she glared at the men.

"All you had to do was say so," she admonished. "I just need to call my husband and let him know to join me there." She'd seen a bank of payphones in the lobby of the library and turned back towards the stairs, only to find a hand clasped around her arm again.

"I'm afraid you'll need to come with us now," the deep baritone voice of the thicker man informed her. Turning, she looked purposefully at her arm, then glared up at the man.

"Am I under arrest?" she asked belligerently, offended by the high-handed tactics being used. "If not—"

"Consider it what you must," the other man answered, "But you'll be coming with us, madam."

With those words, Laura stilled. Looking from one man to the other she assessed her options then realized she didn't have any. "Then what are we waiting for," she snapped.

With the assistance of the hand propelling her by the arm, she was directed to a black sedan and placed in the back seat of the vehicle. Forty minutes later, she focused on the passing greenery, the vehicle she was in having left London some time before. Demands to know where she was being taken were met with silence. Her thoughts strayed to Remington. She'd promised to be back by eleven and it was nearing one now. She knew he'd long ago have left irritated in the rearview mirror and would be approaching panicked worry. He wouldn't be able to help drawing a comparison, given their pursuit of Roselli's reasons, and his thoughts would immediately turn to last October and when she'd disappeared from their home then. Wrapping her arms around herself, she rubbed at her arms, willing herself to stay calm, as her eyes fixed on rolling green pastures.

"Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas any more," she thought to herself, resignedly. The Wizard of Oz, MGM, 1939.