A Measure of Menace (Kat Holloway Mysteries #7.5)

Chapter 5

I beheld Lord Clifford in silent compassion as the cab sped its way around the Tower to the Minories. His shoulders quivered, but I let him cry without embarrassing him with exclamations of sympathy.

I doubted very much that Lord Clifford had been to blame for his son’s death, and I grew angry at the unnamed inspector for telling him so. What a cruel thing to say to a man who’d just lost his son.

From what little Lady Cynthia had related to me about her brother, I’d gleaned that the Honorable Reginald Shires had been a wild young man, prone to deep play, amassing large debts he couldn’t pay. He’d also been one for the ladies—those with expensive tastes—which hadn’t helped. He’d been in despair the night he’d died, Cynthia had told me, though about what, she hadn’t known. He’d been quite inebriated on top of this, a bad combination.

However, I knew the death of a loved one could bring much guilt, whether that loved one had passed peacefully from a lingering illness or abruptly in a shocking way.

If only we’d realized what was happening, we would think. If only we had worked harder to prevent it, hadn’t been paying attention to our own lives, had been there more for them.

It had been several years after my mother’s death before I realized that, unless I’d suddenly acquired divine powers, I could not have forestalled her passing. She’d urged me to take the position in a good kitchen as under-cook, which would be excellent training for me, and wouldn’t hear of me staying home to take care of her.

She’d know even then that she was ill, I’d understood long afterward. She’d been making certain I could make a living on my own once she was gone.

Even now, more than a decade on, these thoughts made my eyes sting.

I believed Lord Clifford had no reason to feel such guilt, but he’d been the lad’s father—an ineffectual father, from what Cynthia said. He could not help but feel responsible.

Also, young Reginald had been Lord Clifford’s heir, and gentlemen set much store by their heirs. Male ones, that was. Daughters were inconvenient beings that had to be married off, and it was rather scandalous when they were not. Lord Clifford had managed to see one daughter married—Cynthia’s sister, Emily—and then he’d lost her as well.

The cab left Aldgate Street for Fenchurch Street and meandered through the City to Cheapside, where people lingered to watch Mr. John Bennett’s entertaining clock chime the hour. As we passed Clover Lane, which opened from Cheapside, I gazed longingly into the narrow passageway. Near the end of it was the small house where my friend Joanna kept my daughter safe.

I hugged my basket and shrank into the corner of the hansom as Clover Lane fell behind us. If anything happened to Grace, I would be devastated. While I was a cook and Lord Clifford a lofty earl, we shared that understanding.

When the hansom trundled past Temple Bar and rattled into the Strand, Lord Clifford suddenly came alert.

“Driver,” he shouted. “Stop here.”

The cabby abruptly pulled the horse past two wagons and halted at the side of the road. Lord Clifford slammed open the folding door of the hansom and leapt to the pavement.

I scrambled out after him, certain I knew what he intended. Above me, the cabby snarled invective—he hadn’t been paid.

“Wait there, please,” I called up to him, and hurried through the crowd after Lord Clifford.

I barely kept the earl’s thin back in sight but caught up to him when he turned to a door and plunged through it. The door was not marked, but I knew in my bones that it led to the establishment of one Hiram Mobley, moneylender.

“Your lordship, I do not think this is a good idea?—”

I tried to grasp his coat, but Lord Clifford evaded me. He charged down a hall similar to the one that had led to Mr. Jacoby’s office and pounded on the door at the end.

“Open up,” he bellowed. “I’ve come to tell you you’ll get nothing from me, do you understand? I’ll have the law?—”

The door was wrenched open, but no moneylender or his ruffians appeared on the threshold. Instead, Lord Clifford gaped at a tall, slim-faced man of about thirty in a neat black suit. The man’s pale hair was combed and pomaded back from his sharp face, and a pair of light blue eyes skewered Lord Clifford without fear.

I stepped into the shadows, knowing full well what sort of gent this was, and I had no wish for him to notice me. I saw no sign of Daniel anywhere—if he’d been investigating in Mobley’s office, as he’d said he intended to, he’d have come forward to assist.

“You’ll have the law do what, sir?” the tall man inquired in a cool tone.

“Arrest the lot of you,” Lord Clifford spluttered. “You’re extortionists and thieves, and I owe you nothing.”

The man did not change expression. “If there is any arresting, sir, I will be the one doing it. I am Detective Sergeant Scott, looking into the murder of Mr. Hiram Mobley. Who might you be?”

Lord Clifford drew back. “Oh. Well. Good. So you should.”

“You did not answer my question, sir.” Sergeant Scott spoke with calm assurance.

“No? I am the Earl of Clifford, young man. I’ll leave you to it, shall I?” He attempted a negligent gesture. “You carry on.”

Scott gave him a shallow bow that held no deference. “Your lordship. Mind if I ask you a question or two, now that you’re here?”

Lord Clifford stiffened. “Why the devil should you?”

I could have told Lord Clifford that this was exactly the wrong thing to say. Arrogantly swearing to a detective from Scotland Yard would only convince him of one’s guilt.

“I meant to pay a call on you, your lordship,” the sergeant said. “You’re on a list of gentlemen who owed Mr. Mobley a powerful lot of money. In addition, you came here on the afternoon of his murder and argued with him. The next morning, he was found dead. The doctor who examined him said he was killed sometime between ten o’clock that evening and midnight. Will you please tell me what happened? In your own words?”

Lord Clifford swung to me, his face holding stark fear, but I nodded at him encouragingly. The sergeant completely ignored me.

“I argued with him, because he was a swindler.” Lord Clifford regained some of his composure. “He demanded I give him half again what I owed him, right away, if you please. Bloody cheek of the man. I refused, and he threatened me—and my family. I told him what I thought of him. Then I left. He was alive when I went out, Sergeant. Now, I have matters to attend to. Good day to you.”

“Another moment, sir.” Sergeant Scott’s quiet voice was powerful enough to stop Lord Clifford from rushing out. Had I been here on my own, I’d have already been in the wind, but I wanted to make certain Cynthia’s father returned safely home.

Lord Clifford turned back ungraciously. “What is it, now?”

“I’d like you accompany me to Scotland Yard, your lordship. To have a chat with my inspector and get your statement written out all proper.”

“I will not,” Lord Clifford stated in a haughty tone. “I told you, Sergeant, I am quite busy. Good day to you.”

Any other police detective might be intimidated by angering an aristo, but Sergeant Scott was obviously not easily daunted.

“Constables,” he barked. Two uniformed constables appeared, one from inside the office and another from the door behind me. “Lord Clifford, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Mr. Hiram Mobley. As you are a peer, you’ll not be locked in the cells, but you’ll speak to my inspector, who’ll then determine where and when you’ll be examined.”

“The devil I will.” Lord Clifford glared at the sergeant for a moment, his back straight, then he did a foolish thing. He turned and sprinted for the outside world and freedom.

Lord Clifford barreled past me, and I scarcely avoided being slammed into a wall. He tried to charge past the constable in his way, but that constable was a beefy young man, who spread his arms to form an unmoving barrier.

Lord Clifford’s fists came up, as though he planned to punch his way out. Perhaps such tactics had worked when he’d been a young man, fleecing others up and down the streets of London. He was middle-aged now and likely not as fit as he had been.

The muscular constable caught the blow Lord Clifford threw at him and pushed the earl backward.

“None of that, your lordship,” Sergeant Scott said quietly. The second constable locked a cuff around Lord Clifford’s wrist and the two young men hauled Lord Clifford out.

I stepped bravely in front of the sergeant, swallowing when he turned his sharp gaze on me. “Please, do not do this,” I said shakily. “There is no need. Lord Clifford is distraught, but he’s done nothing.”

Sergeant Scott regarded me without benevolence. “Take yourself out of the way, missus, if you don’t want to be nicked alongside him.”

As worried about Lord Clifford as I was, I did as Sergeant Scott bade me. I reasoned, through the panic that started to grip me, that it would do no good for me to get myself banged up.

I’d seen the inside of a prison before, and I never wanted to see it again. If the sergeant arrested me, I’d be thrown into a dank cell while Lord Clifford was served tea in a detective inspector’s office. I was nobody important.

“He is an earl,” I tried.

“As I said, my inspector will sort it out.” The sergeant set a low-crowned hat on his head. “Out you go.”

He clearly did not know who I was or why I’d come with Lord Clifford, but he wasn’t interested enough to discover anything more. He herded me out ahead of him into wind that had turned cold, then locked the front door firmly with an iron key.

I could only watch as Lord Clifford was bundled into a plain black carriage by the two constables, he struggling and protesting all the way. Sergeant Scott climbed in behind him and his men without a word, slamming the door. The driver gave a command to the horse and the carriage surged into traffic, leaving me alone.

I frantically scanned the street, as though Daniel would pop up out of nowhere and assist—to be fair, he sometimes did—but I saw nothing of him.

My panic, which memories of Newgate had engendered, faded. I made certain the carriage was long out of sight before I turned and headed back into the office that had once housed Mr. Mobley.

When I emerged from the offices again, I saw, to my amazement, that the cabbie had waited for me. Not out of concern or politeness, I understood. He didn’t want to be out his fare, which now I’d be expected to pay.

“Regent Street, please,” I said as I climbed inside.

This time, the man let me be seated before he charged away down the Strand.

I’d found nothing of interest in Mobley’s office. Though the sergeant had locked the door—I assume Scotland Yard had taken charge of the keys when they’d carried away Mobley’s dead body—I knew how to not let a lock stop me. A few hairpins sacrificed, and I was in.

The police must have removed anything suspicious, because I found mostly empty drawers. No ledgers, no stacks of cash or bags of coins, no strongboxes. No convenient letters from clients threatening to kill Mr. Mobley if they weren’t given more time to pay back their loan, outlining the exact day and time they’d do it.

Nothing to point to anyone, including Lord Clifford, that I could see. Sergeant Scott must be a thorough young man.

I had not heard of Sergeant Scott, so I had no idea who his inspector was—not McGregor, whose subordinates I’d met. I would have to find out more about him.

At Regent Street, I paid the cabbie more shillings than I truly wanted to part with but also gave him my thanks for staying with me. He drove away with a brief nod and didn’t look back.

I entered the tall house that was my destination, hefted my basket, and made my way upstairs to a higher floor. I did not see the landlady on my way, so I could not inquire whether the gentleman I sought was at home. He might or might not be at the Polytechnic, where he’d become ardently absorbed in his work, but I had to try. If he wasn’t here, I’d make my way to Cavendish Square and hope to be admitted to his office.

I tapped on the door at the top of the long flight and was rewarded with a thin voice saying, “Enter.”

A slender young man with very dark hair and a pair of spectacles hunched over a desk against a wall, absorbed in the three books and several sheets of paper spread before him. He did not look up when I walked inside and closed the door, as though he’d forgotten anyone had knocked.

“Mr. Thanos?” I ventured.

His head jerked up. Mr. Thanos swung around in his chair, blinked a moment, and then hurtled to his feet.

“Mrs. Holloway.” He bounded across the carpet to me, beaming a wide smile. “What a delight. Sit down, sit down. I’ll have my landlady bring us up some tea and as many cakes as you wish.”

When Mr. Thanos expressed delight to see a person, he meant it. Any other man might simply attempt politeness, hiding his annoyance that I’d interrupted him, but Mr. Thanos was quite sincere.

“No need.” I held up my hands to keep him from rushing out to the staircase and calling for the tea. “I must leave at once. I have come to ask if you could find Daniel—Mr. McAdam—for me.”

Mr. Thanos’s dark eyes widened behind the thick glass of his spectacles. “What makes you believe I can find McAdam any quicker than you can? The man is as elusive as a ghost. And ghosts do not exist, as you know.”

I shook my head. “What I mean is, I need help finding him. I would rush about London seeking him myself, but it is not my day out, and I cannot stay away from home much longer.”

As my desperation reached him. Mr. Thanos softened with sympathy. “Of course, my dear Mrs. Holloway, I will be most happy to assist. You seem unhappy. Is something amiss?” His concern, like his joy at my visit, was true.

“Cynthia’s father has been arrested.” Before Mr. Thanos could splutter questions, I rushed on. “I need Daniel to find out what is happening and make certain Lord Clifford is released. At once. He no more killed the moneylender in the Strand than I did.”

“Good heavens.” Mr. Thanos stared. “Are you speaking of that murder? It was in the newspapers. Why the devil should anyone believe Lord Clifford had anything to do with it? He’s a congenial chap. I’ve had fine chats with him.”

“You read the newspapers?” I asked. This was the most astonishing statement in Mr. Thanos’s last speech. He rarely lifted his nose from thick tomes on calculus, electromagnetism, and other mysterious topics.

“My landlady peruses them all.” Mr. Thanos waved fingers stained with ink. “She especially loves sordid crimes—as long as they happen far from her. She told me of it. But why?—?”

“I will explain everything in time, Mr. Thanos,” I assured him. “I must hurry off. Please, if you find Daniel, send him to Scotland Yard at once. Or send word if you are unsuccessful. I have other means of prying him out if necessary.”

“Of course, of course. I will go immediately.” Mr. Thanos snatched a coat from the stand beside the door and began to put it on wrong-side out.

I slid it from him, turned the sleeves the right way around, and helped settle it on his shoulders. He thanked me profusely, grabbed his hat, and opened the door for me, ushering me out ahead of him.

We went down the stairs together. Mr. Thanos offered to find—and pay for—a hansom to take me home, but I declined. It wasn’t far, and I’d run to Mount Street faster than a horse and cab could wind through the heavy traffic.

I thanked him, letting Mr. Thanos wring my hand. He’d come out without gloves but still wearing his spectacles, which he disliked being seen in. Before I could mention either, he spun from me and dashed up the street, waving at hansoms who rushed past him.

I turned my steps for Mount Street. I was right that I could reach the house quickly, and soon I was clattering down its outside stairs to the kitchen. My basket was still empty of comestibles, but that couldn’t be helped.

Tess looked up from where she chopped onions, her eyes streaming from their pungent emissions.

“Oh, Mrs. H., I’m that glad you’re home. Lady Cynthia’s here. She’s upstairs in her chamber, but very upset, Mrs. Redfern says. She wants to see you, and was that unhappy when Mrs. Redfern told her you were out. You’d better?—”

Before Tess could finish telling me what I needed to do, the backstairs door banged, and a harried tread sounded in the flagstone hall.

A moment later, Lady Cynthia, dressed in well-tailored trousers and man’s coat, strode with her usual vigor into the kitchen.

“ There you are, Mrs. H.,” she proclaimed. “I was about to tramp the streets searching for you. Mummy told me my errant father escaped his tethers and came to Town. We haven’t heard a blasted word from the man since. Mrs. Redfern says he arrived here , but he’s gone off again. Do you know what the devil has become of him?”