A Measure of Menace (Kat Holloway Mysteries #7.5)

Chapter 6

T ess watched me with rounded eyes that were red from the onions, Cynthia in worried impatience. I set my empty basket on the dresser and contemplated how best to answer Lady Cynthia’s question.

“Perhaps we should go into the housekeeper’s parlor,” I suggested to Cynthia.

Her annoyed concern turned to alarm. “Please tell me now, Mrs. Holloway. What has happened? Is my father dead?”

“What?” I started. “No, indeed, he was alive and well when last I saw him.”

Cynthia exhaled in relief, but her urgency didn’t ebb. “ Tell me, Mrs. H. I don’t mind if Tess hears. She already knows much about my benighted family.”

I glanced to see who else was nearby. The footmen not upstairs under Mr. Davis’s thumb were being loud and merry in the servants’ hall. Elsie washed up in the scullery, singing at the top of her voice. The boot boy, Charlie, should be upstairs in his bunk, taking a nap or studying his reading. I gave him very light duties when the family was not in residence.

When I was satisfied I wouldn’t be overheard, I leaned to Cynthia. “Lord Clifford has been arrested. I am so sorry. I could not stop it.”

Cynthia groaned and dramatically slapped her forehead. “What has he done this time? Break it to me gently. Who has he bamboozled? The Prime Minister? A royal prince?”

“I am afraid the police believe he committed murder.”

Cynthia’s hand came down, and she stared at me in amazement. Her eyes were very light blue, a different color from but the same shape as her father’s.

“Murder? Papa? Absolute rot. The man can’t bear to squash a bug.” Cynthia gazed at me as though willing me to tell her it had all been a mistake. I was certain it had been, but I had no answers. “Where is he? Bow Street?”

“I believe he was taken straight to the Yard,” I said. “I am trying to find out what will happen to him.”

Cynthia grew suddenly solicitous. “My dear, Mrs. H., I have no doubt you did everything you could. My father in trouble is a common thing, I’m sorry to say, though it’s not usually this bad. I’ll go to Scotland Yard at once and speak to that inspector fellow—McGregor. He doesn’t like me, but he’s a reasonable chap.”

“It might not be that simple. It is not his case.” I explained about Sergeant Scott and how he’d indicated he’d have Lord Clifford speak to his inspector, though not that inspector’s name. “McGregor might be able to do nothing.”

“Doesn’t hurt to try. I’m off then. Come with me, Mrs. H.?”

I hesitated. “I have Mr. Thanos looking for Daniel, and I will bid James to as well if I can find him. Daniel will be able to secure Lord Clifford’s release, I’m certain of it.”

“McAdam can work wonders,” Cynthia agreed. “But I’m not the sort who’s willing to sit and wait.”

Neither was I, but I was much more restricted than Cynthia, a fact she did not always remember.

“Go on, Mrs. H.,” Tess urged. “It’s only the staff to get meals for, and I can do that. They know I won’t take none of their lip if they don’t like what I cook.”

I preferred them to enjoy their meals, but I was grateful for Tess’s help. “Mr. Davis will be most annoyed,” I said, prevaricating.

“We’ll make it up to him,” Tess assured me. “You need to go spring his lordship.”

“Thank you, Tess. I’ll make it up to you as well.” I observed Cynthia’s attire. “Perhaps you should change into something more conventional,” I said as tactfully as I could.

Cynthia gazed down at herself. “You mean they might arrest me if I go barging into Scotland Yard in my frock coat and trousers? Ah, well, you are likely right. I’ll rush upstairs and change into a frock so I can bat my eyelashes and all that rot. Pretend to be a shrinking female distraught about her papa.” She hesitated, worry entering her voice again. “They can’t truly believe my father had anything to do with a murder, can they?”

I nodded with reluctance. “Lord Clifford was heard arguing with the man, and he’s being very vague on what exactly happened.”

Cynthia heaved a long sigh. “Dear Papa is not the wisest of persons when it comes to the law. He learned in his early days that the less one says to the police, the better. Be back in a tick.”

She rushed out with her usual verve, and soon we heard her ascending the stairs.

“How awful,” Tess said as she resumed her onion chopping. “Want me to ask Caleb to have a listen and find out what’s happening?”

“No,” I said quickly. “I do not want to land the lad in more trouble.”

“He’s learned to be marvelously discreet. Besides, last time his prying did help Inspector McGregor catch a killer.”

“Be that as it may, I would like Constable Greene to remain employed.” I put away my empty basket and tried to gather ingredients for supper but only wandered ineffectually from dresser to table. “He likes being a policeman.”

“He does that. Wants to make sergeant someday. And become a detective. Then I can help him on his cases.” Tess brightened as she wove dreams of her future.

“I will see what I can find out with Lady Cynthia. If Daniel turns up here, please tell him where I’ve gone. We will hold Caleb in reserve.”

“Right you are.”

Tess’s knife clacked happily against the board. I knew that if Caleb walked past on his beat, Tess would tell him everything, but that couldn’t be helped. Constable Greene was turning out to be a wise lad, though too kindhearted for the police, in my opinion.

I gave up trying focus on cooking and shrugged on my coat again when I heard Cynthia return.

She’d donned a light gray walking gown trimmed with dark violet piping, topping that with a matching jacket and a hat with drooping feathers.

In such an ensemble, she ought to be leaving by the front door to step into her carriage. Instead, she swept out through the scullery, making Elsie jump. Water nearly splashed Cynthia’s fine skirts, missing them by a fraction of an inch.

I made a reassuring gesture at the startled Elsie and followed Cynthia up the stairs, struggling to keep up with her brisk pace.

We found a hansom in Berkeley Square. While Lord Clifford had indicated he’d brought his carriage and coachman to London, they were not in Mount Street, and I had no idea where he’d put them up. The Bywaters had given their own coachman a holiday—why pay the man to idle in his rooms above the stables while they were gone? Lesser paid grooms could take care of the horses.

Cynthia directed the driver to Scotland Yard. As we rode, I explained the whole affair to Cynthia—her father’s involvement with Mr. Jacoby and Mr. Dougherty, what he’d borrowed from Mr. Mobley, and why. I’d not wished to distress her with the tale, but now I could not justify keeping it from her. Cynthia listened in dismay but not much surprise.

The roads were clogged with traffic, and after a considerable time, we descended in the narrow lane that opened just south of Charing Cross and entered the building that housed the Metropolitan Police.

I had been in this noisy hallway with its counter, desks, and milling constables too many times—once, I’d needed to access the morgue and discover whether Daniel had been killed. I tried to forget that awful day as we walked inside.

A woman huddled on a bench in a corner, keeping her two children close. I wondered if she’d come to find out what had happened to a husband, son, sister, mother, or to report a crime that had devastated her. I sent her my compassion.

Cynthia stepped up to the counter and rapped upon it. “I am here to see whatever inspector arrested the Earl of Clifford,” she announced.

The sergeant in charge gazed at Cynthia sharply and without respect, I am sad to relate. I’d encountered this man before and knew he hadn’t much use for women, even aristocratic ones.

“Sergeant Scott brought him in,” I supplied. “There has been a misunderstanding.”

The desk sergeant recognized me, but his sneer didn’t lessen. “You ladies need to go home and wait for word. You can’t be swanning in demanding to speak to inspectors.”

Lady Cynthia became her most imperious self. “Now, see here?—”

“It’s all right, sergeant.” Daniel’s welcome rumble floated over us. “I’ll take them up.”

“McAdam,” the sergeant growled as Daniel stepped off the stairs and approached. He obviously didn’t like Daniel interrupting his remonstrations to forward women.

Daniel gestured for us to follow. “I agree with him in one respect,” he said in a low voice as we joined him. “This is no place for you, Lady Cynthia. Or you, Kat.”

“Nonsense,” Cynthia scoffed. “My father never killed anyone. I’m here to take him home.”

Daniel had long ago learned the futility of arguing with either of us. He led us up the stairs to the second floor without further word.

We trudged down a series of corridors in the long building to a thick wooden door set in the middle of one of the halls. Daniel tapped on it, and it was opened, to my surprise, by Mr. Thanos.

“Lady Cynthia,” he exclaimed. Mr. Thanos’s eyes, now free of spectacles, fixed on her. I doubt he even noticed me standing behind her.

“Thanos found me and told me your tale,” Daniel said. “Lord Clifford is speaking to Chief Inspector Ferguson at the moment.”

Daniel tried to usher Cynthia and me into a busy outer office. Mr. Thanos, who’d remained standing in the doorway gazing at Cynthia, flushed and stepped back for us.

Sergeant Scott looked up in cold disdain from behind a desk but did not greet us. The other desks were taken up with various constables and clerks who busily sorted through papers, made notes in books, or carried sheafs to and fro. One young man in plain clothes was struggling to type on a typing machine with his two forefingers, one letter at a time.

The far wall held another door, closed, with the label Chief Inspector Ferguson painted on it.

“I offered to be a character witness for Lord Clifford,” Daniel said. “I must inform you, Lady Cynthia, that your father is being too evasive about where he was the night Mobley was killed.”

“Bloody hell,” Cynthia stated loudly. Several of the constables glanced up in surprise at her language, but a few of them grinned at her. “Let me in there. I will make him tell me.”

“Perhaps that might not be the wisest course,” I suggested. If Lord Clifford was hiding his whereabouts, he might have been doing something else that could have him arrested.

“He is my father, Mrs. H., but he is a fool, and I need to extricate him from his follies. Take me in, McAdam.”

Daniel, resigned, knocked softly on the inspector’s door. A barked “Enter” had him opening it.

I caught a brief glimpse of Lord Clifford, his cravat awry, shoulders hunched as he sat on one side of a desk. On the other was a slender man with graying hair and a long nose, presumably Chief Inspector Ferguson. He had dark blue eyes that pinned us with a hard stare.

“Lord Clifford’s daughter has arrived, sir,” Daniel said deferentially.

Ferguson switched the stare to Cynthia alone, silently dismissing Mr. Thanos and me. Lord Clifford, who’d drawn a sharp breath when he’d seen Cynthia, shrank farther into his chair.

Ferguson nodded at Daniel, who gestured Cynthia in, but when Mr. Thanos and I tried to follow, Daniel stopped us. “Please wait,” he said, sotto voce. “I’m sorry, Kat.”

He closed the door, shutting the pair of us out.

“Well,” Mr. Thanos huffed. “There’s gratitude. After I raced all the way to Southampton Street in pursuit of him.” He made a thin laugh, as though he joked, but I could see he was put out.

“Did you find him in Southampton Street?” Daniel had several hideaways around London. He flitted about the metropolis either in his job as deliveryman or investigating whatever he was sent to.

“No, I caught sight of McAdam striding along the Strand,” Mr. Thanos explained. “I leapt out of the hansom, much to the cabbie’s annoyance, and nearly tackled him. Once I told him of Lord Clifford’s arrest, McAdam commandeered my cab, and we came here.”

“I am pleased you did.”

Mr. Thanos glowed under my praise, while I chafed to know what was being said inside the room. Short of bursting in, I would be in the dark until Daniel or Lady Cynthia could confer with me afterward.

A voice at my elbow made me jump. “What is McAdam’s interest in this case?” Sergeant Scott had approached so quietly that neither of us had heard him. “Who exactly are you ?” Scott demanded of me.

Mr. Thanos answered indignantly before I could speak. “She is Mrs. Holloway. Quite a respectable woman and also a jolly fine cook.”

“A cook?” Scott gazed at me up and down as he would some sort of strange insect. “Lord Clifford’s cook?”

“No, no, Lady Cynthia’s,” Mr. Thanos again answered for me. “Her family’s that is. Lord Clifford is merely visiting.”

“Why is the family cook being a minder to Lord Clifford?” Scott demanded, eyes still on me. “Why aren’t you home fixing his steak and kidney pud?”

I drew myself up. “I do not like your tone, Sergeant.” Cooks were among the senior staff of households, and I did not believe myself to be lower in status than a police sergeant. Also, I was a child of backstreet London. While we’d had proper fear of the police—who could arrest us for any imagined transgression—we’d also learned never to let on that they intimidated us. “Lord Clifford did have dealings with Mr. Mobley, but if there is no evidence he was near the man on the night in question, I believe you must let him go.”

The sergeant definitely did not like a cook telling him how to do his job any more than I wanted him telling me mine. I sympathized with Sergeant Scott, as catching an elusive murderer when he had little to go on must be frustrating. Also, his inspector had shut him out of that room as neatly as he had us.

“Now you are his lordship’s solicitor?” Scott asked me. “What was he doing at Mobley’s establishment?”

“Looking for clues as to who killed Mr. Mobley,” I said. “How exactly was he killed?”

“That is the police’s business,” Scott answered in irritation.

“It is also Lord Clifford’s business,” Mr. Thanos broke in. “As he has been accused of the crime.”

“Lord Clifford’s, yes.” Scott acknowledged this with a hard nod. “Not yours.”

While I longed for all the details, I understood his point. If he told us every aspect of the crime, we, as loyal friends to Lord Clifford, could concoct him an alibi.

Scott gestured toward the outer door. “Best you wait in the corridor. The inspector will not keep her ladyship long.”

“And hopefully he will not keep his lordship, either,” I said.

Scott had had enough of us. “Mrs. Holloway.” He pointed to the door. “Mr.— er …”

“Thanos,” Mr. Thanos supplied cheerfully. “We will depart, do not worry. But if Lady Cynthia and Lord Clifford are here longer than they should be we will return with solicitors. Good afternoon.”

Mr. Thanos offered me his arm and escorted me to the door. I noted the constables taking surreptitious glances at us as we passed. It was unlikely they’d ever witnessed ordinary folk twitting their severe sergeant.

Mr. Thanos and I exited into the hall. There were no seats about, as this was a thoroughfare and not a lounge, but I hovered, not minding standing. Or in my case, pacing.

The plainclothes constable who’d been painstakingly typing slipped out a few minutes after our departure and quickly closed the door behind him. “Sir? Madam?”

Voice quiet, he indicated that we should follow him along the corridor to another small office. This one was dim, lit only by one narrow window. It was apparently unused, if the mismatched and much-scarred desks pushed against the walls were any indication. Storage for superfluous items, I guessed.

“I am Detective Constable Wallace,” the young man addressed us. He had a freckled face and dark red hair, his eyes a deep brown. “I am working on the Mobley case, though my sergeant likes me to keep out of the way. But I am very certain the murderer was not the Earl of Clifford.” He paused, glancing behind him as though fearing one of Sergeant Scott’s toadies would follow to report on him. “If I have his lordship released, would he be willing to tell me all he knows?”