A Measure of Menace (Kat Holloway Mysteries #7.5)

Chapter 7

W hile I debated how to answer Constable Wallace, Mr. Thanos spoke. “Only if you guarantee Lord Clifford can come home with us.”

I was grateful to Mr. Thanos for grasping the essentials. “He might speak to you,” I put in, trying to decide whether the young man was trustworthy. Constable Wallace seemed it, with his quiet confidence and steady gaze. He’d welcome our help, that gaze said, but he’d continue on his own course of action with or without it.

“I will arrange things,” Wallace said. “The chief inspector can only recommend that Lord Clifford remains in London, preferably at home, until a hearing, and that is only if the inspector believes him guilty. Leave it with me.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Thanos said fervently. “You are a good man.”

That remained to be seen. Wallace was ambitious, I saw, perhaps wishing to solve this case before the sergeant and catch the attention of Chief Inspector Ferguson. But if Wallace succeeded in having Lord Clifford released and proved he killed no one, I would not quibble about who the constable displaced as he moved up the ranks. If Sergeant Scott was competent, he’d deal with the lad or else learn to use his talents.

“Out of curiosity, who do you believe killed Mr. Mobley?” I asked Wallace.

The constable fixed me with cool assessment worthy of Inspector McGregor, then shrugged.

“His partner, most like. Man called Parkin. With Mobley gone, he takes over the business and any moneys Mobley might have had locked away. Placing Parkin at the scene is proving difficult, though. I’d like to hear what Lord Clifford has to say about his last visit to Mobley, and what else he observed, if anything.”

My indignation rose. “If Mobley had a partner who inherited everything, why is Sergeant Scott not interrogating him ? A much more likely candidate to be a murderer than poor Lord Clifford.”

“The sergeant and the chief inspector have their eyes on him,” Wallace assured me. “Sergeant Scott is thorough, if slow and careful. Me, I’d rather have Parkin sitting before me, and not let him out of the building until we are certain he did nothing. Parkin apparently is in Manchester, and was at the time of the murder, but that has yet to be determined. The police in Manchester have no reports to confirm him there.”

“I am certain Lord Clifford will be happy to speak to you,” I repeated. “Once he’s at home.” I would make sure he didn’t flee back to Hertfordshire before Constable Wallace could turn up.

Constable Wallace gave me an understanding nod. “Wait here. I’ll bring him out soon.”

He departed, leaving Mr. Thanos and me alone in the dim and somewhat dispirited room. I’d speculated, when we entered, that unwanted things were stored here. At the moment, those unwanted things were myself and Mr. Thanos.

Mr. Thanos slid out a chair that was the least battered of the discarded lot, and gallantly gestured for me to sit. I did, as my feet were tired, and who knew how long we’d be kept waiting?

It was about twenty minutes, in fact. We heard voices in the corridor and emerged to see Chief Inspector Ferguson himself usher Lord Clifford, Lady Cynthia, and Daniel out of the main office. Constable Wallace and Sergeant Scott were nowhere in sight.

Lord Clifford’s face was gray and haggard, but he walked with his head erect, his eyes filled with defiance. Cynthia had hold of his arm, and Daniel stuck close to his other side, as though to prevent him running off.

The chief inspector nodded at Mr. Thanos but ignored me. “As I said, please remain in Town for a few days, your lordship. Until everything is cleared up.”

“He will,” Lady Cynthia assured him in a firm voice.

“I will think on it,” Lord Clifford said loftily. “It is my business if I return to Ardeley Hall. Everyone knows where it is.”

He referred to his estate in Hertfordshire, near St. Albans. Lovely countryside, I had been told. I’d never been there myself.

“All the same,” Ferguson said wearily.

“We will stay in London a while longer,” Cynthia told the inspector. “There’s no need to worry my mother about all this, is there, Papa?”

Lord Clifford winced. “Quite,” he whispered.

Chief Inspector Ferguson gave Lord Clifford a polite bow. Lord Clifford nodded and strode away with Cynthia, his nose in the air. Rather overdoing his haughty earl act, I thought.

Daniel lingered to murmur something to Ferguson I did not catch. Then Daniel joined us, taking my arm to walk me out. Thanos bade Ferguson farewell before he fell into step beside Daniel and me.

A glance behind me showed Chief Inspector Ferguson standing by the door to his office, watching us. His expression was neutral, so I could not tell if he were angry, resigned, or satisfied that we were taking Lord Clifford away.

“How did you convince Chief Inspector Ferguson to let Lord Clifford go?” I burst out to Daniel as soon as we were in the street. Lady Cynthia and her father moved swiftly ahead of us as we turned the corner from Great Scotland Yard and on into Charing Cross. I wasn’t certain whether Cynthia was searching for a hansom or intended to walk all the way home.

“He always meant to release him,” Daniel answered. “Sergeant Scott brought in Lord Clifford in case he’d actually committed the crime, but Ferguson is no fool. He’ll check Lord Clifford’s weak story, but I had the feeling he doesn’t think the earl had much to do with it. Or at least didn’t wield the heavy object that ended Mobley’s days. Lord Clifford is more a witness now than a suspect.”

“Thank heavens for that,” I said in relief. “Sergeant Scott is much more suspicious. He’s the sort who’d keep all the suspects under his eye until he decided which was the most guilty.”

“True. Sergeant Scott is a hard man, but like Ferguson, no fool.”

We strode onward, reaching the crowds of Trafalgar Square. Nelson’s column rose high in the square’s center, holding the admiral aloft from the ordinary rush of London. Pigeons rested comfortably on his shoulders and also flowed over the rest of the square, fluttering away as people walked through them.

Lord Clifford and Cynthia turned on Cockspur Street, heading for Pall Mall.

Mr. Thanos asked the next question. “What about the chap, Constable Wallace? He’s keen to have a go at solving the crime himself, to best his sergeant, I imagine. Wants to interview Lord Clifford himself.”

Daniel raised his brows. “Does he? Wallace is a bright young man, from what I have heard. Even Monaghan has mentioned him with grudging respect. If he’s careful, he’ll go far.”

“Should we let him near Lord Clifford?” I asked. “Sometimes ambitious policemen will coax a man to say whatever will incriminate him, whether that man is guilty or innocent.”

“I don’t know Wallace well,” Daniel admitted. “Or that entire office, in fact. Monaghan doesn’t have much dealing with them. I propose we allow the lad his interview. He might draw more from Lord Clifford than even we can, because Lord Clifford fears that anything he says to us will reach his daughter or wife. Wallace might be able to pry out the truth.”

“What is the truth?” I asked in exasperation. “I have maddeningly few details to go on.”

Daniel grinned down at me. “I will enlighten you then. Hiram Mobley was murdered in his office in the Strand on Sunday night, sometime between ten in the evening and midnight—as far as the doctor examining the body can ascertain. He was killed by a blow to the head with something wooden, heavy, and narrow, with a polished edge that left few splinters in the wound. A walking stick, perhaps. The charwoman of the building had already been and gone for the night, and she declares Mobley wasn’t there when she arrived at seven to do her nightly scrubbing. Wasn’t there when she departed at half past nine, either. His office door was locked, as usual, she claims.”

“All very convenient for the killer,” I said.

Daniel continued. “The man of business who lets the offices next door, Mr. Ogden, noticed Mobley’s door ajar when he arrived at six on Friday morning. He hurried inside, fearing burglars had been there in the night. He found Mobley’s body lying between the desks, fled, and looked for a constable. Fortunately, one happened to be passing as he ran out, who could secure the scene of the crime right away. He was one of Sergeant Scott’s and summoned him.”

I squeezed Daniel’s arm, grateful for this clearer picture. “Why do you think Mobley returned to his office on a Sunday night?” I asked. “Well after Lord Clifford’s meeting with him. Was the killer with him then, and accompanied him in? Or did he—or she—arrive for a late appointment?”

“A clandestine one,” Mr. Thanos put in as he strode beside us. “Both Mobley and the murderer must not have wanted anyone, not even the charwoman, to know they had the meeting.”

“Or did Mobley simply return to go over his books at a quiet time?” I pondered. So I liked to sit in the empty kitchen at night contemplating my recipes and putting my thoughts in order. “The killer saw a light in the office window and decided to catch him?” I pursed my lips. “Did they have an argument, and whoever it was seized the nearest object and bashed him? If the killer used a polished walking stick, that points to a gentleman or someone of means. Did Mobley have some sort of hold over this person—wanted to call in a debt, or threatened him in some other way? Perhaps the murderer went there with the express purpose of killing Mobley to alleviate the threat.”

Unfortunately, the scene I’d just painted was one in which Lord Clifford might feature prominently. Mobley could have vowed to expose his debt to the world—to his wife. Lord Clifford had already told me that Mobley had hinted that Cynthia or Lady Clifford might come to harm if Lord Clifford couldn’t pay.

“Lord Clifford is reluctant to say where he was at the time,” Daniel told me. “The chief inspector taxed him with it, but Lord Clifford is uncommonly stubborn.”

“We will have to make him tell us ,” I said. “You say the chief inspector believes Lord Clifford is probably innocent, but I don’t think Sergeant Scott does. Can Sergeant Scott have him sent to trial if Chief Inspector Ferguson doesn’t agree?”

“Possibly, if Scott can persuade enough of his superiors that Ferguson is wrong,” Daniel answered. “A difficult task, but one that can be done.”

I watched Lord Clifford and Cynthia turn north at Waterloo Place, which would quickly become Regent Street. It seemed that they would walk all the way home.

It wasn’t terribly far, but as I’d noted before, my feet were aching. His lordship and daughter would be able to have a good rest when we reached the house, but I’d have to hurry down to the kitchen and cook dinner for them.

Mr. Thanos seemed to sense my fatigue. “Shall I fetch a hansom, Mrs. Holloway? Cynthia loves a good tramp, but not all of us are as robust.”

Now I felt enfeebled and querulous. “You are kind, Mr. Thanos, but it is no trouble.”

Daniel was already whistling to an empty hansom traveling in the other direction. The driver glared at him as the cab passed but then he checked the horse, wheeled the vehicle around, and stopped it beside us.

“In you go, Kat.” Daniel took me by the elbow and more or less lifted me into the cab. “Mount Street,” he told the driver, handing him a coin. “Number 43.”

“Aren’t either of you coming—?” My question cut off as the cab jerked forward, leaving Daniel and Mr. Thanos behind. “Damn and blast.”

I cursed feelingly for a few more seconds then decided to sit back and enjoy the conveyance. Daniel and Mr. Thanos were really very solicitous. I was blessed to have such friends.

The hansom ride did give me a respite, letting me exchange coat for apron when I reached the kitchen to begin the evening meal. It would necessarily be a simple one, but as Lord Clifford had discovered yesterday, simple could be tasty.

I put together a hash of what potatoes and sausage were left from the bubble and squeak and rolled the bread dough into buns. They’d bake faster than an entire loaf, so when supper was finished, they’d be ready.

Tess had spent the afternoon chopping enough cabbage and carrots to make a nice side dish, seasoned with thyme and parsley. She’d also set the supper’s dough to rise its second time without me mentioning it. I was blessed to have her too.

Once the meal went up, I gratefully sank down and ate my own portion of it. The hash was warm and satisfying, the buns, with a smudge of creamy butter, perfection.

Daniel and Mr. Thanos obviously had gone elsewhere after they’d put me into the hansom, because neither of them turned up at the house. I’d barely noted their absence while I worked with Tess to finish the meal for the household, but now I wondered where they’d gone and why they’d not bothered to send word. My testiness returned.

At eight that evening, Mrs. Redfern entered the kitchen to state that Mr. Thanos and a friend had arrived at the invitation of Lord Clifford, and they’d brought a plainclothes policeman with them. They’d requested me to join them when I was finished with my supper.

Mrs. Redfern was a very proper housekeeper who did not approve of employers summoning staff above stairs unnecessarily, interrupting either their duties or their scarce private time. Her rigid stance told me she expected me to decline, but I very much wanted to be present when Constable Wallace questioned Lord Clifford.

I finished mixing the bread dough for the morning, set it in the coolest part of the larder to ferment overnight, removed my apron, and ascended the stairs.

The company had assembled in the dining room. Mr. Davis and a footman were pouring out goblets of brandy for the gentlemen and tea for Lady Cynthia. Mr. Davis, catching sight of me, added a cup of tea for me, which was good of him.

Mr. Davis frowned in stern disapproval at Daniel, dressed in a tidy but clearly secondhand suit, who sat diffidently at Mr. Thanos’s side.

Obviously, Daniel was the “friend” Mr. Thanos had brought with him. As he was known in this house and to Constable Wallace, Daniel hadn’t bothered to don the disguise of upper-class twit or City gent. This was his delivery-man-uncomfortable-in-his-best-clothes persona.

Mr. Davis already didn’t think much of Daniel, believing him to be a far inferior creature to either Mr. Davis or myself. Daniel being invited to the dining room, even by a welcome visitor such as Mr. Thanos, was straining the bonds of hospitality.

“That will be all, Davis,” Lord Clifford said. “Leave the brandy. We’ll serve ourselves.”

Mr. Davis regarded him stiffly, only unbending when Cynthia sent him a reassuring smile. The footman hesitated, but Mr. Davis herded him out, closing the door behind them both.

I knew the footman would not linger to listen with Mr. Davis chivvying him back downstairs, for which I was grateful. That was not to say that Mr. Davis wouldn’t return and listen himself.

“Thank you for seeing me, your lordship,” Constable Wallace stated. He wore a black woolen suit rather like Daniel’s, with a carefully tied cravat. His pomaded red hair glistened under the gaslight chandelier.

“Well, here I am.” Lord Clifford regarded Wallace ungraciously as he took a sip of brandy. The brandy, a fine one acquired from France by his son-in-law, did not soften him.

Wallace shot me a glance, probably wondering why Lord Clifford wanted his cook present, then opened a small notebook and readied his pencil.

“Now then, your lordship,” Wallace began. “Please tell me what transpired on the night of Saturday last. Take your time.”

Lord Clifford’s brows knit in puzzlement. “Surely you mean Sunday? That’s the night Mobley was killed, was it not?”

“Yes, but you arrived in London on Saturday evening.” Wallace flipped back a page or two until he found the information he sought. “Your carriage pulled up at half past six at the Rider’s Club in Jermyn Street. You dismissed your carriage and driver, who put up at a boarding house and mews near Leicester Square. You left the club at about half-past eight on foot. Where did you go?”

Lord Clifford listened in astonishment, his brandy glass dangling from his fingers. “How on earth do you know all that?”

“Prominent gentlemen such as yourself are noticed,” Wallace answered calmly. “As are a fine carriage and team. Your coachman confirmed that he drove from your estate, Ardeley Hall, to St. James’s, with orders to linger until you were ready to return to Hertfordshire. As to your movements after you left the club, you will have to tell me. No one followed you, and the doormen at your club do not like to speak to the police.”

“Thank God for that.” Lord Clifford took a gulp of brandy. “I told your inspector all about Sunday night. I don’t know why I should go over it again.”

“I am asking about Saturday, your lordship.” Wallace kept his tone patient. “My questions could possibly clear you of suspicion of murder.”

True, but would Lord Clifford’s answers put himself in the frame for something else? It was by no means certain that Constable Wallace would not arrest him for a different transgression.

“Tell him, Papa,” Cynthia said in a steely tone. “Mama need never hear of it.”

“It might be in your best interest, your lordship,” Daniel said.

Daniel’s assurance seemed to bolster Lord Clifford more than his daughter’s words. The earl glanced at me, as though seeking my encouragement. When I nodded at him, he heaved a sigh.

“Very well. But you need to give me your word that this will not lead to more police rooting around in my business. Mobley is dead, the affair is concluded, and I refuse to be ruined because of it.”