A Measure of Menace (Kat Holloway Mysteries #7.5)

Chapter 8

C onstable Wallace scribbled a few notes in his book, as though unbothered by Lord Clifford’s dramatic proclamation.

“As I am only interested in arresting whoever killed Mr. Mobley, then I agree,” Wallace said once he finished writing. “Anything else you are involved in has no bearing on this case.”

“I am hardly involved in anything.” Lord Clifford huffed. “How can I be? Because of Mobley, I am now a pauper.”

“Get on with it, Papa,” Cynthia said with glance heavenward. “Where did you go after you settled yourself at your club?”

If Lord Clifford were any other gentleman, one might believe he was trying to hide a liaison with a lady. But Lord Clifford was fiercely devoted to his wife, as I’d observed on more than one occasion. It was not a dalliance that made Lord Clifford falter.

“I had a meeting with friends, Mr. Jacoby and Mr. Dougherty, at a restaurant,” Lord Clifford explained with every sign of reluctance. “At Wiltons, if you must know. They have very good oysters. We dined and spoke about … personal matters.”

The personal matters must have been the ruse Jacoby and Lord Clifford had tried to play on Mr. Dougherty. I pictured Mr. Dougherty accepting what the two men paid him, tucking it away, and enjoying the rest of his dinner. The pained expression on Lord Clifford’s face told me this was what had happened.

“And what time did this take place?” Constable Wallace asked, continuing to write.

“What does that matter?” Lord Clifford spluttered, but under Cynthia’s narrow gaze he rushed on, contrite. “We met at nine o’clock. Mr. Dougherty took his leave from us at about half past ten. Jacoby and I then went to a public house, where we drank insubstantial ale until about midnight. Jacoby went off home, and I returned to the club. I will instruct the doorman to confirm that I shuffled in shortly after that hour, inebriated, tired, and needing my bed.”

“I would be grateful if he would corroborate,” Wallace said as his pencil scratched. “Now then. We come to Sunday. Take me through that day, your lordship.”

Lord Clifford turned his brandy glass on the table. “Sunday …”

“The day the man was killed, Papa,” Cynthia said. “I’m certain you remember.”

Lord Clifford shot his daughter a baleful glare. “Of course I remember. I am not feeble. I woke late, breakfasted at the club. I had a meeting with my man of business.” His expression turned sour. “The fellow was entirely unsympathetic. He works for the Clifford estate, he has told me on numerous occasions, not me personally. He’s a stiff-necked, pompous wretch and was no help at all.”

Lord Clifford must have tried to pry the fifteen thousand he owed Mobley out of the trust or whatever financial vehicle the earls of Clifford’s money and property was contained in. The man of business had been wise enough not to simply hand it over to Lord Clifford. Perhaps there was simply nothing the man of business could possibly liquidate to cover the debt.

“He may not have been able to help,” Mr. Thanos said, confirming my deductions. “Trusts and entails are complicated things.”

“So the man explained, again and again,” Lord Clifford said morosely. “I wandered about a good bit after that. Sought advice from a few friends in Town, but they were no help either.”

I interpreted this statement to mean Lord Clifford had tried to touch these friends for the funds and had come away empty-handed.

“Finally, I visited Mobley,” Lord Clifford continued. “I’d sent a message to him that morning, and he returned word to meet him in his office in the Strand. I had to tell him I couldn’t pay what I owed. Not when it was due, anyway. I promised he’d have the money if he’d give me a few more weeks, but Mobley sneered at me.” Lord Clifford lifted his brandy and took a long drink. “He told me I had to have the money to him by Wednesday—today, in fact, no later. I explained that it would make no difference—I didn’t have the bloody cash. Oh, beg pardon for my language, Cyn, Mrs. Holloway.”

Cynthia and I both nodded, unoffended.

“You quarreled with him,” Constable Wallace prompted.

“I did.” Lord Clifford set down his glass with a thump. “I told him he’d never see the money at all if he did not give me more time, and then he threatened me, the damned upstart.” He sobered abruptly. “He threatened my wife and daughter. Horrified me. I’d never heard the like.”

He sent a glance to Cynthia then bowed his head, revealing threads of graying brown hair that straggled across the top of his balding scalp.

The anguish I’d seen in his eyes before he’d shielded his gaze touched my heart. Lord Clifford had been genuinely concerned for Lady Clifford and Cynthia, his only surviving child. Mobley’s threat must have stirred his greatest fears.

“These sorts of fellows like to resort to intimidation,” Constable Wallace observed as he noted this all down.

Cynthia laid a hand on her father’s arm. “Poor Papa. Mama and I are made of stern stuff, you know. And we’re surrounded by people who would defend us.”

Daniel and I exchanged a look. We both knew that men like Mobley and his ruffians would make certain the threats were carried out. They’d wait until Lady Clifford or Cynthia were unguarded, even if it took weeks or months. Cynthia, in particular, ran about a bit recklessly in Town with Lady Roberta and other friends. While a few of these young ladies might be good in a scrap, they’d be no match for the professional bone-breakers Mobley employed.

“How did you leave Mr. Mobley?” Wallace asked.

“Alive, if that is what you mean,” Lord Clifford snapped. “I told him I didn’t care for his tone and that he harmed my family at his peril. Mobley continued to spit invective at me, so I snarled some back and stormed out. I feared his men would detain me, and perhaps quiet me with their fists, but they stood aside and let me go.” Lord Clifford let out a breath and wiped his forehead. “An encounter I would not care to repeat. But Mobley was standing upright, breathing, and calling me foul names when I walked out his door.”

“Did you return any time after that?” Constable Wallace asked calmly.

“No.” Lord Clifford’s answer was resolute. “I never wanted to see the fellow again. I went to a tavern and ordered a brandy. I am not certain how long I stayed there—I rather lost track of time—but when I emerged, it was dark.” He drained his goblet and regarded it mournfully. Daniel, without a word, fetched the decanter Mr. Davis had left and refilled the glass.

“Where did you go once you left the tavern?” Wallace continued.

Lord Clifford accepted the refilled glass from Daniel and took a quaff. He ran his tongue over his lips as he set down the goblet.

“I decided to visit Dougherty,” he said, his voice a near whisper.

“Mr. Dougherty?” I asked before I could stop myself. “Why did you do that?”

From what I understood of confidence games, once the person one intended to dupe had walked away, one let them go. To persist would arouse too much suspicion.

“Because I knew he had blunt, lots of it. Perhaps he would loan me enough to keep Mobley from me. Dougherty is a respectable chap, hardly likely to endanger my female relations to make me return his money.”

“And did he loan it to you?” Wallace asked.

“No, because I never saw the man.” Lord Clifford took another long swallow of brandy. “Dougherty was not at home, according to the obsequious chap who answered the door. I will wager Dougherty was lurking upstairs somewhere, commanding his man to shut me out. After that, I walked a good bit—not certain where—and then saw a hansom. I climbed in and had the driver return me to my club. I at least had the coins to pay for that .” He sat back, red-faced and unhappy.

“And then?” Wallace said.

“Then, nothing. I went to bed. Slept like the dead. Suffered the embarrassment of the police calling on me in the morning. Seems I’d been overheard arguing with Mobley, and so of course, I must have coshed him.”

“Where does Mr. Dougherty live?” Wallace asked.

Lord Clifford stared at him. “What has that to do with anything?”

“Just making an account of your movements, your lordship. For my records.”

“It’s poking about in a man’s private business, is what it is,” Lord Clifford growled.

“I live in Pimlico,” Wallace said in a friendly tone. “I don’t mind who knows it. What difference can it make to tell me where Mr. Dougherty resides?”

Lord Clifford waved a hand. “Oh, I suppose it is no matter. A house in Upper Holland Street. I forget the exact address. In Kensington.”

“Upper Holland Street, Kensington,” Wallace dutifully wrote. “A fair walk from the Strand.”

“I was agitated. After all the brandy at the tavern, I was also a bit drunk. I took a hansom to Dougherty’s, because I knew I’d never find the place on my own. Had no idea where I was when I left his street. I am not familiar with that part of London.”

“Then you took another hansom back to your club and remained there for the rest of the night.” Wallace finished writing and punctuated the last sentence with a stab of his pencil.

“Yes, I told you.”

“I’m trying to make everything clear, your lordship,” Wallace said in a soothing tone. “All this will be verified, of course, but I wanted to hear it in your own words.”

“Verified,” Lord Clifford muttered. “A man’s word isn’t good enough, I suppose.”

“This is a case of murder, your lordship.” Wallace closed his notebook with a snap. “We must do everything correctly, so the wrong person isn’t landed in the dock.”

“My father is the wrong person, I assure you,” Cynthia said. “He’d have made a muck of things if he’d tried to murder someone, leaving no doubt that he’d done it. As it is, he stumbled around London ineffectually and went to bed.”

“Thank you very much, Cynthia,” Lord Clifford said tartly. “Children are supposed to be a prop and a comfort in a man’s old age.”

“You have plenty of years left in you, Papa.” Cynthia patted his arm. She kept her words light, but I saw the relief in her eyes. She hadn’t been entirely certain of her father’s innocence until hearing his story.

“Not if the police keep questioning me,” Lord Clifford returned. “I have aged a decade in the last few days.”

“Nonsense, you look fit to me,” Cynthia said. “Is that all, Constable? My father should rest.”

“Of course.” Constable Wallace came politely to his feet as Cynthia tugged Lord Clifford up with her. Mr. Thanos, Daniel, and I quickly joined them.

Cynthia bade us a cordial good night, though Lord Clifford only nodded absently. I did see as he passed me that Lord Clifford was indeed exhausted. His face was lined, his eyes red-rimmed.

He was a man beaten. While his current predicament was his own fault, I felt great compassion for Cynthia’s father.

Mr. Thanos followed them out, but Constable Wallace stopped me before I could depart.

“What time did his lordship arrive here, Mrs. Holloway? The police interviewed him at his club much of the day on Monday, and he stayed there that night. The next afternoon, he took his bag and climbed into a cab, but his whereabouts after that were unknown.”

Sergeant Scott had had the earl followed, Wallace meant, but his men had lost sight of him.

“About five o’clock that evening,” I said coolly. “Lord Clifford is welcome in the house anytime.”

“If that is so, why did he not come here upon his arrival?” Wallace asked. “Why stay at his club?”

So he could help Mr. Jacoby fleece a man without anyone in this household being the wiser, I was certain, but I could not say this to the constable.

“The family is away, and he likely believed the house was shut up,” I offered. “I’m sure that once Lord Clifford realized the staff was still here, he decided to change his lodgings for a more comfortable bed and my meals.”

Wallace wrote down my words. “Any idea why he’d taken a loan from a moneylender like Mobley?” He included Daniel in the question. “A man would have to be desperate to seek out Mobley, who had a rotten reputation. Even other moneylenders didn’t like him.”

“He must have had good reason,” I said. “Lord Clifford might be an earl, but as he indicated, the estate does not have much ready money. He could have wanted to make improvements to the property, or to fix houses of his tenants. Being a landlord is quite expensive.”

Daniel kept his expression neutral as I rattled out this explanation. It didn’t satisfy Wallace, I saw from his expression, but he made a few more notes and closed his book, sliding it and the pencil into his pocket.

Wallace thanked us before he took his leave. I admired him for being so polite—many policemen were unctuous to those of the higher classes and uncommonly rude to people like Daniel and me. Wallace was even-handed, neither overly sycophantic nor overly discourteous.

Mr. Davis appeared as soon as we exited the dining room to usher Wallace to the front door. He was still disapproving—a constable should come and go below stairs, but it seemed silly to drag him all the way down and out through the kitchen when the front door was steps away.

Mr. Davis glowered at Daniel, as though wondering if Daniel would be impertinent enough to use the front entrance. When I led Daniel toward the backstairs instead, Mr. Davis stalked into the dining room, signaling the footman in the vestibule to join him.

Mr. Thanos was nowhere in sight. I assumed he’d gone to assist Cynthia with Lord Clifford. Mr. Davis would see him out when he descended.

Daniel and I made our way to the kitchen, where Tess was cleaning up from supper. We could not discuss much while the staff was about, and Daniel departed, saying he had things errands to do. After a whispered promise that he’d return later, he went out into the night.

That left me at the kitchen table making my own notes about what Lord Clifford had told us, before I helped Tess with the final cleaning of the day.

By the time Daniel returned to the darkened and quiet house, I’d made lists in my notebook, divided by solid lines, of where each person involved in this case had been at the time in question—as far as I knew—and why they’d possibly murdered Mr. Mobley.

There were several names, and I could not decide which was the culprit.

“Tomorrow is my day out,” I told Daniel as I brought some leftover hash to serve him. I’d held back plenty of gravy as well, which I poured over the plate after he sat down.

“Thursday,” Daniel said as he inhaled a mouthful. “I know.”

“I wish to spend it with Grace,” I said.

Daniel quirked a brow at me. “Again, I know.”

“I also believe you or I should speak to Mr. Jacoby, Mr. Dougherty, Mobley’s partner if he is back in London, and also any gentlemen who share Lord Clifford’s club. Members, I mean, not the staff. Can you arrange it?”