A Measure of Menace (Kat Holloway Mysteries #7.5)

Chapter 9

D aniel was nonplussed by my demands but not very surprised.

“Thanos knows a few of the club members, luckily,” he said as he resumed eating. “Mates from his university days. I remember them myself—they’re not bad chaps, if vague, and would have no idea what to do if their funds were cut off. Thanos went to visit them earlier tonight to ask casually about Lord Clifford. I have not seen him since he left here, so I don’t yet know what they told him.”

“Do his mates remember you from university?” I asked in curiosity.

Daniel’s smile turned wry. “No, but I don’t expect them to. They know me as a friend of Thanos, which in their opinion, is enough.”

Daniel had worked odd jobs at Cambridge, sneaking into lectures when he could. Thanos had noticed and offered to share his books and tutor him. Daniel had never forgotten his kindness.

I grew indignant with the other gentlemen for not noticing Daniel, and decided it was fortunate Mr. Thanos was questioning them and not me.

“As for the others,” Daniel went on, “I agree they need to be interviewed, and not by the police. You should leave them to me, though I know you’ll argue.”

“Not at all,” I said briskly. “I told you, I prefer to be with Grace. But I wish to know every last detail of what they say.”

The corners of Daniel’s eyes crinkled. “I would expect nothing less.”

As he resumed his meal with enjoyment, a strange and unexpected longing came over me. We ought to be sitting cozily in our own kitchen, a tiny one, with Grace and James asleep in their bedchambers in the house above us. Daniel and I would linger over supper and tea, and then do the washing up, because I’d never leave a kitchen untidy. After that, we’d adjourn to our own chamber, and …

My face went as hot, as though I’d thrust it too close to boiling water. Daniel, absorbed in the meal, didn’t notice, thank heavens.

I managed to school my expression by the time he looked up. I smiled at him over my teacup, which he answered with a puzzled expression.

When Daniel moved to kiss me goodnight at the back door, I kept it brief, adding to his puzzlement. I promised I’d see him in the morning, and then took myself to bed.

I lay awake much of the night, trying to decide why I’d so vividly imagined the scene with Daniel, and why it had felt so natural.

I was tinting marriage with a rosy glow, I decided as I finally drifted off. In reality, I’d be working alone in a hot kitchen with a too-small stove that didn’t draw smoke well, while Daniel stayed away for long stretches on his police work.

My life was perfectly fine as it was, I told myself. I was paid for my skills, and tomorrow I would see Grace. Thoughts of Grace at last let me relax into sleep, but regret followed me. If I lived in the cramped house with Daniel, I could be with Grace every day, instead of only during weekly visits.

But that was my lot, and I would make the best of it. I always did.

When I departed the kitchen after breakfast the next morning, clad in my nicest frock and hat, I found Daniel waiting for me at the eastern end of Mount Street. He lounged against railings of a respectable house there, resembling the layabout many thought him.

He fell into step with me as I passed and tucked my hand under his arm. I forced my thoughts away from what I’d envisioned the night before as Daniel led me onward at a brisk pace.

“You did not say much more last night,” I said as we skirted the corner of Berkley Square and made our way toward Piccadilly. “Too busy eating, I suppose.” I hadn’t wanted to discuss my wayward thoughts, so I hadn’t said much either.

“It was an excellent meal,” Daniel said. “I wanted to give it my full attention. Your sauce was superb.” He kissed his fingers to the sky.

“You evade the question with flattery.” Not that I minded. “You never told me what you thought of Lord Clifford’s story.”

Daniel shrugged. “Plausible, all the way around. I would like to know exactly where he was wandering between the Strand, the tavern, and Kensington, and what he hoped to gain speaking to Dougherty, apart from money, I mean, if anything. I have already asked my friend Lewis to find what cabs took him to and fro and exactly from where to where.”

Daniel knew almost everyone on London’s streets, friend or foe, including a cabby called Lewis, who seemingly did whatever Daniel asked of him.

We had to press ourselves close together when we reached Regent’s Circus, which teemed with traffic, curtailing conversation. We turned down the even busier thoroughfare of Haymarket, to Cockspur Street, passed through Trafalgar Square, and emerged into the Strand.

Not until we drew close to Mobley’s place of business did Daniel speak again. “Parkin, Mobley’s partner, returned to London late last night. Sergeant Scott wasted no time dragging him to the Yard. Scott didn’t want to talk to me this morning, but I managed to pry out of Constable Wallace that the man swears he was in Manchester since Saturday, attending a family wedding, no less. Scott has already wired multiple people in Manchester to confirm this. On the off chance, I ducked into Mobley’s office after leaving the Yard and found Parkin there.”

“Was he, now?” I eyed the building ahead of us that Lord Clifford and I had entered yesterday.

“Yes, at eight this morning. He seems upset that Mobley is gone, saying Mobley was the brains behind the business. He vows to carry on, but he’s not certain he can.”

“What about Lord Clifford’s debt?”

“Parkin believes anything owed Mobley was owed the business itself, so the debt is still valid. However, he’s more amenable to discussing terms than Mobley was.”

Not the answer I’d hoped for. Even if Lord Clifford was given more time to pay, the usurious nature of the moneylenders meant he’d have to come up with still more cash on top of what he already owed.

“Perhaps I ought to speak to Mr. Parkin,” I said.

“God help the man,” Daniel said in jest then glanced at me. “Did you mean now?”

I slowed as we approached the door of Mobley’s business, but I had a more pressing engagement pulling me onward. “Later, I think. Grace is waiting.”

Daniel, fully understanding why I wanted to diverge from investigating this problem, led me past Mobley’s office without slowing.

Once I was inside the small house in Clover Lane, with my daughter hugging me tightly, Lord Clifford’s woes, the murder of a moneylender, and other difficulties, evaporated. Grace was my world, and anything else was peripheral to that.

Daniel remained, at both Grace’s and Joanna’s invitation, and we had a lively chat. For our walk today, we ventured on one of our favorite strolls to the Tower of London. The castle had been both royal residence and notorious prison, and now was a place of historic fascination. The Crown Jewels were kept there, guarded by the red-uniformed Yeoman Warders, who these days pointed out the more exciting areas of the Tower to visitors.

We wandered along, trying to decide which wing had housed Queen Anne Boleyn, the ill-fated wife of Henry VIII so long ago.

“I wouldn’t marry a king,” Grace declared. “Aunt Joanna has us reading about old King Henry for history lessons. It seems far too dangerous to be a queen.”

“At one time it could indeed be perilous,” Daniel agreed. “If a lady did not bring the right amount of power and influence to the marriage, and even more importantly, bear the king a son, she could be banished. Or in Anne’s case, arrested on trumped-up charges of treason. Her family gambled that she could bring them fortunes and the favor of the king, and they lost. Her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, was condemned to the Tower several times, escaping his execution sentences by the sheerest luck. Anne was not so fortunate.”

“Poor lady,” Grace said with true sorrow.

“On the other hand, her daughter was the greatest queen Britain ever saw.” Daniel sent me a grin. “It is why I’m always kind to ladies. One never knows when they’ll become powerful indeed.”

He had me blushing again. I admonished him to not be so daft, and both Grace and Daniel laughed.

“I visited an interesting square the other day,” I told Grace, to change the subject, which was growing ridiculous. “Wellclose, not far from here. There was once a Danish church in its center and some fine houses, though it has lost its grandeur since then.”

“May we see it?” Grace asked at once. She was ever curious.

At any other time, I might steer us to a respectable teashop instead, but my own curiosity was as great as hers. Grace had inherited that from me.

Mr. Jacoby’s office was in Wellclose Square. The police did not suspect him of murder—and why should they? His place of business was nowhere near the Strand, and Lord Clifford was trying to keep Jacoby out of it, not to mention his own involvement in Jacoby’s confidence scheme.

But Jacoby had a connection, didn’t he? Which was why he was on my list of suspects. Lord Clifford had gone to Mobley to raise funds to be part of Jacoby’s swindle. Jacoby had known this, and had known Lord Clifford could not pay Mobley back. Why this would cause Jacoby to kill the moneylender, I had no idea, but I could not resist trying to see what Jacoby was up to at the moment.

Daniel must have shared my interest, because he guided us toward the square without hesitation.

He chose a route that would not take us past any gin houses or almshouses, fortunately, and we walked along with Grace between us, like a proper family.

As I had so vividly imagined last night …

Before another wave of longing could swamp me, my attention was arrested by a gentleman leaving Mr. Jacoby’s shipping office, which was now a few doors from us. The man wore a fine greatcoat and hat—I knew quality when I saw it. His wardrobe would have set him back a fair amount. He had a bushy, gray-streaked beard that was well-combed and thick eyebrows to go with it.

I’d never seen the gentleman before, and apparently neither had Daniel, who betrayed no recognition. Another gent doing business with Jacoby—or being cheated by him, whichever was the case.

The man was thrusting things in his pockets as he passed us, forcing us, the nobodies in his way, to press ourselves against the railings of the nearest house.

A paper fluttered from his pocket, unnoticed. Before I could stop her, Grace darted forward, retrieved the scrap, and hurried after the man.

“Beg pardon, sir, but you dropped this,” she said.

The man swung around. When he beheld my daughter holding the paper out to him, smiling brightly, did he soften and beam at the sweet girl? No, he snarled and snatched the page from her hand.

“Were you trying to pick my pockets?” he demanded. “Be off, you, before I call the constable.”

“She most certainly was not robbing you.” I’d charged to Grace the moment the man turned to her. “She kindly retrieved what you lost, and for that, she should have your gratitude.”

The bad-tempered man turned his bellicose stare on me, but I lifted my chin and met his gaze. He might be more wealthy than I was, but that did not make him my better. Such ingratitude to an honest child made him the lesser of us.

The man darted his gaze past me to Daniel. I could not see Daniel’s expression, as he was behind me, but whatever invective the gentleman had intended to hurl at me died on his lips. His eyes flickered as he looked from Daniel to me and back to Grace.

“Er,” he managed. “It was good of you.” This phrase to Grace was uttered in the most grudging and halfhearted tone I’d ever heard. “Here, girl, have a farthing.” The man dipped a gloved hand into his pocket and held up a copper coin between his fingers.

Grace backed a step. “No, thank you, sir. I was only trying to help.”

The gentleman clearly did not know what to make of us. He growled, dropped the farthing into his pocket, swung on his heel, and charged off in the direction of Wells Street.

Once he’d disappeared around the corner, I pulled Grace into a quick hug. “You did well, darling. I am proud of you.”

“Daniel frightened him off.” Grace finished our embrace and did a little victory hop. “He knew Daniel would thrash him if he wasn’t courteous.”

“Thrashing is not the answer to everything,” I admonished, though I secretly agreed with her. “You have lived too long among boys, I’m thinking.”

“Mark and Matthew are gentle lads,” Grace said, naming Joanna’s sons. “But it’s what happens in stories.”

“Then you are reading the wrong stories,” I said firmly.

As much as I scolded, I knew that Daniel’s presence had prevented the man from shouting for the nearest constable or trying to drag Grace off to a police station on his own. I preferred to stand up for myself whenever I could, but I admitted it was nice to have a protector behind me.

I shouldn’t have a warm, pleasant feeling about this, but I could not help myself. I was still a silly romantic, as last night’s visions showed, in spite of my best efforts to push such nonsense from my head.

I took Daniel’s arm with more enthusiasm than I should have, and we continued our walk.

The door of Jacoby’s shipping offices opened once more, and Jacoby himself stepped out.

When he caught sight of me coming toward him, by Daniel’s side, a shadow of abject terror settled on his face. He backed up into the office and slammed the door. We were close enough to hear the snick of a bolt sliding home to lock us out.

I reached home without mishap that evening, after enjoying the remainder of a wonderful day with my daughter. Daniel had left us after our repast at a teashop, his significant look at me indicating he’d be off to gather more information from and about our suspects.

I pressed the warm feeling of being with Grace close to me as Tess and I went through our preparations for poached haddock followed by a roast with plenty of potatoes and greens—I’d returned us to cooking several courses now that Lord Clifford and Lady Cynthia were in residence. Mr. Davis stepped into the kitchen as we worked and told me that Cynthia and Mr. Thanos wished to confer with me upstairs after supper.

His pinched face told me of his disapprobation. Not, I discerned, because he thought I was getting above myself, but because if Mrs. Bywater got word of it, she’d possibly try to sack me … again. At the very least, she’d keep Lacy Cynthia from me, believing that I had a harmful influence on her.

“Perhaps Lady Cynthia and Mr. Thanos should meet with me in the housekeeper’s parlor after they dine,” I suggested. “That way we are not underfoot when you are trying to put the dining room to rights. Is Lord Clifford supping with them as well?”

Mr. Davis went colder than ever. “He has requested a tray sent up to his bedchamber. I gather he is ailing.” His tone conveyed that he believed Lord Clifford was sequestering himself rather than being actually ill.

“I will concoct something to soothe his digestion,” I said.

Mr. Davis nodded, still not happy with the situation. He’d been vexed ever since Lord Clifford had turned up, as he’d been enjoying his holiday sorting through the wines, free from the family’s demands.

“By the way,” I said before Mr. Davis departed. “Have you read anything in your newspapers, either recently or in the past, about a shipping company run by a man called Jacoby? Any sort of scandal?”

Mr. Davis’s thin brows rose. “You mean Jacoby and Sons?”

“That’s the one,” I said in surprise.

“I recall something.” His annoyance at Lord Clifford faded as he began to muse. “Let me have a think and see if I can remember.”

“Thank you, Mr. Davis.”

“Not at all, Mrs. Holloway.”

I busied myself with cooking for the next hour. I always believed any job was worth doing well, so I concentrated on the task. After the fish went up with its butter and caper sauce, Tess and I turned out the roast and potatoes with a side of braised greens with onions, topped by a nice sauce made from the beef’s juices, with arrowroot as a thickener.

A tray with a smidgen of beef and potatoes plus a few slices of fresh bread and hot tea I sent to Lord Clifford via Mrs. Redfern, while I cranked the rest up on the dumbwaiter to the dining room.

Mr. Davis was behind me when I turned from the dumbwaiter, startling me. He was in his tailcoat and wore an introspective expression, which he did when he was thinking something through.

“I did recall what happened at Jacoby and Sons,” he said. “There were no sons, first of all. About five years ago, I think, a man who’d done a great deal of shipping business with Mr. Jacoby turned up dead. Washed up in the Thames, his throat cut. Probably robbed by ruffians, but Jacoby was under a cloud of suspicion for some time. His name was cleared—he hadn’t been in London on the day—but his business slumped for a while. I remember journalists writing eagerly about how shameful it was that the police presumed a man guilty until proven innocent, nearly ruining him. Instead of the other way around, as it should be.”

Having said his piece, Mr. Davis strode out of the kitchen and to the stairs, leaving me with my thoughts spinning.