A Case for Christmas (The Lords of Bucknall Club Book 2)

by J. A. Rock

  “Like twine?”

  “I suppose. Sort of… dry. And straw coloured. Anyway, I recall little of the evening, but I do remember him saying he could use a ratter on his ship. I’ve got a Parson terrier who’s good for the job, if he’s still looking to borrow a dog.”

  The worker eyed Gale again, his attention lingering on Gale’s muddied buckskins. Then he gave Chant a once-over before returning his gaze to Gale. “What’s a fellow like you doing drinking at The Belled Cat?” He laughed, revealing large teeth edged in brown. “You mean to tell me you come here dressed like that, and you ain’t had your throat cut and your purse nabbed?”

  Gale felt Chant tense beside him and took a breath. He wasn’t used to making such errors in judgement. If only he could push Chant into the bloody river, anything to get the man out of his sight, perhaps he’d be able to salvage this conversation. “Let us say I prefer to indulge my vices where word will not get back to my family.”

  The man laughed again. “Oh, I’ve seen everything now, ain’t I? Poor old Howe, not dead a day, and here comes Mr. Brummell himself, pretending he’s ever set foot in The Belled Cat, asking about a captain with hair like twine.” He looked Gale up and down, this time with open contempt. “What are you, sir? Out of Bow Street?” He snorted. “I warned Talbot not to go for the Runners. We take care of our own here. Have for a long time.”

  Intrigue outweighed humiliation in Gale’s mind—though only just barely. “I’m not a Runner. I can promise you that. But I am interested in what happened to Mr. Howe. And I do wish to locate the captain of the ship with the torn sail.”

  The man sneered. “And why would you be interested in Howe?”

  “We were acquainted. That is all the information I can give you.”

  The worker stared into his barrel of fish and seemed to be considering his next words. Finally he said, “I don't know any tall captain with hair like tw—”

  “I know your man.” Another fellow with a squint-eye and a ruddy, swollen nose came up behind the man with the fish and clapped him on the back while studying Gale. “It’s de Cock you want.” His mouth wavered so wildly that Gale thought at first he was about to weep. Then he burst out laughing. “Captain de Cock! That’s his name!”

  The fish man’s eyes widened, and then he began to laugh too. “Captain de Cock? You’re ’avin’ a laugh!”

  “God’s honest truth! Oh, been here a few days, he has. And every time I says good day to him—Well, he never says it back, first of all. But every time I says ‘Good day, Mr. de Cock’, I make myself scowl”—he demonstrated—“so I won’t fall down laughing.” The red-nosed man turned back to Gale. “He ain’t here now. Every morning he goes into town. Won’t tell no one what he’s doing, but he always comes back before midday, stinking of liquor, then boards his ship and don’t nobody see him till nightfall.”

  Gale consulted his watch. The time was five minutes before ten o’ clock.

  “Aye.” The man nodded at him. “You wait around here long enough, he’ll show up.”

  “Thank you, Mister…”

  “Lewis, sir.”

  “Mr. Lewis. Very good.”

  The first worker said to Lewis, “This gentleman was an acquaintance of Mr. Howe’s.”

  Lewis looked Gale over, just as the first man had done. His red face was curiously blank. “Ah. Mr. Howe. Poor old bastard. Can’t say I’m surprised, though. Put enough gin in him, and he’d fire off his mouth like a cannon. Insults to make a sailor blush. Or pull out a knife.”

  “Were either of you at The Belled Cat last night?” Gale inquired.

  Lewis shook his head slowly, a small smile curving his lips for a mere instant, just long enough to send a chill down the back of Gale’s neck. “No, sir. I was not. And if you’ve come here to make trouble, my advice to you is, don’t.”

  Chapter 5

  There was nowhere along the dock particularly suited to awaiting the return of a drunken ship’s captain whom one wished to investigate for murder. Chant was fine to stand there, breathing in the morning air and thinking his thoughts—most of which centred on how to get them both home with their hides intact—but Gale seemed far less inclined toward patience.

  First, the man shoved his hands into his pockets, then he flicked his gaze down to where Chant’s hands were in his pockets and took his hands out of his own pockets. Then he rocked back and forth on his heels. Gave a weary sigh. Cast a disdainful look at a pigeon. Pushed his hat more firmly onto his head.

  “Would you like to find a place to sit?” Chant asked mildly.

  “I would like you to be quiet, as you promised.”

  Chant nodded. “Very well.”

  He gazed off across the river again, admiring the ships and trying not to recall Lewis’s warning. There was a neat little sloop of the sort he and Reid had talked about learning to sail. Ah, and that towering dark ship with its ripped sail—the one Gale had fixed his gaze on at once—looked like something out of another century. It was rather battered and bruised to Chant’s eye, though he knew nothing of ships. He sneaked a glance at his companion. Gale was a couple of inches taller than he, which was a nice change, really. Chant was quite tall himself, and he liked looking up at someone. Made him feel a bit cosy. He focused on the water again.

  “Would you stop?” Gale pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “Stop what, my friend?” Chant deduced the answer was existing, though he doubted even Gale would put it so bluntly. He bit back a smile. Was it not hard work to be so surly all the time? It seemed like hard work to Chant.

  “Just… please.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot comply unless I know what I am supposed to stop doing.”

  “Standing so… so near to me. I cannot think.”

  Chant took two steps away from him. “Is this better?”

  “It is better, though still far from ideal.”

  Chant’s nod was agreeable. “Ideal would be if I stepped off the dock and drowned?”

  “I did not say that!” The force of the words seemed to surprise Gale as much as Chant.

  Chant lifted his brows, but said nothing.

  Another few minutes passed, and then Gale barked, “Say it, man!”

  “I thought I was not supposed to say anything?”

  “Yes, but I can feel you yearning to remind me that you were not in favour of what seemed a dangerous plan. And now I have made a hash of questioning the dockyard workers, and we have received an ominous warning, so I’m sure you feel quite smug.”

  “I do not feel smug,” Chant said truthfully.

  “Most of my past investigations have concerned peers. In truth, I do not spend much time in the less savoury areas of the city.”

  “Except when you visit molly houses?”

  Gale’s temper flared. “If that does not sit well with you, then I promise my other vices will not either.”

  “I meant no judgment. It was merely a question.” In fact, it was quite a relief to Chant to hear that Gale sought molly houses. It saved Chant the trouble of having to ask if Gale were inclined toward men. Gale had danced with him last night, yes, but that did not necessarily mean what Chant would like it to.

  After a few more moments studying the boats, Chant spoke: “You see that little slip of a thing over there? The one bouncing with each gust like she can’t wait to get back out to sea?” Gale did not answer, and Chant did not mind. “A companion of mine wanted to sail one like that. All the way to America, he said. Oh, we’d have capsized and drowned before we were off the Thames, to be sure. But we did love to tell one another stories of our future adventures at sea.”

  Still no response. When Chant turned to Gale, the fellow looked quite lost.

  Finally, Gale said, “I had a mind to go to The Belled Cat to see what we can find out about the events of last night. But it is early in the day, and we are not dressed to blend in.” He glanced down at himself. “In fact, looking at my disguise now, I see that this wretched overcoat in combination with my
usual day dress perhaps draws excessive attention to my person.”

  Chant inspected his own ensemble. “The same could be said of me.” He looked Gale over once more, secretly pleased that Gale’s effort at disguise was no better than his own. “I should think an investigator would have a whole wardrobe full of costumes, for any occasion.”

  “Perhaps an investigator would. But I am not an investigator.”

  “Ah. Right.”

  “We could visit Fernside and ask to see the corpse, but Fernside does not like his work interrupted any more than I do. We should send a note first.”

  Chant did not know who Fernside was, and he felt it best not to point out Gale’s repeated use of we. But inwardly, he grinned.

  Gale’s hands clenched at his sides, and he hissed air from between his teeth. “Oh, I cannot think.”

  “I know you do not want my opinion, but I shall still give it. You are hungry.”

  Gale’s brows knitted in the way Chant was coming to like. “Hungry?”

  “Yes. Your colour is not good, and your hands shake.”

  Gale looked down at his balled hands, then up again, and Chant was once again struck by the softness of his eyes—such a contrast to the rest of him.

  “I went to breakfast before coming here.”

  “Did you eat breakfast, or did you merely go to breakfast?” Chant asked gently.

  “I…”

  “Perhaps you chatted with Elise during her breakfast and forgot to have any of your own?”

  Gale turned his head and inhaled, rolling his eyes heavenward, but when he let the breath out, his lips twitched. “Perhaps I should leave this investigation in your hands. Your power of inference is not altogether terrible.”

  A smile spread across Chant’s face. “So I am correct?”

  “I shall neither confirm nor deny.”

  “We could walk a while and perhaps find pastries. Walking would keep us warm, at least.” He shivered theatrically.

  Gale’s gaze lingered on Chant for a surprisingly long time, and it was impossible for Chant to feel the morning’s chill with those eyes on him. The fellow looked almost pained, and Chant wondered what that was about. “If you are cold,” Gale said with no hint of his earlier snappishness, “then you should go home.” His tone was low and unexpectedly soft, and there was a trace of rueful humour in his eyes that Chant would have called out of character, except that it looked so purely Gale, so absolutely suited to the man. “Leave the matter of the captain to me.”

  Chant’s lips parted, though he did not speak right away. He felt a pull—toward Gale? Toward memories of Reid? He could not say. There was something bright and soft inside him, and he wanted to let it be for a moment. “I am more worried about you. Your borrowed coat is not so fine as mine.”

  “My coat is perfectly suited to its task.”

  “I cannot leave you here cold and hungry. It is against my nature.”

  “Yes.” Gale’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “I do believe it is.”

  It was perhaps not quite a compliment but neither was it said with disdain, and Chant laughed. “I cannot help myself.”

  “We shall stick out anywhere we go. What with your hall boy’s fine overcoat.”

  “Do not blame my hall boy’s coat. It is your regal bearing that marks us as outsiders.”

  Gale snorted. “Very well, then. You must give your overcoat a good dunking in that fish barrel, and I must slouch.”

  “Or, we could stick close together. Watch out for one another.” Chant said it teasingly enough, but he hoped, privately, that Gale would not mock the idea.

  “All right. Let us hurry, then, before I starve to death.”

  Ah, Chant could not have held back his smile if he tried. The water lapped softly against the docks, the rhythm filling Chant with pleasure. And with the weak sun sneaking through the clouds, and the cry of gulls around them, the breeze lifting Gale’s hair so the light caught the red in it, the sorrows of the world did not seem insurmountable.

  Rotherhithe was a busy, muddy place that stank of the worst of the Thames. Still, Gale had to allow that the pie cart Chant located sold passable wares. Passable enough that he bought a second pie after the first, and inhaled it as much as ate it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, and it vexed him that Chant had guessed much of his irritability had stemmed from the hunger he hadn’t even felt until he’d begun to assuage it. He often forgot to eat and to sleep because he was usually doing more important things, and in the middle of them, his narrowed focus didn’t allow for such considerations.

  He wiped his pie-stained fingers heedlessly on his overcoat as he and Chant headed back to the riverside, to where they could see the ships and the men coming and going from them.

  “I confess, I wish I knew more about this mysterious captain,” he said in an undertone.

  “Oh,” said Chant. “You are interested in de Cock?”

  “Of course,” Gale said before he caught the way Chant’s mouth twitched. Embarrassment swelled up in him, along with indignation. “Good God, man, is this Surrey Quays or Vauxhall Gardens? This is neither the time nor the place for cheap bawdry.”

  Chant’s faint smile faded. “I apologise.”

  “You apologise, but you are not sorry.” Gale’s tone was grim.

  Chant merely shrugged good-naturedly, his hands deep in his pockets. Despite his assertion that his hall boy’s overcoat was a quality article, Gale worried that Chant was cold. Wondered if—not worried that. Chant was a grown man; obviously Gale was not inclined to worry about him. If Chant was cold, it was his own fault for coming here—and staying, in defiance of Gale’s protests.

  He was still hungry, even after two pies, and so Gale reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of bacon, nibbling it as they walked. He felt Chant’s gaze on him. “My God man,” Chant said. “What are you doing?”

  “We didn’t even need pies, Chant. I forgot I brought bacon.” He pulled out another piece. Offered it to Chant.

  Chant stopped, and so did Gale. “Why do you have bacon in your pocket?”

  Gale shrugged, twisting his mouth to one side to keep any trace of amusement from his face. “It was for the dog.” He ate the second piece of bacon slowly, eyes locked with Chant’s.

  Chant burst out laughing, and at that, Gale had to fight a smile.

  “Look at you!” Chant declared. “You are trying to make me laugh.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Was he? Gale supposed there was something rather intoxicating about the sound of Benjamin Chant’s laughter. It was loud and open and unabashed, and it trailed off into a series of helpless chuffs in a way that some might consider charming. “Perhaps I am merely trying to persuade you that I am poor company to keep so you will go home.”

  Chant’s grin only broadened, which was terribly annoying. Gale had nearly forgotten, for a moment, what a burden Chant was; how he had no place in this investigation, yet had wriggled his way into it and refused to leave. Gale had the strangest urge to touch Chant’s face, red from the wind. And then maybe smudge that smile off with his thumb as though it were a trace of pie stuck at the corner of the fellow’s mouth. It was not that Gale hated the smile. It was that he suddenly wanted to see what that face looked like with something darker in it. The mirth in those blue eyes replaced by hunger, those lips no longer curving up, but parted in anticipation.

  No. Oh, for Christ’s sake, no. What was the matter with him?

  Gale was saved from a dreadful moment of introspection by a strange sight. “Look there,” he said at once. Just a few yards away was an ale house—a working class establishment with high class aspirations. Ever since the dockyards had opened along the Surrey Quays, bringing jobs aplenty to Rotherhithe, every low-rate business within a mile of the river suddenly fancied itself Clarenden’s. And at a table outside the ale house, seemingly oblivious to the cold, sat the tallest fellow Gale had ever seen—taller than Gale himself. A man w
ith alarmingly pale skin, eyes a shade of blue so light Gale could note the colour even from this distance… and a mop of yellow-white hair as dry and dishevelled looking as a haystack. His shirt was open, and his dark velvet coat was old and in need of a wash—its brass buttons had probably gleamed at one time, but now had a patina on them. He had his arms folded on the table as he stared at rows of playing cards, an empty glass at his elbow.

  “My God,” Chant whispered. “Is that de Cock?”

  “I think it is de Cock.” Gale felt his lips trying to curve up once more. Something about this situation was making him nearly giddy—not a word that could, under any usual circumstance, be applied to him. The whole mess was horrible, yes. A young child’s father was dead, Gale was having his investigation impeded by a fellow of incessant good cheer—Gale’s least favourite kind of cheer—and a perfectly fine morning that could have been spent at Bucknall’s had been wasted along this stinking river. And yet, Gale’s chest had a strangely fizzy feeling to it, and he was fighting the urge to laugh.

  Chant whispered, “Certainly larger than I expected.”

  “Stop it!” Gale hissed.

  “I am sorry. But his reputation must be fearsome indeed if it has survived having that name attached to it.”

  “It is Flemish.”

  “It is something, all right.”

  A chuckle escaped Gale, and, horrified, he tried to turn it into a cough.

  “Are you going to speak to him?”

  “Yes, if you’ll stop talking.”

  Chant gave an exaggerated gesture for Gale to lead the way.

  Gale squared his narrow shoulders. Lovely. Now he had to find a way to approach a man who looked as if he dined on kittens for breakfast and crushed children’s toys under his boots for fun. His boots. His boots were new. The rest of his garb was outdated and in poor condition, but those Hessians gleamed smooth and bright as the eyes of a hare.

  He strode forward, feigning a confidence he did not feel. De Cock was engrossed in his game of Patience. He was also drunk—all around his unnaturally pale irises was a rather uniform shade of red, and his hand trembled as he laid a card down.