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

by J. A. Rock

  “I did.”

  Gale looked at Fitz, who had regained some of his colour. Though he still appeared shaken. “Do you make a habit of sneaking a few drops yourself?”

  “I would never, sir!” the assistant said sharply. Gale well knew the difference between genuine outrage at a false accusation, and outrage that was just a bit too effusive to be real. This was the former.

  “I trust Fitz with my life,” Fernside said.

  “My apologies,” Gale assured them both. He had just needed to see how Fitz would react. To Fernside, he said, “Did you have any visitors yesterday?”

  “A fellow named Kemp brought us some fish he’d caught as he often does when we have our hands full with either a corpse or a patient. Fitz and I made a late luncheon of it.”

  “Did Visser eat the fish?”

  “He did. Only a few bites, but he did.”

  “Is there any left that I might examine?”

  “No, Lord Christmas. We ate it all, but for the bones and heads, which we tossed out to the cats.”

  Gale sighed. “Well, I must assume both you and your assistant were dosed with laudanum. And quite a bit of it, if I was able to smell it in Fitz’s vomit.” He relished the flame in the assistant’s cheeks. “Either by Visser himself if he made an escape, or, to indulge your kidnapping theory, perhaps the fish was dosed before it was brought to you. If Visser ate only a little, perhaps he knew it to be contaminated and was avoiding it. Or it may be mere coincidence, and he was found rather more conscious than his kidnapper would have liked. How much do you trust this Kemp?”

  “He’s never given us reason not to trust him,” Fitz said hotly, as though Gale were slandering his own mother.

  “All right, then. I should like to talk to him. And any neighbours that were likely to have been home at the time of Visser’s disappearance.” He got information about Kemp’s whereabouts and the names of a few neighbours and left.

  He paused once he stepped outside the house. His head felt quite fuzzy all of a sudden, and he could not decide whether it would be better to seek out Kemp immediately or to speak to Fernside’s neighbours to see if anybody had witnessed anything suspicious yesterday evening. In the weeks since Gale’s unexpected rise to fame, interrogations had become more difficult. People craved fame by proxy and would spin falsehoods without a second thought in what Gale supposed was a misguided attempt to impress him.

  He would rather gain a better idea of whether Visser had escaped or been taken before he put himself at the mercy of the surgeon’s neighbours. There was almost no reason to believe Visser had been kidnapped. The fact that the lock on the front door was undamaged suggested that Visser had let himself out. Likely Visser had got hold of Fernside’s laudanum, incorporated it into the fish eaten by the surgeon and his assistant, waited until the house was quiet, and then made his escape. But how could he have walked? That leg wound had been bad. It had taken both Gale and Chant to drag him to Fernside’s residence. If Visser had escaped, his progress would have been slow and would have drawn attention.

  If he could speculate as to which direction Visser might have gone, perhaps he could look for clues. A spot of blood on a cobblestone. A patch where a useless limb had been dragged through pebbles or horse manure. But if he attempted to follow Visser’s trail, then what about Kemp?

  The dockyard loomed around him, shrouded in grey. A fog seemed to hang above the river, and the faint sun was too weak to pierce it. He spotted a small path that wound among several derelict homes. Easy enough to take that path and shield oneself from the main streets. But what about prying eyes at the windows of these houses? The inhabitants had been away at the dockyards and factories, he supposed. He began to walk along the path, a sense of unease growing within him. His insides felt all at once like a stagnant marsh, attracting all sorts of buzzing insects. The dwelling beside him was dark and had one jagged broken window. He would not be surprised to learn it had been unoccupied for a long time. He glanced inside, his lungs tight. He was not sure what he hoped—or feared—to see. Visser’s sallow face, staring out at him? Flummery, curled among soot and broken glass on the floorboards?

  And suddenly, he was facing the water again, gazing into the fog draped like a shroud over the Thames. The mast of the Condor penetrated the gloom like a spear. Her sails rippled in the breeze. He was still hidden from sight of the dockyard. Could de Cock have come here to this very spot and stood watching Fernside’s home, waiting for his chance to take Visser? Could Visser be hiding in one of these buildings? What did the first mate stand to gain by escaping? He had not been Fernside’s prisoner.

  The obvious answer was that he had not wanted Gale to know he’d left or where he was going. Fernside would have sent word to Gale immediately if the patient had insisted on departing before he was healed. Now Visser was beyond any protection Fernside or Gale could offer.

  The dog.

  It all came back to the dog somehow. He and Chant needed to find the dog before Visser or de Cock. No, not he and Chant—he alone.

  He walked on and was too surprised to even cry out when his arm was grabbed, and he was swung around easily as though he were a partner in a dance and pulled through a narrow doorway into one of the derelict buildings.

  A large, shiny black boot kicked the door shut and planted itself between Gale and the only visible exit. Its twin stepped inward to join it.

  Gale had the sudden, hazy realization that the print he’d seen in Howe’s yard—the narrower one—must have been made by one of the boots he was studying right now. His gaze travelled up the tall boots, over stained breeches long out of style, up the panels of a velvet coat with tarnished buttons, to a cravat, yellowed by sweat and hanging nearly untied—until at last he met the pale, terrible eyes of Captain de Cock.

  Chapter 11

  The seventh dog, much to Elise’s obvious disappointment, had not been Flummery. She wore her disappointment well, though, with a determined set to her jaw and an unyielding faith that Lord Christmas Gale would solve the case. The news sheets said there was nothing Gale and his extraordinary brain could not do, and Elise seemed to think that, just as the sun would rise tomorrow, Flum’s return was imminent. Chant didn’t have the heart to poke holes in that faith; he simply agreed when the boys finally left with their pack of dogs that next time they would return with Flummery.

  He returned Elise to Gale’s house, hoping Gale was there, but he was not. Chant left Elise in the care of Anne-Marie and took a cab to Russell Street.

  The day was grey and bleak, and Chant couldn’t shake his unease. Where was Gale? He’d fled from Chant’s house as though he had the devil at his heels without a word of where he was going. The damnable, frustrating fool! Had he not agreed to make no moves on his own?

  Chant groaned and pressed his gloved fists to his eyes, digging his knuckles in hard enough that dark shapes bloomed in his vision.

  No, he had not agreed, had he? He had said, “I will try. That is all I can promise.”

  The man had no regard for his own safety, and it was becoming increasingly clear he had no regard for Chant either. Perhaps Chant did make a rather useless assistant, but, good Lord, if Gale was in danger, at least he could hope to be of some help. Gale was impossible. He was the most vexing man Chant had ever met, and Chant could not understand how he had not been murdered before now. And not just because he skulked around the docks looking to unravel mysteries concerning sinister privateers. No, Chant couldn’t understand how nobody had stabbed him at a supper party yet.

  At Russell Street, Chant instructed the driver to wait and then enquired of a woman selling apples where he might find Gale’s address. She pointed him to the correct house—a large and imposing building with a cream-coloured facade. Chant approached it and had scarcely reached the front steps when a small, grey-haired woman came rushing out and shooed Chant away as though he were a pigeon. She gave him no chance to explain who he was seeking or why, but she shouted, “He’s not in!” as though she kne
w exactly whom he sought, and he thought it best to leave before she grew more agitated.

  He returned to the street, his concern rising, and told the cab driver to take him to Bucknall’s. Where the devil was Gale?

  He gave his hat and gloves and walking stick to the boy on duty in the foyer of the Bucknall Club and climbed the stairs. He checked every room, searching for a glimpse of Gale’s auburn hair and not finding one. He looked for Gale’s mysterious friend Soulden too, but there was no sign of him. Stratford, the shy young man, was seated in his usual chair, scribbling away in his leather-bound journal. Chant didn’t see anyone else he recognised until a man turned away from the bookshelves in the Blue Room, holding a book out to his companion and asking, “This one?”

  The younger man was sitting at a table with several volumes already spread out around him. He clicked his tongue. “No, not that one. The one next to it.”

  Instead of appearing annoyed, William Hartwell, Marquess of Danbury, looked smitten.

  Chant, having once been the subject of sharp whispers by even sharper tongues, did not follow gossip, but the scandal of William Hartwell and Joseph Warrington had been impossible to avoid. And it was very fresh too. A loaf of bread baked on the morning the news had broken that Warrington had been undone wouldn’t have gone mouldy yet. Hartwell and Warrington must have only been days married, and yet they had an ease about them that suggested their new nuptials were underpinned by years of familiarity.

  Chant had no wish to intrude upon them, but Hartwell looked up and saw him standing there.

  “Good day,” he said. “It’s Chant, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Chant said, stepping forward and holding out his hand.

  They shook.

  “Hartwell,” Hartwell said. “And Warry, my husband.”

  Chant felt a tinge of jealousy at Hartwell’s broad smile. “Congratulations, both of you.”

  “He comes here to read, can you believe it?” Hartwell asked fondly.

  “Well,” Warry replied, not even raising his eyes from whatever book he was perusing, “some of us can, you know.”

  Hartwell’s smile grew broader. “Will you join me in a drink, sir? And perhaps a round of cards?”

  Chant’s first thought was to refuse—he needed to locate Gale—but he’d already checked Gale’s house, and his rooms in Russell Street, and the club, and where else was there to look? “Perhaps a drink.”

  He and Hartwell sat, and a footman came to enquire what Chant wanted to drink. Hartwell appeared to be drinking port, although the hour was not yet late, while a silver coffee pot sat at Warry’s elbow.

  “A port,” he said firmly to the footman. He didn’t want to end up in his cups, but at the same time, after the day he’d had, he needed something stronger than coffee to settle his nerves. He said to Hartwell, “You are a friend of Gale’s, are you not?”

  Hartwell made a noncommittal sound. “I do not think Gale has friends. But, if he allowed such a thing, I flatter myself I would be counted one.”

  “He is… very peculiar,” Chant said. “And most vexing.”

  “Most vexing,” Hartwell agreed. His expression sharpened. “And what of you, sir? Do you consider yourself a friend of Gale’s?”

  “I do not know what I am to him,” Chant said, shrugging helplessly. “The more time I spend with him, it seems the less I know of him at all.”

  “Yes, well…” Hartwell shot a glance at Warry, who did not look up from his book, though his eyebrows lifted. “We had the pleasure of running into Gale’s oldest sister today. Clarissa. She was out for a walk with Lady Alice—Faber, is it, darling?”

  “Faber,” Warry agreed.

  Hartwell smiled at Gale. “Lovely woman. Has a nose like a horse, Warry’s mother thinks, but it works for her.”

  “You don’t mean Clarissa?” Warry frowned.

  “No, of course not. Lady Alice. You were there when your mother made the comment about her nose.”

  “My mother comments on many noses.” Warry scanned the page before him.

  “Does she like my nose?” Hartwell asked as though the thought had come upon him suddenly.

  “Mmm.” Warry made a noncommittal sound.

  “She does not like my nose? What’s wrong with it? It is very fine, I’m told.”

  “Who told you that? Your own mother?”

  “Do you not like my nose?”

  “Clarissa Gale and Lady Alice were walking…” Chant prompted.

  Hartwell straightened. “Ah, yes. Anyway, Clarissa said you’d been to dine at Gale House last night. As Gale’s guest, no less.”

  “That is true.” Chant let the bittersweet memory of the previous evening wash over him.

  “She said it’s the first time Gale has invited anyone for supper in the whole of her lifetime.”

  Chant accepted a port gratefully from the footman, and had to keep himself from sucking it down in great gulps. He sipped once, twice, then set the glass down. What was he to make of this information? What good did it do him? So oughtn’t that mean that Gale should like him well enough not to flee from him twice over?

  “Untrue,” he said, affecting a casual tone. “I was told last night that a Mr. Darling has dined with him previously.”

  “Darling?” Hartwell’s brow creased. “Oh, the Runner.” He snorted. “No, I do not think he counts.”

  Chant leaned back, sliding one leg out in front of him and staring at his glass. He was unsure whether or not to trust the rush of relief he felt at Hartwell’s assertion. “I had a good time,” he said honestly. “Though it would be hard to say from his behaviour whether he enjoyed my company.”

  Hartwell laughed raucously. Even Warry snickered and finally tore his gaze from his book, saying, “I have never seen that man enjoy anything.”

  “Yes,” Hartwell agreed. “I do not think we can use Gale’s behaviour as a gauge for what he enjoys. But the news sheets certainly enjoyed the fact that you dined there.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Hartwell waved a hand. “It was in some rag or the other. ‘Lord Christmas and his mysterious new partner are investigating…’ something.”

  “A murder,” Warry supplied, his attention back on his book.

  “Yes, that was it.” Hartwell’s eyes widened suddenly. “Are you really? A murder?”

  “It is complicated,” Chant said, his heart beating faster. Gale had warned him of the potential for publicity once they were seen together. He had thought himself at peace with that, and yet… “The papers. Do they think we’re…”

  “Oh! So far, no. Last Season Gale was seen in the company of Lady Carstairs. It was regarding a fake diamond brooch and a fellow posing as a parson’s son, or a parson posing as some fellow’s son, but anyway, Gale and Lady Carstairs whispered for so long together that the gossipmongers went wild with the story, and now most of Society is convinced Gale is inclined toward women, when he is inclined at all.”

  Chant nodded. He didn’t mind if the news sheets thought he and Gale were courting. Indeed, he wished Gale thought they were courting. But if the gossips simply believed him to be Gale’s investigative partner, perhaps they would dredge up less of his background than they would if they believed him Gale’s beau.

  “Is there any use in…” Chant tipped his glass toward himself and rolled its base in a circle on the table. “In attempting to bond with a man like that?”

  “Well,” Hartwell said thoughtfully, “I should say Gale has his uses, if you need a mystery solved or someone to commiserate with you on how dull the quadrille is. But as far as bonding…”

  Warry finally shut his book. “I do not believe he is as much a misanthrope as people think. Or as he thinks himself.”

  “Oh?” Hartwell gazed at Warry as though the young man had just relayed the most fascinating piece of news in all the world.

  Warry looked at Chant. “He is simply afraid.”

  “He never seems afraid of anything.” Chant was not sure he wanted more of his
port, which suddenly tasted too sweet. “Except… well, he is made nervous by crowds, I have gathered, but he is not afraid.”

  A shrug from Warry. “I do not know him well, I suppose.”

  Hartwell leaned forward, gaze locked with Chant’s. “When you say bond with…” He oofed as his husband elbowed him. “I was only asking!”

  Warry shook his head and made to open his book again. Hartwell scooted closer to him and lowered his head, speaking in a sort of croon in Warry’s ear. “The light in here is growing too dim to read by. You’ll ruin your eyes.”

  Warry pushed his shoulder briefly against Hartwell’s. “You didn’t think twice about ruining me, yet you worry about my eyes?”

  Hartwell’s brows lifted. “Is it not rather too soon to joke about that? Anyway, it is rude to read when we are talking to Mr. Chant.” Hartwell’s gaze met Chant’s again. “What do you say to a game of cards to pass the time, Chant? If we wait here long enough, Gale is sure to turn up.”

  Gale’s head spun as he staggered away from whatever gaming hell he had just wreaked havoc upon. He could not recall its name—only that far too many of its inhabitants had shouted his when he’d entered. But soon he’d been so foxed, he hadn’t cared. He was by the river now. How pleasant. He’d been heading in the direction of Bucknall’s, but then he’d seen the water and couldn’t resist. The sky was dark, so he’d passed some hours at the faro table. His purse was considerably lighter than it had been when he’d entered. Perhaps that was a good thing. There was an art to gambling, depending on the game, but mostly it was chance. Gale was tired of solving puzzles. How strangely reassuring it had been, to know his fate at the card table was but the luck of the draw.

  He’d only left because it had got so bloody crowded. People had jostled him, he’d been caught in clouds of reeking breath, words thrust into his ears like blades. Ah, even now—look at his hands! They were shaking. From drink, he hoped, rather than from the weakness in his mind. The weakness Chant had seen two nights past at the Harringdon ball. It was one thing to disdain all of humanity but quite another to let it render you a quaking mouse. Leave the quaking to Hartwell’s little dullard, Warry. Since when was Hartwell the marrying type? It made no sense. Hartwell! It might be a lark to see Hartwell now. Hartwell was good for a laugh, much as Gale disliked laughter as a general rule. But Hartwell was probably at home, in bed with little Warry. Gale made a face at the pavement, which, in turn, spun under his feet. Most unkind.