Gemma held her breath when Mrs. Williams paused, but did not want to interrupt her with questions.
“But me joints were paining me, and I needed me tonic. I was quiet as could be,” the housekeeper continued. “I made it to the kitchens to grab the bottle when I heard his lordship’s voice. He let out a yell, and for a moment I thought he’d seen me. But then I heard him ask someone, ‘What are you doing here?’ The answer was too low for me to hear.”
“Where were they in the house?” Gemma asked.
“In the hallway by the entrance,” Mrs. Williams responded. So not the study, Gemma thought, before waving her on to continue. “They were havin’ a conversation and I wanted to try to get back to my rooms, so I snuck by to the little servant’s door that led up that way. But I didn’t dare open it, for it makes a nasty creakin’. I only saw the back of the man talkin’ to his lordship.”
“Can you describe him?” Lucas asked.
“Just that he had yellow hair and was dressed in expensive clothes. It was dark, y’see,” she said with a shrug.
“Did you hear anything else they discussed?”
“Only his lordship,” the housekeeper answered. “He said it was not his fault, and he was not to blame for something. I did not hear what it was, though. The next thing you know I heard the shot.”
“What did you do, then?” Gemma asked.
“What do you think I did, now?” she responded, with a look that suggested Gemma was a bit of a dolt for asking the question. “I ran as quiet as could be to me rooms, pushed my wardrobe in front of me door, and curled under me bed until dawn. I’ve been hidin’ at my sister’s ever since, until Mrs. Bird came round saying you two were payin’ for information.”
“Did you notice anything missing the next morning before you left for good?” Lucas asked.
“We’re not thieves, y’hear,” Mrs. Williams said emphatically. She waited for both of them to nod before continuing. “But no character references, you understand. And we hadn’t received our quarterly wages yet, neither. The butler found his lordship the next morning. He came down to my rooms, told me I had to leave. But we were owed.”
“Of course, Mrs. Williams. Please continue.” Lucas was clearly trying to tamp down his impatience.
“The only thing missin’ was his lordship’s treasured pocket watch,” she said finally. “It was one of his most prized possessions. He would not even let me touch it to clean it. It was very, er, ancient, as you might say.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Williams, you have been very helpful,” Lucas said. He gestured to Gemma with a tilt of his head.
She smiled her thanks at both housekeepers and assured Mrs. Williams she would help her find work. She followed Lucas out of the kitchen, and both remained silent until they were ensconced once again in the sanctuary of the study.
“It was the same blond man from Vauxhall, do you think?” she asked. “And the man from the jewelry store?”
“I think that hair color is one of the easiest physical attributes someone can alter, and it is one of the most easily remembered by witnesses,” Lucas repeated. “You’ll notice it keeps cropping up throughout this investigation. Do you think a villain who has been smart enough to elude capture thus far would be so obvious as to have his hair color remarked on time and time again?”
“A wig? Dye, perhaps?” She pondered the idea, turning it over in her mind. In each interview they’d conducted, and from her own experience, the one thing everyone seemed to recall was the color of the man’s hair. Lucas had a fair point.
“Not necessarily. He did not expect to be seen at Dalton’s, so he may not have taken the precaution. Or, whoever it is, he may believe himself safe enough from discovery to not go to the lengths that would take. However, it does seem to be a possibility. Either way, I do not think we have broken the case open tonight,” Lucas said, looking as if it pained him to be the voice of reason.
“The pocket watch is an odd turn of events, though,” she mused. She agreed with him that they could not place much faith in the description of his hair, but they did not seem to be able to turn a corner in this case without stumbling over a watch.
“In both cases, it seems an afterthought to the crime, and not the motivation,” Lucas said. “He could not help himself.”
“Nigel’s watch was acquired by Uncle Artie on a trip to Italy. It was said to be one of the original pocket watches created,” Gemma remembered. “It would be worth thousands, but to someone who appreciates history, it would be priceless.”
“We do have the list Beatrice and Harrington compiled,” Lucas reminded her. “Perhaps we should give that another thorough look. It could tell us something more than we realized at first glance.”
They both fell quiet, deep in thought, until Gemma broke the silence. “Shall I pour you a drink?”
Lucas glanced at the decanter then back at her, studying her face. He shook his head. “I shall take my leave, my dear. It has been a long day, and we have a wedding to prepare.”
“And a murderer to catch,” she said, and wished she felt less trepidation about the former than the latter.
Chapter Fifteen
As a rat skittered across his freshly polished boots, Lucas thought about how thankful he was that he had not mentioned his destination to Gemma. She would have wanted to accompany him, and though he had been unusually accommodating to her wishes, he had to draw a line somewhere.
Instead, he’d brought George Harrington. They’d split up with plans to search for their target. Word was that he preferred a few of the seedier taverns on the docks. Lucas had been to two already without any success. George had taken the other half of the list.
There was a possibility that Gemma would be angry with him once he told her what he’d done. No, not a possibility. A certainty. But he wouldn’t think about that now. There was no way he’d let her within ten meters of the filth—both the rubbish and human kind—that was the mainstay of the London docks. He could handle her anger. What he couldn’t handle was her being hurt in any way.
He heard the birds cawing from the docks not far from where the dirty little pub stood, beckoning sailors and workers to spend their meager earnings on a tankard instead of heading home to their families. Two burly men pushed past him, their shoulders knocking into his, catapulting him forward a few steps.
“Git out the way, ya bloody gent,” one spat back at him, as the dockman pushed through the pub’s door. Lucas braced himself for the putrid smell of stale alcohol and smoke, and followed behind them.
He lingered in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the darkened interior. The men had settled themselves at a table, and one had already pulled a scantily clad barmaid onto his lap. The other was eyeing a prostitute who was clearly trolling for customers.
A man, who barely resembled a human being, was huddled in the farthest corner of the pub, almost disappearing into the shadows. His skin was thick and drooping under the weight of poor living and age. Bloodshot eyes peered at Lucas from the dark, and a nervous tongue darted over cracked lips. His body was lost under a mountain of loose, grubby clothes. Even his gloves were unraveling from his hands.
It could be him. He fit the general description Lucas had been given.
“Carsons?” he asked, keeping his voice low. He didn’t want to give away his purpose to the room at large if this wasn’t his man.
The man’s darting eyes roved over Lucas.
“Aye,” the man finally croaked before downing a swig of his ale.
Satisfaction burned in his stomach, and he swung the chair out to sit down across from the ball of rags.
“You were Lord Rathburn’s valet for a time?”
“Rathburn.” The man said the name like a curse. He even sucked up a wad of saliva and spat on the floor. “That’s what I think of Rathburn.”
“Yes, I was told you were not on good terms,” Lucas murmured. “The world of servants is a small one, is it not?”
“Whaddya want with Rathburn?”
Carsons asked, slamming an empty tankard down on the scarred table. He eyed Lucas meaningfully then looked back at the glass. Lucas smiled and signaled for the server.
“I would like some information regarding the time you were employed with him,” Lucas said after Carsons was settled once more. “It was for three years?”
Carsons went to spit on the floor again, but swallowed it after Lucas raised a single brow at the action. He settled back into his chair instead. “That’s right. Son of a whore turned me out without a reference. Without reason. Never been good since then. Never.”
“You performed all the normal duties, I suppose,” Lucas prompted.
Carsons’s gaze shifted to the side. “Could say that.”
“Could say that?” Lucas pounced. “Or would say that?”
Lucas chose that moment to slip his hand in his pocket and jingle the small bag of coins he had there. Carsons’s entire body tensed at the sound, and a greedy look came into his eyes. Still he didn’t say anything. It must be bad. This man had not an ounce of loyalty toward Rathburn, and yet he was resisting an obvious and seductive payday.
“Were there any unusual requests he made of you?” Lucas tried.
Again with the shifting eyes. They darted around the room, before landing on the drink in front of him. He took a loud gulp.
“I promise, it will be worth your while,” Lucas assured him.
Carsons nodded without looking up, clearly having a conversation with himself. He seemed to reach a decision, for he leaned forward, crooking one dirt-encrusted finger at Lucas to come closer. He obliged.
“He had…particular interests with the ladies. A few had to be disappeared, if you know what I mean.”
Lucas felt his stomach clench. “How is that?”
If it was possible, Carsons moved even closer, so that his rotting breath was hot against Lucas’s face. He resisted the urge to pull away. “He liked to make them hurt. Lots of blood. All the servants knew, but none of them had to drag the girls down to the Thames, if you follow the story.”
Lucas fought his revulsion. He had more questions to ask after all. “Did he ever mention the Kingsmen?”
“That bloody secret club?” Carson asked, sitting back and relaxing. “Aye, he mentioned it. Couldna stop talkin’ about that club. He’d go into rages about the girl, too.”
“The girl?”
“Not like the rest, that one,” Carsons said. “She was the one who done it, who ruined it all, he’d say. She was the one who caused the rages.”
“Ruined it all?” Lucas asked.
“He had these big investment schemes mapped out with his Kingsmen partners,” Carsons said, clearly derisive of the plans. “They were going to be richer than gods, as if they weren’t already, you follow?”
“And the girl ruined it all?” Everything in him told him that he was close to an answer. He just needed to drag the information out of this wretched excuse for a human.
Carsons bent in close again. “Ya know, I think he killed her. It was real bad there for a while. With the other girls. A couple a month, and then it stopped. No more trips to the Thames for Carsons.”
“But you were not called upon to handle that particular situation,” Lucas clarified.
“No. But I knew. Who did he think cleaned up his shirts? Ordered the water for him to wash the blood off his hands?” Carsons coughed, flecks of brownish spittle flying from his mouth. “He stopped with the rages after that night,” Carsons continued and took a loud gulp of ale. “And there was a boy around that time.”
Lucas opted for silence and waited for Carsons to fill it. “Aye, there was a boy,” Carsons said again, nodding and eyeing Lucas. “Heard tell the lordship set his man of affairs to watching out for the boy, just at that time. We all thought it peculiar. Why would he set watch on some boy in an orphanage in the Lake District?”
“You are certain it was the Lake District?”
“Aye, heard tell,” Carsons confirmed. “But then I was turned out. For nothing! For nothing!”
“Indeed,” Lucas said, pushing up and away from the table. He was eager to be on his way, and not just because of the information he had received.
“Oy!” Carsons yelled. “Where’s the blunt?”
“Never fear, my man,” he reassured him, reaching into his coat pocket for the coins he kept there. He pressed the bag into Carsons’s filthy hand. “If you think of anything else, please send round for me.”
Carson licked his lips as he palmed the bag, weighing the fullness in his hand. “Aye, will do.”
Satisfied with the transaction, Lucas made for the door. He stepped out into the air and was almost surprised at the daylight. The pub had been so dark and dingy it had felt like it would be the middle of the night. He took a deep breath and let the air refresh him as his mind worked furiously over the information Carsons had given him.
He and Harrington had agreed to meet back at Lucas’s house when they were finished. As he climbed into his carriage, all Lucas could think was how much he wanted to tell Gemma all he had found out. It was an unusual feeling, that—having someone he wanted to tell about his day. Something told him that he could get used to it.
…
Beatrice read the same page in her book for the third time and knew it was hopeless. There was no way she was going to make it through poor Mr. Shakespeare’s lovely drama, as compelling as it was.
She set it down on the small table beside her and let her thoughts drift as they wished.
Lucas had left a few hours earlier, and he’d been so vague about his plans she was sure he was up to something. She wondered if it had something to do with Gemma.
She couldn’t help but hope the two would work through the problem. The more she saw the two of them together, the more she found it a pity their engagement was purely fictional. Lucas needed a strong, intelligent partner. He would never be satisfied with a young chit right out of the schoolroom. He would end up dictating to her instead of talking, directing instead of discussing. He would be bored senseless within a day of the marriage. Gemma would thrive under the stability Lucas could provide. He would challenge her and make her angry, but then be there to kiss the temper out of her. It was so clear to Beatrice. But then, she was perhaps not in the clearest frame of mind regarding love these days. Her thoughts drifted unbidden to the kiss she had shared with George Harrington, and she touched her lips at the memory
She wondered where he was just then. Did it have something to do with Lucas’s mysterious errand? She had clenched her jaw at that. She expected to be left out of Lucas’s interviews, but she had been quite helpful when George had taken her along. Until someone had tried to run her over and they’d ended up in that alleyway, pressed against each other…
At that moment, the door opened to admit the man himself into Lucas’s study. His eyes roved over her, then around the room checking for other occupants. When he found none, he returned his gaze to her person. Only then did she realize his arm was bloody.
She gasped and leaped to her feet, rushing over to him. “Please do not concern yourself, it is nothing,” he said before she could utter anything. “A mere scratch.”
Panic receded into anger at his words. “Oh, yes, I can see that you are in perfectly fine health, sir,” she said, her voice icy. But her hands were gentle when they directed him onto the chaise near the fireplace. She sat beside him, her knees brushing his, and bent over his arm to study the mess he had made of it. She pulled the cloth from his torn coat away from the wound. Some of the pieces were matted to the skin with blood, but he didn’t even flinch when she tugged at them. Once she could see it more clearly, she relaxed and summoned the butler to bring her warm water and bandages.
She turned back to him to find his eyes unnervingly close to hers. Their faces were separated by only a wisp of air. She cleared her throat, but couldn’t seem to find her voice.
“See,” he murmured, not retreating. “A mere scratch.”
She pulled away to
look at it once more. “Not quite a scratch, sir, but it does not seem to require me to fetch my sewing kit.”
His eyes crinkled in humor that did not reach his lips. “Thank heavens for that.”
The butler reentered the room with her supplies before she could work up a proper retort. She pursed her lips as she surveyed him. “You need a drink,” she said. She walked over to the crystal decanter without awaiting a reply. She splashed some liquid into a glass, then splashed a bit more. She took a sip of it herself before turning back to him. He raised his eyebrows in amusement, but he took the drink without comment. “Fortification,” she muttered.
“Indeed,” he said, swallowing a healthy dose.
“The coat has to go,” she said, sitting beside him once more and picking up the scissors.
He closed his eyes as if in pain at the thought. “Just promise to make it quick.”
She laughed at the absurdity. As if this man would care a whit about his clothes. She went to work cutting away the material, washing the wound, and wrapping clean white bandages around his arm. He did not make a sound through the whole ordeal.
She, on the other hand, could not seem to keep her mews of distresses under control. She was even perspiring at the end of it. When she finally finished and sat back, she looked up and found herself under his studious gaze once more. He had been watching her the whole time. His lips curled up in that half smile, and he offered her the brandy again.
“More fortification?” he asked.
She took the glass without shame and sipped, letting the fire burn to her belly. It settled her again, and she set the drink on the table.
He looked down at his arm, then back at her. “Thank you,” he said, his voice devoid of his usual irony.
“You’re welcome,” she managed to get out, moved by the emotion she saw in his eyes. She looked away. “Now. How did this happen?”
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