Chapter Six
“A re you sure you wish to do this?” Mitchell asked Drew.
They stood at the corner of Brick Lane and Chicksand Street. The hanging metal sign above showed a rooster crowing at the morning sun. Its hinges creaked in the breeze. “Now that we are here, I’m not certain. But as you mentioned, perhaps it is best to pull the bandage off the wound quickly. As a doctor, I say that is sound advice.”
“Then, after you.” Mitchell held out his arm, indicating Drew should go first.
They crossed the threshold into an active environment. The restaurant had booths along the side walls, with wooden tables and chairs making up the rest of the floor space. The bar area was located along the back wall, with multiple shelves filled with bottles, glasses, mugs, and goblets of every size and shape. The bar had four taps, with various types of beer. There was no fireplace, but numerous gas lights hissed overhead, throwing a subdued illumination over the eating area but bright enough to make out what you were eating.
They arrived at two in the afternoon when it would not be as busy, but there were still more customers than Mitchell thought there would be. The Crowing Cock had the appearance of a restaurant more than a pub, but that was probably what the Hallahan bloke was going for. The place looked spotless, and the waitresses wore matching uniforms that resembled what maids would wear in a wealthy man’s house—all black with white frilly aprons and caps.
“There is a booth in the back. It will give us some privacy,” Drew said.
They made their way there and slid in across the dark green leather bench seats. The high wooden dividers between some booths offered a modicum of privacy. Mitchell rested his cane, hat, and gloves on the seat beside him.
An attractive waitress immediately came to the table and gave them a winning smile. “Good afternoon, gents. The full luncheon menu is unavailable now, but we have afternoon offerings. The special today is beefsteak and onions with colcannon and roasted carrots. This afternoon, we also have a variation of a full breakfast consisting of sausage, fried eggs and potatoes, grilled mushrooms, and black pudding. There is also our famous Irish version of cock-a-leekie soup served with soda bread.”
“Varied and delicious choices,” Drew stated. “What is colcannon?”
“Mashed potatoes with leeks and cabbage, sir,” the waitress replied.
“And the Irish version of the soup?” Mitchell asked.
“We do not use prunes like the Scots, sir, but common vegetables like turnips and potatoes.”
“Well, we might as well have something hearty while here,” Drew said. “I will have the beefsteak and a pint of Guinness.”
“I will have the same,” Mitchell declared. “We would also like a word with your chef. Is Liam Hallahan here? Can he spare us a few moments?”
The waitress, momentarily taken aback, smoothed her features into a neutral look. “I’ll ask him, but he is busy in the kitchen.”
“Tell him it is personal,” Drew said kindly. “And he can see us at his convenience, of course. There is no need for urgency.”
The waitress nodded, then quickly went to bring their pints of stout. A big Irishman came through the door as Mitchell took his first sip. He leaned down to listen as the waitress whispered in his ear, motioning toward their booth.
“He’s out of the kitchen,” Mitchell murmured, “And the waitress is filling him in on our request.”
“How does he look?” Drew asked. His seat was facing the opposite direction.
“He looks annoyed and is heading this way.”
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?”
Hallahan’s voice was deep, and his words clipped, but they were not unfriendly. Mitchell didn’t hear much of an Irish accent, either. The man was easily three or four inches over six feet and broad of shoulder. He wore black trousers and a white shirt, and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, showing muscular forearms. Mitchell glanced at Drew.
Drew turned to the man. “I am Doctor Drew Hornsby, and this is Detective Sergeant Mitchell Simpson. I believe we have a father in common.”
That was candid and to the point, and Hallahan’s eyes widened briefly—the same blue eyes they possessed.
The tall man recovered swiftly enough. “So?”
The tone was not so friendly now.
“You know who we are talking about, don’t you?” Mitchell stated. He wasn’t a detective for nothing. He had seen the brief shadow cross Hallahan’s eyes at the mention of their ‘father.’
“I met him once, and I kicked his aristo arse out of my place. I’ll do the same to you two if you don’t get to the bloody point,” Hallahan growled in a low voice.
Drew moved over on the large bench seat. “Please, Mr. Hallahan, sit with us a moment. We have no notorious intent. We merely wish to speak with you.”
Hallahan grunted as he visually scanned the restaurant. “I only have your meals to cook; everyone else is served. I can talk to you until more customers come in. Fair play?”
“That is more than satisfactory,” Drew replied.
The chef stomped away, clearly agitated.
“We stirred up something there,” Mitchell said as he sipped the stout.
“It is obvious the late duke sought him out at some point, and it did not go well. Either that or he is generally an unpleasant sort. Many talented chefs are, or so I hear.”
“Possibly. We will soon discover if he is talented or not. Hallahan will surely kick us to the cobbles as soon as we eat and pay for the meals. What do we want from this bloke, anyway?” Mitchell asked, still keeping his voice low.
“We started this to see if any of our relations needed assistance. Observing this restaurant, I would say Hallahan is doing well enough. Look at the businessmen sitting at the table near the window and at the family in the booth opposite. Decidedly middle-class or above. This is not exactly a middle-class area. If he wants nothing to do with us, I say we move on to the next name on the list.”
Mitchell nodded. “You may have the right of it. We’ll see what he has to say.”
Ten minutes later, the waitress brought them two large platters heaped with food, along with a wicker basket filled with Irish soda bread and small dishes of whipped butter. Hallahan emerged from the kitchen, whispered something to a different waitress, and then stomped over to their table, sliding beside Drew.
“Go on. Speak. I’m a busy man.”
Mitchell sliced into the beefsteak. It was like cutting through butter. He speared a piece of the tender meat on his fork, twirled it through the creamy potatoes, and ate it. After he swallowed, he looked up at Hallahan. “ That is delicious. The best beefsteak I have had in a long while.” He spoke the truth. The meat was far tastier than the one he had two days ago at a pub in Camden Town.
Hallahan grunted and nodded, obviously pleased. “What do you care about the late duke? Aye, I read about his death in the paper a few months back. Why seek me out? And how do you even know about me?”
Drew reached into his coat side pocket and pulled out the record of names. “You are on this list that the dowager duchess recently gave her son. In his investigations, the new duke, Damon Cranston, discovered a tangled web of a conspiracy. Beyond this list is a ledger with names spanning over three decades. I recently learned of my connection from my adopted father when the old duke passed. Mitchell found out shortly before that, when the new duke sought him out.”
Hallahan took the list offered and scanned it. “I don’t see the name Simpson here.”
“I recently took my adopted family’s name. I am on there as Mitchell Evercreech.”
“All right. So, I am on a list. What do you want from me? My life is demanding enough. I don’t need complications mucking things up,” Hallahan said brusquely.
One of the servers came over. “We have customers, Liam.”
“I’ve got a business to run.” He stood abruptly. “At seven, this place turns into a pub with card games at the tables. That is when I knock off, and my night manager takes over. Be here thirty minutes past seven, ask for Fiona, and she will show you to my quarters. I live upstairs. The meals are on the house, but leave a donation on the table. I feed the poor of the neighborhood in the mornings.” Hallahan turned and strode toward the rear of the restaurant.
“Well, I am intrigued already,” Drew whispered. “And this food is outstanding.”
“Then we will return early this evening.” Mitchell buttered a piece of bread and bit into it. “This bread is delicious as well. I can see why this restaurant is popular.” He glanced up at the entrance as more customers came through the door, a young family of four and a couple of men wearing suits. Outstanding, indeed. Wistfully, Mitchell imagined bringing Corrine here. She would undoubtedly like it as well. Did he dare ask her?
Get over it, man.
Mitchell turned his attention to the food and the night ahead. After meeting with Hallahan, he should head to Camden Town and check in on the baron. Hopefully, that would remove all thoughts of the lovely baroness from his mind.
The Crowing Cock had been transformed from a restaurant into a pub. The place was packed; all the tables were taken up with men and a few women of all classes playing cards. He recognized the waitress that had served him and Drew that afternoon. Only tonight, her uniform was that of a barmaid’s, complete with a flowing skirt and a tight bodice, showing ample cleavage.
She strode toward them, carrying an empty tray. “You’re back. Here to see Liam?”
“Yes,” Mitchell replied. “We are to ask for Fiona.”
The waitress stuck her thumb and index finger in her mouth and gave a shrill whistle. A woman at the rear of the pub looked up, then came before them.
“Thank you, Hannah. The doctor and the detective?”
“We are,” Drew answered.
“Then come this way, through the back.”
Smoke filled the air, along with loud laughter and animated conversation. The beer flowed, and from what Mitchell could see, a lot of money sat on the various gaming tables.
Once they stepped outside, Mitchell said, “Hosting a gaming hall in the evening appears profitable.”
“It is,” Fiona replied. “It helps to fund the rest.” She pointed to wrought iron stairs. “Up there and through the door.” She glanced at Mitchell’s cane. “Can you manage? We have a man on the premises who can assist you.”
“I can manage, thank you.”
“Fair play. Once you are through the main entrance, head straight down the hall and knock on the door directly before you. Good evening.” Fiona gave them a pretty smile and disappeared through the rear of the building.
As they slowly climbed the stairs, Drew stood alongside Mitchell, ready to offer aid. By the time they reached the top, Hallahan stood at the entrance.
“You’re prompt, I’ll give you that. Come in.” Hallahan opened the door to his flat. The coziness of it immediately struck Mitchell. Older and possibly used furniture, but high quality, filled the room. Dark wood walls and gold and green accents gave the place a masculine appearance. However, the sound from downstairs was incessant, a low drone of muffled voices and laughter. “Sit there.” Hallahan pointed to the sofa. “There’s mugs of tea and bowls of flummery. It is basically milk and bread in the Irish workhouses, but I have added oats, honey, blackberries, plums, cream, and a dash of Irish whiskey.”
“This is very hospitable of you,” Drew exclaimed as he sat. Hallahan sat across from him in an overstuffed chair, large enough to comfortably support his frame.
“My mother taught me some manners,” Hallahan scoffed.
“Was it your mother who told you of the duke?” Mitchell asked as he sipped his tea.
“Always the detective, eh? She did, but I never believed her. We were barely surviving, hardly a crust to eat, yet she goes on and on about a duke? She died when I was twelve years of age, and I was left an orphan alone on the streets. Is that what you wanted to know?”
There was an edge to his voice that lingered, regardless of the subject matter. A barely contained rage, not at them specifically, but no doubt at life itself. Or at least, when speaking of his past life. Mitchell placed his mug on the table and picked up the crockery bowl of flummery. It smelled enticing, and he took a heaping spoonful. He audibly groaned at the tastiness of it. “You are very talented. This is amazing.”
The corner of Hallahan’s lips twitched—an almost smile.
“We do not wish to furrow about your past,” Drew offered, his voice soft with empathy. “Far from it. We are here to offer an invitation. We are forming a group to assist those associated with the duke through a common bloodline. But not specifically that. I work at free medical clinics in between seeing a few paying patients. We can band together to help those in our vicinity. For example, those less fortunate who come here to be fed every morning?”
Hallahan arched an eyebrow. “Aye. What of it?”
“I can come once a week and offer free medical care. I would guess most people do not know about free medical clinics. I can refer those needing more serious attention. Another example? The new Duke of Chellenham’s group sends leftover food to soup kitchens. What if I divert some of the food here?”
Drew had Hallahan’s undivided attention now.
“And what would I do with it, exactly?”
“Well, you are the chef. I suppose you could—repurpose it. Repurpose is not really a word. What I mean is sell it to your customers and use that profit to fund your free meals or any other charity plan you may have. Or give it away to the hungry.”
Mitchell was dually impressed with Drew’s suggestions.
Hallahan took his mug of tea, sat back, and regarded them closely. “You say there are more names beyond what you showed me.”
Drew took a spoonful of the fruity dessert. “Mitchell is correct. This is very tasty, like a comforting blanket of warmth. To answer your question, yes. There are dozens upon dozens. The youngest that we know of is five years of age. She and three others are moving in with Damon Cranston, the new Duke of Chellenham, and his bride, the first of next month.”
Hallahan arched his eyebrow again. “A ready-made family. Here’s the thing: I’m not looking for one. I got this far on my own, more or less. The closest thing I have to family are the ladies downstairs. Some of them worked in the brothel until I closed it. Now, they are waitresses, managers, and more. I look out for them. They look out for me. That is the definition of a family in my eyes.”
“You are correct,” Mitchell murmured. “We are not here to recruit you as a brother but as someone with a common purpose: to rise above Edward Cranston’s despicable legacy. To assist those less fortunate, whether in our immediate sphere or beyond. And especially those Edward Cranston left to flounder: his own children.”
Hallahan was giving it some thought. Mitchell could almost hear the wheels turning in the Irishman’s mind.
“All right. I will join your group for now. You can ask your nob friends to make a donation as well, to buy vegetables and meat for the stew I serve. Hornsby, come here in five days, at ten in the morning, and we will see how it goes. Also, I can reuse, or as you call it, repurpose the toff food and sell it. I would welcome that, too.”
Drew placed his empty bowl on the table. “I will come at ten.” Drew reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded paper. “Our address.”
Hallahan read it, then snorted. “Gloucester Square? Pardon me all to hell.”
Drew shrugged, then stood. So did Mitchell. “My father is a viscount, my uncle, a duke.”
“And yet you labor in a free medical clinic?” Hallahan questioned.
“Like you, I do my part.” Drew held out his hand. “Welcome to The Duke’s Bastards.”
Hallahan tucked the slip of paper in his trousers pocket, took Drew’s hand, and shook it. “The Duke’s Bastards. An appropriate name.”
After shaking Mitchell’s hand, Hallahan turned to go.
It was an interesting beginning to their group, Mitchell thought. What would become of it all remained to be seen.
Tomorrow, he’d have to turn his attention to his Addington case. How inappropriate that he physically ached to see Corrine again.
Oh, this is not good at all.