Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
Business Inquiries
The morning room at White’s smelled of tobacco smoke and old leather, the familiar scents of masculine privilege that had permeated these walls for over a century.
I settled into a wing chair near the bow window, where grey light filtered through the glass and fell across the morning papers scattered on a nearby table.
Every front page bore the same headline—“Murder at the Opera.”
I had no intention of reading the coverage.
I had witnessed the crime and had no need of journalists’ speculation.
What I required was something far more valuable: the whispered intelligence that passed between gentlemen in rooms such as this, the sort of information that never found its way into print.
The club was quieter than usual for a weekday morning.
The murder had unsettled London society, and many men who might otherwise have been here were no doubt at home, reassuring nervous wives or attending to business made suddenly urgent by Hale’s death.
Those who had ventured out spoke in lowered voices, glancing toward the door each time it opened.
A footman appeared at my elbow, his white gloves immaculate against the silver tray. “Coffee, Your Grace?”
“Yes. And send word if Lord Marchmont arrives.”
“His lordship is already here, Your Grace. In his usual place by the fire.”
Of course he was. Reginald Harcourt, Baron Marchmont, had occupied the same leather armchair beside the hearth for as long as anyone could remember.
He was seventy if he was a day, with white whiskers and sharp eyes that missed nothing.
In his younger years, he had built a fortune in the City through means that remained somewhat opaque—shipping, banking, commodities, whatever turned a profit.
Now retired to the comfortable occupation of watching the world pass by from his club chair, he had become something of an institution.
More importantly, if anyone knew the truth about Sir Edmund Hale’s business affairs, it would be Marchmont.
I collected my coffee and made my way across the room, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. Portraits of former members gazed down from the walls with expressions of aristocratic disapproval, as though the very notion of murder in their midst was a breach of club etiquette.
The baron looked up from his newspaper as I approached, his weathered face creasing into something that might have been a smile. A glass of whiskey sat at his elbow—it was never too early for whiskey, in Marchmont’s view.
“Steele. I wondered when you’d appear.”
“Marchmont.” I took the chair opposite him, positioning myself so I could observe both his face and the room beyond. Old habits. “You were expecting me?”
“I saw your box at the opera the other evening. The one adjacent to Hale’s.” He folded his paper with deliberate care, setting it aside. “And I know you well enough to recognize when a man is hunting.”
Direct, then. I appreciated directness.
“What can you tell me about Hale?”
Marchmont studied me for a long moment, his grey eyes calculating beneath heavy brows.
The fire crackled beside us, casting shifting patterns of light across his face.
He reached for his whisky before answering.
“Edmund Hale was a man who made a great show of success. The mansion in Mayfair, the box at the opera, the much younger wife dripping in diamonds. But show and substance are not always the same thing.”
“You’re suggesting his finances were not what they appeared?”
“I’m suggesting nothing.” The baron sipped his drink, savoring it. “I’m merely observing that a man who once moved markets with a word had grown rather quiet of late. His partners in the City noticed.”
This aligned with nothing I had previously heard about Hale. His reputation was that of a man with the Midas touch—shipping, railways, mining concerns scattered across three continents. I said as much.
Marchmont made a dismissive sound. “His shipping interests were solid enough—I’ll grant him that.
Built them himself, from nothing, which commands a certain respect.
But a man like Hale never could resist the lure of larger game.
” He paused, swirling the amber liquid in his glass as though reading portents in its depths.
“There was talk, perhaps a year and a half ago, of a consortium. Some manner of development scheme, if I recall correctly. The details were kept rather close, but the whispers suggested significant capital was involved. Very significant.”
“A consortium?” I leaned forward slightly. “Who else was involved?”
“That I cannot tell you. The whole affair was conducted with unusual discretion—which, in my experience, generally means that someone wished to avoid scrutiny.” Marchmont’s eyes met mine, and for a moment I glimpsed the shrewd businessman he had once been.
“I make it my business to know things, Steele. I have done so for fifty years. The fact that I know so little about this particular venture tells me more than any prospectus ever could.”
“Is there anyone who might know more?”
Marchmont considered the question, his gaze drifting toward the far side of the room.
“Davenport,” he said at last. “Sir Nigel Davenport runs a firm on Threadneedle Street.
He manages Hale's financial affairs—investments, accounts, and the movement of capital. If anyone knows about the money, it would be him.”
“Is he here?”
“Not today. Davenport has been conspicuously absent since the murder—which, in itself, tells you something.” Marchmont’s mouth twisted.
“A man with nothing to hide does not vanish from his usual haunts the moment a business associate dies violently. A man with something to protect, on the other hand…”
He let the implication hang.
“Where would I find him?”
“His townhouse in Belgravia, I should think. Or his offices in the City—he keeps rooms on Threadneedle Street.” Marchmont caught my arm as I began to rise.
His grip was stronger than one might expect from a man of seventy.
“Davenport is not a man who shares secrets lightly. He is careful, methodical, and acutely aware of the risks of loose talk. Whatever he tells you, it will be because he has decided you ought to know.”
“And if he decides I ought not to know?”
“Then you will have learned that too.” Marchmont released my arm and reached for his whisky. “Tell him I sent you. My name still carries weight in certain quarters.”
I thanked the baron and rose. He was already unfolding his newspaper; the interview concluded as far as he was concerned.
“Steele.” His voice caught me at the edge of the hearth’s warmth, and I turned. “Good hunting, Your Grace.”
I moved through the club toward the entrance hall, my mind cataloguing what I had learned.
Hale’s fortune was suspect. A secretive consortium had drawn significant capital.
The details had been kept close—too close for even Marchmont’s considerable network to penetrate.
And Davenport, who managed Hale’s finances, had gone to ground since the murder.
None of this pointed to a murderer—not yet. But the shape of something was forming in the margins, the way a figure emerges from fog: indistinct at first, then gradually, unmistakably solid.
I would need to find Davenport. The man’s absence from his usual haunts suggested either fear or calculation, and both warranted investigation.
The question was what.
I collected my hat and gloves from the footman and stepped out into the grey London afternoon.
The air was damp, carrying the familiar scent of coal smoke and rain.
Across the street, a newsboy was shouting the latest headline—something about the opera murder and a reward for information.
The penny papers were having a fine time of it.
They would have a finer time still if they knew about the royal connection.
But they would not learn it from me.
I turned up my collar against the drizzle and set my course for home. The investigation had begun, but its first lesson was already clear: in the world Sir Edmund Hale had inhabited, information was currency—hoarded, guarded, and never given freely.
It would need to be earned.