Chapter 37
For the first time since entering the office, Mr. Eden’s expression faltered—a faint break in the polished warmth that vanished almost before Jonathan was certain he’d seen it. Then the gentleman’s hand lowered to his side as his smile thinned.
“I am not one to give second chances, my boy. I fear you do not understand what I am offering.”
“I understand, sir,” replied Jonathan, though his throat tightened around the words.
“Do you?” Mr. Eden tilted his head, studying him with an attention that stripped away every trace of geniality. “Because from where I stand, it appears as though you are rejecting my generosity, and I am not one to forget a slight like that.”
The silence grew as Mr. Eden watched him with narrowed eyes, thickening until it was a tangible weight in the office.
“I mean no insult,” said Jonathan, carefully.
“What else could you mean?” Mr. Eden asked softly. “If you cannot accept assistance from me, then I must conclude you do not trust me. And if that is the case, I see little reason for Eden his limbs grew heavy as the last several minutes settled over him like wet wool, yet beneath that weight came an odd, bracing lightness that made the room around him appear sharper than before.
The path ahead had not grown easier. If anything, it had narrowed considerably. But for the first time in days, perhaps weeks, Jonathan felt more himself than he’d been in a good long while.
***
The tea shop sat on a narrow street, and a painted sign hung above the door, weathered at the edges despite the cheerful letters promising tea, cakes, and light refreshments within.
The mild spring had given way to a wet June, and rain spattered the front glass, though it added to the coziness of the well-loved establishment.
The whole room smelled of strong tea, warm milk, damp wool, and currant buns fresh from the oven.
It was respectable, but only just; the silver was not silver at all, and the china bore faint chips beneath the painted violets.
It was the sort of place clerks and shopgirls frequented when they wished for something better than a hurried meal from a street hawker.
No elegant ladies sat exchanging gossip around the worn tables.
No gentlemen shared a laugh or tales of their latest exploits whilst seated in the wobbly chairs.
And that was precisely why Nora had chosen it. Her table sat near the rear, positioned to see the door without being spied from the street, though the veil draped over her hat and face did a fair job of hiding her from casual glances.
A bell rang, and a smattering of rain echoed through the shop as the front door opened, drawing Nora’s gaze to see Mr. Pell shaking off his greatcoat as he glanced about. Not pausing for her to acknowledge him, he strode straight to her.
“How did you know I sent the note?” asked Nora, glancing about as though a spy were lurking in one of the corners.
“I mean no disrespect, madam, but if you are looking for anonymity, wearing a veil is the worst thing you can do,” he said, shucking his coat and hanging it and his hat on an obliging rack near the table.
“It telegraphs to all and sundry that you do not wish to be recognized, which is far more suspect than simply going about your business as though it were an ordinary day and invites others to look all the closer.”
Drawing in a breath, Nora tugged the veil off and set it aside. “I suppose you think I am being silly.”
Mr. Pell lifted a hand to the attendant and ordered a fresh pot of tea for the table.
“I think you are an intelligent woman who knows precisely how precarious her situation is. Caution and vigilance are not silly. I trust most of my peers at the newspaper, but had they seen your name at the bottom of your note, your father would’ve been notified in a trice.
He is a powerful man and not many are willing to question him. ”
Nora’s pulse quickened at that, and before she could talk herself out of her present course, she presented him with the report and detailed what she knew, little though that may be.
Mr. Pell listened, his brows raising as he read through the paper, interrupting only to clarify a few matters before he retrieved a notebook from his pocket and began scribbling notes.
Despite her best efforts to remain calm and collected, she couldn’t help glancing about, which she was certain was just as guilty-looking as the wretched veil, but Nora couldn’t stop from wondering who might be listening.
Mr. Pell’s pencil slowed, then stopped entirely, and for several long moments he remained bent over the report, his gaze moving across the lines again with growing intensity whilst the tea shop continued its ordinary clatter around them.
The fresh pot arrived. Cups rattled. Somewhere near the front window, two women murmured over seedcake and shop accounts.
Yet at their small table, Mr. Pell was removed from all of it, his face losing some of its professional eagerness as the meaning of the figures settled more fully before him.
“I suspected underhanded dealings,” he said at last, so quietly Nora had to lean nearer to hear him. “Questionable tactics. Pressure applied to clients. Perhaps even bribery of government officials.”
Mr. Pell’s eyes lifted to hers, and the look there made the skin along Nora’s arms prickle beneath her sleeves. “But this report indicates something far larger.”
Holding the paper with care, he studied it.
“If Eden & Co. has been issuing false statements to clients, claiming investments that do not exist and returns never earned, how many of his transactions are fraudulent? Is this evidence of a widespread issue or merely the efforts to delay bankruptcy—like with the City of Glasgow Bank debacle?”
Mr. Pell’s mouth pressed into a thin line as he looked back down at the report. “His company is large and powerful. If it collapsed, it would ruin not only your father. This could shake the very foundations of Lombard Street. Of the country itself.”
“But we do not know that for certain. I know of only one lie upon that report, and that could easily be a mistake.” Nora paused and added, “Though I did see other reports listing Hatcher & Byrnes.”
“I will check the entire record, Miss Eden. It should be easy enough to verify with the individual companies, and that should give us a better sense of what is happening,” he said in a distracted manner, scribbling away at his notes.
Nora fiddled with her teacup, tapping the handle and twisting it this way and that, though she couldn’t bring herself to drink.
“Will you…” she paused, frowning as she sorted through her words. “I did not know who to speak to about this, and I was afraid that if I went to the police, they would ignore the problem. I don’t know if they would even believe me, but… We do not know what this is.”
Mr. Pell looked up from his notes and the report, his pencil still hovering above the page.
“It has only been a few short years since the Glasgow fraud decimated the economy, and we are both old enough to recall the Overend, Gurney and Co. scandal before it. Improper reporting can cause as much of a panic as genuine fraud, and as much as I wish for a story, I assure you, I shan’t rush into accusations without doing my due diligence. ”
The professional eagerness of moments ago faded into something graver, and his brows lowered as he studied her. “Are you certain you wish to give this to me? I admire your fortitude, but have you considered the ramifications—”
“I know what it will mean to me, personally,” said Nora, straightening as she drew in a deep but shaky breath. “We will lose everything, and I don’t know how we will manage. Heaven knows no one will wish to aid us once the truth comes to light, no matter how innocent the rest of us are.”
Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she added, “But what will happen to a good many families if my father is allowed to continue, unchecked? To remain silent is to be complicit, and my conscience cannot allow that. Whatever difficulties lie ahead, I cannot sacrifice others for our sake.”
Mr. Pell’s expression shifted at that, not softening precisely, but settling into something steadier. The pencil lowered at last, and he closed his notebook around one finger to keep the page.
“Then I will do my utmost to ensure the truth is handled carefully,” he said quietly. “And I will do everything to protect your anonymity.”
The promise should have comforted her more than it did. Instead, Nora felt only the strange emptiness that comes after a leap has already been taken, when one’s feet have left solid ground, and there is nothing to do but hope that one will arrive on the other side.
The tea shop bustled around them just as before: spoons clinking against cups, low voices, the bell above the door giving a faint jangle as someone entered from the street. Ordinary sounds. Ordinary people. A world still moving as though nothing of importance had occurred.
But now, the report lay in Mr. Pell’s keeping.
Nora looked down at her gloved hands, folded tightly in her lap, and forced her fingers to loosen. There was no turning back now.
Across the table, Mr. Pell tucked the paper carefully into his notebook, holding it there as though it were as precious as gold, and though her whole body felt hollowed out and trembling, Nora sat a little straighter.
Whatever else may come, this was the right choice.
The only choice.