Chapter Eighteen
C orrine sat in Drew Hornsby’s carriage as the horses’ hooves clomped steadily toward the East End. She glanced at Mitchell’s newly discovered half-brother. He looked very young, earnest, yet self-contained. But, as Corrine knew all too well, medical professionals had to keep a detached air when dealing with patients and humanity at large, or one could fall to pieces. Witnessing tragedy and heartache took its toll. It had done so with Corrine. Staring into Doctor Drew’s lovely blue eyes—so similar to Mitchell’s—she could see the shadows lurking beneath his serene countenance, as if he had seen too much already.
“It must have been quite the blow to learn the identity of your biological father,” Corrine said quietly.
“It was, rather. In the back of my mind, I knew it must be bad, as my mother changed our last name and moved us about until she became sick. I asked her once about my father, and all the blood drained from her face. She firmly stated I was never to mention him again, that he was a bad man who was looking for us. She refused to tell me the reason. To sell me, perhaps, as he had so many others? Once the Hornsbys adopted me, I assumed I was safe. But life takes unexpected turns.”
Corrine sighed. “Yes, it certainly does. Do you resent your viscount father for telling you the truth?”
“No, my lady,” Drew replied softly. “I love him too much to resent him about anything. I understand that he made a deathbed promise to my mother, that he would not tell me the truth of my birth. I accept that, as I have witnessed enough of them in my occupation. I also recognize my bloodline and the various siblings that come with it.”
Corrine nodded. “I think Mitchell is having difficulty accepting the shocking revelations.”
“When a loving family adopts you, you let down your guard and believe yourself secure. It’s difficult when something comes along and upends that precarious sense of protection. I am still dealing with it. My family has been nothing but supportive. Alas, Mitchell does not have that, as both his parents have passed. It’s one of the reasons I asked him to move in with me for a while. We are assisting each other in our own ways.”
“I think that is brilliant. Well done.”
Drew answered with a slight smile and an incline of his head. The plush carriage stopped in front of Hallahan’s.
“Why not come in and join us for a late supper?” Corrine asked. “Please, Drew, if I may call you that. And I would like you to call me Corrine. We will be working together at the free clinic now and then, after all.”
“You have much to discuss with Mitchell, and I assume some of the conversation is private.”
“Then come in for a drink, at least.”
“Very well, Corrine. I shall.” Drew banged on the roof, and the sliding window opened.
“Yes, sir?”
“Wright, park the carriage. I shan’t be long.”
Drew assisted her from the carriage, and she took his arm as they entered Hallahan’s. The place was alive with vibrant conversation as a haze of tobacco smoke hung over the area. Every table was filled with patrons playing games of cards. Coins and pound notes littered the tables’ surfaces, along with mugs of beer, goblets of wine or port, and overflowing ashtrays. Servers moved skillfully between the tables, gathering empty glasses or delivering platters of finger foods. Corrine’s mouth quirked. They were no doubt leftovers from aristocratic meals.
A waitress came to stand before them. “Hello. I recognize you both. Are you here to meet the detective?”
“Yes, we are,” Drew replied.
“This way, if you please.”
Weaving in and around the tables, the waitress led them through a door into a private room. Mitchell stood.
“I will not stay long,” Drew said. “Corrine invited me for a drink.” Drew pulled out a chair for Corrine across from Mitchell and sat beside his half-brother.
“My name is Enya. What would you like?” the waitress asked.
“I will have a glass of white wine,” Corrine answered. “And please bring us a platter of those tasty-looking finger foods.”
“Right away. Gents?”
“I will have a pint of Bass pale ale if you have it,” Drew replied.
“We do. Detective?”
“The same, if you please.”
Enya gave them a warm smile. “I’ll return directly.”
Mitchell’s eyebrow cocked as he glanced from Drew back to her.
“You may speak of generalities of the case in front of Drew,” Corrine said, guessing Mitchell’s thoughts.
“Very well. I have recovered part of the loan Addington gave your father.”
Corrine was utterly shocked. “I am impressed. Well done, you. How did you manage that?”
Mitchell gave her the details, following her father from an expensive shop to a residence on Old Street and how he forced his way in and found her father with his paramour.
“Wait, there is a young boy?” Corrine whispered. “My father led a double life the past seven years, taking mine and Jeffery’s earnings and spending it on Mrs. Robson? Where is the money now?”
“In Drew’s safe.”
The waitress returned with their drinks and placed a platter and small plates in the middle of the table. “There are lobster puffs, a mushroom one, and I think one has goat cheese. Have fun discovering the flavors.”
“Thank you,” Corrine replied absently, still in shock.
“Thank you,” Mitchell said. “We will order dinner in about an hour.”
Enya departed. Corrine’s eyes rimmed with unshed tears at the information Mitchell had revealed. “That poor woman and her child. It seems they are victims of my father’s blatant selfishness as well.” She looked up at Drew and Mitchell. “I have a half-brother. I now understand the shock of learning such information.”
Mitchell took the platter of canapes, placed a few on his plate, and then passed it to Drew. “Mrs. Robson gave me the impression that she still loved your father, but trust would be a major concern in the future. Whether she stays with him, I cannot know.”
Corrine took a trembling breath, then exhaled. “I will ask my father about all this soon enough or when I can bear to face him. I’m vastly relieved you recovered as much as you did.”
“I’ve discovered more. You might want a sip of fortifying wine. The hooded man? It may be a villain I had dealings with in Notting Dale. His name is Jedidiah Danaher, and he is a rookery boss. He was believed killed in a pub fire.”
“Believed? This is the man that shot you that night?” Drew asked, his expression incredulous.
Corrine gasped. How could it be possible? And why? Why would a rookery boss seek out Addington and have possible ties to the previous baron?
Mitchell explained how he’d stopped in to visit Rett Wollstonecraft, who was also there that night, although Mitchell stated he could not talk about the details. Then he told them of the detailed physical description Mr. Wollstonecraft gave. “Yes, that is it,” Corrine interjected as she touched her forehead. “The scarring I saw for a fleeting moment was on the forehead and temple. What connection could this criminal have to the barony?”
“ That is the mystery. Let’s assume that Danaher is still living and lurking about the streets. I traveled to Notting Dale yesterday, and the side of the street where the pub was located has been completely razed. The place has had multiple loads of dirt delivered to fill in the craters caused by the fire. There were men still working on it when I was there. One of the laborers told me that more buildings will be pulled down in the new year. A complete clearance will be in full swing come spring.”
Drew took his last sip of ale. “So the plans for a mix of public and private housing will go ahead then? There will be no place for Danaher to return, will there?”
Mitchell shook his head. “No. Which may make him desperate. Still, how on earth am I to find him in this city? It will be damn near impossible.”
Drew stood. “On that note, I will take my leave. Enjoy your dinner. I will have Wright take me home, and then send him back for you. Take your time. Good evening.”
“Good night, Drew,” Corrine smiled.
After the doctor’s departure, Enya returned. “We have roast beef with all the trimmings, including Yorkshire pudding.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Corrine replied. Mitchell nodded. The waitress gathered up the empty plates and hurried away. “After what you have relayed, I do not feel safe. Danaher could show up at any time and demand to see Travis. I warned him that a hooded man was looking for him. He acted unconcerned.”
Mitchell frowned. “Perhaps you should return to your father’s home until this situation resolves itself.”
“No. I will never return there. I’m so angry and disappointed. My father was always an egotistic creature. Even Mother said so. But this? To have a mistress and a child? I worked my fingers to the nubs, and my brother logged in long hours at the bank. only to keep him and his second family in comfort! Why didn’t my father tell us about them? I can never forgive—or forget.”
“I do not blame you. Not in the least.”
“Tell me about your parents, the Simpsons. Surely, they were better than my father. I want to hear about your childhood. It might cheer me up.”
Mitchell sipped his ale. “Charles Simpson was fifty-eight, and my mother, Clara, was fifty-six when they adopted me. They could not have children of their own. At the time of the adoption, I was about four years old, with no memory of my past life. I cannot recall my biological mother at all. Anyway, my father retired from the Met Police when I turned seven, and they gave me all the love and attention I could ever want. They encouraged my education and extensive reading, and when I told my father I wanted to be a policeman like him, they encouraged that, too.”
“They sound perfect. When did they pass away?” Corrine asked, her voice soft.
“They died within two months of each other just after I turned twenty-one—the downside to having older parents. I still miss them terribly. I cannot fathom what my life would have been like if they hadn’t taken me in. When I was adopted, my name was Mitchell Evercreech. I asked my father once why my last name wasn’t Simpson. He said I should keep the name I was born with and be proud of it.” Mitchell shook his head. “Only I wasn’t born with that name. It was made up using my given name and the place where I was born. Damon showed me the entry in the ledger.”
“That is horrible.”
“That was a common practice in some orphanages, workhouses, and foundling homes. It was Damon who suggested I take my parents’ last name. So I did a few months ago. I should have done it long before now.” Mitchell sighed. “I always meant to find a proper flat to live in, as I have my parents’ furniture, household goods, and my books in storage. I could not bear to part with them. I have been living in rented rooms since they died. I figured I would use the items if I ever got married. In the meantime, I’ve been trying to save money.”
“Money. It’s always at the core of things, isn’t it?”
“Unfortunately. I’m sorry your mother died. That must have been difficult.”
Corrine sighed. “It was. My childhood ended the day she passed. I was taken out of school and forced to take over the running of the viscountcy. My father refused to do it. My home was not a loving one like yours. My parents barely spoke near the end of her life. I am not sure what she died of—I was never told. Perhaps she was just weary of it all. The debts. My father’s reckless ways. Well, I inherited it all and am still dealing with it.”
Mitchell took her hand. “You do not have to deal with it alone. Not ever again.”
Taking his hand, she rubbed it against her cheek, reveling in his warmth. Smiling at him, she then released it. “Thank you. That means the world to me.”
“Now, to a thoroughly unpleasant topic—Danaher.”
Corrine took a sip of wine, but the taste of it felt bitter on her tongue. “Is Danaher someone I should be frightened of?”
Mitchell sighed. “He pointed that revolver at Tensbridge without a moment’s hesitation. I saw it and pushed my friend out of the way. The bullet caught me in the leg.”
“You are a hero,” Corrine whispered, admiring and loving Mitchell all the more.
“Not as long as Danaher is possibly still breathing. I assume he may blame me for showing up and ruining his kidnapping/extortion scheme. You are associated with the barony. Danaher wants money from the baron. We have to be vigilant. Anyone caught in Danaher’s orbit is in danger.”
*
“Why are we here, on Wimpole Street?” Cillian asked.
Jedi wondered why he’d even told his illegitimate son he still lived. Granted, the boy was barely twenty years of age, but he might prove useful. “Do you remember me telling you about my father?”
“Aye, some baron or such.”
“Well, he owes me money. Or rather, his estate does. He died some months back. I’ve come to collect the first payment, and I want you standing beside me. I’ll give you a small cut. Watch this dodgy bloke for any sudden moves. You have that knife I gave you?” Jedi asked.
“Aye, it’s in my pocket.”
And safely tucked away in Jedi’s coat was his revolver. Jedi gazed at the night sky as they strolled along the walkway toward the baron’s residence. It was overcast tonight with a brisk breeze. If they had to escape, the cloud cover would work to his advantage. Jedi banged on the door.
When Addington answered, he pointed at Cillian asked, “Who is that?”
“My son. You didn’t say to come alone. Did you give the butler the night off?”
“I did as you requested. He’s gone to the pub.”
“And your wife? Off on her appointment?”
“She is.”
“Well, let us in, Travis. As I told you, I don’t conduct business on the street.”
With a barely concealed grumble, Addington stepped aside to allow them to enter. Once in the hall, Addington pointed to the room on the left. “In there.”
Jedi glared at Travis with narrowed eyes. “This better not be a trap. If anything happens to me, I have men in place to see that you and that pretty wife of yours pay with your lives.”
“It’s not a trap. I want this transaction out of the way, and you and yours out of my life. I have decided to pay you twenty-five thousand pounds… if you sign a paper saying you relinquish all claims to the estate and will never come near me again.”
Cillian looked puzzled. “Relinquish?”
“Excuse my son. Not much of an education. It means surrender, abandon, withdraw, or retreat. Release.”
“Bugger that,” Cillian snorted.
“I’m inclined to agree with my son, but I can be reasonable on occasion. I’m genuinely hurt that you don’t want a family connection, Travis. I am deeply wounded.” Jedi gave the baron a counterfeit look of anguish.
“I doubt it.” Addington strolled into the room, and Jedi and his son followed. A fire blazed in the hearth. Bookcases lined the room’s perimeter, and an ornate desk stood at the front. A large portrait of a country setting by a lake was on the wall behind it.
“Where is the money?” Jedi snarled, growing impatient.
Addington stood behind the desk and pushed a large brown envelope toward him. “Sign this.”
“After I get the money.”
Addington opened the envelope, laid the paper on the desk, and pushed the ink set toward Jedi. “Sign first. I demand a show of trust. For this amount of money, I do not think it is too much to ask.”
Jedi cast a glance at Cillian, who gave him a questioning look. “I don’t sign anything without reading it.” Jedi sat in the chair before the desk, snatched the paper, and scanned the text. Jedi looked up from the document. “Who wrote this? Who else knows about this transaction?” Anger began to churn deep within Jedi. This was not the agreement they’d decided on. If there was one thing Jedi could not abide, it was dodgy dealings, especially with the snotty upper crust.
“My solicitor,” the baron said, sniffing arrogantly. “He knows about this meeting, so if anything happens to me, he will call the police immediately.”
This bloke was not as vacuous as Jedi had first surmised. No matter. Jedi dipped the pen into the ink bottle and scratched his name at the bottom of the document. Then he stood. “My end of the bargain is done; now do yours. And be quick about it.”
Addington turned to face the large painting, touched the bottom corner, and it opened like a door, revealing a wall safe. These toffs always had hidey holes to stash their valuables. Realizing that he’d soon land a large amount of money made Jedi slightly giddy—enough that he let down his guard for a moment.
Addington reached into the safe and twirled about, showing a revolver. Without hesitation, the baron pulled the trigger. At almost the same instant, Jedi was shoved out of the way by his son, who grabbed his side and collapsed to the ground. Addington froze, as if shocked. Every survival instinct Jedi possessed roared to the surface. He pulled out his pistol and fired twice at the dumbfounded bastard, who groaned, then crumpled to the floor.
Jedi stepped over the bleeding baron and inspected the safe. Empty, except for a small wad of pound notes. Jedi snatched them and shoved them in his coat pocket. That miserable bastard had had no intention of paying. He’d lured him here to kill him. Jedi glanced down at the man and spat on him, then shoved him hard with his boot. Dead—or close to it. Good riddance and all.
Best to escape. The neighbors had no doubt heard the commotion. Jedi grabbed the contract paper on the desk and headed toward the door. There was no use leaving any evidence around.
“Wait! Don’t leave me here!”
Speaking of evidence. His son.
Jedi came to stand before him. “Sorry, my boyo. As I told you before, it’s every man for himself. You should have remembered that. The coppers will be here soon. They will try to get you to help their investigation. No mentioning my name or anything else.” Jedi held up the paper. “And don’t mention this deal. You follow?”
Jedi didn’t wait for a reply; he was already out the door and down the hall, looking for the back entrance. Once he located it, he ran through the rear yard and onto the street. Leaving Cillian meant leaving behind a loose end. His criminal instincts said he should have put his son out of his misery and also protected his own hide, but for some strange reason, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Damn that baron to a fiery hell. By the looks of him, he was already halfway there. But Jedi couldn’t let this go. If the baron kicked off, there was more than one way to skin a cat. It may take careful planning, but he would get his money.
After all, there was always the pretty soon-to-be-a-widow baroness.