Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Irving had properties all over London: a townhouse in Mayfair, a counting house in the West End, a percussion cap workshop in Aldgate, a proof house in Bermondsey where they tested munitions.
They had searched six buildings in their hunt for the missing clerk. Four more remained, all near the docks.
Dominic drew his watch from his pocket and checked the time, though his thoughts were in a coffeehouse in Bishopsgate, not outside the Waterman’s Arms, where Montfort was certain Irving kept a room.
“Remind me never to fall in love.” Stanton rolled his neck as they prepared to enter the dockside tavern. “You can barely string two words together, and that watch hasn’t left your hand.”
“You forgot the part where he was mumbling to himself and clutching his heart.” Montfort tucked the list into his coat pocket. “Frankly, it was embarrassing.”
“One more word and I’ll remind you why men cross the street to avoid me. Something is wrong.” The unease had been building this last hour. “I should have met with her aunt myself, refused to take no for an answer. I don’t trust the old crone.”
“Isn’t your need for dominance the reason Miss Harland left Shadowmere?” Montfort asked.
The memory landed like a blow he hadn’t braced for. “I said the wrong thing. But we’re not here to discuss my failings. Right now, I need to know you can still take a punch.”
Stanton grinned. “I won’t need to. And Montfort is so light on his feet they won’t hear him coming. Saint-Clair will be sorry he’s not here to draw his rapier.”
“Enough talking.” Dominic strode ahead, pushing open the tavern door as if he meant to take it off its hinges.
Three bearded sailors looked up from the bench, their faces tough as old leather. The lords might know him as a dangerous bastard; to these men, he was just another toff.
The thick-necked man behind the counter went on wiping a tankard with a cloth that had seen better days. “What will it be, gentlemen?”
Dominic glanced around the cramped room, the stink of sweat and stale ale catching in his throat. The dockworkers didn’t raise their fists; they only raised their tankards.
“Your friend’s mighty generous,” the landlord said with a toothy grin. “He paid for everyone’s drinks. Told me to serve you brandy, though Jim’s downed the lot.”
Dominic approached the counter. “Friend?”
The landlord leaned forward. “The one running from the law. He wanted to speak to the fellow upstairs.” He gave a sly wink. “First door on the right. There ain’t no room for all of you, mind. And remember to duck your head.”
“Wait here,” he said, turning for the stairs.
The wood groaned beneath his boots, each step announcing his arrival. He paused outside the door, fingers closing around the handle, and listened. The clink of metal. The murmur of voices.
When he entered, neither occupant looked surprised to see him. One sat on the shabby bed, a length of chain fixed at the ankle, the iron ring bolted to the frame. Not the clerk. A woman.
Dominic’s gaze settled on the man in the chair. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Saint-Clair wore an amused grin. “I was bored. I thought I might be of some use. Don’t begrudge a man a little excitement.”
“Did you steal that coat from a vagabond?”
“A drunken sailor, resting beneath tarpaulin. But we’ve more important matters to discuss now.” He gestured to the woman. “The missing clerk. Not Edward but Edwina. She has quite a story to tell.”
Dominic looked at her. Men’s clothes, hair cropped short, but skin too smooth, no sign of stubble. He knew what it cost a woman to survive on her wits. It explained why her maid was anxious.
“It wasn’t my fault.” Edwina fought back tears. “Mr Irving sent a note to the house, insisting I meet him on Blackfriars Bridge. I had no choice. He threatened to tell my clients they’d hired a woman as a scrivener.”
Dominic suspected half her clients already knew. “You told the magistrate you witnessed the murder but couldn’t identify the killer.”
“She helped toss the body into the Thames,” Saint-Clair said dryly. “But Irving abducted her after the magistrate took her statement.”
Dominic sighed. “At Bow Street, a missing clerk is as good as a confession.”
“Irving made her draft the fake contract, stating Miss Harland had received a three-thousand-pound advance.”
Edwina dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “I have a terrible feeling he’s going to pack me in a crate destined for Bengal. He’s had me chained to this bed for more than a week.”
Saint-Clair stretched his legs. “Irving told the landlord she was his runaway sister, planning to elope with a wastrel. Paid handsomely for his silence.”
“Then Irving is the killer.” The motive still eluded him.
Edwina shrugged. “The poor man was dead when I helped lift him from the curricle.” She clasped a hand to her chest. “Please. You can’t tell anyone. I’ll hang for aiding and abetting.”
A chill crept up the back of his neck. “What made you specify Bengal? Did Irving mention sailing there?”
Doubtless he wished to escape the Moseley brothers.
A convicted man would forfeit everything. Irving couldn’t flee until someone else had answered for Harland’s death. His brother would inherit the company the moment he stepped into a courtroom.
“He told the landlord he’s sailing on the morning tide to meet his ship in Portsmouth.” Edwina blinked back more tears. “He called not three hours ago. Said he’s taking his sister abroad for a better life. That he’d be back later but had to collect precious cargo first.”
Precious cargo?
The words took the air from his lungs.
A cold certainty settled in his gut.
Daphne had gone to meet her aunt. An aunt who cared more for her own comfort than her niece’s safety. The need to race to the coffeehouse had him checking the time again. Half past six.
He wanted to put his fist through the wall.
He’d been a fool to let her go.
Saint-Clair must have read his mind. “Where is Miss Harland?”
“Meeting her aunt at Pickins in Bishopsgate.” Less than two miles from the docks. An odd choice of location, now he thought of it.
“Irving has a warehouse near the Red Lion Brewhouse. The landlord heard him mention it to his coachman.”
“Yes, Burr Street. It’s on our list.”
The pieces locked into place he tried not to panic.
“Go. I’ll wait with Edwina.”
He was already at the door.
“You’re certain this is Irving’s warehouse?” Dominic watched the shuttered doors from behind a row of wooden barrels. The air was sharp with the scent of scorched malt and the briny exhale of the Thames tide.
“His is the one marked W on the brickwork.” Montfort nodded towards the building. “But even at this hour, I’d expect some activity.”
All was quiet but for the slap of water against the quay and the ghostly groan of mooring chains. Mist rose from the river, creeping across the stones like an omen.
“We should move.” Stanton straightened and pulled his hat down over his brow. “The watchmen do their rounds. I’d rather not explain why we’re loitering by the brewhouse.”
Dominic agreed. He crossed the yard, his friends at his heels. The main doors were barred from within, but a smaller door to the side yielded to Montfort’s knife in under a minute.
“I’ll never ask how you learned that,” Stanton murmured.
“It’s useful if his mistress locks him out,” Dominic said.
Inside, iron columns rose into the dark, swallowed by shadows overhead. The warehouse had been cleared. No barrels. No crates.
Montfort stepped forward. “The cargo’s on the water. The lighters will have taken it downriver already. If Irving sails on the morning tide, he’ll load through the night.”
One word turned his blood cold.
Was Daphne the cargo?
Was she being loaded onto a vessel miles from here?
“Irving’s been planning to flee from Moseley for days.” He should have had eyes on the warehouse sooner. “He’d rather take his chances in India than end up in St Martin’s Burial Ground.”
“His manager runs the English operations and did an interview for the paper last month, lobbying for the London to Birmingham railway. He has a warehouse there already, and plans—”
The door behind them creaked on its hinges. Dominic’s hand went to his coat before he saw it was Jones.
“Thank the Lord it’s you, sir,” his coachman whispered, scanning the gloom. “I’ve been hiding outside for an hour. They took Miss Harland through the yard of the coffeehouse and brought her here. But the lady tipped off the waiter and I tracked them to the docks.”
Pride hit first. She’d seen the trap before it sprang. Cold fear came next, beneath it the relief that she was still breathing and within reach.
“Here?” Dominic kept his voice low. “Where?”
“The counting house or office, perhaps,” Montfort said.
Irving wasn’t expecting company. His burly companion was the only obstacle, and large men always fell hardest.
“I would have followed them if they’d moved her, sir.” Jones shuffled his feet. “I didn’t know what to do. I sent a penny boy to Lady Soanes with a message. He could have reached her by now.”
“It’s all right, Jones. Where’s my carriage?”
“Nightingale Lane, sir. I paid an urchin a copper to watch the horses.”
“Go to Bow Street and ask for Sergeant Carter. Tell him everything.”
Dominic turned back to the warehouse. Somewhere inside, Daphne was waiting, drugged, wrists bound, silenced by whatever means necessary.
The thought made his jaw ache.
“The counting house first,” he said. “Stay close.”
He moved with a predator’s tread, Stanton and Montfort falling in behind him. Irving wouldn’t have gone far. Not with the tide still hours away. He’d be here somewhere, certain no one would come looking tonight.
Irving was about to learn how wrong he was.
They found the internal staircase on the street side, tucked against the brickwork. The air smelled of tallow and old paper. Of the three rooms at the top, light bled beneath the middle door.