Chapter 4 #3
“Sir Robert is a very powerful man. This has undoubtedly been difficult for him as well, and he has a particular dislike of strong women, his mother Lady Ellsworth included.
“And then there is Anthony, following in his father’s footsteps, as they say, with Crofts bank. Do take care with your inquiries.”
Most interesting. I assured him that I would.
I arrived back at the office on the Strand and discovered that Mr. Cavendish had returned. We took supper at the Public House while he informed me of what he had learned.
“Most of those I spoke with were tight-lipped, claimed they hadn’t seen anything that night.”
“Most? Yet you found out something about that night?”
He grinned. The grin warmed into a smile as his bride, Miss Effie, arrived at the table with another tankard of beer.
“Me thanks, darlin’,” he told her. “Me throat was gettin’ dry.”
“That will be the last one for the night, Mr. Cavendish, or you won’t be warmin’ my bed,” she scolded him, yet the twinkle in her eye said something entirely different.
He took her hand and kissed the back of it. “Ye warm me heart, Mrs. Cavendish.”
Their exchange was endearing, two souls who had found one another in an often-harsh world, with an affection that went beyond the usual reason most among the poor chose to marry—two who could live more economically than one, safety from the street, for the sake of children if there were any.
None of those reasons were there. They had chosen one another out of affection and respect.
I thought of Brodie and myself, two very different people to all outward appearances, and yet not so very different.
“What of the man you finally spoke with?” I inquired. “Was he able to provide anything useful?”
“Perhaps.”
I waited as Effie arrived with a tankard of cold beer, then went to the next table.
“Old Flinty spends most of his time in the drink after working the docks near Tower Dock. He remembered that night, for the most part, because of something that seemed odd.”
“What was that?”
“He was sleepin’ it off in the wharfinger’s shanty when a driver arrived, one of usual sort that hauls cargo about the city. The odd part was the late delivery at the Tower docks.
“The driver stopped then went about unloading something from the back of the wagon.” He paused.
“It appeared to be cumbersome, and he dragged it over to the edge of the pier and then dropped it into the water.”
“Was there any name on the cart? A livery company? Something to identify it?”
He shook his head. “He said it was a plain cart, the sort used by refuse haulers and stable keepers.
“Did the police question him?”
Mr. Cavendish nodded. “Not that he was able to tell them much, considerin’ his condition at the time.”
“What about the person who drove the cart?” I then asked. “Was there anything about him that he remembered? A description, perhaps?”
“That was the part that caught his attention. He said the man wasn’t the sort one usually sees driving a cart. He wore a long coat, no cap in spite of the weather that night. And the man seemed in a particular rush and careful not to be seen.” He emptied his mug of beer.
“I’ve got to be off. I’m to see a man about information for Mr. Brodie. Will ye be stayin’ at the office tonight?” he inquired. “I wouldn’t want to mistake ye for a robber.”
I assured him that I intended to make a few notes, then return to the townhouse.
“Ye take the hound with ye when you leave.”
And he was off, paddling down the sidewalk, then launching himself off the curb and across the Strand.
I made notes from my visit to the Yard, along with Sir Laughton’s comments about Sir Robert and Anthony Ellsworth, which brought questions about Sir Thomas’s place within his family.
He had not joined the private banking firm that his great-grandfather had founded, but instead chose another profession quite removed from it. I did wonder what that might tell me.
It was still early in the evening when I gathered my notebook, turned off the electric, then locked the door. Rupert was on the sidewalk, a sad expression in his brown eyes.
“I’m aware of the feeling,” I told him, although I had to admit that he often looked that way when not asleep or chasing down his supper.
“What are you about this evening?” I asked the hound, bending down to rub his ears. “A particular lady friend? Perhaps a meander over to the meat market?” As if I expected an answer. Still, I was certain he understood a great deal. He lifted a paw and placed it in my hand.
“Of course, the market would be closed by now. What is to be done?”
I could only imagine Brodie’s expression at the conversation.
“He has accused me of spoiling you.” I commented.
The hound lay down, rolled over onto his back, and stared up at me with an expression that could only be described as pathetic.
“Very well, you may as well come along,” I told him as a driver arrived and I gave him the address for the townhouse at Cadogan Square. The hound immediately jumped inside.
“I will warn you, however, that you must be on your very best behavior.”
He grinned up at me as we set off.