Chapter 13 #3
Luca shot him a sidelong glance but said nothing. “We have a few questions, if you’d be so kind.”
“You can ask whatever you want,” Dawlish said, leaning back, “but that don’t mean I’ll answer. I’ve work to do.”
“I’ll be brief,” Luca said, keeping his tone steady. “I was hoping to inquire about your mother.”
Dawlish’s expression darkened. “What did that old bat do now?”
“Pardon?”
“Does she owe you money? Because if she does, I’m not paying her debts.”
Luca blinked. “No, nothing like that. I was merely hoping to learn where she might be residing.”
“Not my concern,” Dawlish spat. “Good riddance to her. That woman was nothing but trouble. Now, if that’s all—”
Rupert spoke up. “Are you married, Mr. Dawlish?”
“No,” Mr. Dawlish said, impatiently. “Why?”
Rupert gestured to the vase on the window sill. “I couldn’t help noticing the flowers. A curious decoration for a man of business.”
“I put them there,” Dawlish snapped.
“I see,” Rupert said. “And where, might I ask, did you find them?”
Dawlish rose. “I do mind you asking.”
“One more question,” Rupert continued, stepping to the desk. “I couldn’t help but notice you own a green, leather-bound ledger.”
Dawlish froze. “So what if I do?”
Rupert smiled faintly. “A peculiar coincidence since we are in possession of one as well. We acquired it from the solicitor at the Ravenhurst Trading Company.”
“There’s nothing peculiar about it,” Dawlish said, snatching the ledger and shoving it into a drawer. “Plenty of men keep ledgers like this one.”
Luca watched him carefully—the nervous tic in his jaw, the faint tremor in his hand as he locked the drawer.
Something was very wrong here. And as the faint echo of the factory machinery droned in the distance, Luca’s journalist instincts sharpened.
Whatever secrets this man was hiding, they needed to uncover them.
“Speaking of the Ravenhurst Trading Company, I was wondering if you knew who the owner was,” Luca said.
Mr. Dawlish didn’t even bother to glance his way. “No idea.”
“So you don’t know who owns this factory?”
“No.”
The lie was almost too smooth. Luca cocked his head slightly, studying the man’s ruddy face, the thin sheen of sweat forming at his temple. “Then who, pray tell, do you report to?”
That earned a flicker of unease. Dawlish shifted his weight, then abruptly strode to the door and yanked it open. “It’s time for you to leave. I won’t be answering any more questions.”
Rupert, who had been lounging against the desk, straightened and offered an almost cheerful nod. “Good day, then.”
Luca was momentarily thrown. That’s it? Rupert was leaving? He had expected him to press harder—to use that uncanny mix of charm and menace that usually got results. Instead, his friend was retreating without so much as a raised eyebrow.
As Dawlish fixed him with a stern, expectant look, Luca reluctantly followed Rupert’s lead, though irritation simmered beneath his skin. Something about this exchange didn’t sit right.
Out in the corridor, the steady rhythm of hammers echoed from the workshop floor. Rupert’s pace quickened, and Luca had to lengthen his stride to keep up.
“Would you care to tell me—” he began.
But Rupert turned sharply out of the main door and slipped into the alley. Luca followed, wondering what his friend was about. Around the corner, near a stack of empty crates, stood the burly man who had greeted them earlier.
Rupert stepped forward, his voice hushed. “I saw you loitering outside Mr. Dawlish’s window,” he said. “Do you have something you wish to tell us?”
The man’s expression hardened. “Depends. You going to make it worth my while?”
Without hesitation, Rupert reached into his jacket and drew out a few coins. “I do believe this should suffice.”
The man’s eyes lit with greed as he pocketed the bribe. “Right, then. A white-haired woman came by yesterday. She was furious, yelling at Dawlish like a fishwife. Told him not to say a word to nobody, or else he’d be sorely sorry.”
Luca leaned forward. “Did she give a name?”
The man scratched his chin. “No, but she mentioned someone—Brockman, Brickford—something like that.”
“Brackenford?” Luca supplied.
Bobbing his head, the man replied, “That’s it. She said that she didn’t want to risk Brackenford’s ire.” He took a cautious step back. “That’s all I overheard.”
“That will do nicely,” Rupert said.
The man nodded, tugged the brim of his cap, and walked off down the lane, whistling softly. When he was out of earshot, Luca exhaled. “How is the Duke of Brackenford tied to all this?”
Rupert adjusted his gloves. “You tell me, my friend. This is your investigation, not mine.” He glanced towards the factory doors. “Though if we linger much longer, Dawlish might send his workers out with clubs.”
Luca nodded grimly, his thoughts still whirling as they started back down the filthy alley.
The fog rolled in thicker now, clinging to the air like smoke.
Brackenford. The name echoed in his head, dark and heavy with meaning.
He didn’t yet know how the duke fit into this, but he would find out—whatever it cost him.