Night Storm (12 page)

Not knowing exactly what Charley had heard about Nick’s death, he had chosen to spare her the grisly details of their friend’s murder. If only he could spare himself such knowledge.

When the merchant’s lifeless body had slipped beneath the muddy surface of the Thames, Adair had expected to feel more satisfaction, jubilation even, for having avenged his friend’s senseless death. He’d enjoyed none of those sensations to the extent he had anticipated. In fact, the blood on his hands and the merchant’s vacant, wide eyes had made his stomach cramp with revulsion. For a day or two.

Adair eyed the theater manager. For obvious reasons, few knew of his inquiry into Nick’s murder. “What of him?”

“I understand you did not rest until you’d located the man who killed your friend.”

“Where did you come by that bit of gossip?”

“Willis, my clerk, is Mr. Bellwood’s mother’s brother.”

Adair caught the curse between his teeth. All too clearly, he recalled his brief conversation with Bellwood’s mother after disposing of the merchant. He’d come upon her at the place where they had pulled her son’s body from the river, weeping into her handkerchief. Though she sobbed quietly, her bone-deep anguish reached his ears, and he hadn’t been able to stop the damning words from spewing forth.

To his credit, he hadn’t offered her a lengthy explanation, only a single, comforting comment.
Rest assured, your son is at peace now.
She had lifted her watery gaze to his, read the meaning behind the words in his eyes, and cried anew. He hadn’t known what to make of her reaction until he heard her choke out a soft,
Thank you
.

Flattening his gaze, Adair said, “I don’t believe I follow.”

Riordan smiled. “You’ve nothing to fear. The family is grateful for what you did, and Willis would not have shared the information with me had he been concerned I would not protect it.”

Adair’s gut knotted all over again, almost as if he stood at the river’s edge, watching the merchant’s body disappear beneath murky waters. Gratitude was the last thing he sought.

“Anything I may or may not have done several months ago would have been driven by grief. As I said before, my expertise lies in my ability to recover stolen property.”

“Then I’d like to hire you to recover a killer.”

“It’s not the same thing and you know it.”

“Do I? The steps you take to achieve your goal appear almost identical. You hunt, you locate, you collect, and you deliver. However, in this instance, I would ask that you leave the meting out of justice step to the authorities.”

Adair felt his resolve waver. Solving this case would not require him to set aside his principles in order to fill his coffers. Quite the contrary. He would be easing the minds of many people once he uncovered the killer’s identity.

Anticipation began to pulse through his veins. He had always enjoyed the pursuit, pitting his mind against that of his quarry and coming out the victor. Each fragment of information he collected brought him a step nearer to unraveling each mystery. When it came to the merchant, quarry became prey. What disturbed him most was the heightened exhilaration he had experienced when his search had propelled him closer and closer to Nick’s killer. He’d worked himself into a near frenzy by the time he’d found the man.

Reading Adair’s silence as refusal, Riordan said, “Very well, Mr. Adair. I can see you’re not influenced by monetary persuasion. If the boy’s convicted of Lady Winthrop’s murder, the theater will still suffer some repercussions from today’s atrocity, but not to the point of ruination.” He stood and extended his hand. “Thank you for coming.”

Ignoring the man’s outstretched hand, he asked, “Boy?”

The manager swept an arm toward the door, explaining as they walked. “The poor chap who stumbled over the body as he was leaving the theater and who will no doubt become Bow Street’s main suspect.”

“How old is he?”

“Fifteen? Sixteen? I can’t be sure.”

Near Trigger’s age.

“Do you think he killed her?”

“No way to know. I’ve seen him around the theater, off and on. He auditioned for a part in our new play. Quite talented, and he seemed a good lad. Then again, one cannot detect what lies in a man’s heart by his face and words alone.”

True.
He’d witnessed acts of violence so heinous as to make him question the existence of God. What kind of husband beat his wife until she lost the use of one of her limbs, or caused her to die in the family’s home of a punctured lung while her children watched? What kind of person chained a dog to a wooden post and abused the animal for no other reason than to hear the animal cry? What kind of mother sold her young daughters to lustful men in exchange for a day’s worth of gin?

Yes, Adair had seen much to make him question the goodness of mankind. Yet no matter how hard he tried, he could not envision a young man Trigger’s age murdering a woman. Anyone, for that matter. Trigger understood the perils of London’s seedier side, though he did not possess an ounce of cruelty. Perhaps this boy Riordan spoke of was the same. Then again, maybe not. For all Adair knew, the urchin might grow into one of the most detestable men roaming the streets.

Riordan placed his hand on the door’s latch. Adair’s blood thickened, heated, boiled from the pit of his stomach to the tips of his ears. His head pounded.

The door opened.

Adair pressed his palm against the surface, pushed until he heard the telltale click.

“His name?”

A sly smile cut across Riordan’s features. “A soft spot for children, Adair?”

“His name?” he repeated.

“Felix Scott.”

Iron rippled up Adair’s back. It would not do for Riordan, or any potential client, to take it into their head that he had a vulnerable spot in his armor. News of that nature traveled like a storm-charged wave, barreling across the open ocean. Someone in his position could not afford to have such a weakness become common knowledge.

So he made sure Riordan understood it was about the money and nothing more. “How handsomely?”

“Pardon?”

“You said you were willing to pay handsomely for my trouble. How much?”

The other man’s face turned sour. He named a figure.

“Double it.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort.”

“Involving Bow Street will complicate my investigation by several degrees. And they have a head start.”

Riordan glanced away; a tic in his jaw revealed his barely leashed temper. “Very well.” His hard gaze bore into Adair’s. “Do not disappoint me.”

Adair raised a brow. “Have you stopped to consider that you might not like where the clues lead?”

“I have considered everything, Mr. Adair. At the moment, I’m most interested in containing the situation and easing my staff’s concerns.” Riordan opened the door again, and his hulking bodyguard appeared. “I’ll send Willis around to escort Mr. Adair to where we found Lady Winthrop’s body.”

Crossing the threshold, Adair kept both men in view.

Riordan said, “I might also suggest you speak with the apothecary and the boy’s sister.”

“Apothecary?” The word emerged harsh, almost guttural.

“Yes. Mrs. Fielding and Miss Scott were also present. The apothecary seemed overly interested in her ladyship’s murder.”

Adair rolled his fingers into a fist. “And you’re only now mentioning the fact that Felix Scott wasn’t alone?”

“The detail slipped my mind. Besides, I considered the apothecary more of a nuisance than a suspect.”

“Nuisance?”

“She wanted me to contact the coroner straightaway. When I refused, she threatened to call for the man herself.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I wanted Bow Street to have an opportunity to investigate the scene first. At the time, I had no idea they would send a cub.”

Adair turned to leave, then paused. “Why did you discount Mrs. Fielding as a suspect so quickly?”

“Not to be indelicate, but Lady Winthrop died a rather savage death.”

True, though Adair thought the manager too quick to rule out suspects based on gender alone.

Riordan continued, “I would be interested in learning why she lied by saying she’d found the body first.”

“How do you know she didn’t?”

“When Felix Scott came to find me, he was somewhat distraught and babbled out how they came across her ladyship’s corpse.”

“Could be nothing more than her motherly instincts taking over.”

“For a boy who is not hers?”

“Women are nurturers by nature.”

“Not all, I assure you.” Something dark passed over the manager’s features, and then it was gone as quickly as it came. “Keep me posted on your progress. Good day, Mr. Adair.”

Before Adair could respond, the door closed. Marian unfolded his arms and strode away without a word.

Adair released his fist and a rush of blood tingled through his fingers. Settling his hat atop his head, he followed Riordan’s bodyguard down the long corridor, wondering briefly why the manager felt the need to isolate himself to such a degree.

His thoughts shifted to Charley. He had exercised every bit of his restraint not to pelt Riordan with a hundred questions. What had she been doing at the theater? Did she know Lady Winthrop? Did she catch a glimpse of the murderer? Why did she feel the need to protect the boy from Riordan?

The sound of his uneven gait broke through his reverie. Fire burned up his thigh with each step and sweat dampened his skin. A grim smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. After examining the murder scene, he had two more stops to make before he could rest his leg. Despite the chilly reception he would no doubt receive, it was time to pay Charley another visit.

# # #

Adair was not looking forward to his next meeting. He’d found no leading evidence in the theater’s passageway, which meant he didn’t have a good feel for the reason behind the baroness’s murder. So he would be meeting with the victim’s husband and would have to mentally prepare himself for any reaction. Lord Winthrop could be sick with grief, drowning in guilt, lost and confused, or consumed by a jealous rage.

Rage, guilt, confusion—he understood how to react to those emotions. But grief was like someone speaking to him in a foreign language. He had no idea of how to respond. Any words of reassurance that came to mind seemed inadequate and inane.

His carriage rolled to a stop outside Winthrop’s modest town house on the outskirts of Mayfair. As he stood on the doorstep he looked around and noted that, in this area, the homes were much more spacious than those in his own neighborhood, but far less stately than those in nearby Mayfair. Before he could grasp the brass doorknocker, a stooped, well-groomed butler appeared.

“State your business, sir,” the butler said, squinting at him with cloudy blue eyes.

“Cameron Adair to see Lord Winthrop.”

“Your business?”

“I’ve come to speak with him about his wife.”

“His lordship’s not receiving visitors.” The butler started to close the door, and Adair shoved his boot forward. “Remove your foot young man, or I’ll take your toes off.”

“I’m sorry for Lord Winthrop’s loss, but I’ve been hired to look into the matter of his wife’s death.”

For a moment, the butler wavered between snapping Adair’s toes from his foot and going to speak with the master of the house. He suspected the old retainer hadn’t seen much action over the last couple decades and was yearning to show his mettle.

Winthrop’s butler shuffled back to let Adair inside. “Wait here, sir.” With slow, measured steps, Winthrop’s butler disappeared down the corridor.

After doffing his hat, Adair’s nose twitched at the acrid scent permeating the entryway. He searched for the source, taking in the elegant furnishings and expensive landscapes dotting the walls. To the casual observer, everything looked as it should for a minor peer of the realm. But Adair’s scrutiny slit open the surface and peeled back the glamour, layer by layer. Beneath the obvious trappings of money and privilege lurked the subtle signs of financial distress. Cracked marble tiles, a torn seat cushion, and a looking glass in need of polish. Not to mention an elderly butler working long past the age others would have retired from service.

What he found didn’t surprise him. The nobility lived far beyond their means, indulging their senses to the point of ruin. If any of them had grown up in the bowels of poverty, they would not be so careless with their blunt. No one he knew would ever take a gnawing, empty stomach over a warm, full one.

The echo of slow-moving feet drew his attention.

“This way, sir.”

Adair followed the butler. The farther they trudged down the corridor, the stronger the odor became.

Pausing outside a large door, the butler rapped his bony knuckles on the wood panel twice and entered. “Mr. Adair to see you, my lord.”

“Come in, come in,” a nasal voice commanded.

As Adair stepped inside Winthrop’s study, the butler smirked at him before creaking away.

The odor was unbearable in here. Sharp, cloying, nostril-burning.

Adair swiped his finger beneath his nose to relieve the stinging sensation. Winthrop’s study stood at attention like a seasoned soldier. Every book, carpet, and piece of furniture was precisely positioned. Not a stray sheet of paper or personal memento existed.

Adair blinked hard twice. The damned fumes from whatever cleaning solution the maid had used were now blistering his eyeballs.

“Well, don’t just stand there gawking,” Lord Winthrop said. “Come sit. I have only five minutes to spare.”

Now he understood the man’s need to speak through his nose—so he could breathe through his mouth. Adair made a slight adjustment to his own breathing pattern and the relief was immediate.

“Thank you for seeing me, my lord.” Ignoring his discomfort, Adair strode across the chamber to stand near Winthrop’s equally uncluttered desk. “I am sorry for your loss.”

Baron Winthrop nodded, though his expression remained unchanged. “You’re from Bow Street, I take it. I told Riordan the fiend was long gone, that a formal investigation would be a waste of time and money.”

If, God forbid, Adair lost his wife in such a violent way, no
fiend
could hide well enough to escape his vengeance. “No, I’m not a Runner.”