The Sleeping Partner (25 page)

There was a knock on the door and Marianne entered.

“There’s a Runner at the door for you, Sarah.” The whore sounded more amused than concerned.

“Did he give a name?” Miss Tolerance put her papers into a desk and closed it.

“No, but I believe he was sent by your friend Sir Walter.”

Miss Tolerance smiled. “I am very glad to hear it. I will walk across with you.” She closed the cottage door and linked her arm through Marianne’s. “I had been wanting to tell you: I had an encounter with Mr. Tickenor yesterday.”

“Ah.” Marianne appeared enlightened. “I thought you must have had a talk with someone. Mrs. B called us all in to the salon last night before the evening properly began, and told us that we had naught to fear from her marriage, that we should all be happy as turnips.”

“Did she say
that?
Well, if she has put the staff’s fears to rest I am very glad of it.”

“Yon Tickenor did not seem so pleased. He smiled like his teeth hurt him.”

Miss Tolerance nodded. “Mr. Tickenor showed me those teeth. Evidently they are not so sharp as he had imagined.”

“You’ll want to be careful of him, Sarah. I don’t think he’s a man cares to be thwarted."

“What man does?” Miss Tolerance was satisfied that, whatever Mr. Tickenor’s feelings, she had made her point with Mrs. Brereton. “And just how happy is a turnip?”

Marianne shrugged. “When it’s in the ground I should think it was happy enough. Uprooted and in the soup—who’s to know? I’ve put your visitor in the little front room.”

Miss Tolerance found Mr. Penryn looking very much as he had the morning before, his hair disheveled in the same degree, the precise amount of dark stubble present on his chin, and the same spot of grease on his red waistcoat. He stood by the window in the little withdrawing room, his hands clasped behind his back, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“Good morning, Mr. Penryn.”

The Runner turned on one heel. “Good morning, miss. Zor Walter’s compliments, and would you come w’ me, please? ‘E’d be grateful for a word.”

“In Bow Street?”

“Yes, miss.”

Miss Tolerance tarried long enough to send for her bonnet and wrap, and let Penryn escort her from the house, where a carriage waited. “Zor Walter’s orders, miss, was to treat you gentle-like on zircumstanz of your injuries.”

“I appreciate his care, and yours,” Miss Tolerance said gravely.

They rode in silence along Oxford Street, skirting Seven Dials, thence to Drury Lane and, finally, Bow Street. Under Penryn’s escort Miss Tolerance moved quickly through the crowds inside the offices, and was delivered to Sir Walter’s office, where she found Hook and Sir Walter in conversation.

“Ah, Miss Tolerance.” To the obvious impatience of Messers Hook and Penryn, Sir Walter asked no questions until he had seen her settled in a chair and had inquired as to her health. Miss Tolerance was only a little less anxious than the Runners to reach the reason for the meeting, and kept her answers brief.

At last, “May I ask how you knew that our victim yesterday had a mark upon his face? I do not believe the mark was visible due to the—er—the gore.”

“I apologize that it took me so long, Sir Walter; gentlemen.” She bowed her head, acknowledging the Runners. “It came to me yesterday that I had seen the man—my memory has been a little disordered since that blow. I believe he was a clerk in a shipping office, Amisley and Pound, in Shadwell.”

“’Ow you come to know that, miss?” That was Hook, who generally regarded the public—of which, despite her friendship with Sir Walter, Miss Tolerance was emphatically one—with deep suspicion.

“I had occasion to visit the office a few days ago in pursuit of an inquiry. I know nothing about the man himself; indeed, if he had not worn that scarf I should likely not have remembered him at all.”

There was a stir of activity as Penryn and Hook conferred over a list of the deceased’s property. “Red and gray scarf, stained with blood,” Mr. Hook read. “‘E was a-wearin’ of it when you saw ‘im?”

“Yes. As it was a warm day, I was surprised to see it, and noted it particularly.” Miss Tolerance did not feel it necessary to mention her dreams or her aunt’s silk shawl. “If you intend to send someone to interview his employer, Sir Walter, might I be permitted to accompany him?”

A look passed from Hook to Penryn to Sir Walter and back again. Sir Walter cleared his throat. “I think I will go myself, as we will need to learn if the man had any kin, and they will need to be notified. If you wish to accompany me I shall, of course, be pleased to have your company.”

It was thus agreed upon, and in half an hour Miss Tolerance and Sir Walter were in a coach rattling toward Fox Street, Shadwell, and the offices of Amisley and Pound. Hook had stayed in Bow Street, and Penryn had opted to ride on the box with the jarvey.

“Have I caused trouble by asking to come?” Miss Tolerance murmured.

“For me? Not in the least.”

“Mr. Hook seemed less than pleased.”

“He is not paid to be pleased by my decisions.”

“Why
did
you permit me to come?”

Sir Walter smiled. “Because I was certain that, if I did not, you would go by yourself at another time. You are not yet well enough to make such inquiries on your own.”

Miss Tolerance was unsure whether this more irritated or amused or touched her.

As on the occasion of her last visit to Shadwell, Fox Street was busy with tradesmen and carriers. By contrast, when Sir Walter led the way into the offices of Amisley and Pound there was a hush broken only by the scratch of pen on paper. Only two of the tall desks were occupied, and it took a very long minute for the large man, whose name, Miss Tolerance recalled, was Worke, to look up from his ledger.

“Their employer’s name is Huwe,” Miss Tolerance murmured to Sir Walter.

“Good afternoon. Is Mr. Huwe available?”

Worke looked at Sir Walter and his companions; his eyes widened slightly at the sight of the Runners’ red waistcoats. He did not appear to notice Miss Tolerance at all. “This a law matter?”

“I shall need to speak with Mr. Huwe.” Sir Walter was firm.

Worke edged himself off his stool and went into the office. He was gone rather longer than seemed necessary to announce the presence of the magistrate and his officers, and when he returned his face was red.

“Walk in,” he muttered.

Sir Walter led the way into the office, which was no tidier or less congested with paper than it had been upon Miss Tolerance’s last visit. The only difference of note was that a chair, piled with ledgers and loose paper, had been moved to the back of the office against the door to make space for the visitors. Miss Tolerance stayed at the rear of the group, not wishing to draw attention, but it seemed this was a bootless effort. Abner Huwe rose, circled a few steps from behind his desk, and bowed cordially to her before he addressed himself to Sir Walter.

“I see you are returned to us, miss. Was your father able to speak with—”

Before he could speak Lyne’s name Miss Tolerance shook her head. “No, sir. After all my trouble it appears that the business was no longer so pressing. But we are here upon a very different errand.”

“Indeed, very distinguished company you have brought to us! Nothing is amiss, I hope.” The Welsh inflection was more in evidence than it had been before.

Sir Walter evidently felt it was time he took the lead. “This lady is here to help us in pursuit of an investigation. Do you have in your employ, Mr. Huwe, a young man with dark hair and a birthmark here—” he indicated his left cheek.

“Such a man, Tom Proctor, I had as clerk. But as he has not seen fit to come to work, nor sent word of where he is, he will find there is no employment for him here.” There was no anger in Huwe’s voice.

“About that, sir. I regret to tell you that Mr. Proctor has been the victim of an attack. He is dead, sir.”

“Dead, say you! Dead! Poor young man.” Huwe took a step back as if he meant to sit in the chair there, then realized it was too full of papers to accommodate him. Despite this show of surprise there was neither shock nor sorrow in his words. “Poor fellow, I did wonder why he had not come on his time.”

“Did Mr. Proctor have family, sir, that we might notify?”

Huwe craned his neck as if to look around Penryn, who stood in the doorway. “Hi, Worke!”

Penryn stepped to one side. The big clerk showed his face behind the Runner.

“Poor Tom Proctor’s dead. Had he any family? Wife or old Dad or such?”

Worke shrugged. “Nah.” With which expression of sympathy he went back to his desk.

“You must advertise for a new man, Mr. Worke,” Huwe called to his back.

He turned his attention to Sir Walter again. “This is a shocking thing, to be sure.”

“Yes, sir. Murder always is.”

“Murder, do you say? I thought you said the poor fellow was robbed.”

“I said he was attacked, sir. Not quite the same thing. Did your Mr. Proctor have any enemies, sir?”

Huwe ran a hand through his disordered red hair and frowned. “I do not know of any. He seemed a good, sober fellow, did the work he was set, which is all I care for. What he did at day’s end I cannot say.”

Sir Walter nodded. “Do you know where he lodged, Mr. Huwe? Perhaps his landlord will tell me more.”

“Indeed, sir, I have told you what I might.” Huwe put his forefinger to the side of his nose and frowned. “I remember me that the boy lived in a boarding house in Well Street, not so far from here. But it is one of those helter-skelter places with six to a room. I do not know if the landlord could tell you more.”

“We shall make enquiries.” Sir Walter was mild. Miss Tolerance remembered what it was like to be quizzed in that bland, polite manner, and she did not envy Abner Huwe. “Do you recall the number of the house, Mr. Huwe?”

Perhaps to suggest the urgent business of a man who cannot be all day dealing with the affairs, however sad, of a former employee, Mr. Huwe took up a sheaf of papers from the chair behind him and began to run his thumb along the edge of the stack, as if he could barely restrain the urge to rifle through them. “I think it was at the corner of the Ratcliffe Highway, but I cannot be certain.”

“Thank you, sir. If you recall anything that you believe material to Mr. Proctor’s death, I would appreciate—”

“Oh, indeed, indeed. I shall be in touch with you directly. I wonder, though—” He tapped his thumb on the pile of papers and smiled. “Might I be asking one question?”

Sir Walter inclined his head politely.

“How is it you determined that the poor young fellow was in my employ?”

Sir Walter glanced at Miss Tolerance. “This lady was in the vicinity of the incident and recognized him.”

“Did she so? She is a very observant lady, then.” Huwe’s tone was all admiration. He turned his regard to Miss Tolerance again. “It is fortunate that she was in that vicinity, I think.” His smile was polite but there was a curious edge to it.

“Fortunate indeed, and fortunate that she understood her civic duty so well as to bring the information to my attention,” Sir Walter agreed. Miss Tolerance realized he did not like Huwe any better than she did. “Mr. Huwe, as I said, if you—”

“I beg your pardon, Sir Walter.” Miss Tolerance was forceful. Sir Walter paused, then deferred to her. “Perhaps Mr. Huwe will answer one more question?” In fact she had several, but only one could be asked now without giving away her surveillance of Lord Lyne.

Mr. Huwe smiled condescendingly.

“Sir, do you know why Mr. Proctor should have had the direction of the Pitfield Street almshouse run by Mr. John Thorpe writ on a slip of paper in his pocket?”

Miss Tolerance thought that whatever Mr. Huwe had expected, this was not it. His eyes widened slightly and his ruddy complexion darkened; the smile straightened into the beginning of a frown.
I should not like to have this man angry with me.
Then his expression became again as bland and jovial as that of an alemonger at the village fête. “A Mr. John Thorpe, say you? That I cannot tell. Perhaps my man and Mr. Thorpe drank a pot of ale together, or meant to do.”

“Perhaps so. Thank you, sir.”

“You are most welcome, miss. I hope you will give my lord Lyne my kindest regards when you see him next.”

“Lord Lyne, sir? I am not likely to see him at all. I wonder you should think it.”

“Ah, yes. It was your father who was seeking Lyne.” Huwe’s smile broadened. “Do not mind it, then.”

Sir Walter broke into the peculiar current that was building between Huwe and Miss Tolerance. “Thank you, Mr. Huwe. We will take our leave.” He bowed. Miss Tolerance curtsied. Penryn waited to follow after until they had left the office.

Penryn joined them in the coach, pointed now to Well Street, and offered the opinion that there was something not right about that Welsh bastard.

Forestalling Sir Walter’s admonition about language, Miss Tolerance voiced her agreement. “He was curiously unmoved by his clerk’s death.”

Penryn shook his head. “T’ain’t that, miss. Man like that ‘un, clerks is thruppence the brace. But he doon’t like you, and he din’t like you bein’ there.”

“He was surprised by your question, I thought,” Sir Walter said. “Who is John Thorpe?”

“He manages an almshouse in Pitfield Street. I was lately involved in an inquiry in which his family was named.”

“Well either he doon’t care for it that you knew this Thoorpe, or he din’t loike that his clerk did,” Mr. Penryn said firmly. “Eyes bugged out like he’d et a frog.”

At Well Street Miss Tolerance would have made to alight, but Sir Walter stayed her and sent Penryn to inquire for the boarding house patronized by the late Mr. Proctor.

“Now, what was that about?” Sir Walter asked when the Runners were clear of the carriage.

“You know I cannot—” Miss Tolerance began.

“I know that your investigation appears to be rubbing shoulders with mine. I only wish to know to what degree.”

“Mr. Thorpe, whose name appeared on the paper we turned up in Proctor’s pocket, is peripherally related to my current inquiry,” Miss Tolerance told him. “I do not know if the two matters are connected—”