Page 17 of A Measure of Menace
“In you go, Kat.” Daniel took me by the elbow and more or less lifted me into the cab. “Mount Street,” he told the driver, handing him a coin. “Number 43.”
“Aren’t either of you coming—?” My question cut off as the cab jerked forward, leaving Daniel and Mr. Thanos behind. “Damn and blast.”
I cursed feelingly for a few more seconds then decided to sit back and enjoy the conveyance. Daniel and Mr. Thanos were really very solicitous. I was blessed to have such friends.
The hansom ride did give me a respite, letting me exchange coat for apron when I reached the kitchen to begin the evening meal. It would necessarily be a simple one, but as Lord Clifford had discovered yesterday, simple could be tasty.
I put together a hash of what potatoes and sausage were left from the bubble and squeak and rolled the bread dough into buns. They’d bake faster than an entire loaf, so when supper was finished, they’d be ready.
Tess had spent the afternoon chopping enough cabbage and carrots to make a nice side dish, seasoned with thyme and parsley. She’d also set the supper’s dough to rise its second time without me mentioning it. I was blessed to have her too.
Once the meal went up, I gratefully sank down and ate my own portion of it. The hash was warm and satisfying, the buns, with a smudge of creamy butter, perfection.
Daniel and Mr. Thanos obviously had gone elsewhere after they’d put me into the hansom, because neither of them turned up at the house. I’d barely noted their absence while I worked with Tess to finish the meal for the household, but now I wondered where they’d gone and why they’d not bothered to send word. My testiness returned.
At eight that evening, Mrs. Redfern entered the kitchen to state that Mr. Thanos and a friend had arrived at the invitation of Lord Clifford, and they’d brought a plainclothes policeman with them. They’d requested me to join them when I was finished with my supper.
Mrs. Redfern was a very proper housekeeper who did not approve of employers summoning staff above stairs unnecessarily, interrupting either their duties or their scarce private time. Her rigid stance told me she expected me to decline, but I very much wanted to be present when Constable Wallace questioned Lord Clifford.
I finished mixing the bread dough for the morning, set it in the coolest part of the larder to ferment overnight, removed my apron, and ascended the stairs.
The company had assembled in the dining room. Mr. Davis and a footman were pouring out goblets of brandy for the gentlemen and tea for Lady Cynthia. Mr. Davis, catching sight of me, added a cup of tea for me, which was good of him.
Mr. Davis frowned in stern disapproval at Daniel, dressed in a tidy but clearly secondhand suit, who sat diffidently at Mr. Thanos’s side.
Obviously, Daniel was the “friend” Mr. Thanos had brought with him. As he was known in this house and to Constable Wallace, Daniel hadn’t bothered to don the disguise of upper-class twit or City gent. This was his delivery-man-uncomfortable-in-his-best-clothes persona.
Mr. Davis already didn’t think much of Daniel, believing him to be a far inferior creature to either Mr. Davis or myself. Daniel being invited to the dining room, even by a welcome visitor such as Mr. Thanos, was straining the bonds of hospitality.
“That will be all, Davis,” Lord Clifford said. “Leave the brandy. We’ll serve ourselves.”
Mr. Davis regarded him stiffly, only unbending when Cynthia sent him a reassuring smile. The footman hesitated, but Mr. Davis herded him out, closing the door behind them both.
I knew the footman would not linger to listen with Mr. Davis chivvying him back downstairs, for which I was grateful. That was not to say that Mr. Davis wouldn’t return and listen himself.
“Thank you for seeing me, your lordship,” Constable Wallace stated. He wore a black woolen suit rather like Daniel’s, with a carefully tied cravat. His pomaded red hair glistened under the gaslight chandelier.
“Well, here I am.” Lord Clifford regarded Wallace ungraciously as he took a sip of brandy. The brandy, a fine one acquired from France by his son-in-law, did not soften him.
Wallace shot me a glance, probably wondering why Lord Clifford wanted his cook present, then opened a small notebook and readied his pencil.
“Now then, your lordship,” Wallace began. “Please tell me what transpired on the night of Saturday last. Take your time.”
Lord Clifford’s brows knit in puzzlement. “Surely you mean Sunday? That’s the night Mobley was killed, was it not?”
“Yes, but you arrived in London on Saturday evening.” Wallace flipped back a page or two until he found the information he sought. “Your carriage pulled up at half past six at the Rider’s Club in Jermyn Street. You dismissed your carriage and driver, who put up at a boarding house and mews near Leicester Square. You left the club at about half-past eight on foot. Where did you go?”
Lord Clifford listened in astonishment, his brandy glass dangling from his fingers. “How on earth do you know all that?”
“Prominent gentlemen such as yourself are noticed,” Wallace answered calmly. “As are a fine carriage and team. Your coachman confirmed that he drove from your estate, Ardeley Hall, to St. James’s, with orders to linger until you were ready to return to Hertfordshire. As to your movements after you left the club, you will have to tell me. No one followed you, and the doormen at your club do not like to speak to the police.”
“Thank God for that.” Lord Clifford took a gulp of brandy. “I told your inspector all about Sunday night. I don’t know why I should go over it again.”
“I am asking about Saturday, your lordship.” Wallace kept his tone patient. “My questions could possibly clear you of suspicion of murder.”
True, but would Lord Clifford’s answers put himself in the frame for something else? It was by no means certain that Constable Wallace would not arrest him for a different transgression.
“Tell him, Papa,” Cynthia said in a steely tone. “Mama need never hear of it.”
