“No.”
Gray leads me down another close, this one wider and busier, with people walking in both directions. Then he pauses and points with his chin. Ahead is a recessed doorway, and in it stands Lewis, pressed against the rear as if rendered invisible.
Now it’s my turn to sigh. Yes, household staff might not be as prim and proper as they appear on the job, but unless they work for Isla Ballantyne, they’re not exactly criminal geniuses, either.
“Head around and come in the other way,” I say. “I’ll wait here. When I see you, I’ll approach him. Be ready in case he runs.”
“Is that an order?” he says.
“Of course. I’m the lead detective, remember?”
His headshake says he’s humoring me, but he does backtrack the way he came. That means I need a reason for hanging out here that doesn’t look like active solicitation. That isn’t easy with Catriona’s body and a lack of “pause in public place” excuses like cell phones.
I decide to fuss with my glove. Pull it off. Peer inside, scowling slightly, as if something is poking at me. I’m turning each finger inside out when I finally spot Gray. He slips into the end of the close, sees me, and then moves to the side and removes his own glove to examine it.
I laugh softly at that and put my glove on before someone decides we’re engaged in an elaborate mating ritual. Or planning a midday heist.
I stroll over to where Lewis still “hides” in the recessed doorway.
“Hello, Lewis,” I say.
He frowns at me with zero recognition. Apparently, the only one he saw at the pub was Gray.
“I need to speak to you about Lord Simpson,” I say. “We had your sister’s address and?—”
Lewis flinches, his gaze going over my shoulder. I look to see Gray.
“He’s with me,” I say.
Lewis looks from Gray to me and says, “Lord Simpson sent you?”
“No, but we’re here investigating his missing property.”
“This has nothing to do with, er, a young lady I’ve been seeing?”
“Uh... no.”
Lewis exhales. “I thought it was about that. She has an older brother, and they are... That is to say, he might resemble...”
He trails off, but I can figure out the rest. Lewis is seeing a young woman of color, and on seeing a man of color bearing down on him, he bolted.
“This has nothing to do with your social life,” I say. “It is entirely about work. Speaking of which, though, your sister seems to think you’re employed at that pub.”
His eyes open, far too wide to be genuine shock. “What? No. She must have misunderstood.”
“She says Lord Simpson let you go without a shilling in payment, when he told us he paid you a quarter’s wages.”
Lewis colors and tugs at his collar. “She’s misunderstood.”
In other words, Simpson did pay, but Lewis doesn’t want his sister knowing he has money. He’s pretending to work at the pub and then giving her a few “hard-earned” coins for his rent, like a good brother.
This puts us in a position of power. If he decides not to cooperate with the interview, we have leverage.
“No matter,” I say. “We are here to speak of Lord Simpson’s missing property. Would you like to go someplace else?”
“I am a wee bit thirsty,” he says, “from all the running.”
“Let us return to your pub and buy you a pint.”
