Jennie nodded and took a sip of tea. “Indeed. You’ve taken on the role of medium with great flair. Word about town is that Trask’s latest assistant is quite talented. Well done, Sophie.”
“Thank you.” Sophie stared down at the pastry on her plate. “We’re onto something with him. I’m confident my inquiries will unveil some clues as to the deaths.”
“I have no doubt you’ll unearth some truths about the matter. But I must say I am concerned for your safety. Trask is not known to harbor a predilection toward violence. But the men he deals with, men like McNaughton…they’re not the sort to restrain their anger.”
The look in Jennie’s eyes made it clear she’d more on her mind. Best to tell her the details of the ugly encounter Stanwyck had interrupted. More than likely, she already knew the raw facts. Jennie hadn’t abandoned her keen reporter’s instincts.
“I’ve had no trouble with Adam McNaughton. He’s an unpleasant sort, to be sure. But he’s given me no cause to fear him.” Sophie picked at the scone. Pulling off a currant, she popped it into her mouth. “But there was an incident last night. You already know, don’t you?”
Concern glimmered in Jennie’s eyes. “One of Campbell’s informants spotted an altercation centered around apretty bit of muslin. His words, not mine. Of course, he does not know your identity, so we could not be certain you were the woman in question. But I suspected as much. I trust you were unharmed.”
“Other than a couple of tender spots, I’m none the worse. Based on what the ruffians said, I was being summoned to a private meeting…a meeting I had no choice but to attend.”
“Could it have been a ruse, a means to earn your trust?”
“At first, I considered that possibility. But a carriage awaited the gutter-dwellers, an elegant brougham.”
Jennie’s mouth tensed to a slash. “Could you identify the carriage?”
“Not likely. I caught only a fleeting glance as it sped off. But I’ve little doubt the coach was not a hired conveyance.” Taking a sip of tea, Sophie collected her thoughts. “Jennie, what do you know of Gavin Stanwyck?”
As Jennie’s brow furrowed, she reached for her teacup. “London’s newestcatch?”
“Ah, yes, that would be the one. Despite inheriting a fortune, he’s come seeking some long-lost treasure.”
“How very odd. I’ve heard tales of his adventures, but then again, such stories might be little more than puffery. To my knowledge, he’s not a subject of any of the agency’s inquiries.”
“He came to my aid last night. Rather gallant, really. Not at all what I expected. You see, he’s sought Trask’s services. A rather infuriating man, and certainly not one I expected to come upon the scene at that precise moment.”
Jennie nodded her understanding. “You question his motives?”
“The timing of his appearance may have been too convenient.”
“I’ll see what I can learn about the man.” Jennie took another sip of tea. Faint worry lines tugged at her mouth.
Sophie studied the woman who’d taken her on as a protégé. She’d always merited Jennie’s trust. But now, Jennie seemed reticent. Was something amiss beyond the ugliness of the night before?
Sophie leaned closer. “What’s happened? Is there something you haven’t told me?”
“Have you seen the morning edition?”
“No,” she admitted. Drat the luck that she’d squandered precious time exploring some musty tomb in her dreams, with Gavin Stanwyck, no less. TheHerald’s advertisements were a frequent means by which the Colton agency and its operatives communicated, embedding their messages in a code that would seem innocuous to a reader while conveying urgent news to agents.
“I didn’t think so.” Jennie handed Sophie a folded newspaper. “Here. See for yourself.”
Unfurling the morning edition, Sophie took in the headline. She stifled a gasp. “Oh, my. There’s been another death.”
“Anotheraccidentthat occurred with no witnesses, with no plausible explanation, beyond the rather obvious conclusion that it was not an accident at all. Victor Carlton was Trask’s greatest rival. He’d convinced members of the nobility he could speak with the departed. And now the man is dead, fished from the Thames last night. A drowning, or so they say.”
Sophie scanned the article, taking in the pertinent details. Jennie was right. The circumstances of Carlton’s supposedly accidental demise seemed improbable at best.
“Carlton fell from the Blackfriars Bridge shortly after sunset. Yet no one saw him go over. How very odd. That area would’ve been teeming with people right about then.”
“I agree. It doesn’t make sense.” Jennie gently took the paper from Sophie’s hands. “The official report speculated that the man was in his cups and toppled over the rail. He’d last been seen at a gentleman’s club. The barkeeper indicated Carlton had appeared sober and rational upon entering the establishment, but had become exceedingly intoxicated. Oddly enough, Carlton was known to keep his head about him. He was not one to allow himself to become foxed.”
“Perhaps the liquor had a strong effect upon him,” Sophie said. As Jennie had always emphasized, the most direct explanation was generally the most valid solution to a quandary.
“That could be the case. But…the timeline is troubling.”
