But there were still signs.
Broken glass glistened under a mahogany stand. The bureau drawers were busted and stacked on the floor. Even the draperies on the windows had been slashed. Had someone been looking for something Brownlow possessed? Or only meant to frighten him? Was that why he disappeared?
Weaving around an overturned harp, Simon approached a writing desk in the corner. The drawers had already been dumped. Crumpled papers, ripped books, a cracked chinoiserie vase, and a spilled inkwell littered the floor beneath the desk.
Simon hunkered down, unfolded several of the papers. Mostly bills from local London merchants or short notes, as if the man wrote down each daily task in fear he might forget.
Then a name snagged Simon’s attention on a shredded paper.
He smoothed it out, but it had been torn from the middle, leaving only the left side of a neatly written letter. He read over the broken lines, “unfair that interference should keep…if anything, the journey flamed my…pretend all you wish, but I am certain that…tomorrow night or I shall sever your promises from my heart.”
The signature sparked surprise and confusion.Eleanor Oswald.How did that make sense? Somehow, he could not join the two in his mind—the assured and lofty Miss Oswald with the nervous, short-necked Mr. Brownlow. How had so young a girl become involved with a man twice her age? And so soon after his own wife had passed? Or had their secret romantic tryst started before that?
“Eh, what you doin’ in ’ere?”
Simon stood and turned, crushing the letter in his fist.
The sweeper boy stood in the doorway, hair in his eyes, pant legs jagged about his scuffed knees. “You gets to thievin’ in ’ere and the runners’ll be after you.”
“My business here is finished.” Simon started forward, but the boy stayed planted in the doorway.
For one so young, likely no more than ten, his dirt-ringed eyes remained sharp and unflinching. He bore the same bravery as John. “Empty your pockets.”
Simon obliged. Even dropped the paper back to the floor. “Satisfied?”
“Mr. Brownlow will be comin’ back. I sweeps for ’im every day, I do. I did, I mean. An’ I’ll be makin’ sure everything is ’ere for ’im when he gets home.”
“You have any idea who did this?”
“Not everyone likes Mr. Brownlow. Don’t matter none. Not everyone likes me neither.” The boy brandished his broom like a weapon. The blackened straw reeked of dung. “You best be leavin’ now ’fore I calls the runners.”
“I have one question to ask of you.”
“What?”
“Do you know where Mr. Brownlow has gone? I would like to speak with him.” The boy’s lips pinched, so Simon added, “As a friend, not an enemy.”
“I don’t knows where he went.”
“Did he go of his own accord?”
“He left one mornin’ when it was still dark. I was sleeping in the bushes outside of his town house. He lets me stay there. He makes the cook give me potatoes an’ bread sometimes too.”
“He left alone?”
“Went with another gent, he did. I heard ’em talkin’ to each other. Something about a ship…an’ a Captain Mingee or Mingay or somethin’ like that, but I didn’t worry because I knows he’ll come back.” The boy’s throat bobbed. “He has to come back.”
Simon pulled coinage from his coat pocket. “Here. Just in case he doesn’t.”
The boy stared at his hand. “What’s I gots to do for that?”
“Forget I was here today.”
“You mean not tell the runners?”
“Yes.” Simon grinned. “Not tell the runners.”
The boy snatched the coins so fast Simon hardly saw his hand move. He raced from the drawing room and was off the streets by the time Simon exited the town house and forced shut the door behind him.
