Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

A fter leaving the Crawford residence that afternoon, Hadrian had conveyed Miss Wren to Mrs. Forsythe's, where Miss Wren planned to discuss the potential exhumation as well as query her about the friendship between her father, Martin Crawford, and Erasmus Blount. It was Miss Wren's hope that she would be able to learn the identity of the fourth man in the photograph. They both felt certain he was the killer—of the poor young woman, of Patrick Crawford, and of Sir Henry. And Fitch.

They'd decided that whilst Miss Wren did that, Hadrian would call on Inspector Teague to inform him of what they'd learned regarding Selwin. Teague had wanted to speak with Selwin directly, of course, and, when he'd learned the doctor had left town, he'd been angry. He was at least glad to know where Selwin had gone so the police could retrieve him if he didn't return as promised.

They'd also discussed Hadrian's and Miss Wren's meeting with Superintendent Newsome as well as the inquest. Hadrian had also mentioned Newsome's condescending attitude toward Miss Wren as well as the note she'd received from Lowther. Teague hadn't been surprised as the police generally didn't like people meddling in their investigations, even if cases had been closed or the investigating party had the appropriate skills, which Teague had agreed Miss Wren possessed.

Hadrian had been pleased to hear it and looked forward to informing Miss Wren that she had at least one supporter at Scotland Yard. Hadrian was still waiting for the "confidential" reports on his attack and Crawford's murder. At this point, he doubted he'd ever be allowed to read them.

It was past nine that evening as Hadrian sat at his desk in his study, writing out a timeline of events, beginning with the photograph taken in 1839. His head still ached, but a glass of whisky had soothed the rougher edges of the pain.

Hadrian's butler, Collier, stepped through the open doorway of the study. "I'm sorry to disturb you, my lord, but a man arrived at the servant's entrance asking to speak with you. He says his name is Gregson and that he has information you want."

Shooting out of his chair, Hadrian nearly dashed downstairs. However, they ought to speak in confidence rather than in the scullery. "Show him up, please."

Collier hesitated. "I shouldn't ask, but is he involved in your investigation?"

Hadrian hadn't shared the specifics of his investigation, but he'd told Collier, as well as his valet, Sharp, that he was hunting the man who'd attacked him and that the search had expanded to include a variety of crimes.

"He is," Hadrian said. "I'm quite surprised he is here."

"I'll bring him up." Collier turned and left.

Hadrian paced whilst he waited, questions swirling in his mind. He'd hoped for the chance to speak with the doorman or the waiter but wasn't sure how or when that would happen. This was incredibly convenient and timely given what they'd learned from Selwin earlier.

He wished Miss Wren were here. Hadrian would do his best to recall every detail of the interview as well as make sure he didn't miss asking something critical.

"My lord, Mr. Gregson is here," Collier said from the doorway.

Gregson, his hat crushed between his meaty hands, walked slowly into the study. He looked around the room, his gaze wary. Then his focus settled on Hadrian.

"Welcome, Mr. Gregson." Hadrian glanced toward the butler. "Thank you, Collier."

The butler departed, closing the door behind him with a definitive click.

Hadrian regarded the doorman—he was not wearing the Farringer's livery but a cheaply made brown costume. Anticipation thrummed through Hadrian along with a bead of apprehension.

"I appreciate you agreeing to meet with me, my lord." Gregson sounded as uncertain as he looked.

"I'm quite pleased to see you, actually." Hadrian gestured toward the small seating area near the hearth radiating heat from the burning coals. "Please have a seat."

Gregson went to one of the chairs and seemed to hesitate. Ultimately, he perched on the edge as if he hadn't really wanted to sit.

"Do make yourself comfortable," Hadrian said.

The man had been fearful when they'd met, and now he'd come here in spite of that. Hadrian didn't want him to be nervous—or afraid. Still, Hadrian would be on guard in case Gregson was here for nefarious purposes, though he very much doubted it. The man did not exhibit the demeanor of someone intent on malice. "May I pour you a glass of wine, or perhaps you prefer whisky?" Hadrian offered.

Gregson blinked. "Er, no, thank you, my lord."

Hadrian took the chair that faced Gregson's. Sitting, he gave the man an encouraging smile. "It is very brave of you to come here. I know it can't have been easy."

"Do you know why I'm here?" Gregson asked in seeming surprise.

"I can surmise the reason. It was evident to me that you were afraid to say much at Farringer's the other night."

Gregson nodded. "That's right. Then Dunwell came outside." He grimaced and twisted the hat in his hands. "He was vexed about you and your lady friend asking so many questions."

"Did you tell him what we discussed?" Hadrian asked, worried for the doorman since he knew that Dunwell was involved in the concealment of Sir Henry's murder—at least. What else had the man done?

Shaking his head, Gregson wiped one hand over his brow. "Just that you were asking about Sir Henry, and I refused to talk to you and was trying to make you leave."

"That was smart." Hadrian wanted to get to the purpose of the doorman's visit. "Why did you come here tonight?"

"You said Fitch died. I heard he was garroted." Gregson's shoulder's twitched, and he lost a shade of color.

"He was," Hadrian confirmed. "Did you work with Fitch at Farringer's?"

Gregson nodded. "He was a doorman too. Been there longer than me. I only started last fall."

Hadrian's pulse thrummed. "I have learned more information since I saw you the other night. I know that Sir Henry's body was transported from Farringer's to his physician's office on Harley Street. Were you and Fitch the ones who moved him?"

Gregson pressed his hand over his mouth. He stared at the burning coals for a moment before dropping his hand to his lap. He looked at Hadrian with sorrow and regret in his eyes. "Yes. I was working at the door that night, and Fitch was inside. Sometimes we'd have gentlemen who couldn't hold their liquor or some who get angry and irrational when they lose. The inside man would toss them out."

"I see. Do you know what happened inside? Sir Henry was stabbed, but it would be helpful to know who stuck him." Hadrian prayed the man could say it was Fitch.

"I don't know what happened for certain," Gregson replied. It was disappointing to hear, but he likely knew something helpful. "Dunwell bade me help them move the body out the back before anyone could see. It seemed no one witnessed what happened in the card room. It was just Dunwell and Fitch. And the dead man."

Gregson took a breath before continuing. "I could see the man—Sir Henry—had been stabbed. There was a great deal of blood, and it originated in one area on his right side. I would have thought it was a pistol shot, but I didn't hear that." He swallowed. "And Fitch always had a knife handy—in the top of his boot."

Why hadn't Hadrian thought to search Fitch when they'd found his body? Though, if there had been a knife on his person, it would have come up in the inquest. Perhaps whomever had killed him had also known it was in his boot and had taken it.

"Do you think Fitch killed Sir Henry?" Hadrian asked.

"If I was a betting man, I would put money on it, but I'm not. Sometimes Dunwell pays Fitch extra for jobs on the side." Gregson hesitated before adding, "I did wonder if Fitch killed people for money."

"What made you think that?"

Gregson lifted a shoulder. "He was sharpening his knife one night several weeks ago. I thought I saw dried blood on the blade, but I wasn't certain. Even so, Fitch was a scary bloke. He was good for a laugh, but I wouldn't have wanted to prick his temper. Just after the new year, he beat one of the waiters at Farringer's until his eyes were swollen shut—because the waiter made a jest about Fitch wearing a new gold ring. The waiter asked who Fitch had stolen it from. Fitch didn't like that, said it had been given to him fairly as payment. Then he'd beat the waiter."

Hadrian's heart had begun to race faster when Gregson said Fitch had beaten someone—this was likely one of the first visions Hadrian had seen—and then picked up speed at the mention of the ring. "Did this ring have an M engraved on it?"

Gregson blinked. "That's right. How'd you know?"

Exhaling, Hadrian pulled the ring from his pocket and held it out on his palm. "Because I took it from Fitch's hand the night that he stabbed me in January. Have you any idea who gave it to him for payment?"

"I don't. He never said, and after he thrashed the waiter, no one dared ask him anything. No one spoke to him unless he talked to them first."

"He sounds charming," Hadrian said drily. He wanted to get back to what happened the night Sir Henry died. "After you moved the body, you and Fitch took it to Harley Street. Did Dunwell accompany you?"

"Yes. He came with us to make sure certain things were done. I don't know what because I was made to wait in the coach. Dunwell said the physician had to write out a death certificate before we could take the body to its home."

Hadrian studied the man for a moment. "Surely you must realize there is danger in working at Farringer's after what you've been asked to do?"

"I do. I've found a new position and gave my notice today. Dunwell wasn't pleased. He told me I shouldn't leave and that I definitely shouldn't talk."

"Did he threaten you?"

"Not outright, but I confess I'm afraid, especially since Fitch was killed. But then I read that they arrested the man who murdered him."

Hadrian frowned. "I'm sorry to tell you that I don't believe that man killed Fitch."

Gregson's features turned ashen. "So, the killer is still about?"

"Yes, but I am close to finding him. You will need to give testimony regarding Sir Henry's death to Scotland Yard."

"Will I be in trouble?" Gregson asked, fear lurking in his gaze.

"No. You will explain that you were acting as instructed by your employer, and from what you told me, you weren't aware that you were involved in a crime." Hadrian glanced at the clock. "It is rather late to be going to Scotland Yard, and I have prearranged plans in the morning. I could pick you up later tomorrow afternoon and take you to Whitehall. Where do you lodge?"

"I don't think I want to go there if Fitch's killer is still lurking," Gregson said, his voice trembling. "Fitch was killed at his lodging."

"You can stay here," Hadrian said. "You'll lodge in the mews with my coachman."

Gregson's shoulders sagged with relief. "Thank you, my lord."

"Come, I'll take you to the mews." Hadrian stood. He was brimming with excitement over what he'd learned and couldn't wait to share it with Miss Wren in the morning.

R avenhurst was punctual as usual despite the early hour. Tilda had watched his coach arrive and rushed to the door. Vaughn was downstairs polishing something that didn't need polishing.

"Good morning," Ravenhurst said, his expression livelier than normal. Indeed, his gaze was positively brimming with excitement.

"You look as if you've something to share," Tilda said as she stepped outside.

"I do, indeed. Let us settle ourselves in the coach." He escorted her to the vehicle where Leach was holding the door for them.

Tilda barely waited for him to be seated before demanding to know what he'd learned. "I assume your visit to see Teague revealed something new?"

"Actually no, it wasn't Teague. Gregson, the doorman from Farringer's, came to my house last night. He was ready—eager even—to tell me what he'd been keeping from us the other night."

Tilda sat forward on the seat, desperate to hear. "I'm sorry I missed this interview."

"I am too," Ravenhurst said with a light chuckle. "Indeed, I wished you were there with me. It wasn't the same hearing this information without you. I thought I might come over and tell you, but it was around ten o'clock or so."

"That's too bad. I do not retire early, but I suppose that is rather late to call. Still, in future if you have vital or even thrilling information to impart, I won't mind you coming at that hour. You won't disturb me."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Tilda wanted to get back to what happened. "Gregson just showed up at your house?"

"At the servant's entrance. He resigned his post at Farringer's. He was smart enough to realize he needed to find new, safer employment."

"I'm glad. Did he confirm that Fitch worked there?" Tilda held her breath even though she was all but certain.

"Yes. He was another doorman. He was also paid by Dunwell to complete other jobs outside the club. Gregson wasn't entirely sure what those were but suspected Fitch may have killed someone." Ravenhurst arched his brows. "Fitch had a knife with dried blood on the blade some weeks back."

Tilda was both unsurprised to hear this and shocked by it just the same. "Perhaps from when he killed Crawford. Or stabbed you."

"Precisely. Fitch does not sound as though he was a pleasant individual. Gregson related a rather unsavory tale of Fitch beating one of the waiters just after the new year when the waiter insinuated Fitch had stolen something. I saw this in one of my very first visions, but I had no idea what it meant." Ravenhurst paused, and Tilda was sure he was about to reveal something important. "Fitch grew violent when the waiter joked that he had to have stolen a gold ring that he was wearing."

Tilda sucked in a breath. " With an M engraved on it. "

Ravenhurst nodded somewhat triumphantly. "I showed it to Gregson, and he said it was the same, that Fitch received it as payment."

"From the man who strangled that poor woman thirty odd years ago. I don't suppose Gregson knows who that man is?" Just as she'd been sure that Gregson would confirm Fitch's employment at Farringer's, she was certain he didn't know the killer's identity.

"That would be too easy for us, wouldn't it?" Ravenhurst said with a sardonic smile. "Gregson did convey Sir Henry's body to Dr. Selwin's—along with Fitch and Dunwell. The manager made Gregson stay in the coach while Selwin stitched up Sir Henry and falsified the death certificate."

Tilda's heart pounded. "Did Gregson confirm that Fitch murdered Sir Henry?"

Ravenhurst blew out a frustrated breath. "Unfortunately, no, because he was stationed outside at the door when it happened, but Fitch was inside, and Gregson thinks it's likely he killed Sir Henry. Sir Henry appeared to have been stabbed, and Gregson noted that Fitch always had a knife in his boot."

"How convenient for a killer," Tilda murmured.

They arrived at the London Bridge station, and the coachman opened the door. Ravenhurst climbed down then helped Tilda from the coach.

Moving quickly, they found their platform and Ravenhurst guided her to their carriage, holding the door as she stepped inside. There was a cushioned bench covered in dark-red velvet on either side of the compartment. They sat down opposite one another.

Tilda couldn't help thinking that if Ravenhurst hadn't been employing her, she would have been sitting in the uncovered carriage in the rear, for that was all she could afford. And it likely would have been a stretch at that.

"Did you take Gregson to Scotland Yard?" Tilda asked, resuming their conversation from the coach.

"Not yet. As I said, it was rather late, and we were leaving early this morning. I am going to take him later this afternoon, and you are, of course, welcome to join us."

"I wouldn't miss it."

She thought of Fitch being murdered and worried Gregson may face a similar fate even if his involvement hadn't been as great. "Do you suppose Gregson is safe?"

"He certainly didn't think so. Once I told him I thought the man arrested for Fitch's murder was innocent, he was afraid to return to his lodgings. He spent the night in my mews with Leach. He was enjoying a breakfast in the servants' hall when I left this morning and will spend the day working in the mews until I return—he insisted."

"I'm glad you did that," Tilda said, thinking the earl was a singular gentleman. She hadn't met anyone like him. In many ways, he reminded her of her father. He was kind and thoughtful. And just.

"How was your visit with Mrs. Forsythe yesterday?" Ravenhurst asked, demonstrating his thoughtfulness.

"I was worried Millicent would be upset about the possibility of exhuming her father's body, but she was not. On the contrary, she is eager to have answers about his death, and if an autopsy will help, she is in favor of that." Tilda paused before adding, "She was also eager that someone else cover the expense. I do thank you for offering that."

"Just another expense of the investigation," Ravenhurst said. "I'm relieved she did not take issue with it."

"When I asked about her father's friendships with Crawford and Blount, Millicent could only say that Blount had sent a condolence card after Sir Henry's death." Tilda grabbed the carved wooden arm of her bench as the train lurched forward. "She recalled her father having a group of friends who gathered periodically for card parties and annually for a hunting party in the fall, but as it didn't affect her in any way, she'd paid no attention. She couldn't say whether Blount was part of that group or not. How was your meeting with Teague?"

"He was most interested to learn about Selwin, though he was not pleased that I let him leave town. I kindly reminded him that I am not a constable and that the police had closed the case without proper investigation."

Tilda smirked. "How did he take that?"

"He understood. I have the sense he is frustrated with how these investigations were handled. He really does seem to want to find the truth."

"Because he is apparently uncorrupted, unlike Inspector Padgett." Tilda narrowed her eyes. "I should like to know what Padgett's specific role is in everything. Was it just closing the cases and making the files confidential, thereby ensuring no one investigated and learned the truth?"

"I look forward to discovering that too. We are making good, and faster, progress," Ravenhurst said intently. "It feels as though we are getting close to discovering what we need to crack this open."

"Do you think if Blount can identify the fourth man in the photograph, we'll learn the identity of the person behind everything?"

"Yes, but I'm trying not to get ahead of myself," he said with a laugh.

"I did bring Sir Henry's photograph to show to Blount." She'd tucked it into her reticule.

Admiration flashed in Ravenhurst's eyes. "That was smart. I suppose I assumed he had one too, since he was also in the photograph."

"He might, but I didn't want to take the chance he didn't or that he wouldn't know what photograph we were asking about. That was thirty years ago. It's possible he doesn't have it anymore, if he ever had one, and may not even remember it."

They spent the rest of the journey discussing the case. Ravenhurst removed a piece of parchment from his coat. "I've written out a timeline of events as we know them as well as a list of players in this ever-expanding scheme." He handed her the paper.

Tilda smiled. "I've done the same." She pulled her version from her reticule and gave it to him.

Ravenhurst laughed. "It is good that we are partners." They fell silent as they reviewed the other's notes.

"We have a puppeteer who is pulling all the strings," Tilda began.

"The man who originally owned the M ring and who killed that young woman in 1839," Ravenhurst continued.

"That man is also responsible for Sir Henry's death as well as that of Patrick Crawford." Her gaze locked with Ravenhurst's. "And the attack on you."

"Which was meant for Crawford. Just think, if Fitch had never made that error, the puppeteer might have succeeded in his machinations."

"Aside from not knowing who he is, we've still no idea why he did all this."

Ravenhurst cocked his head and looked out the window at the passing countryside. "We know he killed someone thirty years ago and two men were with him and the body. Both those men—well, the son of one—are dead. Killing them ensures his secret is safe."

"But why would he kill them now? To keep them from revealing his crime? Why not do that thirty years ago?"

"Something had to have triggered this series of events," Ravenhurst said. "I hope Blount will be able to identify the fourth man in the photograph and that he can tell us about the dead woman."

Tilda snapped her gaze to him in surprise. "You think we should ask him about her?"

He gave her a dark look. "I think we must."

Silence reigned for some time as they both lost themselves in thought. Tilda watched the passing countryside but was too preoccupied to enjoy it. Which was too bad since she'd rarely left London.

When the train at last approached the station, Tilda felt a rush of anticipation. Soon they would have answers.