Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

A s Barnaby had predicted, for all those investigating Viscount Sedbury's murder, Wednesday proved to be a day crammed with activity. By the time he stepped out of the house, Penelope was already closeted with her young assistants-cum-protégées, organizing their campaign to investigate the alibis of the potential ton suspects.

After drawing the front door closed behind him, Barnaby settled his hat on his head and left them to their endeavors. He had multiple lads to meet.

At that moment, Penelope was in the garden parlor, seated on one of the sofas with the two maids—Chrissie and Polly—perched on the sofa opposite.

Although faintly daunted by the task of investigating so many members of the ton all at once, Penelope believed she'd devised an approach that would at least give them enough information to eliminate some of their candidates. She'd just finished explaining her idea to her protégées and was pleased but not surprised to find them brimming with enthusiasm; she'd chosen them to train in investigative techniques for a reason. Both possessed an abundance of native curiosity as well as excellent memories, and neither was overly intimidated by the barriers of class.

"So," Polly said, eyes alight with eagerness, "in speaking with the staff, we focus on getting them to tell us where their people were on Saturday night and early Sunday morning—if they attended some ball or dinner or whatnot and when they got home."

Penelope nodded. "That's your first task. Coachmen and grooms will likely be the most useful sources, but butlers also will know when their master or mistress returned home and retired for the night. Or if they went out again later. As I've taught you, the best approach is to get your targets talking about whatever they want to talk about, then subtly lead them in the direction of the information you wish to know."

"But regardless of whatever answer we get on that point," Chrissie, equally eager, put in, "we should try to learn if their people had contact with anyone who might be a hired killer."

Penelope elaborated, "Either by having such a person call or by going out to meet someone unknown at an odd hour or specifically using an unmarked carriage. If they've had any mysterious meetings either under their roof or somewhere else in the past two weeks." She regarded the girls. "While the first part of your task should be easily enough accomplished simply by encouraging the usual household gossip, you'll need to be more tactful and careful probing for answers on our second point."

Chrissie frowned. "Which is more important? Where their people were on Saturday or if they met with some mysterious stranger?"

Penelope considered, then sighed. "Actually, both could potentially be our clue, so I suggest you try for the easier part first."

"What if," Polly said, "we make some comment about the viscount who was killed? A dresser or a gentleman's gentleman might know if their mistress or master knew the man or was particularly relieved on learning of his death."

"That's an excellent notion," Penelope replied, "as long as you can introduce the subject naturally. Just don't make it obvious that you have any real interest in Sedbury's murder."

Both girls nodded in understanding.

"Very well." Penelope consulted the list. "Now, who do we know at each of these houses?"

They progressed through the list of ton residences, cross-referencing each against the list of Foundling House alumni placements, and established that in every household, the girls had at least one Foundling House acquaintance on whom they could believably call.

"Can we say we've been asked to see how they're going in their job?" Chrissie asked.

"You can, indeed," Penelope replied. She was, after all, a patroness of the Foundling House and chair of the committee that oversaw placements. "And if there are any difficulties, do let me know. Now, the last thing we need to do to be as efficient as we possibly can is to order these houses in terms of location."

That didn't take long.

"Right, then." Penelope sat back. "We're ready. Chrissie, ring for the carriage, then both of you fetch your bonnets and cloaks. I'll meet you in the front hall."

Penelope smiled as the girls rushed from the room, then she gathered up her lists and followed.

She chatted with Mostyn as he helped her don her coat. She shook her head when he held out her bonnet. "I'll be remaining in the carriage throughout."

The girls came clattering down the stairs, breathless but ready to embark on their venture.

Mostyn smiled and opened the door. Penelope waved the girls ahead of her, then followed them down the steps.

Connor, her groom-cum-guard, stood holding the carriage door. Penelope shooed the girls inside, then took Connor's hand and climbed up.

The girls had claimed the rear-facing seat, leaving the forward-facing seat for Penelope. She settled, and when her coachman, Phelps, called down from above, asking for their direction, she raised her voice and informed him, "Hanover Square."

The coach rattled off, and she spent the short distance to their destination rehearsing the girls' initial sallies.

When the carriage drew up to the curb in the square, the girls eagerly descended, and each headed for a different house.

Penelope sat back and waited, something she'd never been good at. She would much rather be out, asking questions herself, but the truth was that ton staff were always tight-lipped in her presence, especially when it came to inquiries about their employers. The girls would fare much better than she; there was little restraint in gossiping among staff from different ton houses. "And, indeed," she muttered to herself, "this is precisely why I took them on as my assistants."

She sighed and tried to think of other things. Distracting herself with thoughts of Pip and Oliver playing together proved the most successful.

Uncounted minutes later, Polly appeared at the carriage door, her face alight with triumph. Penelope straightened and swung the door open, and as Polly climbed up, Chrissie appeared behind her and followed her into the carriage.

The instant the door clicked shut, Penelope looked hopefully at the girls. "Well?"

Polly spoke first. "Both the lady's dresser and their coachman chatted about how their master and mistress had been to some grand dinner in Grosvenor Square on Saturday night, and both said they'd come home about midnight and hadn't gone out again. And no one seemed to know anything about any unexpected meeting with unknown people. They were puzzled when I steered the conversation that way."

Chrissie was nodding. "I learned much the same at the Ferrises'. His lordship went out on Saturday, but was home by eleven o'clock, and her ladyship was at some ball, but came home just after midnight. And everyone was eager to learn whether I'd heard anything about the viscount's murder." Chrissie glanced at Polly. "Once I mentioned that, it was easy to slide in a question as to mysterious meetings with shady characters." Chrissie returned her gaze to Penelope. "But everyone in the household was sure their people hadn't met with any such person. No unexpected outings of any sort."

Penelope nodded thoughtfully. "It seems mentioning the viscount's murder might be a good tack to take with the rest of our inquiries." She glanced at her list and wielded a pencil, striking out the Ferrises and the Moretons. "That was an excellent start. Right, then." To Chrissie, she said, "Tell Phelps we're off to Brook Street."

Chrissie sprang up, tapped on the panel in the ceiling, and when Phelps opened it, gave him the new direction.

The instant Chrissie sat, the coach lumbered into motion.

As they rolled on along Mayfair's streets, Penelope wondered if the answers they extracted at Lord Napier's house would be similarly definitive.

After reporting on their progress to the commissioner, Stokes paused on the steps of Scotland Yard. The commissioner's parting words, "You need to find some concrete clue!" still rang in his ears.

The man was right. In this rather peculiar case, other than a dead body, clues of substance had been thin on the ground.

Belting his greatcoat more tightly about him, Stokes descended to the pavement. He hailed a passing hackney and, while waiting for it to come around, grumbled, "Napier's whip being found in Sedbury's collection surely qualifies."

Stokes hoped Penelope and her girls would find sufficient evidence during their inquiries at Napier House to rule his lordship either in or out. They needed definitive evidence, not equivocal findings.

The hackney drew up, and Stokes instructed the jarvey to drive to the docks west of the entrance to Regent's Canal.

While rattling through London's crowded streets, Stokes mulled over what they thought they currently knew. Ultimately, he concluded, "Lots of possible suspects, but precious few verifiable links putting any of them together with Sedbury on Saturday night."

Eventually, the hackney slowed, then halted. Stokes looked out and saw the rippling gray-brown waters of the river. He opened the door and stepped out into the brisk breeze that carried more than a hint of fish and rotting vegetation. After paying the jarvey, Stokes turned away from the canal and walked west along the narrow path that ran beside the embankment wall to where Sergeant O'Donnell stood, his gaze tracking several constables who were knocking on doors or walking into warehouses.

That morning, together with Morgan, O'Donnell was overseeing a group of six junior constables. As Stokes joined his sergeant, he could see three of the six talking with stevedores and workmen who were lounging outside two warehouses and a shipping office. Two other constables were stopping passersby and those visiting the various establishments and inquiring if they'd been in the area on Saturday night.

Stokes doubted any of the visitors would know anything; most didn't live in the area and only ventured into it during business hours. The stevedores, workmen, and navvies, however, might prove better prospects.

As if reading his mind, when Stokes halted beside O'Donnell, the experienced sergeant nodded at the constables chatting with the local workers. "I told them to ask that lot if they'd set eyes on a lordly cove like Sedbury anywhere near."

Stokes nodded. "Good thinking. If Sedbury came to the river under his own steam, he might have visited before."

"What I thought," O'Donnell returned, "but so far, no luck." He cut a glance at Stokes. "Can't say I'm surprised. The viscount might have been here all right, but finding anyone in this area who saw him on Saturday night well enough to register him as a gentleman and remember it, and we don't even know where exactly along this stretch he was, well, none of that seems all that likely."

"Normally, I'd agree," Stokes replied, "but you never saw Sedbury. Trust me, if he'd been here, someone would have noticed him. He wasn't just large and massive, but I'm reliably informed that he was so belligerently arrogant, he carried himself as if he owned the world. That sort of gentleman the locals hereabouts will always note, if for no other reason than to avoid him."

"Hmm." O'Donnell didn't sound entirely convinced. "Anyways, I sent Morgan and one of the bobbies to ask at all the possible watering holes—taverns, inns, whatever. Seemed best Morgan go in during the day and work his magic on the barmaids. If any of them know anything, he's sure to get it out of them."

Stokes grunted in agreement. It was well known throughout the Yard that the baby-faced Morgan could charm information from the crustiest old crone. For him, extracting information from barmaids would be as easy as falling off a stool.

The slap of the waves against the stone wall gave Stokes an idea. He tipped his head toward the river. "I'm going to take a wander along the waterline and see if there are any mud larks willing to talk to me."

"Mud larks" was the common term for the children of the poor who scavenged for bits and pieces—flotsam and jetsam—that washed up on the tide.

O'Donnell arched his brows. "Could be worth it. They see our uniforms and scarper, but they might be curious enough about you to hang around long enough to listen."

Stokes hoped so. In his experience, the children who haunted the river—indeed, street children anywhere—were highly observant.

With a nod to O'Donnell, Stokes set off along the embankment, looking for the nearest access to the shore. As he walked, he pretended to be unaware of the suspicious eyes that tracked his movements. In that area, the appearance of the police, especially in any numbers, made people uneasy and wary regardless of whether their consciences were clear or not.

As instructed by Claudia the day before, at precisely ten o'clock, Charlie knocked on the door of Selborough House in Farm Street. After informing the starchy butler who opened the door that he was there to see Claudia, he was immediately admitted and, after handing over his hat and relinquishing his coat, he was shown into the drawing room.

Within minutes, Claudia walked in, smiled, and gave him her hand. "Excellent! You're on time. Aunt Patricia has given us permission to interview the staff." When he released her hand, she swung around and gestured to the doorway. "I thought it would be best to use the back parlor. Rather less intimidating."

"A sound notion." Charlie fell in beside her, and they walked through the front hall and down a long corridor to a smaller, more comfortably furnished room at the rear of the house. The parlor was well lit via large windows that gave onto a leafy courtyard garden.

Claudia led the way to a sofa set before the main window, sat, and with a gracious wave, invited Charlie to sit beside her.

He did, rather nervously, truth be told, but Claudia's gaze promptly fixed on the butler, who had followed them into the room.

"Trestlewaite, I believe my aunt explained the need to verify Fosdyke's movements on Saturday evening through to Sunday morning." She glanced at Charlie. "Mr. Hastings is here by way of bearing witness to the information I gather. We all thought it best if I asked the relevant questions for the police, rather than have them here."

"Indeed, Lady Claudia." A hint of relief showed in Trestlewaite's expression. "On behalf of the staff, I quite agree. We do not need the police barging into this household."

"Quite." Claudia waved him nearer. "If you would step a little closer, we can begin."

Almost tentatively, the butler came to stand on the opposite side of the low table stationed before the sofa. In that position, the light from the window at Charlie's and Claudia's backs fell full on Trestlewaite's face.

"Now," Claudia began, "if you would tell us what you know of Fosdyke's movements from the evening of Saturday to first thing Sunday morning." Before the butler could speak, she held up a hand. "I ask for what you know, not what you think, believe, or assume."

The butler frowned slightly. "Well, I know Fosdyke was expected to act as groom when the coachman ferried her ladyship and you, my lady, to the dinner in Audley Street. You left the front hall at seven o'clock, and I recall seeing Fosdyke holding the carriage door for you and your aunt. The coach returned at just after midnight, and the footman opened the door, and as it was raining, James ran down with the large umbrella and escorted you and her ladyship in, and I met you in the front hall." Trestlewaite frowned. "As I didn't open the door, I didn't notice if Fosdyke was with the carriage."

Claudia frowned, clearly recalling the moment. "I have to admit, I could not say—not of my own knowledge—that he was. I assume he was, but that's not sufficient evidence."

"Perhaps Johns can shed some light on the matter," Trestlewaite suggested.

Claudia glanced at Charlie. "Johns is my aunt's coachman." She looked at Trestlewaite. "Perhaps we might have Johns in next."

Trestlewaite bowed. "I will summon him, my lady."

Her expression perplexed, Claudia stared at the door as it closed behind Trestlewaite. "You know, try as I might, I can't recall if Fosdyke was on the carriage when we returned to the house on Saturday night."

Charlie thought, then offered, "Good staff are like that. They know how to pass unremarked."

She tipped her head his way. "Good point. And Fosdyke is nothing if not ‘good staff.'"

The door opened, and a large man with large hands and a faintly worried expression came in. "You wanted to see me, my lady?"

She smiled and waved him nearer. "Yes, Johns. I don't know if Trestlewaite mentioned it, but we're trying to establish where certain staff members were during the hours of last Saturday night. Now," she went on in bracing fashion, "when you ferried my aunt and me home after that dinner on Saturday, was Fosdyke still with you on the coach?"

"He was, my lady. The rain had started by then, and a right drenching it was for both of us. Luckily, James, the footman, came rushing down with the umbrella to shield you and the mistress up the steps and into the house. Fosdyke was beside me, and we saw the front door open before the carriage had even stopped—James must have been keeping an eye out, knowing he'd be needed—so Fosdyke didn't get down. No need, with James already on his way to open the carriage door."

"I see." Claudia was clearly reliving the moment in her mind.

"So," Charlie put in, "once their ladyships were inside, what did you and Fosdyke do next?"

"Well, we drove around into the mews and into the stable," Johns replied. "Tom, the groom, came hurrying down from our quarters above, and the three of us unhitched the team and saw to them. Then we went upstairs. We all share a room above the stable, see?"

"About what time was that?" Claudia asked.

Johns frowned, then ventured, "It was after midnight when we reached the house. I'd heard the bells as we drove through the streets. It'd've taken us a good half hour, likely more, to see to the horses, so we went up about one o'clock Sunday morn."

"And neither you, Fosdyke, or Tom left your room again that night?" Charlie asked.

"No, sir. We wanted our sleep. We rolled out of bed at five-thirty sharp to start on our chores and have his lordship's gelding ready when he called for it for his morning ride."

Claudia smiled at Johns. "Thank you. That's very clear."

"One last thing," Charlie said. "Fosdyke has a nasty gash above his left eye. Do you know how he got that?"

"Was it in a fight?" Claudia asked.

Johns grinned. "You could say it was a fight, but not with any man. It was that fractious gelding of your uncle's, my lady. Got a stone wedged deep in his hoof and wasn't of a mind to let any of us near. It took all three of us—me, Fosdyke, and Tom—to hold the beggar, and when Fosdyke got that stone out, well, the ungrateful beast lashed out and caught Fosdyke with his hoof. Opened up that gash, and you're right. Nasty, it was, but truth be told, Fosdyke was lucky it wasn't worse."

Charlie winced, then asked, "And that was when?"

"Sunday midmorning. After the master came back from his ride."

Looking pleased, Claudia nodded to the coachman. "Thank you, Johns." She glanced inquiringly at Charlie. "I believe that will be all?"

Charlie nodded. "Yes. Thank you. You've been most helpful."

"Happy to help." Johns bowed and retreated.

Once the door had closed behind the coachman, Charlie met Claudia's eyes. "Well, that was straightforward enough. So we can strike Fosdyke off our list, and that also eliminates all those who might have used him as their agent."

"Me, for instance," Claudia said.

"And your aunt and uncle, too." Charlie smiled confidently. "I doubt there's anyone else on the staff here who might have been a match for Sedbury."

"No," Claudia agreed. "Speaking more generally, not many could have bested him. He truly was a massive brute."

After a moment during which Charlie realized he'd been smiling vacuously while drinking in Claudia's more relaxed expression, he cleared his throat and asked, "So, where to next? Your brothers' lodgings?"

A faint frown puckered Claudia's brows as she considered the matter. "I was going to say yes," she eventually replied, "but it occurs to me that first, perhaps, we should return to Sedbury's rooms."

When, mildly surprised, Charlie arched his brows at her, she supplied, "Someone should question Duggan, and that might as well be us. As far as I know, no one's spoken to him or planned to do so, yet he might know or have seen or heard something pertinent."

Charlie's brows rose even higher. "That's true. Rather remiss of us all." He uncrossed his legs, rose, and offered Claudia his hand. "We should definitely catch up with Duggan."

After deciding not to avail themselves of Fosdyke's services given they were investigating, they quit the house, and Charlie hailed a hackney. On reaching Duke Street, they climbed to Sedbury's rooms and walked into the apartment.

They paused in the small front foyer, and Charlie closed the door behind them.

A man appeared in the open bedroom doorway, and from the way Claudia nodded at the fellow, Charlie assumed him to be Duggan.

"Lady Claudia." Duggan bowed, and Charlie seized the moment to take his measure.

Duggan was younger than Charlie had expected, somewhere in his late twenties. He was of average height and build, and garbed as he was in the neat and somber attire of a gentleman's gentleman, he was entirely forgettable. His face was round, his features unremarkable, and his straight dark-brown hair lay flat against his skull. He was the sort of man who would pass unnoticed on a deserted street.

Straightening, Duggan waved behind him, into the bedroom, and glancing past him, Charlie saw a half-filled portmanteau on the bed.

Duggan explained, "Lord Jonathon and Lord Bryan said they'd come around later and tell me what they want done with everything else. But they've already been through the clothes, and they said I could sell them on for whatever I can get for them."

Allowing staff to sell their employers' discarded clothes was a common practice, and Claudia nodded. "Good. However, we're here to ask what you know of Sedbury's movements over his last days." She beckoned Duggan to follow as she headed for the sofa. "Come and sit, and let's see what you can remember."

Charlie followed her to the sofa, and somewhat uncertainly, Duggan trailed behind them.

Claudia sat, and after Charlie subsided beside her, she imperiously pointed to the armchair facing them.

Duggan hesitated, then obeyed the unspoken command and moved to perch upright on the edge of the chair's seat, clasping his hands in his lap.

He was so patently uncomfortable, to put him out of his misery the sooner, Charlie said, "Let's start with the days leading to last Saturday. Did your master do anything different? Anything that seemed odd or unusual or not in the customary way of things?"

Succinctly, Claudia asked, "Did he alter his habits in any way?"

Duggan's brow furrowed as he dredged his memory.

Impatient, Claudia prompted, "Did Sedbury do anything he hadn't done before? Did he have any unexpected visitor or go out to some unanticipated meeting?"

Slowly, still frowning, Duggan shook his head. "I can't say as I remember anything unusual happening. Seemed like any other week, with him going out most evenings and getting back sometime in the wee hours." He glanced at Charlie. "He wasn't any gentle master, but he was easy enough to do for just as long as he got everything he wanted when he wanted it."

Claudia grimaced. "That sounds very like him."

"All right," Charlie said. "Now, think about Saturday. When did he rise for the day?"

"His usual time," Duggan replied, "a little before noon. He had me lay out the clothes he preferred for going around town during the day, dressed, and had his breakfast—his usual kippers, eggs, sausages, toast, and coffee—then he went out." Duggan looked from Charlie to Claudia. "Nothing different from any other day."

"So," Charlie said, drawing Duggan's gaze back to him, "when did he return?"

"Not until a bit after seven o'clock, and that was just to change for the evening. Then he went out again." Memory plainly struck, and Duggan's eyes lit. "He said he was eating at his club and then going on to some meeting."

Duggan looked pleased to have remembered that.

Claudia straightened. "He definitely mentioned going to a meeting?"

Duggan nodded.

"Was that normal—him going to a meeting after dinner?" Charlie asked.

Duggan thought, then frowned. "Now you mention it, no. Can't recall him going to any other nighttime meeting before." He paused, then clarified, "He was often out at night, but he'd never said it was to go to a meeting before."

Charlie thought to clarify, "And he took his whip with him?"

"Always did," Duggan said. "Even when he went to parties and dinners and such."

Charlie glanced at Claudia. "I'm not sure whether it was at White's that Sedbury dined, but we can check." He returned his gaze to Duggan. "After he left to go to dinner, did Sedbury return here at any time on Saturday night?"

"Or in the early hours of Sunday morning," Claudia put in. "And would you have known if he had?"

"I sleep in the nook off the kitchen," Duggan said, "and with him as a master, it paid to sleep light, so yes, I'd've heard him even if he didn't call me." He looked at Charlie. "But after he left just before eight o'clock on Saturday evening, he didn't come home again." He paused, then added, "I'd take my oath on that."

Charlie nodded in acceptance.

Claudia stated, "You didn't worry when he didn't show up the following day. When I called on Monday afternoon, you didn't seem bothered that he hadn't returned."

"Sometimes, he stayed out all night and late into the next day." Duggan grimaced. "When Monday dawned and he was still not back, I did start to wonder, but, well, he was the sort of master that raising any dust only to have him turn up wasn't worth my hide." He met Claudia's gaze levelly. "I was just his servant. He didn't tell me much about his life, just what he wanted me to know."

Charlie reflected that most gentlemen treated their gentleman's gentleman with a higher degree of trust, his relationship with Garvey being a case in point. Garvey knew a great deal more about Charlie, his hopes, fears, and dreams, than possibly anyone else alive, and that wasn't in any way unusual. However, accepting that Sedbury hadn't been the trusting sort, Charlie said, "Going back to the last time you saw him, when he left to dine at some club and then go on to some meeting, did he make any comment at all about when he expected to be back?"

"No. Not a word," Duggan replied. "But that wasn't unusual. He came and went as he pleased, of course, and just expected me to be here, to do whatever he needed at the time."

Claudia stirred. "This meeting he mentioned—did he give you any indication about where it was to be?"

"Or," Charlie put in, "when or with whom he was meeting?"

Duggan screwed up his features in thought. Plainly reliving the moment in his mind, he offered, "Not as such, but the way he said it—dinner, then a meeting—meant the meeting was after dinner, and he made it sound separate, a different event altogether. Other than that, he said nothing about where or who the meeting was with." Duggan paused, still lost in memory, then added, "But he was looking forward to it, the meeting. You could tell by the expression on his face. He was in a good mood, expectant like. He looked just like he did whenever he was going to squash someone under his heel."

Claudia winced.

Noticing it, Duggan said, "Beggin' your pardon, my lady, but he was like that. He took real pleasure in slamming people down, then grinding them down even more."

Charlie glanced at Claudia, at her pained expression, then looked at Duggan. "Thank you for speaking with us."

Duggan shrugged. "He's gone now, so there doesn't seem any reason to keep his secrets. But"—he looked at Claudia—"I'm not sure what I should do. Should I go off and look for another place?"

When Claudia looked uncertain herself, Charlie said, "I'd advise you to remain here for the time being and speak with Lord Jonathon and Lord Bryan when they return."

"Yes." Claudia regarded Duggan. "Sedbury might be dead, but you were in his employ for quite some years, and it's likely my brothers or the marquess will have some suggestion of further employment for you. At the very least, they can write you a reference."

Duggan's expression lightened, and he nodded. "I'll wait here for the nonce, then, and see what their lordships say."

Claudia rose, bringing Duggan and Charlie to their feet. "We'll be off, then. Thank you for answering our questions, Duggan."

Duggan bowed, and after bestowing a gracious nod, Claudia led the way to the door.

Charlie followed her down the stairs and out of the house.

On the pavement, he offered his arm, and she took it, then glanced at his face. "Do you think the family should let Duggan go?"

Charlie had been pondering that. "I think," he replied, "that it would be wise of your father if not your brothers to keep the man on in some capacity, at least until this business is settled." He met Claudia's eyes. "And even after that. Who knows what secrets of Sedbury's Duggan might have been privy to that he might remember later and think to put to good use?"

Her chin firming, Claudia nodded. "So it's a case of keeping a potential enemy close."

Charlie tipped his head. "For the moment, at least, but I have to say, he seemed a decent sort."

Claudia murmured, "Which was arguably more than Sedbury deserved."

They walked to where the hackney waited. Charlie opened the door, handed Claudia in, and followed.

Once they'd settled on the seat, Claudia directed the driver to take them to Bury Street, which wasn't far. As the hackney drew away from the curb, Claudia asked, "How much weight do you think we can place on Duggan's reading of Sedbury's mood?"

"Actually," Charlie replied, "I would say quite a lot. Staff like Duggan, living constantly with the one they serve in relatively close proximity, are usually very good at gauging their master's mood. And with a man like Sedbury, Duggan's health and continued employment very likely depended on his ability to accurately divine Sedbury's feelings. More, Duggan volunteered the information rather than constructed it in response to a prompt from us. It was him thinking back and remembering the moment when he last saw Sedbury that brought the point to his mind." Charlie met Claudia's eyes. "All in all, I would say Duggan's observation of Sedbury's anticipation of the meeting is very likely accurate."

Claudia faced forward. "If that's so, then we can take it as fact that Sedbury was intending to meet with someone later that night, and he was relishing the prospect of bullying and intimidating that person."

Charlie nodded. After a moment, he said, "If we put that together with Sedbury having his favorite whip with him, it might well be that he was expecting to use it."

Claudia glanced at him, but other than her lips grimly tightening, made no response.

As he'd arranged, Barnaby met with a large group of his lads in the churchyard of St. Paul's. It was an easy place for the lads to get to and, in this case, reasonably central to their area of operations.

He leaned against the stone wall marking the northern edge of the churchyard, and the lads who were free to attend, all aged between eight and fifteen, gathered around, perching on the stone slabs of graves or leaning against tombstones. Some were street sweepers, some stable lads, and others were errand boys. Some had graduated to being formal messengers or couriers for legal chambers or businesses in the City.

Barnaby had steadily recruited the group over the past few years, although he had only formally founded "the network," as they all called it, over the past six months. Working out the logistics and putting all the procedures in place had taken some thought and care, but now the group knew each other and could rapidly spread the word whenever he needed their talents.

The agreement was that only those lads who had the time free came to meetings, but others would be kept apprised of what was going on through a web of contacts within the group.

The lads had arrived in twos and threes, but there were no new arrivals in sight. Barnaby counted fifteen gazes fixed expectantly on him. He smiled faintly and pushed away from the wall. "Right, then. So far, we've found witnesses enough to verify Mr. Hastings's movements on Saturday night, when he left White's and returned to his house."

The boys nodded.

"That was good, solid work, and so we don't need any further information on Mr. Hastings." Barnaby had to call them off, or they would continue to keep an eye on Charlie. "Now, we need to concentrate on Viscount Sedbury. We already have sightings of him walking out of White's and down to Pall Mall, where he hailed and climbed into a hackney. That was at a little after eleven-thirty, and we know the hackney headed east."

One of the street sweepers, Tommy, raised his hand. "We—Murray, Joe, and me—think we know who the driver is. Least ways, we know what he looks like, but we haven't been able to find him again. Not yet. We'll keep looking."

"Excellent." Barnaby nodded his approval. He glanced around the group. "Let's leave you three—Tommy, Murray, and Joe—looking for the driver. Perhaps the lads who are about Trafalgar Square and the Strand could keep their eyes peeled as well."

Three other boys nodded and murmured, "We'll spread the word."

Tommy leaned forward to look at those boys. "I'll tell you what he looks like after, but his horse is a chestnut with a white blaze and a white nearside foot."

"Just so we're clear," Barnaby said, "the driver, when you find him, isn't in any kind of trouble. We only want to know where he took the viscount and what time he left him there. No need to spook the man. Just ask him to report to Inspector Stokes and his team at Scotland Yard."

The lads grinned, and Phil, one of the older lads, ventured, "Don't know as telling him that won't spook him anyways."

That brought a round of chuckles and even wider grins.

Barnaby chuckled himself, then went on, "There's also a whip we're now searching for. It's a particular type of horse whip with a short handle. As whips go, it's a special type and valuable because of that. We now believe that the viscount had it with him when he got into the hackney, and he took it with him to wherever he went. Our information is that the viscount was strangled with a whip, so we're assuming it was his whip that was used."

"Cor! So the whip's the murder weapon?" Marty, another of the older lads, exclaimed.

Barnaby looked around the circle of wide eyes. "That's what the police surgeon thinks, and no, it's not a common choice of murder weapon. But we think the viscount had his whip with him, so we think it's the one that was used to strangle him. It might have been dropped where he was killed or tossed into the river. Some of the mud larks are searching the riverbanks in case the latter is the case. However, it's equally likely the whip is still somewhere in town."

"If it's valuable, why wouldn't the killer take it and sell it?" Phil asked.

Barnaby nodded. "He might have, or he might not have realized it was valuable and simply thrown it away. Regardless, he wouldn't have kept the whip—the murder weapon—with him."

"No. 'Course not," Humphrey, another of the older brigade, said. "Someone would notice, and that would mark him as the murderer."

"Exactly." Barnaby looked around the faces. "That's why I suspect that if it's not in the river, then it'll be in a pawnshop somewhere."

"Oh, aye," Marty said, and the others all nodded sagely.

Hiding his amusement, Barnaby asked, "So, what are your thoughts on where the whip might be and how we should go about finding it?"

The discussion that ensued was lively and productive. In the end, they agreed that at least to begin with, they would canvass the pawnshops in two areas—around the docks between Limehouse Dock and the Tower and around Long Acre. As Phil, seconded by Humphrey, had pointed out, if whoever took the whip from the murder site had any brains at all, they would take it to the area in which gentlemen looked for whips, not the area where low-at-heel hackney drivers lurked.

Marty observed, "Even if the whip was sold into one of the pawnshops around the docks, likely the owner would be smart enough to sell it on to a shop in Long Acre."

Barnaby agreed. He and the lads, not counting those delegated to search for the hackney driver, worked out who would search in which area and which other lads they might call on to join each group.

With that decided, Barnaby declared the meeting concluded, and the boys dispersed, chattering happily with each other as they headed out of the churchyard.

Rather affectionately, Barnaby watched them go, then headed for the street to find a hackney to take him home. While he walked between the graves, a notion he'd been toying with resurfaced in his mind. He really should speak with Curtis, who owned and ran the Curtis Inquiry Agency, as to whether he might take on some of the older lads and train them up as inquiry agents. It would be useful to have a properly trained group on whom to call, and the boys could certainly make use of more steady employment leading to a potential career.

Barnaby made a mental note to speak with Curtis once this case was closed, then stepped out of the churchyard onto the pavement and, raising a hand, hailed a hackney.