Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

T he next morning, after Barnaby had left for a meeting with his lads to check on their progress, Penelope played with their sons for another hour, then, after relinquishing the boisterous pair to their nursemaids for a walk in the park, she sat in the garden parlor and pondered her investigative options.

After dwelling on the outcome of the previous day, she'd concluded that her disaffection with her own contribution stemmed largely from her failure to advance their understanding of any aspect of the crime. While necessary to collect, the information she and her assistants had gathered had been entirely negative, and she wasn't accustomed to having no investigative thread to tug and follow. That was what had left her so dejected—the waiting around with nothing to do and no idea of how to advance their cause.

Determined to put an end to her frustration, she decided that there was one member of the Hale family she had yet to interview. It was the matter of a moment to call for the carriage and don her coat and bonnet, then she directed Phelps to drive to Farm Street and Selborough House.

When the butler opened the door, she smiled and extended one of her cards. "Please convey my compliments to the marchioness and that I would very much appreciate a few minutes of her time. I believe she will know which subject I wish to discuss."

The butler took the card, read the name, and bowed. "If you will wait in the drawing room, Mrs. Adair, I will inform her ladyship that you have called and wish to speak with her."

"Thank you." Penelope walked into the hall and allowed the butler to usher her into a sizeable drawing room decorated in peach-and-cream-striped silk. She sat on the long sofa and looked around. She was acquainted with the Selboroughs, but had only met them socially, as was the case with Rattenby and his marchioness.

She didn't doubt that the marchioness would see her. Even if Rattenby or Claudia hadn't mentioned Penelope's involvement in the investigation, over the years, together with Barnaby, she'd developed something of a reputation for assisting Scotland Yard with their inquiries into crimes involving the ton.

Sure enough, less than five minutes later, the marchioness swept into the room. Georgina Hale, Marchioness of Rattenby, was a tallish lady, elegant and svelte, with her dark hair upswept into a simple knot on the top of her head. She was nearing fifty, Penelope supposed, and was dressed in a fashionable day gown of mulberry cambric.

The marchioness paused only to hear the door shut behind her, then her blue eyes fixed on Penelope, and she continued gracefully across the room, extending her hand as she neared. "Mrs. Adair. I'm pleased you've called. If you hadn't, I likely would have called on you."

Penelope lightly touched the marchioness's fingers, and when the marchioness waved her back to her seat, she sank down and watched as Georgina Hale claimed the armchair opposite.

Before Penelope could venture any question, the marchioness said, "I understand from my daughter Claudia that you and your husband are assisting the police in this matter of Sedbury's death, and I must say that it's something of a relief to know that the investigating team is aware of…shall we say, the peculiar ramifications that can and usually do surround criminal actions within the haut ton."

Penelope interpreted that as an opening salvo designed to inform her of what was expected of her. She smiled serenely and told herself she would be unwise to underestimate the marchioness. Her blue gaze was sharp and direct, and if she was included in Helena Cynster's extended circle, Georgina Hale was very likely to have a shrewd and quick-witted mind to match. Especially when it came to matters affecting her family's social standing.

As if confirming that, the marchioness sat back and said, "I take it you are here because you believe I can help."

"Hoping, rather." Choosing her words with some care, Penelope explained, "While we've established that those of the ton known to bear enmity toward Sedbury are not directly involved in his death, and we are aware that indirect involvement remains a possibility, there is no question but that the pair of suspects currently at the top of the list are your sons, Jonathon and Bryan." She met the marchioness's very blue gaze. "On the face of the evidence in our possession, both had excellent reasons—powerful motives—to wish Sedbury dead."

Her estimation of the marchioness's acumen rose by several degrees when, instead of leaping to heatedly defend her offspring, she took several silent moments to consider her response, then, finally, nodded. "I can't say your conclusion surprises me. However, I believe it will assist you in understanding the full gamut of Sedbury's many enemies if you understand how the man came to be as he was."

Penelope's investigative heart leapt. Trying to veil her eagerness, she inclined her head. "Please do enlighten me."

The marchioness faintly smiled and said, "The first thing you need to know was that Sedbury was an infant when his mother died. Throughout his early years, as an only child and his father's heir, he was dreadfully spoilt and grew accustomed to invariably being the cynosure of attention for everyone in his orbit." She paused, then went on, "I married Gerrard—Rattenby—when Sedbury was seven years old, and from the first instant he laid eyes on me, he hated me. Not because of anything I did—of course, I tried to be kind and understanding and motherly toward him—and certainly not in the sense of me replacing the mother of whom he had no memory but because I took his place as the center of attention, not just for his father but for everyone in the household. That was the driving source of Sedbury's abiding anger and his never-far-from-the-surface resentment toward me and my children. In his eyes, we supplanted him."

Penelope contemplated the image the marchioness's words conjured.

Her gaze fixed in the distance, the marchioness continued, "He hated us, and I do not use that word lightly. His wasn't any sort of mild emotion, not even a childish one. It was a passionate fire that burned in him—he had to be the king of the castle, and everyone had to bow down before him. Because of that, because of his overweening sense of supreme entitlement, he quickly grew apart from his father. Rattenby is definitely not like that. He's arrogant, sometimes bullishly so, but underneath, he's a reasonable and even conscientious man, one protective of those he considers in his care. Rattenby didn't know how to handle Sedbury, much less how to bridge the widening chasm between Sedbury and the rest of the family."

The marchioness met Penelope's eyes. "Sedbury was never one to share, not with anything, and when he was given no choice in the matter of his father's attention and the attention of all others associated with the marquessate and, indeed, that extended to society as a whole, he grew ever more rancorous."

The marchioness paused, then said, "I am aware that Sedbury diligently sought any lever he could wield to cause Jonathon and Bryan not just difficulty but pain. That was Sedbury's way. As you might imagine, that's not an attitude that endeared him to the rest of the family, all of whom have suffered at some time to one degree or another from his machinations, but Jonathon and Bryan were his favorite targets. They were the ones who stood highest in his mind as having taken or detracted from his own importance, the two who most challenged what he saw as his rightful dominance within the family." The marchioness smiled faintly. "My sons may be more gentle souls, but they never cowered or bowed before Sedbury's aggression. Sadly, that only entrenched his hatred."

Recapturing Penelope's gaze, the marchioness said, "Now that I've explained Sedbury's unbending and unwavering attitude, you won't be surprised to learn than none of us have shed so much as a single tear over his demise." She tipped her head, indicating the rest of the house. "Not even Patricia, who was his godmother."

Patricia was Lady Selborough. Penelope thought to clarify, "Lady Selborough is Rattenby's sister, I believe?"

The marchioness nodded. "My sister-in-law. We've always been close."

"I see." Penelope took a moment to reorder her thoughts. Now she was there and had the marchioness's undivided attention, she wanted to make the most of the opportunity. "There is one possible clue on which I hope you might be able to shed some light." She met the marchioness's gaze. "Sedbury started writing a letter to Jonathon earlier on Saturday. He broke off mid-letter and left it as if he intended to return and complete and send it later, but then he was killed. The letter itself is in the hands of the police, but the few sentences Sedbury had penned went…" She closed her eyes and called up a mental picture of the unfinished letter. "Dear Jonno," she recited. "I thought you'd like to know that a few months ago, I ran into that little maid you used to be so fond of. You know the one—pretty as a picture with rosy cheeks and blonde pigtails. I could see what caught your eye. I have to confess that I had my wicked way with her."

She opened her eyes. "That was the extent of it." The marchioness was now frowning. Penelope asked, "Do you have any idea to which ‘little maid' Sedbury was referring?"

Slowly, still frowning, the marchioness shook her head. "No. I can't imagine who that might be."

Penelope hesitated, debating whether to air a notion that had been brewing in the back of her mind. She hadn't spoken of it to Barnaby or Stokes yet, but she was there with Sedbury's stepmother… She refocused on the marchioness. "According to Duggan, Sedbury's man, Sedbury left the letter uncompleted and went out to dine and subsequently attend some meeting. Sedbury took his favorite whip with him, and in Duggan's opinion, Sedbury was looking forward to that meeting with considerable anticipation. As if he was expecting to, in Duggan's words, ‘squash someone under his heel.'"

The marchioness looked faintly disgusted. "Sadly, I can imagine that all too clearly. Sedbury was a bully through and through and not just with the family."

"Quite." Penelope fixed the marchioness with a direct gaze. "However, it occurred to me that the unfinished letter and the meeting might be connected." She couldn't quite imagine how, but… "I wondered, you see, if the reason Sedbury left the letter unfinished was because, after his meeting, he expected to have more to add on the subject. Namely, about the ‘little maid' he had presumably seduced."

The marchioness considered that, then inclined her head. "Clearly, that's one potential interpretation of his actions."

"Yes," Penelope went on more eagerly, "and that makes the identity of the ‘little maid' even more important. If we knew who she was, that might give us some clue as to whom Sedbury met with, who we currently believe was his killer."

The marchioness was slowly nodding. "You think Sedbury might have met with a member of the little maid's family?"

"I think that's at least a possibility," Penelope replied. "That's why I asked if you knew or can even hazard a guess as to who the ‘little maid' might be."

Several seconds ticked past as, judging from the concentration apparent in her face, the marchioness trawled through her memories, but in the end, she grimaced and met Penelope's gaze. "The truth is that Jonathon has been dallying with maids—in the country, at friends' estates, and in town—for more than a decade. I couldn't begin to guess which one amid that legion of candidates is the one to whom Sedbury referred. And as at various times, Sedbury would have visited the same family estates, many of the same country houses, and certainly had access to the same haunts in town as Jonathon, then Sedbury might have stumbled across one of Jonathon's ex-paramours in any number of locations." The marchioness raised her hands in a helpless gesture. "I can't even begin to guess who she might be."

Penelope grimaced. "The description…"

"Could apply to any number of girls." The marchioness shook her head. "It might mean something to Jonathon—clearly, Sedbury believed it would—yet to be deliberately obtuse and teasing was quite Sedbury's way."

Penelope sighed a touch glumly. "Well, it was a theory and, I suppose, worth asking."

The marchioness studied her, then, her blue gaze shrewd, said, "Actually, something you mentioned earlier, about those in the ton known to wish Sedbury ill not being directly involved in his murder."

"Yes?"

"You referred to ‘indirect involvement' remaining a possibility, by which I assume you mean hiring some thugs to kill Sedbury."

When Penelope nodded, the marchioness went on, "The truth is that anyone—anyone at all—who had interacted with Sedbury would have known better than to attempt to murder him themselves. A member of the ton, a shopkeeper, a tradesman, a navvy, or anyone who decided to kill him would have hired a pair of brawlers, at the very least, to get the job done."

Penelope held the marchioness's gaze. "You're saying that we can't strike anyone off our list of suspects on the grounds that they, themselves, didn't kill Sedbury."

The marchioness smiled faintly. "I believe that means that your suspects list will, sadly, remain a very long one."

Penelope screwed up her nose as the reality of the situation crystallized in her brain. "Unless we can directly identify the man who strangled Sedbury—for instance, via a witness—there is no way of solving this case." She extrapolated further, then disgustedly shook her head. "We have a detested victim and far too many viable suspects, yet precisely because of that very large number, we absolutely must identify Sedbury's killer in order to lift the taint of suspicion from the legion of those innocent of the crime."

"Indeed." The marchioness was trying not to look pleased. Her sons might be at the top of the suspects list, but she'd just ensured that the investigators understood that the list remained impossibly long. With a faint smile curving her lips, the marchioness said, "I'm glad you came to speak with me, Mrs. Adair. If there's anything more I can do to help, please do ask."

Penelope eyed the marchioness and shut her lips on the observation that, given the outcome of this interview, which had only increased her frustration, she would think again before repeating the exercise. Instead, she inclined her head politely, thanked the marchioness for her time, then rose and quit the house.

Stokes stood at an intersection on the lane that followed the riverbank a short block back from the embankment and impatiently waited for news of what he hoped would, at last, be a definitive sighting.

Typically, it had been Morgan who had first heard the whisper—a mere thread of a rumor—of a fight by the Cole Stairs. More specific and insistent questioning had elicited the information that this fight was thought to have occurred not long after midnight on Saturday night.

Subsequently, O'Donnell, Morgan, and the junior constables had concentrated their efforts along the narrow lanes and alleyways surrounding the Cole Stairs. Unlike most of the river "stairs," the Cole Stairs were partly natural—an outcrop of gray rock that swept along the river's curve for more than fifty yards, and along most of that length, the rock shelf was several yards wide. For centuries uncounted, the rivermen had used the shelf as a loading dock, and several sets of steps had been carved into the river-facing edges, giving easy access to the water.

Stokes had taken station directly north of the center of the shelf, where the junction of Gold Street and Dean Street formed a small square. All around, lanes and alleys barely wide enough for a man to walk along snaked between warehouses and other buildings. The area was among the older sections along the north bank of the Thames, and the stone along the river's edge was dark with age and dank with weed, and the scent of the river was pervasive.

Although the autumn sky far above was reasonably clear, between the buildings, shaded from the sun, the day felt gloomy.

Finally, Stokes saw a fresh-faced constable chivvying a weakly protesting boatman up the cobbled lane toward the square.

The constable fetched up before Stokes and, with an eager smile, presented the boatman with "Says he saw two men wrestling by the bank here on Saturday night, guv."

Stokes eyed the boatman, a slight, wiry fellow. But he was clear-eyed and, Stokes judged, had his wits firmly about him. Stokes acknowledged the constable's information with a brief nod and asked the boatman, "Where were you when you saw these men?"

Transparently disgruntled but knowing better than to think he could slide away with a mumble, the boatman replied, "I was just about where you're standing now. I'd been in the Drunken Duck." He tipped his head to the east, toward a large, dark-timbered building a little way along Dean Street. The sign of a staggering duck holding a frothing mug of ale jutted out from above the door. "I don't normally drink 'round 'ere—usually, I stay closer to 'ome in Bermondsey—but that night, one of me mates 'auled me down 'ere. Said the porter were right good. And it was. But I was heading off 'ome, must've been before one judging by the bells, and I came along 'ere. I'd left me boat tied up at Shadwell Dock, and that's where I was 'eading."

"Your mate?" Stokes's fingers itched to draw out his notebook, but doing so would only make the boatman more nervous and less likely to be forthcoming.

"He stayed on. It was just me, walking back to me boat." He paused, then added, "Mind you, there were others about, 'eading to their 'omes and such, but I don't know who they be."

Stokes nodded. "Right. So you were standing here when you saw these men." Stokes stepped forward to stand at the boatman's right, and obligingly, the boatman turned and joined Stokes in looking toward the river. Stokes said, "Point to where you saw them."

Without hesitation, the boatman raised a hand and pointed straight toward the river, to the Cole Stairs. "There. They was right there. Other side of the embankment wall, on the main part of the Cole Stairs. Two big men—large, heavy bruisers—wrestling hard as can be."

Stokes observed, "That's a fair way to see in the dark."

The boatman scoffed. "I'm a boatman—we need sharp eyes. 'Sides, the rain had blown over, and the moon was out, and with moonlight playing on the water, I could see the pair's outlines well enough."

Stokes accepted the assurance. "So what, exactly, did you see? Was it just the pair of them, or were there others hanging about who might have been a part of it?"

"Nah. It was just the pair of 'em, I'm sure of that. Watched 'em as I walked across this square, but I didn't stop to gawp. Not the sort of thing you do 'round 'ere—it's not 'ealthy, if you get me drift."

Stokes nodded, imagining the scene in his mind. "So just the two of them. Think back. How were they standing? Face to face or…?"

Frowning, the boatman took his time, then offered, "Well, to begin with they were, one lashing out at the other, but now you mention it, that changed, and one of 'em was facing the river and 'ad 'is back to the other. And that other man—I'd say 'e was the taller and heavier—had his arms up, elbows high." The boatman raised his hands to his collarbone and stuck his elbows out level with his shoulders. "Like this. And 'e was rocking a little, side to side. Like pretending to be a waddling duck."

Stokes caught the eager constable's eye in time to shake his head. He was not about to ask the boatman if the larger man could possibly have been strangling the other; he'd leave that to the coroner. Instead, Stokes asked, "Did you see anything else?"

"Nah. I didn't 'ang 'round, just put me 'ead down and kept walking. None of me business what they were up to, was it?" The boatman hesitated, then asked, "Given you lot are running 'round all 'bout and asking 'bout this fight, what 'appened?"

Stokes hesitated, then replied, "A large, heavy bruiser of a man was pulled out of the river on Sunday. We're trying to learn where he went into the water, and it's likely what you saw gives us our answer." Stokes turned to the constable. "Deliver this man to Morgan. He'll take a formal statement."

The boatman looked hopeful. "And then I can go?"

Stokes suppressed a cynical smile. "Just be sure to give Morgan your real name and address, and the chances are you won't hear from us again."

Stokes watched the boatman and constable head toward the main body of police canvassing the lanes. Normally, the boatman would be called to give evidence at the inquest into Sedbury's death, but Stokes had a strong premonition that there would be no public inquest held into the death of Viscount Sedbury, the Marquess of Rattenby's late, much-detested, and entirely unlamented heir.

Stokes was standing staring, unseeing, at the Cole Stairs and mentally reviewing the customary outcomes when the nobility and the justice system collided when Barnaby hove into view.

Barnaby trudged up from the riverbank and, when he saw Stokes had noticed him, briefly waved and smiled. As soon as he was close enough, he called, "O'Donnell said you might have found a witness."

Stokes allowed a satisfied smile to bloom. "It appears we have. At last."

When Barnaby stopped beside Stokes, Stokes nodded toward the Cole Stairs. "A boatman heading home from the local public house saw two large, heavy bruisers wrestling on the stairs."

Stokes started down the cobbled street, and Barnaby fell in beside him. As they walked, Stokes described what the boatman had seen.

"So," Barnaby concluded, "it seems highly likely that your witness saw Sedbury being strangled."

Stokes nodded. "The boatman's recollection was clear, and he seemed quite certain of what he saw." They reached the embankment wall and stepped over the low stone parapet onto the rock shelf that formed the main part of the stairs. "Therefore," Stokes continued, looking about the uneven surface, "it appears that Sedbury came down here for his meeting, and it was here that he died."

Barnaby joined Stokes in a thorough visual examination of the stone platform, but there was no hint of a struggle or fight to be found.

"Also no sign of the whip," Stokes said, "but even if it was here, it wouldn't have remained here for long."

It was Barnaby's turn to smile with satisfaction. "As it happens, I, too, have a breakthrough to share."

"Ah-ha!" With an expectant grin, Stokes returned, "As ever with investigations, it never rains but it pours."

"Indeed. And I'm here to report that it seems my lads have found what we believe to be Sedbury's whip."

Stokes's expression lit. "Where?"

"A pawnshop in Aldgate High Street."

"So not far away?"

"No. I came here first to see if you wanted to come with me on the off chance it is Sedbury's whip and therefore the murder weapon. If it is and we can get the pawnbroker to say from whom he received it, then…"

"Indeed." Stokes nodded. "And if we can tie it to somewhere around here, that will further help our cause." He turned to the buildings. "Come on."

They walked back up Gold Street, cast around through the nearby lanes, and found O'Donnell conferring with Morgan, who had informed the sergeant of the boatman's revelations. Stokes brought the pair up to date with the news about the whip and directed them to see who else they could find who'd seen the fight in the small hours of Sunday morning.

O'Donnell's expression turned even more dogged than it usually was. "Now we know it was on the stairs, we can press the locals harder. There'll be others who saw what the boatman saw, and hopefully, someone saw more."

Morgan offered, "I'll check with the other boatmen who ply their trade in the small hours. Plenty of them on the river of a Saturday night, even along this stretch."

Barnaby nodded approvingly. "It sounds as if the fight would have been readily seen by anyone on the river."

O'Donnell and Morgan saluted. "Right you are, sir," O'Donnell said. "We'll get on with it."

Stokes nodded a dismissal, and he and Barnaby walked briskly to where Barnaby had left his curricle in the care of Jeremy, one of his lads. "He's from the local area," Barnaby explained as he and Stokes neared the curricle, "and it was he who tracked down the whip."

On reaching the carriage, Stokes smiled at Jeremy. "Good work on finding the whip."

Jeremy colored and bobbed his curly head. "Wasn't hard. Just had to ask."

Stokes smiled. "Nevertheless."

Barnaby grinned and took the reins and, with Stokes, climbed to the box. At Barnaby's tip of the head and his "Come on!" Jeremy eagerly scrambled up behind. Barnaby flicked the reins and set his chestnut trotting. Following directions from Jeremy, Barnaby navigated the narrow streets, eschewing the crowded byways around the docks and striking north to turn onto Commercial Road. From there, they made their way to Whitechapel and followed the road west until they reached Aldgate High Street.

Jeremy pointed out Sullivan's Pawnshop, and Barnaby drew the curricle up to the curb.

"It's old Mr. Sullivan in there," Jeremy said. He accepted the reins and Barnaby's instruction to wait for them there, then Barnaby led the way inside, with Stokes hanging back in his shadow.

Mr. Sullivan was a round man, dressed in browns, whose hair and whiskers gave him the appearance of a badger. With the briefest of glances, he assessed Barnaby's station in life and smiled toothily. "Good day, sir. Are you looking for anything in particular?"

Barnaby smiled easily back. "I am, indeed. A whip. I'm told you have one that arrived recently?"

"Indeed, indeed!" Mr. Sullivan reached below the counter and brought out a short-handled horsewhip, coiled and tied with a leather thong. "You're in luck. This came in a few days ago. Lovely specimen, it is."

Almost reverentially, Sullivan laid the whip on the glass counter.

Barnaby had never seen Sedbury's whip, but from what little he recalled of Charlie's description, this whip could definitely be it. Even without touching it, he could see the quality of the workmanship and the soft, subtle sheen of highest-grade leather, and the embossing on the handle was first rate. Barnaby picked up the whip, hefted it in his hand, then half turned to Stokes and arched a brow. "How likely is it that two whips of this quality would be found around here?"

Stokes grunted and pulled out his warrant card, and Mr. Sullivan's face fell. "This whip," Stokes said as he took the coil of leather from Barnaby, "is wanted in relation to a murder investigation. I'm therefore claiming it as evidence. We will get an expert to confirm it is the whip we seek. If it proves not to be, I'll make sure this whip is returned to you."

Mr. Sullivan didn't look the least bit mollified.

Barnaby leaned on the counter and, in conspiratorial fashion, asked, "So, do you know anything of where the whip was found?"

A golden guinea appeared between Barnaby's long fingers, and Sullivan's eyes fixed on the gleam.

After a moment, his gaze still on the coin, he said, "There's an old codger, name of Cedric. We all call him Cedric the Long. He prowls for bits and pieces along the riverbank and brings me anything he thinks I might be interested in." Before Stokes could ask, his expression turning sour, Sullivan went on, "At this time of day, you'll find Cedric in the Sun Tavern, just down the street"—Sullivan tipped his head to the east—"no doubt drinking the shillings I gave him for that blessed whip."

Barnaby smiled, straightened from the counter, and flicked the guinea toward Sullivan.

The pawnbroker snatched the coin out of the air, and his toothy smile returned. He dipped his head to Barnaby. "Thank ye, sir. You're surely a gentleman."

Barnaby laughed and followed Stokes out of the door.

Barnaby asked Jeremy if he knew the location of the Sun Tavern, and the lad pointed east along the street. "That's it just there. You can see the sign above the door."

They could just make out the faded sign and, after some debate, left the whip safely tucked beneath the curricle's seat, under Jeremy's watchful eye, and walked on and into the tavern.

Barnaby paused just inside the smoky taproom to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloom. There were several groups of old men gathered about tables with mugs in front of them and—having taken in Barnaby and Stokes—shuttered expressions on their faces, but Barnaby's attention was drawn to the very tall, very thin, aging man in an ancient frieze coat who was sitting at the bar and who had yet to notice Barnaby and Stokes's arrival.

Barnaby went forward and claimed the stool on the man's left. As Stokes slid onto the stool on the man's right, Barnaby saw that the man—assuredly Cedric the Long—was nursing a pint of lager.

Abruptly, Cedric stiffened. He slid his gaze in Stokes's direction, then glanced warily at Barnaby. Then he returned his watery blue gaze to Stokes. "Police?"

Stokes smiled amiably. "You've sound instincts, Cedric."

Cedric licked his lips, but didn't seem all that nervous. "So, what can I do for you gents?"

Stokes replied, "We'd like to know where you found the whip you sold to Sullivan up the street."

"Hmm." Cedric screwed up his face. "Me memory's not what it used to be, you know?"

Barnaby clinked two florins on the bar, seizing Cedric's attention. "Perhaps the sight of these might help clear the fog away?"

Cedric's gaze had locked on the coins. "Oh, aye. They've done that, right enough." Briefly dragging his gaze from the silver, he glanced Stokes's way. "You know the Cole Stairs?"

Stokes nodded. "We do."

"That whip was just lying there, in the lane this side of the wall." His gaze distant, Cedric tipped his head, as if studying the picture in his memory. "'Twasn't coiled up, but just lying there like someone had dropped it. Wasn't anyone around—I checked—so I took it." He glanced at Stokes. "Finders keepers and all that."

"When was this?" Stokes asked.

"Sunday morning," Cedric promptly replied. "The bells were all ringing loud as can be. That's when I found that whip and picked it up."

Barnaby met Stokes's eyes and saw his friend had no more questions to ask. Barnaby tossed the florins on the bar and pushed up from his stool. "Just don't drink them all tonight."

His gaze once more locked on the coins, shining against the dark wood of the bar, Cedric only hummed and made no promises.

Barnaby met Stokes's gaze, and feeling much more satisfied than they had that morning, they headed for the curricle.