Chapter Twenty-Eight

H is head ached. That was the first thing Joss realized as his eyes opened in the very dimly lit room. Glancing around, it didn't take a great deal of mental acuity to determine that he was still very much within the premises of the Cock and Crow. The cellar, most likely, given that the floors were damp earth, there were no windows at all, and the only light was what managed to pierce gaps in the floorboards above his head. Around him, barely discernible with the meager illumination, were stacks of barrels and shelves likely filled with bottles of watered-down whiskey.

Sitting up, he touched his hand to the side of his head and felt the stickiness of blood. Then memory came rushing back. He'd come in, asked a few questions, and as he'd been preparing to leave, someone had jumped him. Two people, in fact. He might have made it, had a serving wench who worked for the establishment not bashed him over the head with a heavy crock. He couldn't imagine that she was anything to Dagliesh or that he was anything to her. But it was likely she had some connection to the man he'd hired. Now, he just had to figure out how to get himself out of the cellar so he could find out.

Struggling to his feet, he cursed when he bumped his already abused head against the beam above him. When the pain subsided to a tolerable level, he moved forward carefully, keeping his shoulders hunched to avoid repeating his previous mistake.

There were stairs in the far corner, though calling them that was generous. Steep and impossibly narrow, he had to turn his feet sideways to stay on the tread. At the top, he banged on the door, but no one answered. He had no notion what time it was, but based on the lack of noise coming from above, he had to assume it was morning. Even drunkards and criminals slept sometime, and it was typically when the rest of the world was awake.

There was no way to break the door down. With the stairs as they were, he'd never get the leverage required. His only hope was to wait for someone to open that door and then rush them. "Fuck," he whispered in the darkness. "I hope you were listening, Vincent, when I said to send help if I didn't make it home by morning."

Settling down on the steps, resting his aching head in his hands, he cursed his own arrogance. He should have known better than to come to such a place alone. It had made him vulnerable, and he was paying the price for that hubris.

But the sound of voices abruptly ended his reverie. And one of those voices he recognized. "Bates!" he called out as he banged loudly on the door. "Bates, get me the hell out of here!"

*

Maurice Bates didn't like to be wrong. If there was one thing that goaded him beyond anything else, it was the prospect of looking like a fool. With what had been disclosed to him about Simon Dagliesh, particularly the man's indebtedness to a notorious criminal, he'd decided it would behoove him to at least look in the direction of Ernsdale's heir.

What he'd discovered thus far had fallen perfectly in line with everything that Ettinger had told him. He wasn't foolish enough to simply take the man at his word, but in this instance, he had to concede that he'd been speaking the truth.

"Do you know this man?" Bates asked the sleepy-eyed proprietor who had been dozing in a room upstairs with a girl that was most assuredly not his wife. He held out a news sheet bearing a sketch of the newly named Lord Ernsdale. "Has he been here?"

"I seen him a time or two, but he's not a regular," the man said.

"When did you see him last?"

"How the bloody hell should I know?" the proprietor groused. "Don't mark the date when I see someone darken my door. Why would I? Don't much matter to me anyway!"

"It matters because he likely came here to retain the services of a murderer for hire. This could make you an accomplice," Bates informed him sharply.

"Not an accomplice to nothing. I pour the ale, and I keep my mouth shut. I don't hear nothing, I don't see nothing, and I don't damn well say nothing!"

Bates opened his mouth to retort, but another sound gave him pause. From somewhere within the building, he could hear thumping. Someone was banging on a door. And amidst the muffled shouts, he could make out his name. "Where's that coming from?"

"Don't know," the man said, still resolutely looking at a point past Bates' shoulder. He hadn't made eye contact from the first.

Bates looked back at the two inspectors he'd had accompany him. After all, everyone knew that the Cock and Crow was a dangerous place, especially for Runners. "Wait here and watch him. I'll yell out if I need assistance."

With those parting instructions, Bates began searching the lower floor of the establishment. In a small corridor tucked back behind the stairwell, he found the source of the noise. The heavy oaken door was solid and locked from the outside.

"Wait a moment, and I'll get the key," he shouted.

Returning to the main room, he pulled the billy club—standard issue for every Runner—and smacked it into the palm of his hand. The threat was obvious, and he'd long ago figured out that sometimes the threat of violence was more effective than violence itself. No point in fighting when one didn't have to. "Now, I'm going to give you one chance to tell me what I want to know before I make you tell me what I want to know. What is that room?"

"It's the cellar," the other man answered, his voice barely above a whisper as he eyed the billy club warily.

"Get me the key."

The proprietor looked momentarily mutinous, but Bates raised the club, just enough, and the man capitulated. With a muttered curse, he produced a heavy iron key from the pocket of his coat.

Key in hand, Bates returned to that locked door. It took a bit to work the lock, as there was considerable rust on both it and the key. That made it quite clear that securing the room beyond was an unusual occurrence. So it was highly unlikely that anyone imprisoned inside had come to that outcome by accident.

When at last the lock sprang free, he released the hasp and stepped back. Seconds later, it swung open and Josiah Ettinger appeared. Hunched over due to the low ceiling and looking more than a bit worse for wear, he emerged from the darkness of the cellar.

"Why are you here, and how did you come to be detained in a makeshift cell?" Bates demanded.

*

If there was one person in the world Joss did not want to aid in his rescue, it was Maurice Bates. But he didn't have the luxury of looking a gift horse in the mouth. "I came here to ascertain whether or not Simon Dagliesh had hired an accomplice from the bevy of criminals that utilize the Cock and Crow for their enterprises. Two men jumped me as I started to leave, and someone, a tavern wench, I believe, bashed me over the head... that's the last thing I remember before waking up in the cellar."

"Did you find anything?"

"Nothing of note. But clearly someone does not like me asking questions here. If we identify the two men who jumped me, it may lead us to whomever Dagliesh hired to assist him in killing his uncle."

Bates's eyes narrowed. "You still think her entirely innocent?"

"I do. If she'd wanted out of the marriage, she had other ways to get out of it." Or she'd had other ways out of it, until he couldn't keep his cock in his bloody trousers. "And after the ransom refusal, had she elected to remain with her sister and the Hound, no one would have questioned it, and Ernsdale wouldn't have dared brave the scandal to demand she return."

Bates was silent for a moment, considering those things. "Those points do have a certain degree of logic. But there has to be more."

"Hettie would never have harmed him. She's not the sort to plot out a murder for hire. It's not in her nature."

Bates drew back. "Hettie... not Lady Ernsdale. You are more than simply a hired inquiry agent to her! You have a personal relationship with the woman!"

"I do," Joss admitted. "Just as you have a personal relationship with the woman residing at 47 Bedford Court."

"Do not dare threaten her!"

Joss shook his head in denial. "I'm not threatening her. I'm just pointing out that if the situation were reversed, and she was facing such accusations, you'd do exactly as I am to prove her innocent."

"Fine. I'll take it on account," Bates admitted. "You're a lot of things, Ettinger, but your ability to read a suspect has always been spot on."

Because he'd been raised in a place where reading someone's intent and capabilities had often been a matter of life and death, he'd learned early on what the cost of inaccuracy could be. "Speak to her. Speak to her without any sort of bias. After all, it was Dagliesh who pointed you in her direction... ask yourself why he would do that. And how the hell did he even know that his uncle was already dead and had likely been murdered?" That was the thought that had been niggling at his mind from the beginning. The man had time to seek out the Runner, pass along his accusatory tale, and set something in motion that would cast suspicion on anyone but him. Still, Simon had known before anyone else did that Ernsdale wasn't only dead but had been murdered. If that wasn't some proof of his guilt, what could be?

Bates nodded. "She's no longer my primary suspect. But I'll not be taking her off the list altogether. Not until I know for certain who the guilty party is."

It was a gamble to confess it, but Joss didn't feel he had any choice. They needed Bates on their side. "That's all any of us want, Inspector Bates. To find out precisely who did this... because Lady Ernsdale is with child. And if the person who murdered Lord Ernsdale did so to gain the title, that makes her a potential victim rather than a suspect."

"Is the child Ernsdale's?"

Joss did not lie. But he answered without answering. "Under the law, any child conceived during a marriage is considered to be the progeny of the husband. And that's what we're up against here. The letter of the law."

"I'll ask around about Dagliesh."

"Find out if he has any connection to the Walpoles," Ettinger suggested. "I can't help but feel there is something there."

"Is this one of your hunches or based in fact?"

"A hunch," Joss admitted. "But you know they are never wrong."

Bates cursed. Because he did know.