“Her motive? Well, I…if you’ll give me a moment to…”
“The only person who had anything to gain from your father’s death was you.”
A bell rang as De Quincey and Emily entered the shop. An athletic-looking man glanced up from arranging a display of pistols. Firearms of every type—long and short, with cylinders and without—were everywhere, their gleaming metal and polished wood almost as luminous as the offerings in a jewelry store.
The clerk assessed their nondescript clothes and the trousers beneath Emily’s skirt. He pointed to the two stitches on Emily’s cheek. “Does your injury give you pain, miss?”
“Less than it did.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.” The clerk put his hands on the counter. “May I help either of you? If you’ll forgive me for saying, you don’t appear to be the type to buy gentlemen’s sporting firearms.”
“Would you be so kind as to read this?” De Quincey asked, removing a letter from his coat pocket.
The clerk frowned at the prominent government seal at the top of the page. “This appears to be from the prime minister.”
“That is the case. As you see, the letter asks you to give us every assistance in a police matter with which we’re helping.”
“My father and I have been visiting gentlemen’s firearms shops,” Emily added. “But only the best ones, which we’ve been told are the two in Regent Street and this one in Oxford Street.”
“There are plenty of firearms shops in London, of course,” the clerk told her, “but if anyone wants the best instead of barrels that blow up with the slightest miscalculation of a gunpowder charge, this shop and the two others you mentioned are the only reliable places to visit.”
“We’re particularly interested in the gunpowder to which you referred,” Emily said.
The clerk regarded her with wonder. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had a conversation with a woman about gunpowder.”
“It’s poured into the firearm and then a ball and wadding are added, is that correct?” Emily asked.
“Yes,” the clerk answered in surprise.
“In what form do you sell the gunpowder?” she asked.
“A ten-pound wooden keg, such as this one.” The clerk opened a cabinet door and lifted a keg from a shelf. “It’s far superior to the gunpowder sold in lesser shops. They add additional powdered charcoal and multiply two kegs into three. All the diluted gunpowder does is fizzle.”
Thinking of the bomb that had exploded in Waterloo Station, De Quincey rejoined the conversation. “Did a constable visit you and ask if anyone purchased gunpowder here on Friday afternoon or Saturday morning?”
“Yes. I told the constable that several people had indeed bought gunpowder from me.”
“How did he react to this information?”
“He didn’t seem to think it was useful.”
“Oh? Why not?” Emily wondered.
“Well, what he asked was whether the wrong sort had purchased gunpowder. I assured him that the wrong sort weren’t welcome in my shop. This is Mayfair, after all.”
“Quite so,” Emily agreed. “But of the purchases made by the right sort, was there anything unusual about any of them?”
“Most of the gentlemen arrived with their gamekeepers, needing advice about new firearms they intended to purchase. Sometimes the gentlemen came alone, merely to look at the firearms and then order gunpowder and ammunition. In each instance, they arranged for their purchases to be delivered to their country estates.”
The clerk paused.
“Yes?” Emily asked. “Do you remember something?”
“On Friday afternoon, there was a gamekeeper who came alone. He said that his master, Lord Ashley, was interested in buying a new rifled musket for shooting stag in Scotland. The gamekeeper inspected several items and indicated that he’d pass his recommendation on to His Lordship. Meanwhile he purchased ammunition and a keg of gunpowder. He asked to have the items wrapped so that he could carry them. He was returning to Lord Ashley’s country house, he said. Because I couldn’t guarantee delivery until Monday, he took the gunpowder with him so that Lord Ashley wouldn’t be idle over the weekend.”
“How do you know the man was a gamekeeper?” De Quincey asked.
“His rustic clothes and hat, of course, and his weathered complexion.”
“Do you have his name?” De Quincey asked.
“Because the keg wasn’t being delivered, I didn’t need his name any more than I needed Lord Ashley’s address.”
“Perhaps you remember more details about his appearance,” Emily said.
Becker stood at the clamorous nexus of the six streets that Ryan had told him were the center of the world. He studied the immensity of the Bank of England and the eight columns of the massive Royal Exchange. Feeling overwhelmed, he assumed that the Royal Exchange was the place he needed to visit, but when he entered, he learned that its occupants were actually insurance companies. He stopped a doomed-looking man who hugged a document case to his chest and asked, “Can you tell me where stocks are bought and sold?”
“Around the corner, but God help you if you go inside.”
Becker veered past carriages whose occupants appeared ready to slit their throats. He entered another columned temple, within which he encountered hundreds of desperate men shouting names, amounts, and prices.
Madness, Becker thought.
He stopped another doomed-looking man and needed to raise his voice above the din to ask, “Who do I speak to about railway stocks?”
“Heaven help you if you need to sell.”
“But who do I talk to?”
“There. Over there.” The pallid man stumbled out of the building.
Becker proceeded toward where the unfortunate soul had pointed, jostling his way through the agitated crowd.
A large-chested, round-faced man stood to the side, leaning against a wall, watching the spectacle with disgust.
Becker showed his badge long enough for the man to see that he was a detective but not long enough for the man to realize that the badge was for the police force of metropolitan London and not this independent district, where he didn’t have jurisdiction.
“I want to talk about railway stocks,” Becker said.
“Never heard of a policeman who could afford to own stocks.”
“Or who was stupid enough to.”
The man gave Becker a second look and laughed. “That’s the first time I laughed all day. What do you want?”
“Is there any place that’s quiet in here?”
“Down this hall. Here’s my office.”
The man led him inside, closed the door, and gestured toward a chair. “What do the police care about railway stocks?”
“Did the price go down today?”
“Like a stone in a pond. As did the prices for shipping, mining, and manufacturing stocks. Many lives were ruined. The Russians found a way to defeat us.”
“Well, maybe it’s not the Russians.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Tell me how all of this works.”
The man shrugged. “Someone wants to start a company. But he doesn’t have enough money, so he sells shares to people who want to own just a part of it. If the company makes a profit, the shareholders get a percentage of it. But when all the shares are sold, other people might want to own part of the company, so they buy shares from the people who already have them. If there’s enough demand, the share owners ask for more money than they paid. The Stock Exchange is a way for buyers and sellers to get together. The man who brokers the buying and selling gets a commission.”
“Sounds like the man in the middle has the advantage.”
The large-chested man laughed again. “What’s your name?”
“Sergeant Becker.”
“I’m Stephen Corey.”
They shook hands.
“Just to make certain I grasp this, if something bad happens to the company, people lose their nerve and sell,” Be
cker said. “The price goes down because hardly anybody wants to risk buying stock in a company that might fail.”
“You grasp it exactly. Maybe you’re in the wrong line of work. If you’re interested, I could talk to someone about getting you a job here,” Corey said.
“I see enough suffering as it is.”
Corey laughed yet again. “I wish you’d come here three hours ago.”
“So the people who buy a falling stock are betting that the company’s problem will go away and the price will rise to where it was.”
“That’s the essence of it.”
“How do I find out who’s buying the railway stocks?”
The window of the Regent Street office displayed drawings of expensive-looking properties for sale in Mayfair. When Ryan opened the front door, a man peered up from a desk, decided that Ryan wasn’t a potential client, and returned his gaze to a document on his desk.
Ryan showed his badge. “May I trouble you to answer a few questions?”
Now the man gave Ryan his full attention. “We always wish to be on good terms with the police.”
“I need some information about a property.”
When Ryan supplied the address, the man said, “They don’t come much better.”
“I could search through various public records, but I’m hoping you can save me time. Can you tell me who purchased that property and when?”
De Quincey and Emily opened the door of another shop. An elderly man with a bare pate and white whiskers stopped pouring a blue powder onto a set of scales and regarded them through his spectacles. “Good day. May I help you?”
“My daughter and I have been visiting various Mayfair chemists,” De Quincey explained. “We assume that the items you and your fellow apothecaries sell are purer and safer here than in other areas of the city.”
“Without question. Our competitors in Soho and farther east adulterate their products until you receive no benefit and might even be poisoning yourself.”
De Quincey looked around, curious about something. “Was this shop always at this location? A little more than fifty years ago, I seem to remember coming to this very spot in Oxford Street to make my first purchase of laudanum because of a toothache.”
The elderly man smiled. “My father owned this shop at that time. Laudanum, did you say? Is that what you wish to purchase?”
With a tone of defeat, De Quincey said, “Yes.” He made an effort not to look at Emily. As the chemist took a bottle from a shelf, De Quincey drank the final drops from the bottle in his possession.
“Sixpence,” the chemist said, frowning at the empty bottle that De Quincey set on the counter.
De Quincey put the new bottle in his coat pocket.
With a sigh, Emily pulled a silver coin from a skirt pocket and set it on the counter.
“Would you please look at this letter?” De Quincey asked.
The chemist considered the elaborate government seal. “Lord Palmerston, eh? I don’t know why anyone in his borough ever voted for him.”
“But you’ll obey his wishes and help us?” Emily asked.
“Certainly. Can I give you something for the injury on your cheek, miss? It looks painful.”
“Perhaps white vitriol would cause the swelling to shrink.”
“Actually a dab of what I gave your companion would be more effective, at least for the pain.”
“I believe that white vitriol is safer.”
The chemist gave her a small bottle of the liquid. “No cost. It’s a shame to see so pretty a woman have a blemish.”
“Thank you. If the white vitriol does its work and contracts the tissue, perhaps there won’t be one,” Emily said.
“I hope so, miss. What is the information that Lord Palmerston asks me to give to you?”
“Did a constable come here asking if the wrong sort of person had bought red food dye from you?” De Quincey asked.
“That’s exactly how he asked the question. ‘The wrong sort.’ I couldn’t imagine why the Metropolitan Police would be interested in red food dye. At any rate, I told him that nobody who was suspicious-looking bought red dye or anything else from me.”
Thinking of the man who’d vomited red liquid at Waterloo Station to distract people while he left a travel bag containing a bomb, De Quincey said, “But you did sell red food dye on Friday afternoon or Saturday morning.”
“It’s a popular item. Bakers use it to make their confections vivid.”
The mention of baked goods caused Emily’s stomach to grumble.
The elderly man pretended not to notice.
De Quincey looked around the shop and pointed at a substance in a jar of water. “Did a person who bought red food dye also buy some of that?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. The two hardly go together. It was an odd combination of purchases.”
“But the buyer didn’t look suspicious?”
“To the contrary.”
“What do you mean?”
“He wore the white collar of a clergyman.”
THIRTEEN
THE HOUSE IN BLOOMSBURY
A half hour before midnight, a closed carriage arrived at a fog-shrouded address in Park Lane. A man and two women, one of the latter dressed in the deepest mourning, the other needing a cane to steady her walk, departed from the mansion and climbed into the vehicle.
The driver proceeded north, turned east into deserted Oxford Street, then north along Tottenham Court Road, and then east along Francis Street. Amid Bloomsbury’s numerous squares, the carriage arrived at one of the few detached houses in the area, lanes separating it from the usual array of terraced dwellings. The two-story structure was distinctive in another way: its corners were rounded, resembling squat towers.
The curtains were closed, although a gap in them revealed the light from several lamps.
“He arrived early,” Edward Richmond said.
“We’ll see what he wants this time,” Carolyn said.
“For the final time,” Stella said.
As much as they could tell from the fog-hazed streetlights, all the other windows along the street were dark.
“Come back in an hour,” Edward told the driver.
They stepped from the carriage, opened a gate, passed leafless shrubs on each side of a walkway, and climbed wooden steps to the darkness of a covered porch.
Carolyn removed a key from her purse, but it wasn’t necessary. She discovered that the front door was already unlocked.
After they entered, Carolyn bolted the door. The shadowy entrance hall had a table with a vase on it, but no flowers. Although the house was furnished, it had the empty feeling and the musty smell of a residence that was seldom occupied.
They turned to the left, toward the open door of a drawing room.
A tall, thin young man stood from an upholstered chair next to the hearth as coal burned and crackled in the fireplace. He no longer wore the white uniform of a medical attendant at the hydropathy clinic. Instead, his garments were those of a gentleman, clothes that the three new arrivals knew came from a wardrobe in a bedroom upstairs.
“The house was cold,” he said. “I didn’t see any point in having a discussion while we shivered.”
But the expressions of the three people facing him were beyond cold. They were icy.
“Rick, this is the last time we’ll meet,” Edward said.
“I don’t believe that is so,” the young man replied.
“We paid you well for both your services and your silence,” Carolyn said. “The contract is now complete. But we’re prepared to pay you a bonus to compensate for the loss of your occupation at the clinic.”
“Yes, it’s only fair,” Edward agreed. “You served us well by informing us about investment opportunities you heard the clinic’s guests discussing. As a parting gesture, we’ll pay you a bonus.”
“I was promised more than money,” Rick said.
“More than money?” Carolyn asked. “Whatever are you talking about?”
<
br /> “From her.” Rick pointed to Stella.
“I don’t know what he’s talking about either,” Stella said from behind her widow’s veil. “My husband’s been murdered. Don’t you have any decency? Leave me to mourn.”
“We had an understanding,” Rick said.
“Truly, I don’t know what—”
“That we’d be married.”
“Married?” Stella asked in astonishment. “I gave you no reason to—”
“Isn’t siring two children with you enough reason?”
Although this wasn’t a topic that could ever be discussed in polite society, neither Carolyn nor Edward was shocked—or even surprised—by the statement.
“Rick,” Carolyn said, “we made you a straightforward business proposition, and you accepted. Why, after two years, are you demanding a renegotiation?”
“Because circumstances have changed. Now that Lord Cavendale is dead, Stella is free to marry. Mind you, I don’t expect it to be soon. Stella’s year of being sequestered in mourning needs to be observed.”
“I won’t marry again,” Stella told him.
“Why don’t we discuss this alone?” Rick pointed toward the other half of the drawing room.
“I won’t allow you to be anywhere with me alone.”
“You didn’t say that when you needed my help. We were certainly alone then.”
“Stella, perhaps the two of you could speak more freely without Edward and me in your presence,” Carolyn said.
“I’ve spoken as freely as I intend to,” Stella replied. “Are you actually suggesting that I should agree to marry him in order to buy his silence?”
“That’s a crude way to put it,” Rick said, “but it might give you peace of mind to know that you’d never need to fear anyone finding out that little Jeremy isn’t Lord Cavendale’s son.”
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