Frederick introduced himself to the barman, Mr. Heck, a small man with pointed features and merry eyes.
After a similar preamble, Frederick asked, “Did you meet Mr. Oliver during his stay?”
Mr. Heck looked one way, then the other, as though suspecting eavesdroppers. “I did, as a matter of fact. He asked me to keep it quiet-like. As he’s gone now, I don’t think it will do any harm. He came down a few times quite late. Had a drink and played a few hands of piquet with the fellows.”
“I see. So much for sequestering himself in his room to write.”
“Aw. A fellow has to take time off now and again. Keep the old cogs going.”
“Did he meet any former acquaintances here, as far as you know? Anyone angry to see him? Threaten him?”
“Pah! Nothing like that. In Swanford? This may be an old convent, but it ain’t London’s Covent Garden!”
Frederick managed an awkward, closed-lip smile, then lowered his voice. “And that older gentleman, sitting alone. I saw him at dinner the other night.” Mr. Oliver had clearly noticed him as well, Frederick recalled. “Do you happen to know his name?”
“I do. That’s Mr. King. Ike King.”
“TheIke King?”
“Yes, sir. But it ain’t what you think. He lives abroad now with his new lady. He’s only here in England to visit family.”
“Did he ask you about Ambrose Oliver?”
The barman shook his head. “Not a word.”
“And were the two men in here at the same time? Did they interact?”
“No. King has kept himself to himself, as far as I’ve seen.”
“I see. Well, thank you, Mr. Heck.”
Frederick crossed the room, planning to talk to his brother and Dr. Fox for a few minutes before turning in for the night.
Thaddeus Edgecombe entered just then, approached the bar, and ordered a whiskey.
Frederick walked over to him, pulling his notebook from hispocket. “Mr. Edgecombe, good. I wanted to ask you about a few things we found in Mr. Oliver’s room.”
“A first-rate novel, I hope,” the publisher said bitterly and downed his drink.
Frederick opened his notebook and spread out the page Miss Lane had spotted beneath the chaise.
“Is this Mr. Oliver’s handwriting?”
The publisher studied it. “Yes.” He murmured, “Ashes From the Fire by Ambrose Oliver....” He read the opening lines silently, then said, “Tell me there is more.”
“Not that we found.”
Frederick also laid out the charred remnant, sketch, and list of titles.
“These mean anything to you?”
The man’s gaze landed on the wordsAfter the Fire by R. J. Stephens. His eyes hardened. “I recognize neither the hand nor the name. Do you?”
“No.” Frederick tucked away the pages.
Edgecombe ordered a second whiskey.
When the man’s drink arrived, Frederick said, “You know, rather than trusting me and young Mr. Brixton to get to the bottom of this, you could engage a Bow Street runner. Since Mr. Oliver had no close family, it would likely fall to you to do so. Brixton and I will do what we can, of course, but in all honesty, we have little experience with murder.”
