Chapter One
London, Autumn 1819
The Dashworth brothers’ family carriage came to a slow stop; the greys pulling it were friskier than normal, reluctant to listen to their driver. Perhaps they were keen to go home and get out of the soft autumnal rain or maybe they were as wary of their new surroundings as the men they were transporting. Edward Dashworth peered out of the small window, his hopes dropping at the sight before him. Opposite him, his brother Freddie rubbed his jaw, a small frown creasing his forehead. ‘Are you sure this is the address you were given? It does not seem the sort of place where an eminent private detective would live.’
The house they had stopped in front of was one of many mismatched homes crammed together with no discernible gaps between them or their neighbours. It had been painted once, probably white or cream, but it was now a nondescript sludgy brown. Several cracked tiles lay on the pavement, presumably where they had fallen from a roof and not been replaced. Edward glanced down at the paper in his hand on which the scribbledaddress was written. It had taken several weeks of searching for him to find it. Simon Hornel had left his previous abode with no forwarding details, but that hadn’t stopped Edward from hunting the man down. Years ago, Edward had heard of a case involving Mr Hornel, in which the detective had found someone who’d been missing, presumed dead. The story had made an impression on him at the time, the man’s persistence and attention to detail appealing to Edward’s own meticulous nature. Hornel’s name had come up again a few times since; each time Edward had been impressed with the painstaking way he had apparently sifted through all the details to find the truth.
After learning of his older brother’s death, Edward had become convinced Mr Hornel’s ability was the key to finding out what had happened to Sebastian in the last months of his life, something neither he, nor his remaining brothers, had any insight into. This may not be the most salubrious house he had seen, but he had come this far and would find no answers inside the carriage.
‘Now that we are here, let us get on with it,’ he said to Freddie, hoping he’d managed to come across as confident and sure.
Freddie adjusted the sleeves of his jacket. ‘If we get murdered, I am going to be very displeased with you. I shall make your afterlife unbearable.’
‘No difference from now then.’
Freddie flashed him a grin, his eyes full of laughter. He’d always been the most jovial of the five Dashworth brothers, with a ready smile for everyone. Behind the face Freddie showed to the world, Edward had always known his brother had demons, a result of the childhood they had all lived through. But now, Freddie was genuinely happy; marrying the love of his life had settled him. Edward was pleased for him, and if sometimes, inthe dead of night, his stomach ached with wanting that same contentedness, then no one need know but Edward.
They climbed down from their carriage, Freddie’s smile fading away as his boots hit the pavement and squelched as he half slid on a layer of dull brown waste. Edward shuddered, avoiding stepping in the patch as he followed, bile rising in his throat at the thought that the waste could well be human in origin.
‘It is not very pleasant,’ commented Freddie, never sounding more out of touch with the lower classes than in that moment.
‘We cannot all be duke’s sons,’ Edward replied, although his confidence was slipping from him with every stench-filled breath. Edward had persuaded his brothers that Simon Hornel was their best option to discover the truth. Tobias, their oldest brother and the current Duke of Glanmore, had been keen to use a well-known firm, or at least that’s what his steward had told them on their brother’s behalf. Tobias did not seem to use words, perhaps thinking that these were for lesser mortals. Even though Edward was wealthy enough, after several successful investments, he wanted this investigation carried out under the Dashworth family name. It was something he believed they should do as brothers to respect Sebastian’s memory. Edward had stood his ground, insisting Simon Hornel was the best, even as the weeks had passed and the detective remained hidden.
Edward liked to think he wasn’t too high on the instep, but the longer he stood amongst the filth, the more his preconceived notions about himself wavered. It wasn’t that he didn’t think the people who lived in these places were any less worthy than himself. He knew that he had earned his place in Society, not by his merits, but by accident of birth. Dress anyone up, give them an education and they too could live like he did. It was more that Mr Hornelshouldhave been able to live somewhere better. He had the reputation as a good detective, his previous cases musthave paid well, and yet he lived here. The Dashworth brothers would be paying him a lot of money if he took on their case, but they would also be placing a lot of trust in the man. Trust that would have to be sustained over months, if not years.
‘Do you think he has gambling debts?’ Freddie asked, giving voice to one of the theories rushing through Edward’s mind. ‘Surely a widely sought-after detective would not…’
A young lad ran past, snatching Freddie’s pocket watch from his jacket and disappearing before his brother could finish his sentence or shout a word of protest.
Edward ignored Freddie’s indignant splutters as he continued to stare at the cracks in the front façade. The walls sloped as if the house was giving up and slowly sinking into the street. An upstairs window was broken and the cool autumn breeze must be whistling through it.
Edward knew he overthought things, sometimes to the point of obsession. It was a curse left over from a stressful childhood where he was constantly worrying about doing or saying the wrong thing in case he incurred the wrath of his guardian, the never-affable Miss Dunn. If he stood here for any longer, he knew he would reason himself out of further action. He’d turn and climb back into the carriage and he would have to start his search for a detective all over again and this time he wouldn’t have a name to start with. He smoothed his hand down the front of his jacket. He would meet the man before he made judgement; that was the reasonable way forward. After all, he was here. He rapped his knuckles against the front door.
There was a long pause, during which Freddie muttered all the things he was going to do to the street urchin when he caught up with him. Edward ignored him. The boy would be long gone and, although he was strong, Freddie, who was going to be a father within the next six months, was not the sort of man whocommitted violence towards a child, no matter what they had done.
After an age, a slim, narrow-faced man with a shock of red hair opened the door. His eyes were unsmiling, his lips thin and he wore a sharply ironed suit, the creases in it exact and perfect. Edward leaned forward slightly, some of his faith restored. This was almost exactly how he had expected the investigator to look. ‘Simon Hornel?’
The man’s eyes narrowed discouragingly. ‘Yes.’
‘My name is Edward Dashworth. I wrote to you a few months ago and then again more recently about…’
‘And I wrote back explaining that I am unable to take your case at present.’ Mr Hornel began to push the door closed.
‘I will double the fee I offered.’ The man paused, the door half shut. ‘And I will find you somewhere better to live.’
Mr Hornel didn’t answer, but he didn’t try to close the door either; instead he stared at Freddie. ‘What is the matter with him?’
Freddie was still muttering darkly, his face turned in the direction of his missing pocket watch.
‘A young boy just ran off with his pocket watch.’
Mr Hornel’s lips pursed. ‘That will be Young Pete. We have been trying to stop his less legal activities, but he is hungry and his mother is ill; I suspect that is making him reckless. I will make sure it is returned to him.’ The door began to shut again.
Edward stepped forward, trying to get through to the man before the opportunity was wasted. ‘Please, at least hear me out. If you are still unwilling to take the case when I am finished, then perhaps you will be able to recommend someone else to me. Please,’ he repeated softly. ‘I am desperate.’
Mr Hornel’s shoulders sagged, his lips turning down at the corners. ‘I wish you no insult, but I have dealt with the likes of you before and, as you can see—’ his long, thin hands gestured to the surroundings
‘—it did not end well for me. I have no wish to become entangled with the upper classes again.’
