Julius hurried to catch up to his friend. He didn’t want the bleeding to start too early. Not if it wasn’t necessary.
Max pushed through the door to the office, not bothering to knock. The man they’d seen opening the door stood at a row of shelves, a stack of papers in one hand. He spun around, his breath whooshing out in a hiss when he saw them.
He held a hand over his heart. “Gentlemen, you surprised me.” He stepped to a large desk in the middle of the room and laid the papers down. He tugged at the middle of his coat, but the ends didn’t meet across his round stomach. “What can I do for you?”
Julius circled the room. The door they’d come through, one near the back that appeared to lead to a small kitchen, and two windows. No other means of entry or egress. “I am the Earl of Rothchild and this is the Baron of Sutton. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The man’s eyes bulged. He clawed his fingers through his hair and tugged at his neckcloth. “Of course, of course. What can I do for such esteemed callers?”
“For starters, you can tell us who you are and who you work for?” Max placed his hands on the desk and leaned forward into the man’s space.
Julius stepped to his side and patted Max’s shoulder. “My friend here is a little tired, so you’ll have to excuse his manners. But an introduction would be appreciated.” He gave the little man a wide smile.
“Uh, sure. Faulkner.” The cotton of his neckcloth stretched under all the tugging. “Lawrence Faulkner. And I’m the clerk for the Ariadne Corporation.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Faulkner.” Cocking a hip on the desk, Julius casually swung his leg back and forth. “And what is it exactly that you do here at Ariadne?”
The man shrugged. “I pay the bills. Manage the correspondence. Like I said, I’m the clerk.”
Max prowled around the desk and poked his finger into a shelf. Faulkner started to turn around.
“But what does Ariadne do?” Julius brought the man’s attention back around. “The records office lists it as the parent company to twenty-six organizations. From bird watching, to a charity for war widows, and a hospital for the poor. You can understand our confusion.”
Faulkner pressed his lips into a white slash. “Are you interested in ornithology?” He shook his head and muttered, “I get more crazy letters from your lot than regarding all the other businesses combined.”
“Do we look like bird-watchers,’ Max growled in the man’s ear.
Faulkner squeaked and skittered to the side. His hip banged into the desk.
“Max, be nice,” Julius warned.
“What?” Max cracked the knuckles of his right hand. “As you said, I’m tired. And I haven’t yet broken my fast. And three nights ago, I slipped in a pool of a man’s blood.” He leaned towards Faulkner. “Have you ever seen a man with his throat slit? It isn’t pretty. So, forgive me if I forget the niceties.”
Faulkner opened and closed his mouth, no sound emerging.
Julius sighed. The longer this investigation continued, the less finesse it was conducted with. “Just tell us about the Ariadne Corporation. Who do you work with? Who hired you?”
“I work alone here.” Faulkner flapped his hand at the office. “It’s just me. I answered an advertisement in the paper and was hired by the company’s attorney. A Mr. Allan. I pay the rents each month for the various offices and respond to correspondence. That’s it.”
“What type of correspondence?” Max asked.
“Questions from the public. There aren’t many.” Faulkner scratched his head. “I don’t think the business and charities do much promotion. But occasionally I’ll get a letter, asking if the Feathered Friends is doing anything to save the Whooper swan, or something like that. It’s a really good job.”
Julius was sure. Minimal work for a full paycheck. “Besides from Mr. Allan, who else have you met in the company?”
“No one,” Faulkner said. His eyes grew wide as Max crowded into him, and the clerk fell back. “I’m the only one who ever comes here. I swear.”
Perfect. Another dead end. “Let’s go get you some breakfast,” he told Max.
Sutton lowered his head and glared at Faulkner. “Hmmm.” The sound rumbled from his chest. Faulkner scrambled back until he was wedged between the wall and the shelves.
“Stop having a lark.” Julius stomped to the front door and slammed out. He hated dead ends. He strode for the carriage and threw himself in.
“What now?” Max clambered in beside him.
“The London for a coffee and a pastry?”
“I didn’t mean breakfast.” Max rolled his eyes. “But that sounds good.” He shouted directions to the driver, and the carriage rocked to life.
