“The issue isn’t finding any Clive Lincoln, Mr…?” Cassie gave the man her sweetest smile.
“Mr. Harper.” The grocer’s expression eased from wariness to friendliness as he basked in that smile. “But most around here call me Baz.”
“Well, Baz,” she said leaning forwards conspiratorially, “it’s not enough to find a Mr. Clive Lincoln. We have to find the right Mr. Lincoln. There are ever so many of them running around London, you see.”
“And you’ve just been given a name with no direction or other identification?” Baz clucked his tongue. “You poor thing.”
Charles nearly rolled his eyes. There was something to be said about allowing women to become investigators. Cassie could put people at ease faster than an untried youth could spend his money in a whorehouse.
“And even if we find this is the right Lincoln, we need to ensure he has no moral strikes against his character.” She lifted her shoulder. “The donor wrote his will many years ago. He didn’t know what sort of man this Mr. Lincoln would turn out to be, and he didn’t want his money going to a reprobate. Our instructions were most strict that we need to find out this man’s moral character, too.”
Baz scratched his grizzly jaw. “Well, now, I don’t know nothing about that. He has an account here that he pays in full each month. He doesn’t buy none of my wine or whiskey, though I don’t think a drink or two should be a mark against a man’s character.”
“Or a woman’s,” Cassie said.
Baz laughed, making his apron jiggle. “Too right.”
Charles cracked his neck. This little lovefest between Baz and Cassie was a bit much. “Have you noticed him coming and going at odd hours of the day and night?”
“Many times, but then when a bill is coming up for vote, he has to stay up to all hours assisting his employer.” He dropped his voice and gave them a significant look. “He works in Parliament, you know. For a fancy earl.”
Charles smiled tightly. “And what about the Saturday before last? Or a fortnight ago Wednesday? Do you remember seeing him those days?” It would be too easy if the grocer remembered him those days, the days of the attack on Cassie and the one on the footman escorting her home, but he had to ask.
“How am I supposed to remember that?” Baz asked scornfully. “I can’t even remember if I saw my wife those days.”
Cassie laid her hand on his meaty forearm. “It is a ridiculous question, but Mr. Strait and I are paid to be most thorough. Is there anything else you can tell us about your Mr. Lincoln? Anything at all?”
Baz patted her hand. “Sorry, m’dear. But if you ever want a new job, one that don’t force you to ask ridiculous questions, I’m looking to hire a clerk. You seem like you’d be suited.”
Charles drew her out of the grocery. “She doesn’t want a new job. Thank you for your time.”
The laundry on the corner didn’t have any information on Lincoln, either. Nor did the coal man, candlemaker, or the local pub.
Cassie caught her heel when passing the threshold of that last establishment. She paused outside the door and held onto Charles to keep her balance as she adjusted her boot. “We’re not getting anywhere, are we?”
“We’re developing a picture of the man.” He tried to sound reassuring. Confident. But she was right. They were getting fuck all. Tomorrow he would go to the scene of the attacks on Cassie, see if anyone remembered seeing a man fitting Lincoln’s description in the area, but he didn’t hold out much hope. Wiltshire had told them Lincoln had known he would be at the coffeehouse that afternoon, but that didn’t mean Lincoln had followed him there. Unless they obtained a confession, it would be very difficult to prove he was a killer.
She muttered a soft oath and bent down to examine her boot. “I’ve broken my heel. I don’t suppose there is a cobbler in this neighborhood we could question as I have it repaired?”
“It’s getting late.” The afternoon sun had faded into the burnished glow before twilight hit. It cast a soft halo about Cassie’s chestnut hair. Something deep within Charles’s chest ached. He hailed the agency carriage that had parked down the street. “You go home. I’ll keep asking around until the shops close.”
“I think it’s all right.” She took a step and stumbled into his chest.
He raised an eyebrow.
“Fine.” She huffed. “But you’ll tell me everything you learn.”
“Of course.” He would likely have nothing to tell. He’d learn nothing more. His hand clenched. There was a very real chance Lincoln would get away with his crime.
If he’d committed it. He was judging the man before the evidence was in. The only thing that truly connected him to the killing was his ring, and even that mark could have been made by something else.
This was why taking justice into one’s own hands was a mistake. Man was fallible. What if they were wrong?
He ignored the small voice in his head saying courts were fallible, too, as he helped Cassie into the carriage.
She leaned out the window, her gloved hands gripping the bottom frame. “Will you come for dinner? I believe Cook is making roast lamb.”
He didn’t care what he ate. “Of course.” He placed his hand next to hers and caressed that bare patch of skin above her glove with his thumb. She was so soft and lovely.
