Jackson snorted. “You want me to find dirt on the man to shut down the whole company for the protection of one boy?”
“Could you?”
He blew out a long breath. Scraping up charges on a well-connected business owner was like looking for a particular piece of gravel in a quarry. And yet…well, he never would have made it past his first year on the force had it not been for Baggett’s friendship. “Very well. I will investigate on one condition.”
Hope burned bright in his friend’s dark eyes. “Which is?”
“That you find the arsonist responsible for the fire at the fishmonger on Charles Street.”
Baggett’s brows gathered. “I thought Harvey was on that.”
“Don’t ask.”
“Harvey strikes again, eh?” He chuckled. “No matter. I’m on it. And thanks for poking about the glassworks. I’d hate to see anything happen to the boy. Martha—Mrs. Jones would be devastated.”
And again with the name slip. Jackson cuffed his friend on the back. “You know, Baggett, the better solution to the whole Frankie problem might be to simply marry Mrs. Jones and pool your resources. Then young Frankie wouldn’t have to work.”
A deep flush spread over Baggett’s face. “We are not…I mean…We are merely acquaintances. Marriage is far beyond the scope of things.”
“That’s not what Kit tells me.” He winked and stalked off, once again climbing the stairs.
“What is that supposed to mean? Jackson! You cannot just walk off like that.”
Grinning broadly, Jackson ignored his friend.
But when he reached his office, that grin vanished.
Sergeant Doyle stood at his door, blood oozing from his nose, uniform torn at the sleeve, and with a glower fierce enough to make a lion back down.
Jackson tipped his head. “Sergeant? Please don’t tell me your entire ceiling caved in.”
“Would that were it. I’m afraid you’re needed immediately below stairs, Chief. That cully Scarther hauled in is a cornered rat. We need all hands available.”
Blast. He wheeled about, bellowing for all officers to muster with truncheons in the cell block, then he raced down the stairs without a backwards glance at his office. How was he to get paperwork done with so many other fires to put out? He’d been wrong. Horribly—almost grotesquely—wrong. This was not going to be a good day after all.
In fact, it was turning out to be spectacularly awful.
Kit sat as still as a snake on a rock, nothing but her gaze sweeping the opulent office of Mr. Ives Percival. As a supposed member of the Mayfair Ladies Aide Society, it wouldn’t do to physically poke about in the man’s private belongings. But she didn’t need to. Language wasn’t merely written words or air across the vocal cords, and this room spoke volumes about the senior partner in Willis, Percival & Company…namely that he loved expensive cigars, preferred scotch over brandy, and had an interest in hot air balloons, if the collection of titles on the shelf was his and not merely an ornamentation. And he loved his wife. Dearly. Excessively. To the point of idolization, apparently, for there wasn’t a horizontal surface that didn’t sport one of her photographs. Perfect.
Kit’s lips curved. All those tip-offs she’d gathered about the woman would surely be a boon.
“Good morning, Mrs. Forge.” In strode a giraffe of a man, his long legs carrying him in front of her before she could rise. He held out his palm, staying her further. “No need to stand on my account; in fact if you don’t mind, I shall take my seat straightaway. It’s been a dashed busy morning already.”
He sank into the tall-backed wooden chair behind a massive cherrywood desk. Lower back trouble, no doubt, for such a mean form of seat. He winced before softening his jaw and awarding her a pleasant smile. “I hope you didn’t mind the wait.”
“Think nothing of it, Mr. Percival.” She returned his smile. “I am only glad to have a minute of your time.”
“Yes, about that…my clerk informs me you belong to the same club as my wife, but I am unclear as to how I may be of service. Matilda”—he cast a loving glance at one of the many picture frames on his desk—“didn’t mention anything to me this morning at breakfast about your visit.”
“Oh, you know women.” Kit waggled her fingers in the air. “I am hoping you can tell me about one of your employees.”
Mr. Percival pursed his lips, the pull of skin making his nose look all the longer. “What has that to do with the Mayfair Ladies Aide Society?”
She leaned forward as if taking him into her confidence. Rule number one of gaining information was to appear as if you were supplying it. “I shall fill you in on that after you tell me about Mr. Coleman, your former financial officer.”
“Officer?” Mr. Percival laughed, a squawky sort of sound that ended with a slight whistle. “Coleman was a staff accountant, nothing more.”
“You must pay very good wages, then. Pimlico is not for paupers.”
