Mr. Percival shook his head. “You are misinformed, Mrs. Forge. In no way could Mr. Coleman have afforded to live in such a fashionable neighbourhood.”
Interesting. Had the home she’d visited yesterday been funded by Mrs. Coleman’s family? That would explain why the woman was so skittish about alienating herself from her mother and father.
Kit tugged down her bodice as she shifted on the chair. Dressing the part of a high-society woman never did make sitting an easy pastime. “What sort of employee was Mr. Coleman? Were you happy with his work?”
Mr. Percival angled his head; any farther and it might roll off that long neck of his. “Really, Mrs. Forge, such enquiries cannot possibly be related to—”
“Now, now, Mr. Percival. You must allow a lady to have her intrigues.” She wagged her finger. “Your wife certainly has hers.”
His spine stiffened. “What would you know of that?”
“Enough that if you do not answer my questions, I just may have to let the editor of the society page in on her recent faux pas.”
And there was rule number two—information acquired before skiffing a mark was like bullets in a gun, only she need never pull the trigger. The threat would be fatal enough.
Deep red crawled up Mr. Percival’s giraffe neck. “Are you blackmailing me, Mrs. Forge?”
“Nothing of the sort.” She tapped his desk with a light finger. “I prefer to think of it as encouragement to do the right thing.”
His dark eyes narrowed to slits. “Who are you really?”
Phew. At last, she could drop the high-society image. She loosened the pin that’d been grazing her scalp and allowed the tight bun at the back of her head to fall into a tail. “I am a detective, sir, on the hunt for the missing Mr. Coleman.”
“Is this what the world has come to? Women taking on men’s roles? A detective, of all things.” His upper lip curled.
The slurs rolled right off her back, for she still held the best hand. She started to rise. “I suppose I shall bid you good day, then. I ought to make theTimes’editorial offices before the final pages head to press.”
Mr. Percival’s face twisted. “Take your seat, Detective.” He spat out the word like an unexpected olive pit. “Though you won’t need it for much longer. As for Mr. Coleman, he is no longer an employee here, so I can have nothing to say on the matter.”
“Oh, but remember I have plenty to say to the newspaper. Imagine if word gets out that just last week your wife was seen sneaking into the back door of the Kitsch Street Gin House.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And that it wasn’t the first time she’d frequented such a vulgar establishment.”
“How would you—?” Purple bloomed across his cheeks, and it took him several deep breaths before the shade lightened to a mere murderous red. “What exactly do you wish to know about Mr. Coleman?” It was a wonder the question even made it past the clench of the man’s jaw.
It was naughty of her, truly, to put Mr. Percival through such anguish, yet very necessary if she were to find poor little Lillibeth. Kit pulled out her notebook, then removed the small silver pencil attached to it. “You said his position here was as a staff accountant. How many of those do you employ?”
“Only one. Coleman was directly overseen by Mr. Blade, our chief financial officer.”
She jotted down the name then looked up. “Did you have any concerns about Mr. Coleman’s work performance? Were there any irregularities in his schedule? Did he ever show up late for work or leave early?”
“As far as I know the man was punctual and methodical, as those who work with numbers so often are.”
Kit made a note of it. Evidently Mr. Coleman only kept odd hours at home, then, which begged the question… “Are you aware of any troubles with his personal life?”
“No. I make it a point to keep out of other people’s business.” Mr. Percival’s dark eyes hardened to embers, his gaze burning into hers. “A lesson you would do well to learn.”
She grinned. “Ahh, but then I would not be a very good detective, would I?”
“Are you quite finished, Mrs. Forge?” He swept his hand towards a stack of documents on his desk. “I have business to attend.”
“Nearly.” She flipped to a clean page. “Did Mr. Coleman have any violent tendencies? Argumentative, perhaps? Was he quick to take offense?”
“Coleman?” A snort puffed out of his nose. “The man was a timid rabbit. The few times I had reason to stop by his desk, he spoke so quietly I strained my back leaning to hear him. He was an amiable enough fellow, I suppose, but rather a lone wolf, more comfortable with ledgers than people. Again, the trait of a good numbers man.”
Kit bit her lip. A clear discrepancy from what Mrs. Coleman had told her. Either Mr. Percival was lying or Mr. Coleman’s anger only flared at home—which wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. Still…
She tapped her pencil against the page a long moment before glancing up. “What do you think happened to him?” Edging forward on the chair, she met the man’s gaze head-on. Rule number three when reeling in a mark was to make them part of the process, provide a bit of perceived ownership in the conversation. “Where do you think Mr. Coleman went, Mr. Percival?”
“Who knows?” He spread his hands. “Perhaps he reached the stage in life that breaks a man. At some point everyone realizes they’ll never be anything more than what they are. There was no chance for advancement for Coleman, so maybe he chucked his life into the dustbin.”
