“Not sure. When Barrycloth did his round at the beginning of his shift, he found Blackjack stiff as his pallet, so he’d been dead for some time. Barrycloth thought he must’ve suffered a heart seizure during the night. The coroner’s looking into it now. Personally, though, I suspect foul play, though I haven’t an explanation in all the world for it. Gibbons worked the night shift and swears no one was down in the cellblock all evening.”
Jackson cut him a sharp glance. “So why the suspicion?”
“Because word on the street is that in the wee hours of the morning, Gruver died as well. He choked to death at a pub over by Wapping. Only the thing is he wasn’t eating anything at the time. Just drinking.”
“That is odd.” The lines on Jackson’s face hardened. “Which gives me suspicions of my own.”
Charles gazed intently into Jackson’s eyes. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Are the initials C.S.?”
A grin stretched his lips. “Great minds think alike, my friend. Which brings me to my last reason for accosting you this morning.”
Jackson cocked his head. “And that is?”
“Watch your back, old man. This Carky Smathers is a dangerous animal.”
Kit’s pen flew, her thoughts moving faster than the nib. But were those thoughts any good? Her office chair creaked as she leaned closer to study her hasty scrawl. Of all the words she’d gleaned from Mr. Coleman yesterday after church, it seemed no matter how she strung them together, they didn’t teach her anything new. Though she’d been at it since sunrise, she was no closer to figuring out who hired Carky Smathers.
The bell above the door jingled and in walked her father, suit coat flapping wide open, a slip of white shirttail hanging out between waistband and waistcoat, his trousers a wrinkly mess. He clutched a cup of tea in one hand and a satchel in the other, papers peeping out where they’d obviously been caught in a hasty closing. What a wreck. If she didn’t know any better, she’d suspect he’d spent the last two nights with Bella instead of Mr. Coleman.
Kit set down her pen. “Oh dear. Not a good evening?”
Glowering, her father plunked down his satchel and removed his hat. “Not a goodtwoevenings. That Coleman snores louder than the ripsaw over at the lumberyard. I’m surprised he hasn’t blown apart his whole set of bones what with those nocturnal explosions.”
“Sorry, Father.”
“Sorry doesn’t clear the fog from my mind. Hopefully this will.” He toasted his cup in the air as he reclaimed his satchel and strode to his desk. “The man’s got quite a mind on him, though, I’ll give him that. Numbers-wise, that is. Straightened out my banking snarl in no time.”
Kit frowned. Was her father in financial trouble? “I didn’t know you had a snarl.”
“I don’t anymore. Turns out it was an accounting error on the bank’s part, not mine.” Whumping his satchel onto his desk, he unclasped the latch and began pulling out papers.
Kit shoved her own papers aside and planted her elbow on the tabletop, her chin in her palm, mulling over her father’s information. There was no doubt about it. Mr. Coleman did have a flair for ledgers, but that sort of intelligence was no match for an assassin on the prowl. “Do you really think Mr. Coleman is safe at your house alone? I mean, it wouldn’t be a stretch for Carky to look for him there. She knows you’re my partner.”
“He’s fine. I left him with a loaded Webley .455 and a Colt single action within reach, and after a short tutorial on how to fire the thing, I also left a bolt-action rifle in his lap. If Carky does show her face, I told him to blow it off.”
Kit shook her head. Leave it to a former police sergeant to overarm a fellow. “I hardly think Mr. Coleman is the type for such violence.”
“He’s not.” Her father puffed air past his lips. “Which is why I also paid some of my old night-watch fellows to keep an eye on the place.” Setting the satchel on the floor, he gathered the mess of papers and tapped them on the desk into a neat stack. “Now, would you like to hear all I’ve collected on Mr. Blade? I managed to catch a few people at home yesterday after Sunday services.”
“I would.” She dragged her chair over to his desk and scooted up close to his side.
“As it turns out, the gent led quite the double life. On one hand, he was the picture of an upstanding family man.” He stabbed his finger onto a newspaper clipping that sported a photograph of Mr. Blade, his wife, and their two sons. “On the other hand, he was an opium addict and a gambler with ties to the Old Pye Rat Pit, just as you’d suggested. Nice to see that you don’t have to be chasing a criminal to use that mind of yours. But get this…he wasn’t merely slapping down wagers. Mr. Blade was the manager.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised. It is a very lucrative business. Still, in my experience, there isn’t just one manager running the show. Usually there’s someone in the shadows he must answer to, and if I don’t miss my mark, that someone could very well be the one who supplied Mr. Blade with his opium. A higher-level criminal sticking his dirty hands into several pies.” She met her father’s gaze. “I’ve seen it before.”
“As have I. Which is why I’ve got a meeting with—”
The merry ringing of the doorbell turned both their heads. In raced a red-capped lad, a paper flapping in his fist. He stopped in front of her, a chip-toothed grin spreading on his face. “Mornin’, miss.”
Kit returned his smile. “Good morning. Toffy, wasn’t it?”
His grin grew and he dipped a little bow. “One and the same, at yer service, miss. And this is fer you.”
She pulled the wrinkled missive from his fingers. Whoever sent it would probably frown at the state of the note. “Are you to wait for a reply?”
He shook his head so vehemently, his flat cap smeared into a red blur. “I were tol’ to just drop it off.”
