On a hunch, she put a hand on Alaric’s sleeve. “Let’s go over there. To the tenement with the clean laundry.”
“See something, pet?” he said.
“Call it an intuition.”
“That’s more than anything else we’ve got thus far,” he said wryly.
Accompanied by Ambrose and Mr. McLeod, they went over and knocked. From within came the squeals of children and a dog barking, the scent of simmering food. A minute later, the door opened, revealing a sturdy matron with rosy cheeks and clothes that were old and darned but washed and pressed. Her cap sat neatly atop salt and pepper curls.
“Whate’er you’re peddlin’, I ain’t buyin’,” she said.
“Pardon, ma’am.” Ambrose doffed his hat. “We’re investigators looking into a matter concerning a man who lived across the street—”
“Don’t know ’im, an’ don’t want to know ’im. Now I got a pepper pot o’er the fire an’ no time for palaverin’—”
“Excuse me, ma’am.” Nudging her way forward, Emma dropped a curtsy. “My name is Miss Kent. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?”
“Mrs. Gibney’s the name,” the woman said reluctantly.
“We’ll only take a few minutes of your time. And I’d be happy to compensate you for it,” Emma said. “If you’d rather, I can come in and talk with you while you attend to the stew. The gentlemen can wait outside.”
The woman frowned, but her gaze went to Emma’s reticule. “Compensate?”
“Say, five pounds?” Emma said.
The woman’s eyes grew big. “How do I know you’re not pullin’ my leg?”
Opening her reticule, Emma counted out five sovereigns and offered them. “Here you go. Now may I come in?”
“You’re supposed to give the moneyafteryou receive the information,” Mr. McLeod muttered from behind her.
The woman, who had stretched her hand toward the money, now snatched it away as if burned. Glaring at the Scotsman, she said, “I ain’t a thief. If that’s what you’re suggestin’, you can take your blunt an’—”
“No one’s suggesting such a thing, Mrs. Gibney,” Emma said quickly. “The money is for your time, fair and square. Please take it.”
Finally, the woman relented. Pocketing the coins in her apron, she waved Emma inside.
Alaric followed.
Mrs. Gibney blocked his path. “The miss said only she was to come in.”
“I’m not leaving her alone,” Alaric said. “Kindly step aside, madam.”
Something in his tone made even the assertive matron back down. The three of them entered the cramped space, which consisted of one main room where a tangle of children were playing with a puppy. Despite its small size, Emma noted how lovingly the home was kept and how clean and well-nourished the little ones were. A cracked vase of wildflowers and herbs adorned an all-purpose table on which fresh vegetables lay ready for chopping.
All of this fit with what she’d deduced about Mrs. Gibney. This was a proud, hard-working woman, one who might not trust strangers, but who would not lie to them. One who believed cleanliness was next to Godliness—and if the whiteness of her linens was any indication, that meant she had to be out of doors often, hanging up and taking down the laundry before it got dirty again from the sooty air and muck from the streets.
Ergo, this would put Mrs. Gibney in frequent, front and center view of Silas Webb’s dwelling.
“Who’re they, Ma?” A boy of six or seven trotted up to them.
“Mind your manners, Tommy,” Mrs. Gibney scolded.
“I’m Miss Kent,” Emma said, smiling at the child, “and this is the Duke of Strathaven.”
“A duke? In our ’ouse? Pull me other leg, miss,” Tommy scoffed, “it’s shorter.”
“Manners,” his mother said. “Go play with your brothers and sisters or start scrubbin’ the chamber pots—’tis your choice.”
