More importantly, why had this anonymous client targeted her? Ambrose considered multiple hypotheses. In the best case scenario, the client had simply been mistaken, erroneously vilifying Marianne based on circumstantial evidence. Another possibility: there had been no client at all, and all of it had been Leach's doing. Perhaps Leach had known that Marianne was after him. Perhaps he'd taken the precautionary measure of having her monitored, of blackening her name. If Leach had been responsible, then his death would have nullified any threat to Marianne.
Ambrose wasn't taking any chances. Logic circled him back to the dead solicitor. He'd start his investigation by finding out everything he could about Reginald Leach and Leach's clientele. If he followed all the threads, he was certain one would lead him to Marianne's secret.
The boat bumped against the dock. Tipping the driver, Ambrose took the stairs up to the road. He headed north until he hit Fleet Street. Halfway down a smoke-clogged alley, he found an entrance with the emblem of three crowns painted over the doorway. Inside, the tavern was a warren of narrow corridors and cozy nooks, and Ambrose had to duck his head more than once to avoid the low-hanging beams. The smell of hops and savory pub cooking filled the air.
Scanning the half-filled room, Ambrose approached the bar.
"What's your fancy, sir?" the barkeep asked.
"I'm looking for someone," Ambrose said, placing a coin on the counter. "Tom Milford. Used to work for a solicitor named Leach."
The barkeep jerked his head toward a table in a secluded corner. "Carrot-pated cove sittin' alone. The one wot looks like 'e lost 'is mother, though I reckon it can't be o'er that skinflint Leach. No loss to the world, that one." The barkeep snorted. "Reckon it's the loss o' pay wot 'as Tom down—'e's been nursin' the same ale all night."
"I'll take two of the same," Ambrose said.
As he fished for another coin, he recalled with a pang the books he'd sold yesterday. His legacy from his father now sat in the dusty corner of a pawnbroker's shop near Drury Lane. He'd sent the bulk of the money to Emma. The funds would keep his family in the cottage until month's end, when Ambrose could make the trip to Chudleigh Crest. He'd look into other housing options in the village and give Emma some much-deserved respite as well.
The barkeep returned with the drinks. Taking the two foaming tankards, Ambrose crossed over to Leach's clerk. "Mr. Milford?"
A bloodshot gaze veered upward. Though Tom Milford looked no more than five-and-twenty, he had dark circles under his eyes and lines of worry etched around his mouth.
"Who's asking?" Milford said.
"Ambrose Kent. I work for the Thames River Police. Would you mind if I join you?" Ambrose held up the two tankards.
Either Milford was desperate for the drink or for relief from his own company because he shrugged. "Suit yourself, Mr. Kent."
Ambrose sat and pushed one of the drinks across the table.
"Hard day?" he said. In questioning witnesses, he'd found it effective to first establish rapport. People spoke more freely and truthfully with those they liked and trusted.
"I'll say." Milford took a long gulp of his new drink; foam formed a moustache above his upper lip. "God Almighty, I needed that. I assume you're here about Mr. Leach? I've already told the constables everything I know."
From what Ambrose had heard, Milford's testimony had amounted to little. Which was why he wanted to speak to the clerk on his own.
"Sometimes new information comes up after a few nights' rest. I imagine it was a shock to learn of your employer's passing," Ambrose said.
"Shock ain't the half of it. Try bloody despair." Milford took another swig of his drink, his tone morose. "For three years of my life, I slaved for that penny-pinching codger. Now I've nothing to show for it—neither money nor the qualifications to strike out on my own. I'm sunk."
"Surely it can't be as bad as all that."
"It's worse. Got a girl waiting on me." The apprentice slanted Ambrose a glum look. "With my current prospects, she ain't likely to wait much longer."
Ambrose felt a spark of empathy; he knew that situation all too well. His own ex-fiancée hadn't been the sort to wait either.
"Things have a way of working out as they should," he said.
He was surprised by how much he meant it. Despite the frustration of his dealings with Marianne, the alternative of never meeting her struck a hollow chord in his chest. Though it made him feel somehow disloyal to admit it, he hadn't experienced feelings half as intense when Jane had broken things off—and he'd been with her for three years.
"Sometimes," he added, "a disappointment can turn out to be an opportunity."
"When one door closes, eh? You sound like my ma." Milford sent him a wry smile. "Now what was it you wanted to know, Mr. Kent?"
"Did Leach have any enemies? Anyone who wished him harm?"
Milford rolled his eyes. "Does a dog have fleas? Don't mean to speak ill of the dead, but Reginald Leach was a bastard through and through, and the people who hired him on weren't much better. But Leach kept the meat of his cases to himself and assigned us clerks the banal tasks. Instead of teaching us the practice of the law, he had us making his tea and tidying up after him like sodding servants. Only, like idiots, we worked for free."
"Did you ever witness any altercations in the office? Incensed clients, that sort of thing?"
