“He said nothing at all, love. I heard the door bang and then spied the small man speeding off down the street in a pique, fists balled.”
“After that, did you see Warrilow?” I asked.
“Didn’t see him, but he called for some coffee, which me grandson carried up to him. Heard him growling when he took the cup. Not a patient man, was Warrilow.”
So Laybourne had been here, but he’d left Warrilow alive. So much for my theory.
“Is your grandson about, Mrs. Beadle? I want to ask him about that night, if it is all right with you.”
“The lad is here, as it happens, and he’ll answer you. He’s a bright boy. Come in out of the damp, and I’ll fetch him.”
CHAPTER 15
As we stepped inside the boarding house, I was struck anew by the difference between it and Laybourne’s lodgings. The house was no longer lavish, but its polished banisters and scrubbed floors shone with care and pride.
Mrs. Beadle left us in the hall while she hurried toward the back. I glanced inside a room to my right and found a pleasant if sparsely furnished sitting room. The ceilings were as high as those in White’s, the plastered decorations once as luxurious. Time and chance had let this house and area recede into faded respectability while White’s was at the relative height of its grandeur.
Mrs. Beadle returned quickly. “He’s in the yard.” She waved her hand at a rear door, the top half filled with a windowpane, through which we could see a small space with a gray wall. “Too muddy to come in without a good bath. Perhaps another time?”
“We would be happy to speak to him outside,” I said. “And save your floors.”
Mrs. Beadle sent me a good-natured smile. “I could get him cleaned up for tomorrow…”
“No, no.” Tomorrow was Friday and too near the time Donata would load me into the carriage and steer me out of Town. “I don’t mind a little mud. When I was in the cavalry, I fell into it plenty.”
Mrs. Beadle conceded and led us out the door into a small yard. I glanced at the garden wall to see it was indeed as high and thick as Brewster had mentioned. I also could not swear to which of the buildings towering over the other side housed Laybourne.
A small figure, liberally plastered with thick mud, waited in the drizzle. He stood stoically, hat, coat, breeches, and boots covered in muck as well as his hands and much of his face. He had scraped mud from his eyes, revealing two pale ovals of skin.
“This is Captain Lacey, Harry,” Mrs. Beadle said. “You mind your manners and answer any questions he asks you.”
She closed the door but hovered on the other side of it, watching through the glass. A wise woman to not let her grandson alone with two strange men.
I was sorry she had spoken so sternly to him, however, as Harry, about ten summers if I was to judge, looked up at me with trepidation in his brown eyes. I was usually good with boys, but he watched me in dislike.
“Good morning, Harry.” I extended a hand. “Captain Lacey, at your service. I was explaining to your grandmother that I grew as muddy as you falling off my horse in the cavalry.”
Harry wiped his palm on his breeches, which did no good, before taking my hand in a feather grip. He whipped his arm away just as fast, staring at me with misgivings.
Brewster leaned to him. “What did ye do to get yourself so covered in muck?”
“Boxing.” The reply was defiant.
“The other bloke knocked you down, did he?” Brewster asked.
“No other bloke. I was practicing by myself.”
“Were you, now? I’m a bit of a pugilist meself. Show me your stance.”
I thought Harry would refuse, but he planted one foot behind the other and brought up his fists.
“That’s not bad, lad. But you want to hold your forward hand a bit more turned up, like so.” Brewster gently turned the boy’s wrist, so his closed hand faced the sky. “Then, when you punch, you have more room to turn it for a hard strike.” He demonstrated a tight, focused blow to the air.
Harry watched in reverence, then tried to imitate the punch. Brewster put himself alongside the boy. “Shift your weight so one foot is always rock solid. The other gives you a place to go.”
He made a few more jabs, while Harry copied him diligently. Brewster had made a name for himself as a pugilist before he’d been a lackey for James Denis, and his technique was still polished and precise.
Harry began to unbend as Brewster showed him more moves. First came a grin, and then Harry started to talk. I stood back and let Brewster work his magic.
