What I mostly did was inquire into problems I’d found myself in the middle of. I had in the past given several criminals to Mr. Pomeroy, my former sergeant turned Bow Street Runner, but gossip likely amplified my deeds.
“A murder?” I echoed. “That is dire. Who has been killed?”
The man flung out his arms dramatically. “Ihave.”
Chapter3
Istared at the man in perplexity, wondering if he were slightly mad. His eyes were moist, his cheeks flushed, his large body quivering. I read panic in him, and also despair.
“Look here,” I said. “You need to be clear with me. Are you saying you are indeed Norris Broadhurst? If you are, who is the poor fellow dead in England with your name?”
Before the man could answer, Grenville’s voice came around the corner. “Lacey, where have you got to?”
The man shrank into the wall. “Tell no one. Please, sir, I beg of you.”
I studied Broadhurst for a fleeting moment. He looked harmless enough, possessing the softness of a City gent, a person who’d worked indoors most of his life. The slight hump in his back, from bending over a desk for years, was another indication of his profession. He truly was afraid and not, in my opinion, likely to pull out a knife and try to gut me.
I motioned for him to keep still and trudged back to the narrow lane that ran beside the Pantheon.
Grenville and Brewster had not yet reached this alley and were calling into other passageways. At least Grenville was shouting for me—Brewster moved in silence, glowering at the bricks as though he’d beat on them until they disgorged me.
I hailed them, and they turned to wait for me in both annoyance and worry. When I reached the pair, I confessed I’d found my gentleman from this morning and that he wished to consult me. I omitted the matter of his true name and his announcement that someone had murdered him, both respecting his wish and wanting to know the full story before I assessed it.
“He will not speak to me if you are anywhere near, so I will meet you later,” I finished.
Grenville was not happy, but he nodded. “Do take care. I will find a coffee house in the Piazza Navona and warm myself.”
Brewster, predictably, refused to move.
“Mr. Grenville can do as he likes.” Brewster’s eyes held no capitulation. “But I don’t stray a step until you come out of that lane with no harm to you. If you say he won’t peep a word if I’m behind you, I’ll keep out of sight. But I’ll be here.” He pointed a broad finger at the pavement beside the bulk of the Pantheon.
I had to concede. Grenville tipped his hat to us and continued along the lane until he turned west toward the piazza.
Brewster planted himself, back against the wall, bending his leg and resting the sole of his large boot behind him. He was hidden from the lane I made for, but anyone coming through his narrow way would have to get past him.
I expected Broadhurst to have fled while I spoke with my friends, but he was still hugging the rubble-strewn niche when I returned, as though he’d be safe there forever.
“Would you prefer a more comfortable spot in which to tell your tale?” I asked him.
Broadhurst shuddered. “No, I would not. Never know who is about. I will be brief. My partner, Mr. Cockburn, was killed a year ago this January in London.”
“I see.” I did not entirely and waited for him to go on.
Broadhurst’s cheeks reddened. “The killer meant to do me, and that’s the truth. Mr. Cockburn had departed our office in Cheapside late one evening. It was dark, and he nipped along to Lombard Street, same as he did every night, heading for rooms he took on a street south of it. As far as I know, he was waylaid, nearly on his doorstep and stabbed through the back, enough times to kill him. They left him there.” Broadhurst’s throat worked. “I found him. Didn’t half give me a turn.”
“I am sorry.” I imagined his horror when Broadhurst stumbled upon the man, his colleague and presumably his friend. “Mr. Grenville seems to think it wasyouwho died. Are you telling me Mr. Cockburn was killed and buried in your place?”
“You have grasped it, Captain.”
“What happened when you found him?” I persisted. “Did you not summon the Watch? Rush to find a magistrate?”
Broadhurst scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I scarce knew what I was about. I was terrified. I—I had to think fast. He and I looked a bit alike, and knew the murderer had mistaken him for me. I thought—why not have it be me who’d died? I found myself switching my coat for his—I had letters addressed to me in my pocket. I took Cockburn’s pocket watch, his coin, all he had. I let myself into his house with his key and nabbed his passport papers and any money I could find, which wasn’t much. Then I fled. I bought passage to the Continent that very night and sailed from Greenwich. The newspapers reported that Norris Broadhurst had been killed, likely by a thug who’d robbed him near Lombard Street. By that time, I was here. Safe, or so I thought.”
I leaned heavily on my walking stick, unnerved by his blatant confession of so readily taking his partner’s identity. A bit hard on poor Cockburn’s family and friends, who believed he was still alive. “Why are you so certain that whoever this murderer was, was after you? It was Mr. Cockburn who was attacked and killed after all.”
Broadhurst wet his lips. “As I say, he and I looked a bit alike, and from the back, one fellow from the City resembles another. And Cockburn, he was trying to put everything right. Our firm had got into a bit of … difficulty. Honest mistakes were made, and the market never does what we think, but I was blamed. I knew I’d face the dock for it, but Cockburn was working diligently to pay back the money. Everyone made him out to be a hero—Iwas the villain of the piece. So it must have been me this killer wanted. I made sure it seemed he’d offed the correct man.”
“What about your brother?” I asked. “Surely he would have known the dead man was not you.”
