Chapter Seven
Flynn met withBarraclough again. Churton had sent a note to the Home Office the day before he was killed which hinted at something of great interest to the crown, but he had not elaborated on it, instead intended to call in at Whitehall and discuss it. But that meeting never took place. It was left to Flynn and Barraclough to uncover what it was that Churton referred to.
In search of information, Flynn moved through White’s Club that evening, pausing to chat to those he knew. Many members expressed outrage at Churton’s murder. Unthinkable that he’d been struck down a mere few blocks from there. Some suggested footpads, but none had anything of value to offer.
Lord Deighton sat alone by the fire in the club’s library, an empty wine glass beside him. “Another glass of wine, sir?” Flynn took the chair beside him and gestured to the hovering waiter. A good source of information was Deighton, a regular who made it his business to learn everyone else’s.
“Thank you, Lord Montsimon. Good of you.”
When the waiter returned with two glasses of claret, Flynn raised his glass to Deighton and took a deep sip. “Bad business about Lord Churton. I wish I’d seen him that evening. I planned to visit the club but was detained.”
Lord Deighton’s faded blue eyes peered at him from over the rim of his glass. “I believe I was the last to speak to him. Wished him a good evening.”
Flynn nodded with a sad smile. “Pleasant man, Churton. Always good for a joke or an on-dit or two.”
“One could often learn something interesting from Churton, but not that night. He wasn’t here above an hour.” Deighton hunched over in his chair. “Brushed me off when I tried to engage him in conversation. I assumed he had an appointment.”
“That was unlike him,” Flynn said sympathetically. “Perturbed about something, do you think?”
“He might have been.” Deighton moistened his lips with a nervous flick of his tongue. He dropped his voice. “Knew his killer, d’you think?”
“I doubt it. More likely robbed by a footpad.” He raised his eyebrows. “Unless he said something to suggest otherwise?” No sense in mentioning Churton still had his money, fobs, and gold watch when found.
“No. I believe you’re right, Montsimon, probably ran afoul of a footpad, though why he should wander into a darkened lane alone… No sense at all. Asking for trouble, I would have thought.” Deighton took another thoughtful sip of wine. “He barely spoke to Lord Frank, some political matter it was, and… who else? Oh yes, he had a brief word with Sir Horace Crowthorne.”
“Parliamentary business I imagine.”
“They stepped away from me.” Deighton gave a heavy sigh. “I didn’t catch what was said.”
“And then the poor chap left to meet his doom,” Flynn added.
Deighton nodded vigorously. “Right afterward. Off he went, to meet his Maker as you say.” He shuddered. “Gutted like a fish, it’s said, poor fellow.”
At this moment, Sir Horace himself walked past them with a purposeful stride. Flynn excused himself from Deighton and followed. He was deciding whether to question him when Crowthorne waylaid Lord Goodrich, one of the men on Flynn’s list of possible conspirators, and engaged him in conversation.
The two men entered the card room, their conversation lost in the bursts of laughter, which erupted when a member made an amusing entry in the betting book. A slight acquaintance cornered Flynn and launched into an effusive description of the prime bit of blood he’d bought at Tattersall’s that he was certain would make his fortune at the races. He was on the lookout for investors. Flynn politely declined while he kept an eye on Crowthorne and Goodrich who continued to talk in low voices under the pretext of following the action at the tables.
The two men made no move to join the card game and, instead, left the club together. Flynn excused himself from his ebullient acquaintance. He donned his greatcoat and hat and left the building to find the two still together in the street. Flynn acknowledged them with a casual nod and hailed one of the hackney carriages lined up waiting for a fare.
As soon as his hackney turned the corner, Flynn ordered the jarvie to stop. “Wait here.” He jumped out and ran to check on the men. They had just parted, with Crowthorne hailing a hackney, while Lord Goodrich strode off down the street.
A man in a black coat materialized from the shadows of the nearby alley. Skirting the halo of lamplight, he brushed past Flynn with a nod and slid off into the deep shadows again walking in the same direction Lord Goodrich had taken.
Satisfied that Goodrich was tailed, Flynn concentrated on Crowthorne, who had shouted his direction before he climbed into a hackney carriage. As the vehicle drove off, Flynn ran back and instructed the jarvie to follow.
“Right you are, guvnor,” the jarvie called with a crack of his whip. “It’s been a dull evenin’.” He skillfully backed the horse and performed a perfect turn, setting off at a fast clip. Sir Horace’s carriage was soon within sight as it traveled more sedately along Piccadilly.
*
Althea descended fromthe hackney on the northern side of Manchester Square outside Lord Percy’s mansion, where candlelight blazed out from every window.
She had never accompanied Brookwood to Lord Percy Woodruff’s parties. The few times she had met Woodruff socially, she hadn’t particularly warmed to him, disliking his inquisitive manner. A man who liked to poke his nose into other’s affairs. But that may serve her well.
A footman admitted her. He led her across the black-and-white marble checkerboard floor to the staircase. On the floor above, she was shown into the empty drawing room and told that Lord Percy would not be long. Chilled more with apprehension than cold, she hurried to the fireplace where embers glowed in the grate.
Her reticule in her lap, Althea held her hands encased in white evening gloves closer to the fire while she attempted to compose herself. She had not come across any other guests, for which she was grateful. It seemed that Lord Percy had obeyed her request for their meeting to remain private. She wondered if he would be helpful. He could hardly devote much time to her when he had guests to attend to. She gripped her reticule, ready to abandon the whole idea and swiftly leave if she must.
She cast aside her fears as the plump Lord Percy bustled in, all smiles, his round, childish face like one of Botticelli’s putti, lending him a benevolent air. He selected one of a pair of brocade wing chairs for her. “I guarantee we shall see snow tonight, Lady Brookwood. Might I suggest a sherry to warm you?”
