“We’re investigating a murder on the bridge last week.” Daphne considered asking to come inside but chose a different approach. “We seek answers to a few questions. We’re happy to converse on the doorstep.”
The maid’s chin quivered. “I didn’t see anything, ma’am. You’ll have to speak to Mr Brown. As I said, he ain’t here.”
“Is there a Mrs Brown we might speak to instead?” Daphne asked gently.
The girl shook her head. “No. Mr Brown’s a bachelor.”
“We’re trying to corroborate his statement.” Daphneleaned in slightly. She didn’t want to frighten the girl, but urgency crept up her spine. “A witness is often considered a suspect, and there are already whispers at Bow Street. I’m quite confident Mr Brown is not the killer.”
The last word caught in her throat, and she fumbled in her reticule for her handkerchief. Merely stage directions to fool the audience. What she hadn’t expected was Mr Hawke handing her his instead.
It was black, his monogram stitched in gold, the scent so enticing she nearly sighed aloud. Her knees went weak, which rather suited her performance.
“Forgive me.” She made the mistake of sniffing into his handkerchief—an act that felt far more intimate than staring at his firm calves in the shower-bath. “The victim was my father.” She gestured to Mr Hawke, whose cologne ought to be labelled a dangerous substance. “I’ve hired an agent recommended by the Home Secretary.”
She contemplated giving him a ridiculous name like Mr Crabbit, but he spoke before she could introduce him.
“I’m a thorough man, miss. I’ll not see an innocent hanged just because those fools at Bow Street know no better.”
The maid glanced along the street before opening the door and welcoming them inside. She closed it firmly, sliding the bolt, as if Napoleon might come knocking.
“Come into the drawing room.”
The drawing room? Not the servant’s parlour?
Daphne exchanged a knowing glance with Mr Hawke before stepping through.
The room bore the hallmarks of genteel wealth: a Persian rug softened the floors, carved shelves flanked the marble fireplace, and sombre military prints lined the walls. But among the masculine touches were subtler clues—violets onthe escritoire, lace on the chairs, and a silk fan tucked behind a vase on the mantel.
The maid gestured to the sofa and sat in the fireside chair.
One thing was certain. Her duties here amounted to more than sweeping out the fireplace and turning down the bed.
Mr Hawke began with an important question. “Can you confirm that Mr Brown was out on the night in question?”
The maid nodded. “He said he was delivering a client’s accounts, though he never mentioned who. He also helps at the church, handing out food parcels to the poor in the squalid houses by the river.”
“The church hands out parcels at midnight?” he asked.
The maid’s chin quivered. “I don’t know, sir. That’s all he told me.”
“Did you wait up for him to return?”
“Yes.” She pressed her hand to her throat, as though trying to calm her voice. “I did that night. But I assure you, Mr Brown wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s the kindest soul.”
She was in love with Mr Brown. That much was clear.
“Where does he work?” Daphne asked.
“Here, ma’am.” She fidgeted with her hands in her lap. “He’s a scrivener. He writes up legal documents and contracts for all sorts of clients.”
Daphne didn’t miss the vague phrasing. All sorts of clients. But were they respectable men of trade, or the sort who ran protection rackets like the Moseley brothers? And if Mr Brown bent the rules for them on parchment, what else might he be willing to do?
Mr Hawke must have read her mind, though she hoped his talent for doing so was limited to their current enquiry.
“Has your employer ever mentioned the Moseley brothers?” he said, his voice measured. “They’re moneylenders who work out of a premises in Covent Garden.”
The woman pursed her lips and blinked as if she had grit in her eye. “No. I can’t say he has. But I’m only the maid.”
