“How long until you’re due?”
“Another four months.” She covered her mouth with one hand while producing a yawn.
“She has travelled the entire day to get here,” Croft said. He sent her an adoring look before redirecting his attention to Peter and Miss Hastings. “As I’m sure you can imagine, she’s exhausted and would like to retire early.”
The pointed look that followed required no explanation, so Peter launched into their reason for coming. “There was a murder a couple of weeks ago. A man identified as Mr. Stewart Warren was brutally killed in one of the city’s hackneys.”
“Do you have any suspects?” Mrs. Croft asked.
“If they did, they’d not have come here,” Croft murmured, his dark gaze fixed on Peter.
Peter cleared his throat and straightened his spine. “A woman who’d initially hailed the hackney asked the driver to stop and offer Mr. Warren a ride. She disembarked about ten minutes later and the carriage continued onward to Mr. Warren’s destination. When he failed to exit the cabin, the driver went to check on him and was naturally distressed by the sight with which he was greeted. Mr. Warren’s throat had been slit, his cravat stuffed into his mouth.”
Croft made a guttural sound. “I read of the incident in the paper.”
“As did I,” Mrs. Croft said, exchanging an unintelligible look with her husband.
“Do you at least have some solid leads?” Croft asked.
Despite feeling as though he were grasping at straws, Peter laid out the information he’d found thus far. When he was done, he reluctantly added, “Unfortunately, it seems we’ve hit a dead end.”
“So you’re here because…”
Peter took a deep breath. Maybe coming here had been a mistake. He certainly hated admitting to Croft that he needed assistance. For the sake of public safety, however, he’d shove aside his pride and do what was needed.
So he edged forward in his seat, hands clasped between his thighs, and said, “I’ve come to request your help with finding this villain so she can be brought to justice.”
The door opened, admitting a maid who brought the requested tea things and coffee. Croft beckoned for her to serve everyone, her efforts accompanied by the sounds of clinking porcelain and cups being filled.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Croft said after the maid had departed, “but I am unable to help you with this.”
Surprise speared Peter with disappointment. “Why?”
Croft picked up his cup of coffee, then reclined against the sofa, his legs crossed with a frustrating air of casualness. “You said this murder took place two weeks ago.”
“Yes.”
“And you have no solid leads?”
“We’ve discerned the victim’s identity,” Peter grumbled. “I was hoping you would help us find something more. A connection of some sort we might have missed — some indication of why he was killed or who would have done it.”
“I trust you’ve already spoken to his family and friends?”
“Unfortunately, our only source so far is his landlady, but she didn’t have much to offer. According to her, Mr. Warren never brought people to his lodgings.”
“Have you posted a notice in the paper, requesting information from anyone who may have known him?” Mrs. Croft asked.
Peter nodded. “No one has stepped forward yet.”
“Then there’s nothing to do but wait and hope someone does.” Croft sipped his coffee. “I’m not a magician, Kendrick. I cannot produce information from nothing.”
“For someone who was willing to tear London apart to find the last few killers tormenting the city, you seem incredibly blasé.” The comment was quietly spoken by Miss Hastings.
Both impressed and horrified by her daring, Peter held his breath in anticipation of Croft’s response. He tilted his head as if in contemplation, his gaze honing in on Miss Hastings with sharp focus. Beside him, his wife appeared ready to comment — to counterbalance the tension presently simmering in the room.
But then Croft spoke, his voice smooth and without any hint of him having taken offense. “Is the crime scene still intact?”
Peter shook his head. “We have sketches but the carriage has since been cleaned and returned to its driver.”
