Page 24

After the waiter left the table, John went to the pub’s tiled lavatory and did his best to wash the soot from his face and hands. By the time he returned, the waiter had brought plates of rag pudding, a steamed flour-and-suet crust filled with steak. It was sided by salty purple field peas lashed with malt vinegar, the kind of food that stuck to the ribs on a piercing-cold night.

As they tucked into the food, it took all of John’s self-discipline to keep from wolfing it down. Had he been alone, he wouldn’t have cared about appearances. But aware of Ransom’s deceptively casual glance, taking his measure, he was damned if he’d behave like a mannerless brute. He forced himself to set down the knife and fork between bites and blotted his lips with a napkin before taking a swallow of ale.

The commissioner leaned down to unlatch the leather Gladstone bag and extracted a file. “If you don’t mind . . .” he said, opening the file.

John responded with a nod and continued to eat.

After glancing over the first pages, Ransom asked, “Trahaern Pembroke . . . ? When did you become John?”

“I was five or six,” John said. “I was put to work as a servant.” It had been decided his Welsh name was too foreign-sounding, even for a household in Cardiff. “John” was conveniently short and simple for giving orders.

Ransom’s gaze returned to the file. “Born in South Wales, near—”

“Southern Wales,” John said gruffly. “There’s no ‘North Wales’ or ‘South Wales.’ Those are English terms invented to divide my country.”

Amusement glinted in the commissioner’s eyes. “I’m Irish, Pembroke. Let’s not compare notes on English aggression.” He took a swallow of ale before continuing. “You were raised at an estate in South—pardon, southern—Wales, where you and your mother were in service. What eventually brought you to England?”

“After my mother died, I had no reason to stay at the estate. There’s a Welsh community in Manchester. One of my uncles had moved here for a job at a local iron foundry. I worked with him until I applied to the police force.”

“You’ve run a fast track since then. Instantly marked for detective service and appointed to merit class within six months. A dozen commendations in the past year alone.”

“I’ve had some luck.”

“The chief constable recommends you as a man of exceptional ability. He made a point of telling me you’re unusually well-educated.”

“I wouldn’t be too impressed,” John said coolly. “Most of the detectives on the force can barely manage to write a report.”

Ransom looked amused. “Nevertheless, you seem to be the right man for a special assignment. If you decide to take it on, and do well at it, I’ll guarantee you a place in the Metropolitan Division’s new criminal investigation department afterward. The position would come with good pay, room for advancement, and a flat of your own in a quiet London neighborhood. Some night work but no patrolling. Are you interested?”

Wildly interested, as a matter of fact, and fighting not to show it. A flat of his own instead of a shabby rented room. A chance to climb a rung on a ladder that had always been kept out of his reach.

“What’s the job?”

The assistant commissioner flicked a glance at their surroundings before continuing in a casual undertone. “It relates to an investigation of William Farlow.”

“The banker?”

Ransom seemed mildly surprised. “You’re familiar with the name.”

“Who isn’t?” John countered. “Every newspaper and public square is covered with advertisements proclaiming Farlow is ‘friend to the common folk.’ ”

“Unfortunately, Farlow may be defrauding those very same folk.”

John’s mouth twisted cynically. “Disappointing, but not surprising.” The realities of the job had exposed him to the darker side of human nature far too often. Any ideals he might have started out with had collapsed like wet toast. “I’m not the right man for fraud investigation.”

“That’s not what I’m asking of you. I need you to gather information about an associate of his—a woman named Reina Martin.”

“By ‘associate,’ you mean she’s Farlow’s mistress?”

“The nature of their personal relationship hasn’t been confirmed. However, it seems Miss Martin is a woman of unusual gifts. She’s a professional economist and financial trader. Last year, her investments in the London Stock Exchange reportedly yielded returns of nine hundred percent.”

“Nine hundred . . .” John began, then shook his head at the improbable number. “Is Farlow behind it?”

“Possibly. But a member of the London Stock Exchange Committee who’s acquainted with Miss Martin said she’s a speculative genius on a level with Rothschild.”

John gave him a skeptical glance, but all he asked was “What information do you need?”

“Anything you can turn up. The woman’s a damn mystery. So far, we’ve found no mention of her in birth, baptism, or marriage records, and nothing about her in parish or charity school registers.”