Page 55

She considered it a moment. “None that I’ve met. Though there is someone named Benson.”

Mrs. Michaels had said Bentley was the name of the detective, but she’d been put out with their visit and in a rush. It had also been a few years since the housekeeper’s interaction with him. She may have misremembered his name.

“And how long has Benson been at the agency?” he asked next.

“Years, I think. Why?”

Jasper held out an arm for her to exit his office. “Just a thought I had about something. Thank you for coming in. It’s been helpful,” he said. “Can I give you a lift? My sergeant and I are going to visit Castelan, if you’re on your way there.”

But as Miss Brooks was setting out in another direction, Jasper bid her a good morning. He caught Warnock as the sergeant was arriving for the day, and they hired a cab to take them to High Holborn. Along the way, Jasper explained to Warnock about the maid, Marianna, and her connection to both the Herrington and Lawlor cases, as well as what Miss Brooks had imparted to him.

There was a drop of silence in the cab then, and that was when Jasper remembered the note Constable Woodhouse had passed to him. Belatedly, he took the small square from his coat pocket. Inspector Reed was written in slanted cursive on the front of it. The misspelling of his name wasn’t uncommon, but the folding of a piece of paper into rectangles to enclose a note wasn’t something he regularly saw, especially since proper envelopes were so readily available. A drop of hardened yellow wax sealed the tucked flaps; he split the seal and took out the folded paper within.

Stop looking for me. I am safe. Please. -T

He refolded the note, the thin, brittle paper nearly crumpling in his hands. Somehow, Tabitha Pierce had learned that he’d been looking for her.

“Sir,” Warnock said, interrupting his thoughts. Jasper tucked the note and makeshift envelope into his pocket again.

“I don’t mean to speak out of turn,” Warnock went on. “But I…I saw you, sir, the other morning. Outside Charing Cross Station.”

The muscles along Jasper’s spine went taut. He’d worried the spot Andrew had chosen to meet was too close to Scotland Yard.

“And?” he said, beckoning the sergeant to go on.

“You were getting out of a carriage, sir. I recognized the hired muscle that let you out. He’d come into the station with Mr. Carter, the husband of the woman who was poisoned at Striker’s Wharf last winter.”

Jasper kept his expression neutral, though his nerves jumped. Stephen Warnock was a sharp tack. He had a good memory if he recalled one of Andrew’s nameless hired thugs from nine months ago. He also seemed to understand this was a conversation to have privately, away from the CID.

“I’ve taken on a private inquiry,” Jasper answered. To deny it would be to invite more curiosity. More prying too. “Mr. Carter has asked for discretion.”

Jasper liked Warnock. The lad was bright and ambitious while still careful to follow orders. But he hadn’t truly seen just how clever the detective sergeant was until right then.

Warnock nodded. “Of course. I won’t say a word to anyone. I just wanted to be sure all was well. Especially since it’s the East Rips, sir.”

Jasper thanked him for his concern but assured him all was well. A glint of doubt lingered in the sergeant’s expression as he turned to look out the window. And why wouldn’t there be? Anyone working for, or with, the East Rips should be held in suspicion. It left a greasy sensation in Jasper’s stomach, which didn’t abate even after they’d arrived at Castelan’s agency.

The offices had a distinct upper-class feel, which would attract more well-to-do patrons than a shabbier office might. Stepping inside, Jasper was surprised to find a busy enterprise, with several men at work—including Silas Palmer. The former E Division officer glimpsed Jasper from his desk, and his expression instantly went truculent.

“Detective Inspector Jasper Reid,” Palmer said, without rising from his chair. “Have you come to give me an earful about Miss Spencer?”

“I’m not here for you, Palmer,” he replied, happy to wipe the hostile sneer from the man’s lips. “I need to speak to Castelan.”

A smooth voice came from the back of the front office. “Come to hire us for our services, Inspector?”

A man in suspenders and shirtsleeves had emerged from his office. In the process of shaving, he stood within the threshold with a straight razor in one hand, a towel over his shoulder, and soap lathered over one half of his face.

Jasper was trained not to make impulsive presumptions about people, but the smug twist of the man’s mouth instantly marked him as arrogant. Castelan’s interest in acquiring Leo as one of his investigators might have influenced Jasper’s opinion, but as he walked toward the agency’s owner, he perceived a wily cunning to the man. Castelan knew they were not there to contract with his agency; the teasing remark was meant to goad.

“I’ve come to discuss one of your employees.” Jasper extended to him the copy of the Morning Chronicle, folded to display the sketches. “The woman shown here.”

Castelan took the paper. His amusement disappeared.

“Come in,” he said gravely, reentering his office and going straight to the mirrored stand in the corner of the room. The setup was much like what Jasper kept in his own office.

“Her name is Mary Keating,” Castelan said as he tossed the paper onto a chair and set about finishing his shave. “And she is no longer one of my employees.”

He skimmed the straight razor over his soapy jaw line and cheek, exposing reddened, chapped skin. The tips of his ears were also red, and Jasper wondered if he was upset to have one of his past employees pictured in a widely circulated daily.