Page 13 of A Measure of Menace

“Be that as it may, I would like Constable Greene to remain employed.” I put away my empty basket and tried to gather ingredients for supper but only wandered ineffectually from dresser to table. “He likes being a policeman.”

“He does that. Wants to make sergeant someday. And become a detective. Then I can help him on his cases.” Tess brightened as she wove dreams of her future.

“I will see what I can find out with Lady Cynthia. If Daniel turns up here, please tell him where I’ve gone. We will hold Caleb in reserve.”

“Right you are.”

Tess’s knife clacked happily against the board. I knew that if Caleb walked past on his beat, Tess would tell him everything, but that couldn’t be helped. Constable Greene was turning out to be a wise lad, though too kindhearted for the police, in my opinion.

I gave up trying focus on cooking and shrugged on my coat again when I heard Cynthia return.

She’d donned a light gray walking gown trimmed with dark violet piping, topping that with a matching jacket and a hat with drooping feathers.

In such an ensemble, she ought to be leaving by the front door to step into her carriage. Instead, she swept out through the scullery, making Elsie jump. Water nearly splashed Cynthia’s fine skirts, missing them by a fraction of an inch.

I made a reassuring gesture at the startled Elsie and followed Cynthia up the stairs, struggling to keep up with her brisk pace.

We found a hansom in Berkeley Square. While Lord Clifford had indicated he’d brought his carriage and coachman to London, they were not in Mount Street, and I had no idea where he’d put them up. The Bywaters had given their own coachman a holiday—why pay the man to idle in his rooms above the stables while they were gone? Lesser paid grooms could take care of the horses.

Cynthia directed the driver to Scotland Yard. As we rode, I explained the whole affair to Cynthia—her father’s involvement with Mr. Jacoby and Mr. Dougherty, what he’d borrowed from Mr. Mobley, and why. I’d not wished to distress her with the tale, but now I could not justify keeping it from her. Cynthia listened in dismay but not much surprise.

The roads were clogged with traffic, and after a considerable time, we descended in the narrow lane that opened just south of Charing Cross and entered the building that housed the Metropolitan Police.

I had been in this noisy hallway with its counter, desks, and milling constables too many times—once, I’d needed to access the morgue and discover whether Daniel had been killed. I tried to forget that awful day as we walked inside.

A woman huddled on a bench in a corner, keeping her two children close. I wondered if she’d come to find out what had happened to a husband, son, sister, mother, or to report a crime that had devastated her. I sent her my compassion.

Cynthia stepped up to the counter and rapped upon it. “I am here to see whatever inspector arrested the Earl of Clifford,” she announced.

The sergeant in charge gazed at Cynthia sharply and without respect, I am sad to relate. I’d encountered this man before and knew he hadn’t much use for women, even aristocratic ones.

“Sergeant Scott brought him in,” I supplied. “There has been a misunderstanding.”

The desk sergeant recognized me, but his sneer didn’t lessen. “You ladies need to go home and wait for word. You can’t be swanning in demanding to speak to inspectors.”

Lady Cynthia became her most imperious self. “Now, see here?—”

“It’s all right, sergeant.” Daniel’s welcome rumble floated over us. “I’ll take them up.”

“McAdam,” the sergeant growled as Daniel stepped off the stairs and approached. He obviously didn’t like Daniel interrupting his remonstrations to forward women.

Daniel gestured for us to follow. “I agree with him in one respect,” he said in a low voice as we joined him. “This is no place for you, Lady Cynthia. Or you, Kat.”

“Nonsense,” Cynthia scoffed. “My father never killed anyone. I’m here to take him home.”

Daniel had long ago learned the futility of arguing with either of us. He led us up the stairs to the second floor without further word.

We trudged down a series of corridors in the long building to a thick wooden door set in the middle of one of the halls. Daniel tapped on it, and it was opened, to my surprise, by Mr. Thanos.

“Lady Cynthia,” he exclaimed. Mr. Thanos’s eyes, now free of spectacles, fixed on her. I doubt he even noticed me standing behind her.

“Thanos found me and told me your tale,” Daniel said. “Lord Clifford is speaking to Chief Inspector Ferguson at the moment.”

Daniel tried to usher Cynthia and me into a busy outer office. Mr. Thanos, who’d remained standing in the doorway gazing at Cynthia, flushed and stepped back for us.

Sergeant Scott looked up in cold disdain from behind a desk but did not greet us. The other desks were taken up with various constables and clerks who busily sorted through papers, made notes in books, or carried sheafs to and fro. One young man in plain clothes was struggling to type on a typing machine with his two forefingers, one letter at a time.

The far wall held another door, closed, with the label Chief Inspector Ferguson painted on it.

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