Page 18 of A Measure of Menace

“It might be in your best interest, your lordship,” Daniel said.

Daniel’s assurance seemed to bolster Lord Clifford more than his daughter’s words. The earl glanced at me, as though seeking my encouragement. When I nodded at him, he heaved a sigh.

“Very well. But you need to give me your word that this will not lead to more police rooting around in my business. Mobley is dead, the affair is concluded, and I refuse to be ruined because of it.”

Chapter 8

Constable Wallace scribbled a few notes in his book, as though unbothered by Lord Clifford’s dramatic proclamation.

“As I am only interested in arresting whoever killed Mr. Mobley, then I agree,” Wallace said once he finished writing. “Anything else you are involved in has no bearing on this case.”

“I am hardly involved in anything.” Lord Clifford huffed. “How can I be? Because of Mobley, I am now a pauper.”

“Get on with it, Papa,” Cynthia said with glance heavenward. “Where did you go after you settled yourself at your club?”

If Lord Clifford were any other gentleman, one might believe he was trying to hide a liaison with a lady. But Lord Clifford was fiercely devoted to his wife, as I’d observed on more than one occasion. It was not a dalliance that made Lord Clifford falter.

“I had a meeting with friends, Mr. Jacoby and Mr. Dougherty, at a restaurant,” Lord Clifford explained with every sign of reluctance. “At Wiltons, if you must know. They have very good oysters. We dined and spoke about … personal matters.”

The personal matters must have been the ruse Jacoby and Lord Clifford had tried to play on Mr. Dougherty. I pictured Mr. Dougherty accepting what the two men paid him, tucking it away, and enjoying the rest of his dinner. The pained expression on Lord Clifford’s face told me this was what had happened.

“And what time did this take place?” Constable Wallace asked, continuing to write.

“What does that matter?” Lord Clifford spluttered, but under Cynthia’s narrow gaze he rushed on, contrite. “We met at nine o’clock. Mr. Dougherty took his leave from us at about half past ten. Jacoby and I then went to a public house, where we drank insubstantial ale until about midnight. Jacoby went off home, and I returned to the club. I will instruct the doorman to confirm that I shuffled in shortly after that hour, inebriated, tired, and needing my bed.”

“I would be grateful if he would corroborate,” Wallace said as his pencil scratched. “Now then. We come to Sunday. Take me through that day, your lordship.”

Lord Clifford turned his brandy glass on the table. “Sunday …”

“The day the man was killed, Papa,” Cynthia said. “I’m certain you remember.”

Lord Clifford shot his daughter a baleful glare. “Of course I remember. I am not feeble. I woke late, breakfasted at the club. I had a meeting with my man of business.” His expression turned sour. “The fellow was entirely unsympathetic. He works for the Clifford estate, he has told me on numerous occasions, not me personally. He’s a stiff-necked, pompous wretch and was no help at all.”

Lord Clifford must have tried to pry the fifteen thousand he owed Mobley out of the trust or whatever financial vehicle the earls of Clifford’s money and property was contained in. The man of business had been wise enough not to simply hand it over to Lord Clifford. Perhaps there was simply nothing the man of business could possibly liquidate to cover the debt.

“He may not have been able to help,” Mr. Thanos said, confirming my deductions. “Trusts and entails are complicated things.”

“So the man explained, again and again,” Lord Clifford said morosely. “I wandered about a good bit after that. Sought advice from a few friends in Town, but they were no help either.”

I interpreted this statement to mean Lord Clifford had tried to touch these friends for the funds and had come away empty-handed.

“Finally, I visited Mobley,” Lord Clifford continued. “I’d sent a message to him that morning, and he returned word to meet him in his office in the Strand. I had to tell him I couldn’t pay what I owed. Not when it was due, anyway. I promised he’d have the money if he’d give me a few more weeks, but Mobley sneered at me.” Lord Clifford lifted his brandy and took a long drink. “He told me I had to have the money to him by Wednesday—today, in fact, no later. I explained that it would make no difference—I didn’t have the bloody cash. Oh, beg pardon for my language, Cyn, Mrs. Holloway.”

Cynthia and I both nodded, unoffended.

“You quarreled with him,” Constable Wallace prompted.

“I did.” Lord Clifford set down his glass with a thump. “I told him he’d never see the money at all if he did not give me more time, and then he threatened me, the damned upstart.” He sobered abruptly. “He threatened my wife and daughter. Horrified me. I’d never heard the like.”

He sent a glance to Cynthia then bowed his head, revealing threads of graying brown hair that straggled across the top of his balding scalp.

The anguish I’d seen in his eyes before he’d shielded his gaze touched my heart. Lord Clifford had been genuinely concerned for Lady Clifford and Cynthia, his only surviving child. Mobley’s threat must have stirred his greatest fears.

“These sorts of fellows like to resort to intimidation,” Constable Wallace observed as he noted this all down.

Cynthia laid a hand on her father’s arm. “Poor Papa. Mama and I are made of stern stuff, you know. And we’re surrounded by people who would defend us.”

Daniel and I exchanged a look. We both knew that men like Mobley and his ruffians would make certain the threats were carried out. They’d wait until Lady Clifford or Cynthia were unguarded, even if it took weeks or months. Cynthia, in particular, ran about a bit recklessly in Town with Lady Roberta and other friends. While a few of these young ladies might be good in a scrap, they’d be no match for the professional bone-breakers Mobley employed.

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