Page 23 of A Measure of Menace

“Er,” he managed. “It was good of you.” This phrase to Grace was uttered in the most grudging and halfhearted tone I’d ever heard. “Here, girl, have a farthing.” The man dipped a gloved hand into his pocket and held up a copper coin between his fingers.

Grace backed a step. “No, thank you, sir. I was only trying to help.”

The gentleman clearly did not know what to make of us. He growled, dropped the farthing into his pocket, swung on his heel, and charged off in the direction of Wells Street.

Once he’d disappeared around the corner, I pulled Grace into a quick hug. “You did well, darling. I am proud of you.”

“Daniel frightened him off.” Grace finished our embrace and did a little victory hop. “He knew Daniel would thrash him if he wasn’t courteous.”

“Thrashing is not the answer to everything,” I admonished, though I secretly agreed with her. “You have lived too long among boys, I’m thinking.”

“Mark and Matthew are gentle lads,” Grace said, naming Joanna’s sons. “But it’s what happens in stories.”

“Then you are reading the wrong stories,” I said firmly.

As much as I scolded, I knew that Daniel’s presence had prevented the man from shouting for the nearest constable or trying to drag Grace off to a police station on his own. I preferred to stand up for myself whenever I could, but I admitted it was nice to have a protector behind me.

I shouldn’t have a warm, pleasant feeling about this, but I could not help myself. I was still a silly romantic, as last night’s visions showed, in spite of my best efforts to push such nonsense from my head.

I took Daniel’s arm with more enthusiasm than I should have, and we continued our walk.

The door of Jacoby’s shipping offices opened once more, and Jacoby himself stepped out.

When he caught sight of me coming toward him, by Daniel’s side, a shadow of abject terror settled on his face. He backed up into the office and slammed the door. We were close enough to hear the snick of a bolt sliding home to lock us out.

I reached home without mishap that evening, after enjoying the remainder of a wonderful day with my daughter. Daniel had left us after our repast at a teashop, his significant look at me indicating he’d be off to gather more information from and about our suspects.

I pressed the warm feeling of being with Grace close to me as Tess and I went through our preparations for poached haddock followed by a roast with plenty of potatoes and greens—I’d returned us to cooking several courses now that Lord Clifford and Lady Cynthia were in residence. Mr. Davis stepped into the kitchen as we worked and told me that Cynthia and Mr. Thanos wished to confer with me upstairs after supper.

His pinched face told me of his disapprobation. Not, I discerned, because he thought I was getting above myself, but because if Mrs. Bywater got word of it, she’d possibly try to sack me … again. At the very least, she’d keep Lacy Cynthia from me, believing that I had a harmful influence on her.

“Perhaps Lady Cynthia and Mr. Thanos should meet with me in the housekeeper’s parlor after they dine,” I suggested. “That way we are not underfoot when you are trying to put the dining room to rights. Is Lord Clifford supping with them as well?”

Mr. Davis went colder than ever. “He has requested a tray sent up to his bedchamber. I gather he is ailing.” His tone conveyed that he believed Lord Clifford was sequestering himself rather than being actually ill.

“I will concoct something to soothe his digestion,” I said.

Mr. Davis nodded, still not happy with the situation. He’d been vexed ever since Lord Clifford had turned up, as he’d been enjoying his holiday sorting through the wines, free from the family’s demands.

“By the way,” I said before Mr. Davis departed. “Have you read anything in your newspapers, either recently or in the past, about a shipping company run by a man called Jacoby? Any sort of scandal?”

Mr. Davis’s thin brows rose. “You mean Jacoby and Sons?”

“That’s the one,” I said in surprise.

“I recall something.” His annoyance at Lord Clifford faded as he began to muse. “Let me have a think and see if I can remember.”

“Thank you, Mr. Davis.”

“Not at all, Mrs. Holloway.”

I busied myself with cooking for the next hour. I always believed any job was worth doing well, so I concentrated on the task. After the fish went up with its butter and caper sauce, Tess and I turned out the roast and potatoes with a side of braised greens with onions, topped by a nice sauce made from the beef’s juices, with arrowroot as a thickener.

A tray with a smidgen of beef and potatoes plus a few slices of fresh bread and hot tea I sent to Lord Clifford via Mrs. Redfern, while I cranked the rest up on the dumbwaiter to the dining room.

Mr. Davis was behind me when I turned from the dumbwaiter, startling me. He was in his tailcoat and wore an introspective expression, which he did when he was thinking something through.

“I did recall what happened at Jacoby and Sons,” he said. “There were no sons, first of all. About five years ago, I think, a man who’d done a great deal of shipping business with Mr. Jacoby turned up dead. Washed up in the Thames, his throat cut. Probably robbed by ruffians, but Jacoby was under a cloud of suspicion for some time. His name was cleared—he hadn’t been in London on the day—but his business slumped for a while. I remember journalists writing eagerly about how shameful it was that the police presumed a man guilty until proven innocent, nearly ruining him. Instead of the other way around, as it should be.”

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