Page 27 of A Measure of Menace

Once she’d tramped upstairs, I returned to the kitchen and fixed a tray of tea with some leftover currant scones, a large pot of jam, and another of lemon curd. I carried the tray upstairs myself, in time to see Mr. Davis shoot the heavy bolt across the front door.

“Just popping this up to his lordship,” I explained.

Mr. Davis nodded without answering and moved to check the windows of the drawing room.

Lord Clifford was still awake and dressed, answering the door I tapped on. His eyes lit when he saw the scones and tea, which was not unexpected. There wasn’t much sadness that current scones, lemon curd, and jam could not comfort.

He stepped aside so I could enter. “Mrs. Holloway, how good of you.”

I set the tray on a table and poured out a cup of steaming tea with a dollop of cream. “You get this inside you, your lordship, and take yourself to bed. I’ll have Lady Cynthia do the same.”

“Cynthia.” Lord Clifford’s shoulders drooped as he lifted the cup. “She will be happy to see the back of me. I hardly blame her.”

It was not my place to offer advice to an earl about his family. But people are people, whether they are earls or unhappy queens or match sellers in the gutter. They live and love, worry about their children, and try to steer their way through this life the best they can.

“Lady Cynthia cares for you very much,” I said. “If she did not, she’d hardly rush to London to make certain you were well.”

“Huh.” Lord Clifford took another sip of tea. “She knows what a reprobate I am.” He lowered the cup and looked directly at me. “It is a hard thing, Mrs. Holloway, to lose a child. The Lord not only took my son from me, but my daughter. He is either very cruel or does not exist.”

My own theology was a bit shaky, so I did not try to relieve him with platitudes from Sunday pulpits. “You have another daughter, who, as I say, loves you. She only wants your affection and understanding in return.”

Lord Clifford regarded me another moment, then raised his cup again. “You are very astute, Mrs. Holloway.” He managed a shaky smile. “And those scones look delicious. Send Cynthia in here—I will share them with her.”

I silently slid out a clean cup I’d tucked into my apron pocket and set it on the tray.

“Right way, your lordship.”

I left him regarding me in both bewilderment and amusement. I delivered the message to Cynthia and returned to the kitchen, satisfied that I had done my best.

In the morning, I took up my basket, told Tess I was going out for fresh vegetables for the day, and headed for Covent Garden.

The market was located conveniently near the Strand, so after I found my produce, I popped along to Mr. Mobley’s office and had a word with his partner. Mr. Parkin was surprisingly courteous and chatty, with no sign of any ruffians nearby. Next, I took a chance and knocked on the door of Mobley’s neighbor, the one who’d found his body.

Mr. Ogden, the man of business, was rushed and distracted, but he answered my questions readily enough.

From there it was another short walk to Southampton Street, where Daniel lodged. I reached the tall brick house quickly, so eager was I to tell him what I’d learned.

Daniel, unfortunately, was out. His landlady, Mrs. Williams, knew me, and after we had a brief chat, I decided to wait for him. I went upstairs to Daniel’s rooms that I’d made more comfortable by adding a cushion here, a colorful picture from a secondhand shop there.

It was as I impatiently paced Daniel’s front chamber that Mr. Mobley’s killer found me.

Chapter 12

“We made an arrest this morning,” the man said after he apologized for startling me. “Mr. Jacoby. For the murder of Mr. Mobley. Mr. Dougherty was arrested as an accomplice, though we believe Jacoby committed the actual murder.”

“Ah.”

It was all I could think of to say. While he’d surprised me, he’d not looked in the least unsettled to find me wandering about Daniel’s quarters by myself. That either meant he found nothing odd in a woman who was not Daniel’s wife at home in his rooms, or he’d followed me.

“McAdam was there when the men were brought in,” he continued. “He told me you’d put two and two together and made out that Jacoby was partners with this Mr. Dougherty. That the pair were swindlers. Mr. Jacoby often sent clients to Mr. Mobley when they couldn’t pay him. A man answering Jacoby’s description has been seen at Mobley’s business often, including last Sunday.”

“Indeed.”

He peered at me. “You do not seem as pleased as I thought you’d be, Mrs. Holloway. We got the man, or men. McAdam gives all the credit to you, though I dare say we’d have plodded there in the end. But I thank you for your assistance, especially in convincing Lord Clifford to speak to us.”

“I was helping his lordship prove his innocence,” I said stiffly. “He was an unlucky man, not a murderer.”

A nod. “This proved to be the case. But I must wonder—if you were satisfied that Mr. Jacoby and Mr. Dougherty were guilty, why did you visit Mr. Mobley’s office today?”

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