Page 9 of A Measure of Menace

I beheld Lord Clifford in silent compassion as the cab sped its way around the Tower to the Minories. His shoulders quivered, but I let him cry without embarrassing him with exclamations of sympathy.

I doubted very much that Lord Clifford had been to blame for his son’s death, and I grew angry at the unnamed inspector for telling him so. What a cruel thing to say to a man who’d just lost his son.

From what little Lady Cynthia had related to me about her brother, I’d gleaned that the Honorable Reginald Shires had been a wild young man, prone to deep play, amassing large debts he couldn’t pay. He’d also been one for the ladies—those with expensive tastes—which hadn’t helped. He’d been in despair the night he’d died, Cynthia had told me, though about what, she hadn’t known. He’d been quite inebriated on top of this, a bad combination.

However, I knew the death of a loved one could bring much guilt, whether that loved one had passed peacefully from a lingering illness or abruptly in a shocking way.

If only we’d realized what was happening, we would think. If only we had worked harder to prevent it, hadn’t been paying attention to our own lives, had been there more for them.

It had been several years after my mother’s death before I realized that, unless I’d suddenly acquired divine powers, I could not have forestalled her passing. She’d urged me to take the position in a good kitchen as under-cook, which would be excellent training for me, and wouldn’t hear of me staying home to take care of her.

She’d know even then that she was ill, I’d understood long afterward. She’d been making certain I could make a living on my own once she was gone.

Even now, more than a decade on, these thoughts made my eyes sting.

I believed Lord Clifford had no reason to feel such guilt, but he’d been the lad’s father—an ineffectual father, from what Cynthia said. He could not help but feel responsible.

Also, young Reginald had been Lord Clifford’s heir, and gentlemen set much store by their heirs. Male ones, that was. Daughters were inconvenient beings that had to be married off, and it was rather scandalous when they were not. Lord Clifford had managed to see one daughter married—Cynthia’s sister, Emily—and then he’d lost her as well.

The cab left Aldgate Street for Fenchurch Street and meandered through the City to Cheapside, where people lingered to watch Mr. John Bennett’s entertaining clock chime the hour. As we passed Clover Lane, which opened from Cheapside, I gazed longingly into the narrow passageway. Near the end of it was the small house where my friend Joanna kept my daughter safe.

I hugged my basket and shrank into the corner of the hansom as Clover Lane fell behind us. If anything happened to Grace, I would be devastated. While I was a cook and Lord Clifford a lofty earl, we shared that understanding.

When the hansom trundled past Temple Bar and rattled into the Strand, Lord Clifford suddenly came alert.

“Driver,” he shouted. “Stop here.”

The cabby abruptly pulled the horse past two wagons and halted at the side of the road. Lord Clifford slammed open the folding door of the hansom and leapt to the pavement.

I scrambled out after him, certain I knew what he intended. Above me, the cabby snarled invective—he hadn’t been paid.

“Wait there, please,” I called up to him, and hurried through the crowd after Lord Clifford.

I barely kept the earl’s thin back in sight but caught up to him when he turned to a door and plunged through it. The door was not marked, but I knew in my bones that it led to the establishment of one Hiram Mobley, moneylender.

“Your lordship, I do not think this is a good idea?—”

I tried to grasp his coat, but Lord Clifford evaded me. He charged down a hall similar to the one that had led to Mr. Jacoby’s office and pounded on the door at the end.

“Open up,” he bellowed. “I’ve come to tell you you’ll get nothing from me, do you understand? I’ll have the law?—”

The door was wrenched open, but no moneylender or his ruffians appeared on the threshold. Instead, Lord Clifford gaped at a tall, slim-faced man of about thirty in a neat black suit. The man’s pale hair was combed and pomaded back from his sharp face, and a pair of light blue eyes skewered Lord Clifford without fear.

I stepped into the shadows, knowing full well what sort of gent this was, and I had no wish for him to notice me. I saw no sign of Daniel anywhere—if he’d been investigating in Mobley’s office, as he’d said he intended to, he’d have come forward to assist.

“You’ll have the law do what, sir?” the tall man inquired in a cool tone.

“Arrest the lot of you,” Lord Clifford spluttered. “You’re extortionists and thieves, and I owe you nothing.”

The man did not change expression. “If there is any arresting, sir, I will be the one doing it. I am Detective Sergeant Scott, looking into the murder of Mr. Hiram Mobley. Who might you be?”

Lord Clifford drew back. “Oh. Well. Good. So you should.”

“You did not answer my question, sir.” Sergeant Scott spoke with calm assurance.

“No? I am the Earl of Clifford, young man. I’ll leave you to it, shall I?” He attempted a negligent gesture. “You carry on.”

Scott gave him a shallow bow that held no deference. “Your lordship. Mind if I ask you a question or two, now that you’re here?”

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