Page 10 of A Measure of Menace

Lord Clifford stiffened. “Why the devil should you?”

I could have told Lord Clifford that this was exactly the wrong thing to say. Arrogantly swearing to a detective from Scotland Yard would only convince him of one’s guilt.

“I meant to pay a call on you, your lordship,” the sergeant said. “You’re on a list of gentlemen who owed Mr. Mobley a powerful lot of money. In addition, you came here on the afternoon of his murder and argued with him. The next morning, he was found dead. The doctor who examined him said he was killed sometime between ten o’clock that evening and midnight. Will you please tell me what happened? In your own words?”

Lord Clifford swung to me, his face holding stark fear, but I nodded at him encouragingly. The sergeant completely ignored me.

“I argued with him, because he was a swindler.” Lord Clifford regained some of his composure. “He demanded I give him half again what I owed him, right away, if you please. Bloody cheek of the man. I refused, and he threatened me—and my family. I told him what I thought of him. Then I left. He was alive when I went out, Sergeant. Now, I have matters to attend to. Good day to you.”

“Another moment, sir.” Sergeant Scott’s quiet voice was powerful enough to stop Lord Clifford from rushing out. Had I been here on my own, I’d have already been in the wind, but I wanted to make certain Cynthia’s father returned safely home.

Lord Clifford turned back ungraciously. “What is it, now?”

“I’d like you accompany me to Scotland Yard, your lordship. To have a chat with my inspector and get your statement written out all proper.”

“I will not,” Lord Clifford stated in a haughty tone. “I told you, Sergeant, I am quite busy. Good day to you.”

Any other police detective might be intimidated by angering an aristo, but Sergeant Scott was obviously not easily daunted.

“Constables,” he barked. Two uniformed constables appeared, one from inside the office and another from the door behind me. “Lord Clifford, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Mr. Hiram Mobley. As you are a peer, you’ll not be locked in the cells, but you’ll speak to my inspector, who’ll then determine where and when you’ll be examined.”

“The devil I will.” Lord Clifford glared at the sergeant for a moment, his back straight, then he did a foolish thing. He turned and sprinted for the outside world and freedom.

Lord Clifford barreled past me, and I scarcely avoided being slammed into a wall. He tried to charge past the constable in his way, but that constable was a beefy young man, who spread his arms to form an unmoving barrier.

Lord Clifford’s fists came up, as though he planned to punch his way out. Perhaps such tactics had worked when he’d been a young man, fleecing others up and down the streets of London. He was middle-aged now and likely not as fit as he had been.

The muscular constable caught the blow Lord Clifford threw at him and pushed the earl backward.

“None of that, your lordship,” Sergeant Scott said quietly. The second constable locked a cuff around Lord Clifford’s wrist and the two young men hauled Lord Clifford out.

I stepped bravely in front of the sergeant, swallowing when he turned his sharp gaze on me. “Please, do not do this,” I said shakily. “There is no need. Lord Clifford is distraught, but he’s done nothing.”

Sergeant Scott regarded me without benevolence. “Take yourself out of the way, missus, if you don’t want to be nicked alongside him.”

As worried about Lord Clifford as I was, I did as Sergeant Scott bade me. I reasoned, through the panic that started to grip me, that it would do no good for me to get myself banged up.

I’d seen the inside of a prison before, and I never wanted to see it again. If the sergeant arrested me, I’d be thrown into a dank cell while Lord Clifford was served tea in a detective inspector’s office. I was nobody important.

“He is an earl,” I tried.

“As I said, my inspector will sort it out.” The sergeant set a low-crowned hat on his head. “Out you go.”

He clearly did not know who I was or why I’d come with Lord Clifford, but he wasn’t interested enough to discover anything more. He herded me out ahead of him into wind that had turned cold, then locked the front door firmly with an iron key.

I could only watch as Lord Clifford was bundled into a plain black carriage by the two constables, he struggling and protesting all the way. Sergeant Scott climbed in behind him and his men without a word, slamming the door. The driver gave a command to the horse and the carriage surged into traffic, leaving me alone.

I frantically scanned the street, as though Daniel would pop up out of nowhere and assist—to be fair, he sometimes did—but I saw nothing of him.

My panic, which memories of Newgate had engendered, faded. I made certain the carriage was long out of sight before I turned and headed back into the office that had once housed Mr. Mobley.

When I emerged from the offices again, I saw, to my amazement, that the cabbie had waited for me. Not out of concern or politeness, I understood. He didn’t want to be out his fare, which now I’d be expected to pay.

“Regent Street, please,” I said as I climbed inside.

This time, the man let me be seated before he charged away down the Strand.

I’d found nothing of interest in Mobley’s office. Though the sergeant had locked the door—I assume Scotland Yard had taken charge of the keys when they’d carried away Mobley’s dead body—I knew how to not let a lock stop me. A few hairpins sacrificed, and I was in.

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