Page 11 of Someone to Watch Over Me
To Cannon, life was serious business, and he lived it accordingly. Rumor had it that his young wife on her deathbed had made him promise never to remarry, and Cannon had been faithful to his word. His tremendous energy was expended on his work. Even the closest and dearest of his friends would readily swear that nothing could break the iron control Cannon held over his own secretive heart.
Striding down the narrow hallway that led to Cannon’s private office, Grant nearly collided with two Runners who were leaving…Flagstad and Keyes, the two oldest Runners, both of them fast approaching forty. “Off to guard the royal hind-quarters again,” Keyes remarked cheerfully, while Flagstad revealed that he had been given the more lucrative assignment of attending the Bank of England, as quarterly dividends were being paid.
“And what are you about this morning?” Flagstad asked Grant. His weathered face creased with good humor. “No, don’t tell me…another bank robbery, or a burglary on the west side that you’ll charge a fortune to solve.”
Grant responded with an answering grin, having endured much ribbing from his colleagues on his hefty commissions. He forbore to point out that in the last year he had literally caught more thieves than the other five Runners put together. “I only take what they’re willing to pay,” he said mildly.
“The only reason the nobs demand your services is because you’re a bloody swell,” Keyes said with a chuckle. “Just the other day a lady said to me, ‘Of all the Runners, only Mr. Morgan looks the way one ought to look.’” He snorted at the statement. “As if a man’s appearance has a damned thing to do with how he does the job!”
“I’ma swell?” Grant asked incredulously, glancing at his own conservative attire, and then at Keyes’s dandified appearance…the carefully arranged “windswept” style of his hair, the gold pin in his elaborate cravat, the tiny silk flowers and fleurs-de-lis embroidered over his waistcoat. Not to mention the wide-brimmed, cream-colored hat worn carefully angled over one eye.
“I have to dress this way at court,” Keyes said defensively.
Chuckling, Flagstad began to guide Keyes away before an argument could brew.
“Wait,” Keyes said, an urgent note of interest entering his voice. “Morgan, I heard you were sent out last night to investigate a bloat found in the river.”
“Yes.”
Keyes seemed impatient at his terseness. “Talkative as a clam, aren’t you? Well, what can you tell us about it? Was the victim male or female?”
“What does it matter to you?” Grant asked, perplexed by the Runner’s interest in the matter.
“Are you going to take the case?” Keyes persisted.
“Probably.”
“I’ll take it for you if you like,” Keyes offered. “God knows you haven’t much interest in investigating a dead woman. I hear bloats aren’t paying much these days.”
Flagstad snickered at the lame jest.
Grant stared at Keyes with new alertness. “Why do you think it’s a woman?” he asked idly.
Keyes blinked, and took a moment to answer. “Merely a guess, lad. Am I right?”
Giving him a last questioning glance, Grant refused comment and entered Cannon’s office.
Sir Ross sat with his back to the door, at a massive oak pedestal desk arranged to face the long rectangular window overlooking the street. A massive brown-and-gray-striped cat occupied a corner of the desk, glancing lazily at the newcomer. The reticent feline had been discovered on the front steps of the Bow Street office a few years earlier. She was missing a tail, either by accident or some act of mischief, and had promptly been dubbed “Chopper.” Strictly a one-person cat, Chopper reserved all her affection for Cannon, and barely tolerated anyone else.
Cannon’s dark head turned, and he regarded Grant with a pleasant but unsmiling expression. “Good morning,” he murmured. “There’s a jug of coffee on the side table.”
Grant never refused an offer of coffee. His passion for the bitter brew was rivaled only by Cannon’s. They both drank it black and scalding hot whenever possible. Pouring a liberal amount into an empty creamware mug, Grant sat in the nearby chair Cannon indicated. The magistrate bent his attention to some documents on his desk once more, signing one with a deft flourish.
While he waited, Grant let his gaze roam over the comfortably familiar room. One wall was covered with maps of the city and surrounding counties, as well as floor plans of Westminster Hall, the Bank of England, and other buildings of significance. Another wall was covered with bookshelves, containing enough volumes to crush an elephant. The furniture consisted of a few heavy oak pieces, plain and functional. A library terrestrial globe was poised on a mahogany stand in the corner. Enough wall space had been allowed for a single painting, a landscape of North Wales in which a small stream rushed over craggy rocks, with dark trees and gray hills looming in the distance. The landscape was jarringly pristine in comparison with the bustling artifice of London.
Finally Cannon turned toward him, black brows arched in a request for information. With its sharp features and wintry gray eyes, his face possessed a wolfish cast. Were he to allow any warmth in his expression, he would have been considered handsome.
“Well?” he murmured. “What of the bloat you investigated last night? Is there a need for a coroner’s inquest?”
“No bloat,” Grant replied briskly. “The victim—a woman—was still alive. I brought her to my home and sent for Dr. Linley.”
“Very charitable of you.”
Grant responded with a careful shrug. “I know the lady rather well. Her name is Vivien Duvall.”
The name caught Cannon’s interest. “The one who rebuffed you at the Wentworth ball?”
“I gaveherthe shove-along,” Grant said with a quick flare of annoyance. “Somehow in the course of gossip, the story was twisted around.”
