Page 77 of A Murder in Mayfair
Chapter
Thirty-Two
THE INFORMANT
The trap had been laid. The bait positioned exactly where it would draw his attention. Now came the part I liked least—waiting.
I paced. Constantly. Not just in moments of tension, but in thought, in habit, in the hollow space between questions and answers. By the time noon came around, I’d nearly worn a track through the carpet in my study at Steele House.
When I wasn’t pacing, I was reading. The pages spread out before me weren’t aristocratic genealogies or idle reading. They were copies of the latest legislative amendments tied to land inheritance law, marked with notes from three separate clerks. Dry, dense, and crucial. And utterly impossible to concentrate on.
Because all I could think about was Heller.
It wasn’t until just past four o’clock that the knock came. Sharp, quick, and not at all in keeping with the usual rhythm of staff or messenger.
Waving away Clifford, I opened the door myself.
The boy on the step couldn’t have been more than twelve. Bare-knuckled, sharp-eyed, his cap pulled low over shaggy hair. He didn’t speak. Just held out a crumpled piece of paper, pinched between his fingers like it might bite.
I took it and unfolded it.
Spitalfields. Nine o’clock. The Red Hound Tavern.
No signature. None needed. I recognized the hand as one of my informants, the kind who knew better than to write anything more than necessary.
I looked at the boy. “Anything else?”
He shrugged. “Said you’d know.”
I gave him a coin. He vanished without another word.
I crossed to my desk and penned a brief note to Rosalynd.
Movement confirmed. Meeting at nine. Will update afterwards. Don’t expect me til late.
I signed it with my initials and rang for a trusted footman to deliver it.
Then I turned to the matter of dressing. It had to be something that wouldn’t draw a second glance—plain, rough, forgettable. The sort of thing a common man might wear without notice. I rang for my manservant and explained what I needed. He didn’t bat an eye. This wasn’t the first time I’d gone into the dark under a different face.
The man I needed to be tonight wore threadbare trousers, a coat worn soft with age, and a cap that would not attract undue attention. Nothing that clung to my title. Nothing that would catch the gleam of a streetlamp.
When the time came, my valet rubbed a smear of ash through the white streak above my temple, dulling the mark that too many might recognize or remember. I pulled the cap down low. No one could call me elegant. But it was effective. At the Red Hound, no one looked twice at a man who stayed in the shadows.
At the appointed hour, I took an unmarked hackney and disembarked three streets shy of the tavern. Close enough to watch. Far enough to avoid being seen.
Spitalfields was still, wrapped in the stale fog of supper hour and suspicion. The Red Hound crouched on the corner like something half-forgotten and half-feral.
I stepped inside. It was dim, low-ceilinged, thick with smoke and old beer. The fire burned low. No one looked up.
Good.
I scanned the room—slowly, deliberately. Then I saw him. A man hunched at a table near the back. Ginger hair, dirty around the edges. He sat hunched in the back corner, nursing a pint with both hands, head low, the thatch of red hair catching what little light the hearth gave off.
Benny—my informant—was waiting for me.
I approached slowly, weaving past a pair of drunken labourers and a barmaid who looked like she’d bite before she’d smile.
I stopped just short of the table.
