Page 78 of A Murder in Mayfair
His fingers tightened around a mug of something that smelled like vinegar and regret. I’d recognized him, but it was the nervous twitch in his eyes that gave him away. He was afraid. And he had reason to be.
I slid into the seat across from him. He sniffed as I settled in.
“Gur, Gov’nr,” he muttered, nose wrinkling. “Did you pour the whole bleedin’ bottle o’ perfume on yerself? Smells like a Mayfair brothel in here now.”
I let that pass. “Tell me what you saw or heard.”
Benny leaned in, glancing over his shoulder before speaking. “Saw. A toff. He’d been comin’ here for weeks. Always quiet. Always polite. Just ... askin’ questions.”
“What sort of questions?”
“The sort that don’t start with murder but end there,” he said, voice low. “He’d buy a man a drink, ask what he’d do for coin. Rough work, he’d call it. Nothin’ too specific. Not at first.”
“And you?”
“I turned him down,” Benny said flatly. “Didn’t like his eyes. Too clean on the outside, too dead underneath.”
“Who was it?”
“Heller.”
For a heartbeat, the air left my lungs. My fingers curled into a fist beneath the table, the edge of the wood biting into my palm.
“You’re sure it was him?”
“Oh, I’m sure. You don’t forget a face like that. Fancy gloves. Talks like a gentleman but never once took off his coat. Like he didn’t plan to stay long.”
I was quiet a moment. “Did he find someone?”
“Aye. Bloke named O’Donnell. Big, mean, thick as dock mud. Scar down the right side of his face. Always looking for coin. He came in the week before Walsh was found dead. Heller sat with him longer than he did with anyone. Bought him a bottle and a room upstairs. Next day, both of ‘em gone.”
“Any proof?”
Benny hesitated, then grinned without humor. “I followed ‘im.”
My brow lifted. “You followed Edwin Heller?”
“I was curious.” He shrugged, eyes darting. “Didn’t mean to get involved, just ... somethin’ felt off. He left out the back and didn’t look twice. I tailed him clean to Duke Street. Nice townhouse, green door, gas lamp out front. Quiet. Real quiet.”
That sealed it.
Heller had arranged for Lord Walsh’s murder—with coin, not his hands—and now we had a witness.
“You said nothing to anyone?”
“Not unless I wanted to get my throat cut,” Benny muttered. “This? What I just told you? It stays between us, Gov’nr. I like breathin’.”
I dropped several coins on the table. “Keep liking it.”
He slipped out the door without another word.
I waited a minute, then stood. The game was no longer theoretical. And Heller had just run out of places to hide.
I stepped out into the alley behind the Red Hound, keeping to the shadows. Fog clung low to the ground, thick and oily from chimney soot. The coin Benny had taken hadn’t even settled in his pocket before I felt the shift—the wrong kind of silence.
Then came the sound.
Not footsteps.Breath—fast, too close.
