Page 43 of A Murder in Mayfair
"Indeed," I said, stepping over the threshold without invitation. He retreated automatically, leading me into a narrow vestibule lined with battered filing cabinets and the faint, musty smell of old paper. No other living soul was there. Nor did there appear to be any documents of recent vintage. The place was bare—bare of true business, bare of wealth. A false front. No real company worked out of these rooms.
"You handle messages?” I inquired. Clearly, that was the only purpose for his presence.
"Y-yes, sir," he stammered. "I was instructed to receive communications addressed to the Great Western Silver Trust and forward them to Lord Walsh. That’s all. I swear it."
“Who sent them?”
A flicker of hesitation.
"Tell me," I said quietly.
He swallowed hard. "They were mostly from gentlemen. But some were anonymous. A few names came up more than once. Lord Danforth. Lord Finch. Mr. Halwell."
I filed the names away. All men of means. All known in society. "What about the contents?" I asked. "Any impressions?”
The clerk hesitated. "They were usually short. Urgent. Some spoke of 'installments' or 'shares.' Others simply requested meetings. A few warned of consequences if promises weren’t kept."
In other words, threats. Walsh had promised wealth and delivered ruin, and now even his own backers had begun to turn on him.
"Did you handle any payments?" I pressed.
The clerk shook his head violently. "No, sir. Only papers. If money changed hands, it wasn’t here."
I believed him. The poor fool looked ready to faint at the mere suggestion.
Walsh had spearheaded a scheme meant to attract capital with the promise of greater gains. And a number of fools believed him. But he couldn’t have acted alone. No one in their right mind would have taken Walsh’s sole word for it. That would need investigating.
“Did you copy the messages?”
“Oh, no, sir. I wouldn’t do that. It was private correspondence. I just read them, that’s all, as instructed by Lord Walsh.”
“Do you remember who warned of consequences?”
“Lord Finch and Lord Danforth.”
“What about Mr. Halwell?”
“He wanted his money back. He was quite insistent.”
I grew impatient. “What did it say?”
“No more delays, no more dodging. I want my money back—with interest.”
I left the clerk with a warning to forget I had ever been there, though I doubted he would sleep soundly for a month.
As I stepped back into the misty London afternoon, I allowed myself a grim smile.
Chapter
Eighteen
THE WEIGHT OF TESTIMONY
The following Tuesday, the inquest was held in a hushed, oak-paneled chamber within the Coroner’s Court, the air heavy with the scent of old books and older judgment. Outside, a spring drizzle dampened the pavement, but inside, the atmosphere was dry as tinder—and just as flammable. Whispers drifted like smoke through the room as Julia and I made our way down the narrow aisle.
She was dressed in mourning black from head to toe, a veil obscuring her face, though nothing could conceal the tension in her posture or the way her gloved hands clutched her reticule as though it were a lifeline.
A row at the front had been reserved for the family. Julia was guided to her place, and I took the seat beside her. On her other side sat the Walsh family solicitor, Mr. Greaves, his expression unreadable. The remainder of the bench was occupied by Charles Walsh, his harpy of a wife, Lucretia, and their cousin, Edwin Heller, who appeared appropriately somber.
