Page 87 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
Finch snorted. “You’re a man after my own heart, Milford. Whisky will do.”
“Indeed, sir.” Milford bowed, a ghost of a smile on his lips, and departed.
“So what did you find?” I asked.
Finch placed the folder on the low table between us. “You’re not going to like what’s in there.”
“Do I ever? Start with something I’ll like.”
“Doubt anything will,” he muttered, flipping the folder open.
He didn’t speak right away—unusual for him. The silence stretched as he sorted his thoughts.
Outside, the gaslights flickered against the windows. The fire crackled in the grate. The room smelled faintly of smoke, ink, and the sandalwood polish on the desk.
“Lady Rosalynd was seen at Kew Gardens with Nathaniel Vale,” he said at last. “I had my associate keep an eye on him.”
“I know.” I didn’t elaborate.
“And the brother, too.”
“I know that as well. Get on with it.”
“You’re in a fine mood.”
“Has no one ever told you not to talk back to your betters?”
“Oh, so you’re better than me now?”
I gave a dry laugh. “Smell a damn sight better, at least.”
Finch leaned back in the chair with a theatrical sigh. “I’ve been slaving away in London’s gutters for your benefit, and this is the thanks I get?”
Before I could respond, Milford returned with a tray—cold beef, sharp cheese, crusty bread, a bottle of whisky, and a clean glass. He placed it all on the low table beside Finch and reached for the bottle.
“We’ll manage, Milford,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Your Grace.” He gave a respectful bow and withdrew.
Wasting no time, Finch tore off a chunk of bread, took a bite of cheese, and chased it with a long swallow of whisky.
I let him enjoy it. He’d earned that much.
But soon enough—the food forgotten, his expression sharpened—he returned to the matter at hand.
“His lab at the house is real enough—botanical specimens, hybrid records, rows of exotic plants that don’t belong in this climate. But that’s just for show. Where the real work happens . . . is Whitechapel. I followed him there this morning.”
I stilled. “Whitechapel?” Ripper territory. “Why would Vale wander into that cesspool?”
“He’s leased a building there under an alias. Derelict warehouse tucked behind a butcher’s yard, past the old brewery ruins. Locals call it Ash Yard—smoke’s always coming out of the chimney, but no one ever sees anyone enter or leave.”
I leaned forward. “Describe it.”
“Black-bricked, soot-streaked. Windowless. A narrow iron door in the alley—bolted from the inside. No markings, no sign. You wouldn’t look twice unless you knew what you were looking for.”
“And you did.”
“After he left midmorning, I paid a costermonger to let me in through the adjoining yard. The inside was interesting, to say the least. Vats, stills, rows of glass tubes. A wall of crates sealed and labeled for ‘tonics’—but not a single shipping record. He’s not just testing something in there. He’s producing it.”
