Page 43 of The Highland Heist
Hargrove shifted in his seat and offered a one-shoulder shrug. “He wasn’t the sort you asked to leave.”
Frederick raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
Hargrove ran his thumb against his finger, his grin both sly and unapologetic. “He came with plenty of money to spend.”
Ah, yes. The universal pass in establishments such as this. Money might not buy happiness, but it certainly bought tolerance. “And what did Mr. Clark look like? Could you place the accent at all? Scottish, perhaps?”
“Yeah,” Rook’s eyes brightened. “That’s it. I thought I’d heard it before but couldn’t place it. Old MacGregor, who used to come in here, sounded a lot like Mr. Clark.”
“Would you happen to know where Mr. Clark is staying?”
“If the patrons don’t tell, we don’t ask.” Hargrove answered. “But there are only a few places in town any man of his style would choose to stay.”
Style, cleverness, a fighter, and Scottish. The profile of Mr. Clark was beginning to take shape, and it wasn’t exactly a comforting silhouette. Frederick was no gambling man, but he’d wager the man who attacked him in the garden was the same as this Mr. Clark.
“Did he only come the one night?”
“No, sir.” Rook shook his head. “That was his third night—the night of the fight.”
“And has he been back?”
Rook glanced at Hargrove, whose brow crinkled like a well-worn map. “Not as I recall.”
So Mr. Clark disappeared at the same time Tony Dixon stopped coming to the Lucky Coin? This sounded much less like a random brawl in a bar. No, it was much more strategic.
Frederick stood, mind spinning through this new information. What else should he ask? What would Grace ask? “Can you think of anyone else who would want to harm Mr. Dixon? Had you heard of any other threats against him?”
“None.” Hargrove stood along with Rook. “Which is why the brawl came as such a surprise. Dixon was generally liked and never caused trouble.”
“He’d even helped out a few other men who’d been down on their luck before,” Rook interjected, his eyes widening as a new thought struck. “But I remember something else—the one thing that set Mr. Dixon off.”
Frederick tensed. “What was that?”
“I’m not sure what Mr. Clark said, but Mr. Dixon responded with something like, ‘We won’t bring my wife into this’ or ‘I won’t bring my wife into this.’ I can’t remember exactly.”
So Mr. Clark had somehow threatened Lillias? How and why?
“Thank you, Mr. Rook,” Frederick said, sending the boy a nod. “You’ve been very helpful.”
As the young man left, Frederick turned to Hargrove.
“I’d appreciate your discretion about this,” he said, rising to his feet.
“Of course, my lord,” Hargrove replied, though his expression suggested he was already speculating.
Whatever Hargrove did with the information Frederick couldn’t help. He’d gotten more than he expected in the conversation and hopefully enough to lead him to a discovery of who Mr. Clark really was.
And fast.
Grace spent some time with Zahra, Miss Cox, and baby Thomas after Frederick left, trying very hard not to keep looking at the clock or worrying about her dear husband. She’d never fully understand why God told His children not to worry, but then made worrying such an easy thing to do. Clearly, she needed a much better perspective on God’s greatness and nearness than her current one.
At 11:45, Grace left Miss Cox and Zahra to their own luncheon and walked downstairs, to find Mrs. James speaking in quiet tones with Officer Todd at the front door. And Officer Todd’s welcome grin didn’t make him look as disinterested or sick as his usual expression. Oh no, he didn’t seem disinterested at all. Neither did Mrs. James. Grace released a heavy sigh.
Mrs. James was certainly not the sort to be a confidante.
As she descended the stairs, Grace studied the housekeeper. Could the woman be dangerous? Or at the very least, bought for information? Grace barely held in a gasp. Of course, she could. She fit the role perfectly.
Officer Todd spotted Grace first and straightened, stepping back from Mrs. James as if caught pilfering biscuits. The motion alerted Mrs. James, who turned to meet Grace’s gaze—and promptly flushed a guilty shade of red.
