Page 95 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
“Aye, I’m sure.” The simple statement rang with conviction. “He wasn’t wearing a hat, and there’s a streetlamp at the corner, see, and when he turned onto the lane, the light fell full on his face.” Digby nodded at the photograph. “I’m sure as eggs are eggs it was him.”
“Good.” Drake fluidly rose.
Despite Drake’s impassive expression, Gray suspected he was thinking furiously. “That’s Duvall, isn’t it?”
Tight-lipped, Drake glanced at Gray, then nodded. “I’ve checked, and he works at the Board of Trade.” Reaching across, Drake picked up the photograph of Duvall and scrutinized it anew. “I’m damned if I recognize the man he’s speaking with.”
Gray rose and looked over Drake’s shoulder at the shorter man in the photograph. While also well-dressed, the man was older than Duvall, possibly by as much as ten years. He had a distinctly round head to go with his rotund figure and was wearing an expensive-looking coat with an astrakhan collar. Like Duvall, he was carrying a cane. After a moment, Gray said, “To my eyes, our mystery man doesn’t look English.”
“Possibly not even British,” Drake added. “However, if our suppositions are correct, then Duvall had to kill Quimby because Duvall was desperate to prevent this photograph—which shows him actively consorting with our mystery man—being widely seen.”
With his long fingers, Drake flicked the photograph. “We need our mystery man’s name.”
A heartbeat of silence greeted that statement, then the bell over the door tinkled.
Along with Drake, Gray looked across the foyer, expecting to see the latest crop of hopeful youths.
Instead, three older workers shuffled through the door and stood hesitantly in a group just inside.
Growing weary of not being able to see what most others could, Izzy rose and rounded the desk to stand beside the armchair Digby still occupied. Like everyone else, the lad had twisted around to stare at whoever had come in.
Izzy followed the others’ gazes and realized why the sight was holding everyone silent. The three men were of quite a different ilk to those who’d been arriving throughout the morning with nothing more than inconsequential snippets. Aside from all else, they hung back, mangling felt caps in their hands, and seemed unwilling to even approach the counter.
Eventually, Tom Lipson appeared from behind the counter and walked over and inquired what the three wanted.
One cleared his throat and gruffly said, “We saw the notice inThe Crier, and we’ve come to speak to I. Molyneaux.”
Tom nodded and guided the men to the counter, where Mary and Littlejohn spoke with them. No one in the office said a word; they were all straining their ears, trying to distinguish the men’s rumbling answers to the sergeant’s questions.
A minute later, Baines, who was the only one in the office with sight of those behind the counter, came alert. “Looks like we might be about to learn something more.”
Seconds later, Littlejohn appeared in the doorway. “You might want to hear what these gentlemen have to say.”
Izzy nodded. “Show them in, Sergeant.”
She turned to Digby. “Go with Baines and his lordship for the moment.” She shooed the three back toward the windows, then whirled and returned to her chair, noting that Lipson Senior and Donaldson had backed into the corner by her filing cabinets in an attempt to make themselves inconspicuous.
Gray had already signaled to Drake to bring up one of the chairs from the windows to add to the pair before the desk.
After lining up the three chairs, Gray stepped back to lean against the bookshelves to Izzy’s right.
She looked toward the doorway as Littlejohn ushered in the three workers. She smiled invitingly. “Good day. I’m Mrs. I. Molyneaux, the owner ofThe London Crier.” She waved to the chairs. “Won’t you come in and sit down and tell me what information you have to offer?”
Unsurprisingly, the three were somewhat taken aback to learn that a woman was the owner of the paper. But after a momentary hesitation, when her inviting smile didn’t fade, they shuffled forward and, caps still clutched tightly, sorted themselves into the chairs, sitting upright and definitely not relaxing.
“Now”—Izzy clasped her hands on the desk and kept her smile in place—“I believe you’ve already given your names and addresses to my assistant, so all that remains is for you to tell us what you know.”
The men exchanged glances, apparently settling on the man in the middle as their spokesman. He looked at Izzy and cleared his throat. “It’s like this, see. We’re dray drivers for the big papers along Fleet Street, and yesterday afternoon, we was having our tea—”
“Early like, it was,” the man on the spokesman’s left put in. When the other two looked at him, he said, “Just saying. Quality like her might not understand why we was having our dinner at that time. They don’t, do they?”
The spokesman acknowledged that wisdom with a nod. “Aye—right enough.” Looking at Izzy, he explained, “We start at four in the mornin’—have to be up afore that, o’course—so we has our tea midafternoon, ’bout three o’clock or so.”
Izzy nodded. “I understand.”
“So then, we was having our tea in the coffee house we always go to—the Quill and Feather. We always sit at a table near the back corner—it’s quieter there—and we saw two of the gents in the picture that shows the outside of the coffeehouse.”
Everyone else in the room came alert.
