Page 96 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
Izzy unpinned the photograph of the coffeehouse from its sheet and handed it across the desk. “Which two men, exactly?”
She held her breath as the men studied the photograph, then the spokesman leaned forward and said, “These two.” His wide fingertip indicated Duvall and his friend. “The tall gentleman and the round one.”
“Thank you.” Izzy took back the photograph and glanced at Drake, who had drawn closer. He’d seen the men make the identification, and really, they couldn’t ask for a clearer result. Izzy looked at the men. “We’re definitely interested in anything you can tell us about those men. What did you see them do?”
The spokesman waggled his head. “Not so much what they did as what we heard ’em say.” When Izzy held her tongue and looked encouraging, he went on, “They was sitting at a table in a little nook just past us—leastways, they were when we noticed them. Seems like they came in while we were eating. Thing is, that nook acts like a funnel for sound. Although they probably thought they was speaking low, we could hear ’em plain as day. And while we was eating, we weren’t talking, so we listened—all three of us.”
Izzy nodded her understanding. “And what did you hear?”
Everyone other than the three men held their breath.
“Well, for a start, the tall one”—Izzy held up the photograph, and the spokesman pointed again to Duvall—“he was as English as anyone could be, but the other chap, the dumpier one, he was a foreigner.”
All three men nodded portentously.
Gray pushed away from the bookshelves and stood by the side of Izzy’s desk. “Why are you sure he’s a foreigner?”
“Spoke with an accent, he did,” the spokesman said.
The man on his right, who had yet to speak, shifted and said, “Not German or Prussian but maybe Flemish?” When Gray and Izzy looked at him, the man colored and said, “What with the exhibition that was on, we’ve all got used to hearing lots of accents, and I reckon that fellow was Flemish.”
Gray nodded in acceptance. “So what did they discuss?”
Via shared glances, the men gathered their thoughts, then the spokesman said, “Most of the time, they was talking about some place they called ‘the installation’ at Victoria Park Terrace. Not Victoria Park, mind, nor even Victoria Park Road, but Victoria Park Terrace. They said that more than three times, very specific.”
Drake had stiffened at the mention of the place.
Gray shot him a glance. “You know what that is?”
Drake came forward to stand beside Gray, effortlessly capturing the three men’s attention. He looked at the trio. “Are you sure that’s what they said? The installation at Victoria Park Terrace?”
Slowly but surely, all three nodded.
“We noted it particular like,” the spokesman said. “Fixed our attention, it did. We’ve been dray drivers all our lives, delivering all over London, and we know there ain’t no Victoria ParkTerrace. Not in town, leastways.”
Drake nodded. “That’s correct. What did the men say about the place in Victoria Park Terrace?”
Once again, the men—picking up on Drake’s escalating tension—exchanged glances, then the spokesman volunteered, “Sounded to us like they was planning on demolishing it, whatever it might be.”
The man on his right added, “Seemed like whatever was there was going to need explosives to move, so it must be some big old place.”
“They mentioned explosives?” Drake’s diction had grown so clipped it could cut.
The dray drivers stared at him and simply nodded.
Gray almost expected Drake to explode into action, he was so on edge, but instead, he kept his reactions rigidly contained and, in formal language, thanked the men for coming in and sharing their information and suggested the three should return with Littlejohn to the counter and confirm their names and addresses were correctly noted, as they would definitely be receiving some part of the reward.
Relieved and pleased, the men readily rose, bobbed politely to Izzy, then went out with the sergeant.
Drake’s gaze swung to Digby, and he nodded at the lad. “You’re in line for a share of the reward, too. Without your eyewitness account, we couldn’t connect Duvall to Quimby’s murder.”
Izzy signaled to Lipson to shut the door. The instant the latch clicked shut, everyone looked at Drake, who was standing staring at a point on the floor and transparently thinking at a rate of knots.
“So what does all that mean?” Gray asked. “What’s going on?”
“I wish I knew.” Drake raised his head and glanced at the circle of avidly interested faces. “The house in which the under-Channel telegraph cable terminates is located at one end of Victoria Park Terrace in Dover.”
Baines pointed at the photograph. “So these two—Duvall and his friend—are planning to blow up the new telegraph to the Continent?”
