The Sleeping Partner Read online

  “I apologize that it took me so long, Sir Walter; gentlemen.” She bowed her head, acknowledging the Runners. “It came to me yesterday that I had seen the man—my memory has been a little disordered since that blow. I believe he was a clerk in a shipping office, Amisley and Pound, in Shadwell.”

  “’Ow you come to know that, miss?” That was Hook, who generally regarded the public—of which, despite her friendship with Sir Walter, Miss Tolerance was emphatically one—with deep suspicion.

  “I had occasion to visit the office a few days ago in pursuit of an inquiry. I know nothing about the man himself; indeed, if he had not worn that scarf I should likely not have remembered him at all.”

  There was a stir of activity as Penryn and Hook conferred over a list of the deceased’s property. “Red and gray scarf, stained with blood,” Mr. Hook read. “‘E was a-wearin’ of it when you saw ‘im?”

  “Yes. As it was a warm day, I was surprised to see it, and noted it particularly.” Miss Tolerance did not feel it necessary to mention her dreams or her aunt’s silk shawl. “If you intend to send someone to interview his employer, Sir Walter, might I be permitted to accompany him?”

  A look passed from Hook to Penryn to Sir Walter and back again. Sir Walter cleared his throat. “I think I will go myself, as we will need to learn if the man had any kin, and they will need to be notified. If you wish to accompany me I shall, of course, be pleased to have your company.”

  It was thus agreed upon, and in half an hour Miss Tolerance and Sir Walter were in a coach rattling toward Fox Street, Shadwell, and the offices of Amisley and Pound. Hook had stayed in Bow Street, and Penryn had opted to ride on the box with the jarvey.

  “Have I caused trouble by asking to come?” Miss Tolerance murmured.

  “For me? Not in the least.”

  “Mr. Hook seemed less than pleased.”

  “He is not paid to be pleased by my decisions.”

  “Why did you permit me to come?”

  Sir Walter smiled. “Because I was certain that, if I did not, you would go by yourself at another time. You are not yet well enough to make such inquiries on your own.”

  Miss Tolerance was unsure whether this more irritated or amused or touched her.

  As on the occasion of her last visit to Shadwell, Fox Street was busy with tradesmen and carriers. By contrast, when Sir Walter led the way into the offices of Amisley and Pound there was a hush broken only by the scratch of pen on paper. Only two of the tall desks were occupied, and it took a very long minute for the large man, whose name, Miss Tolerance recalled, was Worke, to look up from his ledger.

  “Their employer’s name is Huwe,” Miss Tolerance murmured to Sir Walter.

  “Good afternoon. Is Mr. Huwe available?”

  Worke looked at Sir Walter and his companions; his eyes widened slightly at the sight of the Runners’ red waistcoats. He did not appear to notice Miss Tolerance at all. “This a law matter?”

  “I shall need to speak with Mr. Huwe.” Sir Walter was firm.

  Worke edged himself off his stool and went into the office. He was gone rather longer than seemed necessary to announce the presence of the magistrate and his officers, and when he returned his face was red.

  “Walk in,” he muttered.

  Sir Walter led the way into the office, which was no tidier or less congested with paper than it had been upon Miss Tolerance’s last visit. The only difference of note was that a chair, piled with ledgers and loose paper, had been moved to the back of the office against the door to make space for the visitors. Miss Tolerance stayed at the rear of the group, not wishing to draw attention, but it seemed this was a bootless effort. Abner Huwe rose, circled a few steps from behind his desk, and bowed cordially to her before he addressed himself to Sir Walter.

  “I see you are returned to us, miss. Was your father able to speak with—”

  Before he could speak Lyne’s name Miss Tolerance shook her head. “No, sir. After all my trouble it appears that the business was no longer so pressing. But we are here upon a very different errand.”

  “Indeed, very distinguished company you have brought to us! Nothing is amiss, I hope.” The Welsh inflection was more in evidence than it had been before.

  Sir Walter evidently felt it was time he took the lead. “This lady is here to help us in pursuit of an investigation. Do you have in your employ, Mr. Huwe, a young man with dark hair and a birthmark here—” he indicated his left cheek.

  “Such a man, Tom Proctor, I had as clerk. But as he has not seen fit to come to work, nor sent word of where he is, he will find there is no employment for him here.” There was no anger in Huwe’s voice.

  “About that, sir. I regret to tell you that Mr. Proctor has been the victim of an attack. He is dead, sir.”

  “Dead, say you! Dead! Poor young man.” Huwe took a step back as if he meant to sit in the chair there, then realized it was too full of papers to accommodate him. Despite this show of surprise there was neither shock nor sorrow in his words. “Poor fellow, I did wonder why he had not come on his time.”

  “Did Mr. Proctor have family, sir, that we might notify?”

  Huwe craned his neck as if to look around Penryn, who stood in the doorway. “Hi, Worke!”

  Penryn stepped to one side. The big clerk showed his face behind the Runner.

  “Poor Tom Proctor’s dead. Had he any family? Wife or old Dad or such?”

  Worke shrugged. “Nah.” With which expression of sympathy he went back to his desk.

  “You must advertise for a new man, Mr. Worke,” Huwe called to his back.

  He turned his attention to Sir Walter again. “This is a shocking thing, to be sure.”

  “Yes, sir. Murder always is.”

  “Murder, do you say? I thought you said the poor fellow was robbed.”

  “I said he was attacked, sir. Not quite the same thing. Did your Mr. Proctor have any enemies, sir?”

  Huwe ran a hand through his disordered red hair and frowned. “I do not know of any. He seemed a good, sober fellow, did the work he was set, which is all I care for. What he did at day’s end I cannot say.”

  Sir Walter nodded. “Do you know where he lodged, Mr. Huwe? Perhaps his landlord will tell me more.”

  “Indeed, sir, I have told you what I might.” Huwe put his forefinger to the side of his nose and frowned. “I remember me that the boy lived in a boarding house in Well Street, not so far from here. But it is one of those helter-skelter places with six to a room. I do not know if the landlord could tell you more.”

  “We shall make enquiries.” Sir Walter was mild. Miss Tolerance remembered what it was like to be quizzed in that bland, polite manner, and she did not envy Abner Huwe. “Do you recall the number of the house, Mr. Huwe?”

  Perhaps to suggest the urgent business of a man who cannot be all day dealing with the affairs, however sad, of a former employee, Mr. Huwe took up a sheaf of papers from the chair behind him and began to run his thumb along the edge of the stack, as if he could barely restrain the urge to rifle through them. “I think it was at the corner of the Ratcliffe Highway, but I cannot be certain.”

  “Thank you, sir. If you recall anything that you believe material to Mr. Proctor’s death, I would appreciate—”

  “Oh, indeed, indeed. I shall be in touch with you directly. I wonder, though—” He tapped his thumb on the pile of papers and smiled. “Might I be asking one question?”

  Sir Walter inclined his head politely.

  “How is it you determined that the poor young fellow was in my employ?”

  Sir Walter glanced at Miss Tolerance. “This lady was in the vicinity of the incident and recognized him.”

  “Did she so? She is a very observant lady, then.” Huwe’s tone was all admiration. He turned his regard to Miss Tolerance again. “It is fortunate that she was in that vicinity, I think.” His smile was polite but there was a curious edge to it.

  “Fortunate indeed, and fortunate that she understood her civi
c duty so well as to bring the information to my attention,” Sir Walter agreed. Miss Tolerance realized he did not like Huwe any better than she did. “Mr. Huwe, as I said, if you—”

  “I beg your pardon, Sir Walter.” Miss Tolerance was forceful. Sir Walter paused, then deferred to her. “Perhaps Mr. Huwe will answer one more question?” In fact she had several, but only one could be asked now without giving away her surveillance of Lord Lyne.

  Mr. Huwe smiled condescendingly.

  “Sir, do you know why Mr. Proctor should have had the direction of the Pitfield Street almshouse run by Mr. John Thorpe writ on a slip of paper in his pocket?”

  Miss Tolerance thought that whatever Mr. Huwe had expected, this was not it. His eyes widened slightly and his ruddy complexion darkened; the smile straightened into the beginning of a frown. I should not like to have this man angry with me. Then his expression became again as bland and jovial as that of an alemonger at the village fête. “A Mr. John Thorpe, say you? That I cannot tell. Perhaps my man and Mr. Thorpe drank a pot of ale together, or meant to do.”

  “Perhaps so. Thank you, sir.”

  “You are most welcome, miss. I hope you will give my lord Lyne my kindest regards when you see him next.”

  “Lord Lyne, sir? I am not likely to see him at all. I wonder you should think it.”

  “Ah, yes. It was your father who was seeking Lyne.” Huwe’s smile broadened. “Do not mind it, then.”

  Sir Walter broke into the peculiar current that was building between Huwe and Miss Tolerance. “Thank you, Mr. Huwe. We will take our leave.” He bowed. Miss Tolerance curtsied. Penryn waited to follow after until they had left the office.

  Penryn joined them in the coach, pointed now to Well Street, and offered the opinion that there was something not right about that Welsh bastard.

  Forestalling Sir Walter’s admonition about language, Miss Tolerance voiced her agreement. “He was curiously unmoved by his clerk’s death.”

  Penryn shook his head. “T’ain’t that, miss. Man like that ‘un, clerks is thruppence the brace. But he doon’t like you, and he din’t like you bein’ there.”

  “He was surprised by your question, I thought,” Sir Walter said. “Who is John Thorpe?”

  “He manages an almshouse in Pitfield Street. I was lately involved in an inquiry in which his family was named.”

  “Well either he doon’t care for it that you knew this Thoorpe, or he din’t loike that his clerk did,” Mr. Penryn said firmly. “Eyes bugged out like he’d et a frog.”

  At Well Street Miss Tolerance would have made to alight, but Sir Walter stayed her and sent Penryn to inquire for the boarding house patronized by the late Mr. Proctor.

  “Now, what was that about?” Sir Walter asked when the Runners were clear of the carriage.

  “You know I cannot—” Miss Tolerance began.

  “I know that your investigation appears to be rubbing shoulders with mine. I only wish to know to what degree.”

  “Mr. Thorpe, whose name appeared on the paper we turned up in Proctor’s pocket, is peripherally related to my current inquiry,” Miss Tolerance told him. “I do not know if the two matters are connected—”

  “Then you have a stronger regard for coincidence than I do,” Sir Walter said lightly. “Is it not likely that the murder of a man who is connected to your investigation should be related to that investigation?”

  “Alas, quite likely.” Miss Tolerance was unwilling to involve the magistrate in her search for Evadne Thorpe, at least until she had had time to learn if Proctor’s death could be factored into Miss Thorpe’s absence. “And I wish I could be more useful to you, Sir Walter, but—”

  “I understand your scruples. I hope you understand that at some point it may become impossible for me to honor those scruples.”

  Her head hurt and despite her regard for Sir Walter Miss Tolerance found herself wishing she were elsewhere and alone. “I do understand, Sir Walter. I hope you understand that I may not be able to accommodate your curiosity in the matter.” She looked at him directly; Sir Walter returned the gaze.

  “We must hope it will not reach that point,” Sir Walter began. Any further comment was cut off by the return of Penryn. The Runner had his face screwed up as if he had smelled something foul.

  “Well, Zor Walter, I found it.” The Runner pointed an accusatory finger at the third house, a four story frame building that listed slightly toward its left-hand neighbor. Two elderly men sat upon the stone steps to the doorway, watching Penryn with a combination of curiosity and amusement. One man had a square blue gin bottle in his hand, the other a flyswatter which he plied vigorously and at some peril to his fellow. Behind them the door, frame as much askew as the building, opened inward on a hallway of Stygian emptiness.

  “Do you wish to come in?” Sir Walter asked.

  “Yes, very much.”

  The two men at the door, as Sir Walter’s party approached, leaned away from the entrance as if to give easier access; the man with the gin fell backward and off the steps, where he lay, giggling weakly. His fellow paused in his fly-swatting and reached out a hand to touch Miss Tolerance’s dress as if it were a relic of some sort. Miss Tolerance reached one gloved hand down and pushed the man’s fingers away gently.

  “Is the landlord in?” Sir Walter asked.

  The old man screwed up his face in a moue of denial. “Out on business. Lef’ ‘is boy ‘ere. Donal’. Be in the orfice.” He reached for Miss Tolerance’s dress again. “H’aint seen noffin’ this pretty since Aboukir year.”

  Miss Tolerance reached again to disengage the man, but Sir Walter was there before her. “Do not presume to touch this lady.” He was icy. “The office is to the right?” He stepped back, blocking the old man, to let Miss Tolerance pass into the building before him. She did not know whether to be touched or annoyed by his protectiveness.

  The hallway was hot and fetid. Penryn slipped past Miss Tolerance and pounded on the office door. There was a muffled “Come on, then!” from the other side.

  A youth of twelve or so years sat with his boots upon the table, cleaning his nails with a pen knife, a task to which he was giving his whole attention. His face was spotty; his dark hair fell around his face disorderly. He did not look up. “Whot?”

  Sir Walter stepped into the room with an air of command. Miss Tolerance stood to one side and Penryn stationed himself full in the doorway as if to discourage flight. “You have a lodger here named Thomas Proctor?”

  The sound of Sir Walter’s voice, both more authoritative and more gentlemanly than he had apparently expected, startled the boy. He jabbed himself with the knife, swore, slid his feet off the desk and looked up at his visitors. He put his finger, which was bleeding slightly, into his mouth.

  “You wan’ who?” he asked around the finger.

  “Thomas Proctor.”

  The boy looked at Penryn, then back to Sir Walter. “He ain’t no kin o’ yourn, I reckon. Whoz ‘e done?”

  “He has been murdered.” Sir Walter’s voice was matter-of-fact, but the effect on the boy was immediate. He took his finger out of his mouth and stared at Sir Walter as if he were a Drury Lane melodrama in and of himself.

  “Murdered? Where? ‘Ow? Z’ere going to be trial?”

  “When we find the man who did it. What can you tell me about Mr. Proctor?”

  The boy snickered. “That ‘e’s dead? I dunno. Paid ‘is rent on time. Slep’ in—” he paused and thought, visibly, frowning as if it hurt him. “Slep’ in number four, on the first floor, wiv five other gents.”

  “And his personal belongings?”

  The boy shook his head. “Dunno. They’s cupboard up there, but I don’t know ‘e ever used ‘un.”

  “Perhaps you should show us Mr. Proctor’s room.”

  “Yes, sir. My da would know more’n me, sir.”

  “You know enough to show us to number four, do you not?”

  The boy nodded. He peered past Sir Walter and Miss Tolerance t
o regard Mr. Penryn with interest. “Zat a real Runner, sir?”

  “He is. The room, boy.”

  In near darkness the boy led Sir Walter’s party up narrow stairs that, like everything else in the house, listed to the left. At the top of the stairs he opened a door and went in. Miss Tolerance heard him fumble with the tinderbox, then there was a glow of candlelight. The boy returned to wave his visitors into the room. Three of them could barely fit in it: in the yellow light Miss Tolerance could make out a windowless space containing two beds, and a large chest with six cupboards fitted with dull brass plates. The beds were not overlarge, and she tried to imagine three grown men sleeping in each of them. At least they had beds to sleep upon; some lodging houses did not provide even that sort of amenity.

  “‘At’s the cupboard, sir.” The boy jabbed his finger toward the chest.

  “And do you know which of the cupboards would have been Mr. Proctor’s?”

  The boy shook his head. “Me da might, sir. “E keeps a book wiv numbers of the keys boarders take out. So ‘e can charge for the service, like.”

  Miss Tolerance saw an expression of impatience fly across Sir Walter’s face; he kept his voice admirably impassive. “Would that book be in the house?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Then perhaps, if I send Mr. Penryn down with you, you can discover which of these cupboards, if any, was claimed by Mr. Proctor.” The notion that this was a suggestion was belied by Sir Walter’s voice and Penryn’s demeanor. “We will await your return.”

  Miss Tolerance advanced to the chest, took out her handkerchief, and rubbed at the brass plate on the first cupboard. Gradually the number 1 could be perceived. The kerchief came away blackened with tarnish.

  Penryn reappeared in the doorway, his narrow face eloquent of irritation. “That beetle-headed boy! Found the ledger at last, Zor Walter, but he doon’t read, zo spent five minutes gazin’ at the page ‘zif it would speak to him.”

  “Did it speak to you?” Sir Walter asked.

  “Yon Proctor rented a key to number five. But no key was there here. Nor did he have a key ‘pon his person when we inspected the body, Zor Walter.”