Page 67 of Unmasking the Diamond
“No,” Rupert said, tucking the velvet pouch beneath his arm. “I have something I need to do.”
“In this part of Town?”
Rupert’s smile was enigmatic. “Good day, Luca.” He tipped his hat and strode off, vanishing into the crowded street.
Luca watched him go, that familiar prickle of curiosity crawling up his spine. Rupert always had a foot in some shadowed world, but now was not the time to ponder it. He had work to do.
Climbing back into the carriage, he retrieved the ledger from beneath the seat and flipped it open. The entries were meticulous, most unremarkable—until he reached a deposit of two thousand pounds marked simply with the letter “A,” followed by regular monthly payments of fifty pounds for the past few years.
His pulse quickened as he scanned further and saw “B.” It was the same pattern repeated, an identical initial deposit and subsequent monthly payments, but this time it had only been for twelve months.This isn’t random. This is organized.
Although, there was one anomaly. The line item for “C” had a deposit of three weeks ago, but no other payments were listed.
He snapped the ledger shut, resolve hardening. Griffin would have answers. Luca leaned forward and instructed the driver to change course. Fortunately for him, Mr. Cloward had given him the address for Mr. Griffin.
A short time later, the carriage stopped in front of a red brick building. Luca strode inside and climbed the narrow staircase to apartment 2F. He pounded on the door. “Griffin, open the door!”
The door opposite creaked open and an elderly woman poked her head out, scowling. “Will you keep it down, you ruffian?”
He turned to her, forcing civility into his tone. “My apologies, Madam. I came to speak with Mr. Griffin. Do you know if he’s at home?”
“He was,” she sniffed, “but I’m not sure if he left with those men who came looking for him a short while ago.”
A prickle of unease crept down Luca’s neck. “Did these men say who they were?”
“No, and I didn’t ask,” she huffed. “I’m no gossip.”
“I understand, but this is important,” he pressed.
Her expression softened slightly. “Well, if you must know, they weren’t the sort I expected Mr. Griffin to associate with. They had pistols tucked in their waistbands and they were rude as anything.”
His stomach dropped. “Did you hear any noises? A gunshot, perhaps?”
“I did,” she said primly, “but it’s none of my business.”
Luca stared at the elderly woman, a cold dread coiling low in his gut. He was too late.
He turned back to Griffin’s apartment and reached for the handle. It gave easily beneath his hand. Unlocked. A sharp prickle of unease traveled down his spine as he pushed the door open.
The smell hit him first—a mingling of overturned ink, stale tobacco, and something metallic lurking beneath. The sitting room was in complete disarray. Chairs overturned. Papers scattered about on the floor. A side table lay on its side, one leg splintered clean off. Whoever had come here had searched with precision and left destruction in their wake.
“Good heavens,” the woman’s tremulous voice came from behind him. “Did something happen to Mr. Griffin?”
“Send for the constable,” Luca ordered without turning around.
She hesitated only a moment before bustling down the hallway.
Luca stepped fully into the apartment, his boots crunching on broken glass. A familiar heaviness settled over him. He had seen rooms like this before—too many times during his investigations—always followed by the same grim discovery. He moved with cautious purpose towards the bedroom, his breath tightening.
The door stood slightly ajar. He nudged it open with his fingertips.
Mr. Griffin lay crumpled on the floor beside the bed, his limbs twisted unnaturally. A dark, dried pool of blood stained the carpet beneath his head. The sight made Luca’s heart drop like a stone in his chest.
How did they discover his betrayal so quickly?The man had barely given Luca the ledger. Their enemies were organized—far more than he had accounted for.
Luca crouched down beside the body, the floor creaking beneath his weight. He reached into Griffin’s jacket pockets, methodically searching for letters, notes, anything that might have been overlooked. Nothing. His fingers brushed only lint and the crumpled lining of a man who’d died too soon.
Not that he’d expected much. Whatever mattered had already been taken.
