Page 56 of Murder in Blackfriars

The night was cold, though the wind had died, making the air crisp and also full of smoke, which blotted out any stars overhead.

As I doled out the pieces of tart, leftover rolls, and trimmings from tonight’s roast, I noted the carriage I’d seen before had moved, but only to the corner of Mount and South Audley Streets.

While I chatted to the regulars who came to collect my handouts, the carriage turned and rolled slowly my way.

The beggars melted into the dark with a swiftness that startled me. The last snatched the paper-wrapped tart I was about to hand him and sprinted away.

“Leg it, missus,” he advised me over his shoulder, and then he was gone.

The carriage halted. Since I had no intention of running and could easily retreat down the stairs at my back if necessary, I held my ground and peered up at the coach.

A slim man in a dark suit, with a hatchet-like face and gray hair under a low-crowned hat, dropped off the back. Instead of approaching me, he opened the door so that another gray-haired man could look out.

“Mrs. Holloway.” He stated my name without a question in his voice. He knew good and well who I was. “Will you step into the carriage with me? I would like a word.”

The man was not as thin as his manservant, or whoever he was who’d opened the door, but there wasn’t much meat on him, either. The sleeve that encased the sticklike arm he gestured with was of the finest cloth, likely cashmere. The shoulder of this well-fitted coat was lost in the folds of an opera cloak fastened at the man’s chin.

The face above the cloak was mostly in shadow, but I saw a beaked nose, a sloping forehead, and dark eyes that glittered like onyx.

I edged back toward the steps, the iron railing of the house reassuring. If I had to flee into the kitchen, the footmen below,fearless of everything except Mr. Davis’s temper, would race up here to chase this carriage away. Tess and Elsie might run out to help them.

“I am hardly likely to join you, am I?” I forced myself to meet the man’s gaze, which was difficult. I’d never seen such a hard stare in my life. “I do not know you, and a woman entering a carriage, alone, with a stranger, would be the height of foolishness, wouldn’t it?”

I do not know if he expected me to be trembling and instantly obedient, but if so, he’d be disappointed.

The man lowered his hand and gave me a nod. “I understand. I will introduce myself. My name is Naismith—Julius Naismith—and I wish to discuss something of importance with you.”

18

My mouth popped open for a brief moment before cold shock washed through me.

I’d expected this to be one of the men Mr. Patterson had mentioned—Mr. Draper, perhaps, who’d grown sleek and wealthy from running gaming rooms. Though this man seemed too old for lads who might have been ten or so thirty years ago, a life of dissipation and survival in the East End could leave its mark.

Mr. Naismith. The man Daniel and Mr. Fielding were simultaneously wary of and enraged at. The man who’d murdered Mr. Carter, or at least caused the man’s death and burned his home.

My legs were a bit wobbly, but I refused to shrink away, even as I struggled to breathe.

“I see,” I managed.

Mr. Naismith peered down at me as though he understood more about me than I wished him to. “I truly do want to speak to you, but I have no intention of leaving this coach.”

“Probably wise, as you are far off your patch.” My tart words tumbled out, fear preventing me from guarding my tongue. “I must tell you, sir, that I am acquainted with many policemen, and even call some of them friend.”

Mr. Naismith dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “Tell them anything you like. They already know much about me.”

His voice wasn’t cultured, but it also did not hold the deep accent of the East End or Cockney London, where people could talk to one another without any outsiders understanding a word.

Probably, like me, he’d learned to alter his speech, so as to not betray his origins. Those who heard him would know he wasn’t exactly one of them but wouldn’t know where he came from unless he wished them to.

The confidence with which Naismith spoke about the police knowing of his activities was chilling. He didn’t care, didn’t believe he could be touched. The fact that he was still alive and obviously prosperous made his belief true, at least thus far.

I could turn and march down the stairs, claiming I had no interest in anything he’d impart, but my curiosity would not let me. If he’d come all the way into Mayfair, there must be a reason. I’d forever wonder if I didn’t inquire.

“What do you wish to say to me, Mr. Naismith?” I asked, trying to sound calm.

“That McAdam and Fielding are stumbling into a mire, but they have it wrong. It’s nothing of my doing.”

I forced my expression not to change. “Why are you pleading your innocence with me?”