Page 61 of Murder in Blackfriars

“I doubt it.” Daniel had leaned to watch me write. “Draper was quite annoyed that he wouldn’t see the money again. He must have known Banks wouldn’t have such a sum on him or in his rooms, so that lets out any idea Draper might have had to rob him.”

“Then how would Mr. Banks have paid it back?” I asked.

“Any number of ways, I imagine. Banks could borrow money from another friend, though I haven’t turned up a wealthy man or even a moderately well-off one among his acquaintances. He might have sold something, but we know hehad little to sell. He might have tried to work more jobs for builders and saved the sum, though I have not yet found any evidence of that. He might have worked it off for Draper—Draper could have had Banks running errands for him or perhaps acting as a guard in the games rooms, since he was an old soldier.”

I dutifully wrote all this down, then touched the pen to my lip. “Mr. Naismith seemed to believe Mr. Banks was involved in something furtive going on around the docks. Something Mr. Draper was involved in as well? Not that I took Mr. Naismith at his word about anything.”

“A good viewpoint to keep.”

“When Mr. Banks contacted you, through Mr. Grimes, did this alarm Mr. Draper? Or anyone who thought Mr. Banks might be telling you something he should not?” I drew an eager breath. “Something that was to take place near Pudding Dock? Why else would he go there instead of straight to the pub to meet us?”

“Why indeed?” Daniel’s eyes began to light with the interest I knew well. “I’d think, if Banks wanted to confess he was committing dirty deeds for Draper, that he’d meet us first and then take us to the docks.”

“He might have had an appointment with someone else,” I suggested.

“This is all true. Things to find out.” Daniel grinned at me. “Wearebetter at this together.”

“Of course we are. Two heads are better than one, as the saying goes.”

Daniel’s severe expression returned. “That does not mean I want you poking around Blackfriars on your own. Grimes and I will do that chore.”

“Mr. Grimes said there were men watching him,” Iremembered. “He warned me, then tried to draw them off. But if they belonged to Mr. Naismith, there was nothing he could do.”

“I doubt Naismith would be that clumsy, but who knows? At least Errol was wise enough to use Grimes to help him protect Patterson, though I’m not happy with my brother for stealing Grimes from me. Neither of them wanted a repetition of what happened to Banks.” Daniel’s spirits flagged. “I ought to have met Banks in his rooms, where he’d have been safe.”

“You couldn’t know that what he had to say was worth murder,” I pointed out. “His death likely has nothing at all to do with his meeting with you, and everything to do with his connection to Mr. Draper, or others like him. What if he owed money to more villains than Mr. Draper? Who might not have been as patient?”

“Many avenues to pursue.” Daniel drained his teacup, then lowered it slowly. “You are right, Kat. We should not let Naismith drive us from our lives or keep us from discovering the truth. Banks doesn’t deserve that. My enmity with Naismith is a separate issue.”

“Will you find out what he wants your help with?” That had my curiosity afire. “I can’t imagine why so powerful a criminal needs aid.”

“I find it incredible he claims he had nothing to do with Carter’s death.” Daniel shook his head. “But, granted, I was ten years old at the time, hiding behind a woodpile. I never saw Naismith. Only terrible men killing everyone who couldn’t get away from them. It was horrible.”

Daniel closed his eyes, and I knew he was envisioning it, his terror as he watched the only man who’d been good to him be murdered before his eyes. Mr. Fielding, not much older, had been there, but he’d fled, knowing, quite rightly, that there would be nothing he could do.

I laid my hand on Daniel’s, but I said nothing. There was nothingtosay. It was his pain, which he’d carried with him for more than twenty years, and all I could do was sit with him, letting him know he was not alone.

Eventually, Daniel opened his eyes, drawing a long breath.

He stilled, frowning. “What is that?”

I looked to what he gazed at. I realized that when I’d lifted the towel to wipe up the tea I’d spilled, I’d revealed the picture book, which I’d hidden under it. I’d planned to show it to him after we spoke about Mr. Naismith.

I drew it to us and turned it so he could see the cover. “I found this on Hannah’s table, and it occurred to me to wonder. Mrs. Forbes said Robbie had a book he wouldn’t let go of. Could you be remembering a longing for the seaside because your parents gave you a picture book about it?”

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Daniel touched the cracked picture on the book’s cover. He traced the line of the shore, the ocean’s blue-green stretching to the horizon.

“It is possible,” he admitted. He didn’t speak animatedly or with any great hope, which meant the book did not bring his childhood memories flooding back.

“Look through it,” I urged.

Daniel opened the book without much eagerness, leafing through the pages. There were black-and-white ink drawings within, with a few colored plates.

The story, which I’d read through when I’d brought it home, was about a mother and father trying to persuade their reluctant child that he would enjoy the seaside. The pale and spindly boy wished to stay home and read his history books—an unrealistic child, in my opinion—and the parents explained to him all the wonders he’d find at the seaside.

Only when a second child, just returned from the ocean,joins in does the boy relent. The family journeys to the sea, and the boy finds it all they’d described and better. The son ceases reading his moldy tomes and thrives in the fresh air and sunshine.