“We would be happy to speak to him outside,” I said. “And save your floors.”
Mrs. Beadle sent me a good-natured smile. “I could get him cleaned up for tomorrow…”
“No, no.” Tomorrow was Friday and too near the time Donata would load me into the carriage and steer me out of Town. “I don’t mind a little mud. When I was in the cavalry, I fell into it plenty.”
Mrs. Beadle conceded and led us out the door into a small yard. I glanced at the garden wall to see it was indeed as high and thick as Brewster had mentioned. I also could not swear to which of the buildings towering over the other side housed Laybourne.
A small figure, liberally plastered with thick mud, waited in the drizzle. He stood stoically, hat, coat, breeches, and boots covered in muck as well as his hands and much of his face. He had scraped mud from his eyes, revealing two pale ovals of skin.
“This is Captain Lacey, Harry,” Mrs. Beadle said. “You mind your manners and answer any questions he asks you.”
She closed the door but hovered on the other side of it, watching through the glass. A wise woman to not let her grandson alone with two strange men.
I was sorry she had spoken so sternly to him, however, as Harry, about ten summers if I was to judge, looked up at me with trepidation in his brown eyes. I was usually good with boys, but he watched me in dislike.
“Good morning, Harry.” I extended a hand. “Captain Lacey, at your service. I was explaining to your grandmother that I grew as muddy as you falling off my horse in the cavalry.”
Harry wiped his palm on his breeches, which did no good, before taking my hand in a feather grip. He whipped his arm away just as fast, staring at me with misgivings.
Brewster leaned to him. “What did ye do to get yourself so covered in muck?”
“Boxing.” The reply was defiant.
“The other bloke knocked you down, did he?” Brewster asked.
“No other bloke. I was practicing by myself.”
“Were you, now? I’m a bit of a pugilist meself. Show me your stance.”
I thought Harry would refuse, but he planted one foot behind the other and brought up his fists.
“That’s not bad, lad. But you want to hold your forward hand a bit more turned up, like so.” Brewster gently turned the boy’s wrist, so his closed hand faced the sky. “Then, when you punch, you have more room to turn it for a hard strike.” He demonstrated a tight, focused blow to the air.
Harry watched in reverence, then tried to imitate the punch. Brewster put himself alongside the boy. “Shift your weight so one foot is always rock solid. The other gives you a place to go.”
He made a few more jabs, while Harry copied him diligently. Brewster had made a name for himself as a pugilist before he’d been a lackey for James Denis, and his technique was still polished and precise.
Harry began to unbend as Brewster showed him more moves. First came a grin, and then Harry started to talk. I stood back and let Brewster work his magic.
Eventually Brewster came around to the reason we were here. “The night the chap Warrilow were killed,” he said. “You saw everyone who went in and out that day, didn’t you?”
“Aye.” The answer came readily. “Mr. Warrilow had a couple of visitors, but he wouldn’t see none of them.”
“I wager you noticed everything about them.”
“I did.” The boy gave a competent roundhouse punch at Brewster, who caught it in his palm. “A tall, thin chap, came a little after five o’clock. Said he was a parson.”
“Did he give a name?” I broke in before I could stop myself.
Harry tensed, but Brewster distracted him by showing him another move. “’Tis all right, lad. My friend is curious.”
“I think it were King. Something of the sort.”
“Kingston?” I asked.
“Mayhap.”
Kingston—the missionary who’d been on the ship. Why had he sought out Warrilow?
“And Mr. Warrilow never saw him?” Brewster asked.
“Naw. Told me gran to send him away.”
“Anyone else?” Brewster prompted.
“Another chap not an hour later. Small bloke, suit all crumpled.”
Laybourne, I was certain. “He went up to Warrilow’s room,” I said.
Harry nodded. “But Mr. Warrilow only opened the door a crack. They were going on at each other, but I couldn’t hear what they said. The small bloke left after only a few minutes, his face all scrunched, stomping his feet all the way.”
That fit with what Mrs. Beadle had said. Laybourne hadn’t stayed long but had been very angry when he’d gone.
“And then later, the major,” Harry went on. “He were a kind bloke. Gave me a penny. Mr. Warrilow was already abed. I had lit a fire in his room not long before that, and he was in his nightshirt ready to climb under the covers. He told me to hurry it up and then leave him. So I did.”
“You are very certain Major Eden never went upstairs?”
“He never did. Blokes from the Tower asked me, and so did the Runner, but I said no. Because he didn’t. Later, when I was going up to my room—I stay here with my grandmother sometimes—I heard Mr. Warrilow snoring behind his door. Snoring loud. I think that was about ten in the evening. I thought I saw the parson chap lurking out in the street, but I couldn’t be certain. I went to bed after that. Then in the morning, Mr. Warrilow were dead,” Harry finished with animation.
Harry seemed a clever lad, not one to misunderstand what he observed. In that case, Eden had arrived and departed without going up, as Mrs. Beadle had stated, and Warrilow was alive and asleep at ten o’clock.
Eden might be saved the noose after all—if the boy would swear to Eden leaving well before Warrilow had been killed, and that Laybourne and Mr. Kingston had also been visitors. That is, if a magistrate or judge would accept his testimony. Boys weren’t always believed.
I made myself stem my excitement by reasoning that Pomeroy likely had already spoken to Laybourne and Mr. Kingston, discovering that they were elsewhere when Warrilow died. Probably with witnesses, like the maid who’d tasted the tonic. Eden had no alibi, and therefore, Pomeroy had started the hue and cry after him.
“Thank you, Harry.” I fished in my pocket for a coin. “For your trouble.” I laid a shilling in his outstretched and very dirty hand.
“Thank you, sir.” Harry doffed his cap and bowed to me as though I were an aristocrat. Drizzle glistened in his hair.
“You go on practicing,” Brewster told him. “And you’ll be up to scratch in no time. The trick is, ye pick an opponent what is equal to ye. Too tough, and they’ll hurt ye. Too easy, and it’s not much of a victory.”
“Right you are, sir.” Harry happily returned to punching at the air.
Mrs. Beadle opened the door for us. “You ought not to have given him so much, Captain,” she said reprovingly.
“Nonsense,” I said. “He’s been very helpful. He told us a man called Kingston came about. Did you see him?”
“I did not. I was busy in the kitchen at the time. It’s part of Harry’s job to open the door to visitors when I’m elsewhere. Any rate, he didn’t stay, did he? Mr. Warrilow didn’t much want to see anyone.”