“My current circumstance is a precaution, not cowardice,” Denis said. “I’d be foolish indeed to show myself in a window, when likely a sharpshooter has been placed in a house behind me, or on a rooftop. Mr. Creasey is thorough.”
I glanced at the muffling draperies. “He would require a precise weapon for that distance.”
“Such things exist. A crossbow, for instance, can be quite deadly and accurate in the correct hands.”
I swallowed. I had not had to worry about such things as sharpshooters since leaving the army, and even then none of them had wielded anything as archaic as a crossbow.
“I hope you solve the problem soon,” I said.
“I intend to. Good day, Captain. Please greet your wife for me and have a pleasant journey to Oxfordshire.”
Denis wanted me gone, out of the way. One less worry for him. I would oblige him, whether I wished to or not. Brewster and Donata would make certain of it.
I nodded politely to him, and Brewster and I took our leave.
I SPENT another pleasant night with my wife and daughter at home. After taking supper with Donata, I carried my books on chess from the library, set up the board in her sitting room, and began working through various problems in the tomes. One was in French, and I would have to brush up on that language.
Donata watched me in part-amusement, part-alarm. “You are not going to play that awful man again, are you?”
“I have no desire to.” I studied a page then moved a rook to box in a king. I remembered this play, I was pleased to note. “But the match intrigued me, and I thought I’d find out what I recalled. Perhaps your father will fancy a game.”
“He might.” Donata relaxed and went back to her newspapers. “Though I will declare both of you mad.”
I thought of the chess-obsessed gentleman from whom I’d taken lessons to pass the time in Pairs and conceded she could be right. But then, Gabriella might enjoy learning to play, if she did not know how already, and so might Peter. He was a bright boy and would catch on quickly. I looked forward to teaching him.
We retired to bed before long, Donata reposing with me once more. I could grow used to having her at my side every night, though I knew it was highly unfashionable for an aristocratic lady to share a bedchamber with her husband.
I was again in an amiable mood in the morning as I made my way down to breakfast. Bartholomew served me, and Barnstable set my correspondence and a morning newspaper at my elbow.
I scanned the few letters I would read thoroughly later and unfolded the newspaper. About halfway down the first page, words in large type leapt out at me.
Murder in Cable Street.
Horrific death of a gentleman just returned from the West Indies.
CHAPTER 17
I had shoved a large hunk of toasted bread into my mouth, and I half choked on it. Coughing, I slurped down coffee even as I leapt from my chair.
Bartholomew, who’d lingered to see if the sideboard needed to be replenished, started back in alarm, the lid to a silver tray in his hand.
“Are you all right, sir? What’s happened?”
I waved the newspaper at him. “They’ve killed Laybourne.” My words were muffled until I gulped more coffee and cleared my throat. “The chap from Eden’s ship. Where is Brewster?”
Bartholomew slammed the lid onto the tray of sliced ham. “I’ll find him, Captain. Want a coach?”
“Please.”
We dashed from the room, Bartholomew and his youthful energy taking him out ahead of me. He ran down the back stairs while I made for the front door, calling for my coat and hat.
A hired coach arrived as Brewster emerged from the outside stairs at the same moment I exited the house.
“Wapping Docks,” I told the driver. “The River Police.”
The driver pursed his lips but nodded, starting the horses the moment Brewster and I were aboard.
“I killed him,” I announced.
Brewster’s eyes widened in alarm. “Don’t say such when you’re near the River Police. Ye were in bed all night with your lady.”
“I mean that my words killed him. I reported my suspicions to Seabrook, and Seabrook said he’d tell a magistrate. Whoever was working with Laybourne knew this and murdered him before he could be arrested and reveal his cohorts.”
“Or a passing burglar did it. Mayhap there is a gang robbing houses in that area and knocking those in the head what try to stop them.”
“Hardly likely, and you know this. Depend upon it, Laybourne was a gun runner, but only part of a gang. If he went before a magistrate, he might well decide to give up the names of everyone involved. What would he have to lose?”
Brewster grunted, but ceased arguing.
Thompson was in when we reached the house of the River Police and came outside to meet me.
“Bad business,” he said, before I even spoke. “The Constable of the Tower has sent men to investigate, and so has Whitechapel. I heard this morning and went to the house in Cable Street. Mr. Laybourne’s throat was slit.”
I had perused the newspaper story while I’d waited for the coach and Brewster. The journalist had relished in the gore, talking about the blood splashed on the walls and the pools on the floor, though he’d likely not seen it for himself.
“Do they have any idea of the culprit?”
“None at all,” Thompson answered. “The landlady heard nothing. Was asleep, she says. Her bloodshot eyes tell me she was inebriated, so I believe her. The front door was unlocked—anyone could have gone inside. But Mr. Laybourne was the target, apparently, as no other tenant was hurt, and nothing was stolen. None of the lodgers heard anything either.”
Thompson’s pained expression told me what he thought of these heedless lodgers.
“I believe he was the owner of the carbine we found at Warrilow’s.” I quickly told him of my visit to Laybourne yesterday, and what Denis had suggested about the stolen cargo. “I told the customs official who had searched Laybourne’s ship. He reported to the magistrates.”
Thompson’s thin brows rose. “I’d heard nothing of this, but the other houses don’t always share information. True, the murder might have to do with weapons smuggling, but one gun in pieces is not the same as finding a stash.”
“If that stash can be found now,” I said glumly. “I ought to have marched Laybourne straight to you or Sir Montague in Whitechapel instead of leaving him to his meal.”
“You cannot arrest every man you speak to for showing fear. He might have been worried about something entirely different.”
“Yet, it seems he was not.”
“True, but now I and the other magistrates will be on the lookout. That carbine was new, not a collector’s gun. And your Mr. Denis might be right about how the cargos are being stolen. Doctoring the manifests mid-voyage—perhaps taking out a page or two—is a clever way to go about it. When the ships are unloaded, all the goods are accounted for, and the extra boxes are carted away before anyone realizes it.” He tapped his lips in thought. “Are these weapons part of that cargo? Perhaps loaded with some other goods and then that page of the manifest dropped overboard along the journey?”
“Can you question the ship’s captain?”