Whose carts had the fisherman seen surreptitiously take away a few loads? Fitzgerald’s I wagered.
It must have been unnerving for both Fitzgerald and Laybourne when the customs agents were crawling all over the ship, randomly seizing goods. The customs men had already been alerted about missing cargos and were carefully examining everything.
Then there were the Kingstons. Harry, the boy from Warrilow’s lodgings, had said he’d seen Mr. Kingston attempt to visit Warrilow, and Kingston had admitted he’d been there. His story that he hoped Warrilow had made an appointment with him so Kingston could save his soul was thin. Harry had again seen Mr. Kingston outside later that night, and then the next day near Laybourne’s, though Kingston had denied that.
Then again, Mrs. Kingston was tall, though not as slender. I had noted that their heights were not too far apart. If she dressed in her husband’s clothes, she might pass for him in the darkness.
I drew another sheet of paper to me and wrote a note to Sir Montague Harris, suggesting that he investigate a man and wife by the name of Kingston, recently returned from Antigua, missionaries from Lambeth. Brewster was correct that missionaries could easily move about the world, in a prime position to smuggle goods. Port authorities and customs officials might dismiss them as unthreatening. Or, when the Kingstons began to preach at them, wave them through to be rid of them.
I’d sent this letter off with one of our footmen and was finishing my breakfast when Grenville returned.
He was flushed, agitated. “Excellent, you are awake.” Grenville slid out of the greatcoat Barnstable reached to take from him. “I called in at Brooks’s to see if Major Eden might be there. I agree we need to speak to him most pressingly. He’d anticipated my arrival and left this.”
Grenville shoved a folded paper at me. Barnstable slid out a chair, trying to coax Grenville to sit, but he remained standing, leaning his fists on the table.
I opened the paper and read.
Mr. Grenville,
Forgive my rudeness, but please pass word to Lacey to meet me at once at Number 25 Wellclose Square. I fear much and need his help.
Eden
CHAPTER 24
Barnstable had Grenville’s carriage, driven by his coachman, Jackson, ready for us in a flash.
I asked Jackson to take me first to St. Giles, where I would retrieve Brewster. While we crossed the city, I told Grenville what I’d been mulling over breakfast, and we speculated on my ideas.
I was very glad to sit across from Grenville once more, discussing an investigation. His quick mind complemented my plodding one, his diplomacy, my frontal attacks.
“Major Eden is ready to confess, is he?” Brewster asked when I summoned him from his house. Mrs. Brewster was there, greeting me cheerfully as usual, and pushing her Tommy out to help me once more.
“That remains to be seen.” The carriage could not come into the warrens, which suited Jackson, and so we walked through the awakening slum to meet the coach and Grenville at the church. “He is agitated enough to send for me.”
“Or he could be luring you into a trap, as Creasey did.”
“That is why I am bringing you along,” I said.
Once we were aboard, Jackson turned the coach along Holborn then south on Fetter Lane to Fleet Street and east until we were again past the Tower and into the once-elegant Wellclose Square.
The house Eden directed us to was on the east side of the square, around the corner from Warrilow’s lodgings. The home’s three stories rose to a series of dormer windows, again reminding me of Parisian residences.
The door was opened to our knock by a handsome, black-skinned woman with large dark eyes, whom I guessed to be in her thirties. She wore a trim gown of blue-and-white cotton stripe with a white lawn cap.
“Good evening, madam.” I greeted her with a bow. “I was told I’d find Major Eden here?”
“You must be Captain Lacey.” The woman exhaled in relief and opened the door wide. “Yes, please, come in.”
She spoke with the liquid accent of the West Indies, one I’d always found musical and soothing. At the moment, the woman showed much distress as she led us into a sitting room in the back of the house.
“He’s here,” she announced.
Eden rose from a chair near a cheerful fire. “Ah, thank God. We’re in a bit of a dilemma, Lacey. I see you found my note, Mr. Grenville. Excellent.”
“Grenville?” The woman looked Grenville up and down then pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh, my heavens. You are Mr. Grenville. I’ve read all about you in the newspapers.”
Grenville, nonplussed, removed his hat and bowed. “At your service, madam.” Though Grenville had traveled as hard as I had from Gloucestershire, he was dressed impeccably in a well-fitted suit and a brilliant white cravat, unsoiled gloves on his hands.
“Forgive my manners,” Eden said. “I am too distracted for formal introductions.” He swept his hand around the room. “Captain Lacey, Mr. Grenville, Mr. Brewster. Mrs. Davies.”
Mrs. Davies curtsied. “Pleased you have come, gentlemen. Major Eden says he relies on you. I’ll hunt up some tea. Won’t be a tick.”
Charmingly blending her West Indies accent with London cant, she moved smoothly out of the room.
“Lovely woman,” Grenville said. “Who the devil is she?”
“Er, well …”
“I was right,” I said in triumph. “You did spirit her away across the seas.”
“Not exactly. I am ready to confess, Lacey. No, not to murder.” Eden laughed breathlessly. “But all my sins. The trouble is, I’m afraid I’m about to be arrested.”
“By Pomeroy?” I asked in alarm. “Does he want to pin Laybourne’s death on you as well?”
“Eh? No, not the Runners,” Eden said. “Customs and Excise.”
“Customs and Excise?” Grenville broke in. “Can they arrest people? For what?”
“Smuggling, of course,” Eden said.
“What were you smuggling?” I asked sternly. “Artwork?” Had he been in league with Fitzgerald all this time?
Eden started. “What? No, no.” He swept his hand to a shadowy corner next to the fireplace. “Him.”
I gazed to where he gestured and saw a pair of eyes about three feet from the floor staring out at me, glittering in the thin light.
“Don’t be afraid, Robbie,” Eden said. “These are my friends. Come and say good morning.”
A small boy peeled himself from the wall and hurried to Eden’s side. His clothes were new and fashionable—trousers, shirt, and coat—though like most boys, including Peter, he’d already managed to wrench them awry. He had black skin and the same round eyes as Mrs. Davies.
“Cor,” Brewster said. “You smuggled ’im?”
Mrs. Davies returned bearing a tray, which Grenville instantly took from her to set on the wide tea table.
“He did.” Mrs. Davies sent a glowing smile to Eden. “Just as he promised.”
Eden’s flush rose. I recalled now that he not only blushed when he lied but also when caught out doing a good deed.
“Perhaps we should have that story now, Eden,” I said sternly.
“Not much to it.” Eden waved us to chairs as Mrs. Davies sat and poured tea.