“Very well.”
“Excellent. Give Inspector Dimm this letter.”
The letter was already prepared and addressed. “You knew I would agree?”
Harrison smiled. There was something familiar about the smile behind the mustache, but Rex could not place it. Perhaps what he recognized was the sense of being managed, the way his father had manipulated him into coming to London and helping Miss Carville. Which reminded him: “If I chose not to accept this assignment, would you let Miss Carville hang, knowing she is innocent of the crime?”
Again the spymaster did not say aye or nay.
“Damn you for a blackmailer and a blackguard.”
Harrison stood and sketched a slight bow. “We all do what we must, in service to King and country. Remember that.”
Chapter Twelve
R
ex had done enough, he thought, as he made his way to Bow Street. He was doing enough for his father, too, limping his way through London. When was he to be left in peace, to find his own path?
Granted he hadn’t found any direction yet, but that was not to say he mightn’t enjoy counting sheep and deciding whether to plant mangel-wurzels or maize. He was tired of others deciding for him. Yes, he had joined the army willingly, anxious to prove his worth and his courage like every other red-blooded—and blue-blooded—Englishman. What, should he have become another park-saunterer wasting his patrimony in idle pleasure while others died to keep the Corsican from British soil?
They had not let him fight.
Now they wanted him to become a Robin Redbreast. The populace hated and distrusted the new police department as much as they despised spies. The beau monde looked upon the Bow Street Runners as little better than ferrets set out to kill mice, one kind of vermin set out to kill another kind.
Rex slashed with his cane at a scrap of paper swirling through the filthy London streets and almost stumbled while two clerks watched and snickered, thinking him drunk. He wished them to perdition.
What he really wished to do was return to the Hall and sail his boat away from everyone, those who pitied him, those who worried about him, those who thought he was wasting his life. No, that was a lie he could not tell, even to himself. What he truly wanted was to return to Royce House and make sure Miss Carville was not set back from the morning’s interview. She was ill; he had been harsh. He ought to apologize and make certain she was comfortable. He could find another, less finicky physician if she still had the fever. He could hire more maids if Nanny was too old. Zeus, he ought to help Daniel bring back her parents’ portraits that she valued so highly, if they would bring her solace. Perhaps he should stop at a bookseller and find her the latest novel to read during her convalescence. Or did she like to have flowers about her?
He stumbled again when he realized where his mind was wandering. What he had to do was find the killer— soon—not find out if Miss Carville liked roses instead of lilies. If the price of information was a few hours playing at policeman, so be it. Far better to serve his country that way than by siring more misfits, no matter what the Aide thought. Or his father. Or Nanny. Or Daniel.
He wondered what Miss Carville thought.
Where were they? Amanda had napped; then she’d forced herself to eat some biscuits along with her tea. She had to get better, stronger, so she could act on her own behalf. Her headache was gone, but her worries were not.
Why had they not sent word? Surely Lord Rexford and his cousin knew how desperate she was for good news. She did not wish to be ungrateful, but she could not help fretting that the two men were what Aunt Hermione Hawley called choice spirits, hey-go-mad gentlemen out on a lark. A lark? To her it was life or death.
She dismissed her lack of trust. Lord Rexford took her situation seriously, enough to break the law, jeopardizing his military career. Mr. Stamfield was willing to break a few more laws, plus windows. Good grief, what if they were arrested? How could Amanda ever explain to Lady Royce that her son was in prison? Who could she ask to bail him out? How could she console the viscount’s dog, who was resting on her feet, watching the door mournfully and whining occasionally. Who, by all that was holy, would help Amanda if Lord Rexford could not?
Amanda pulled at a thread on her handkerchief, half unraveling the hem. “Why haven’t they come back? It has been so long.”
She must have spoken aloud because Nanny looked up from her knitting. “Long? It has only been an hour, dearie.”
The Bow Street building was crowded, noisy, dirty, and the people there were more discourteous than Rex was used to as a dignified gentleman or as a military officer. No one dropped what he was doing to rush to Rex’s assistance. No one stood or saluted. Everyone seemed too busy solving crimes or planning new ways to commit them. Rex appreciated the industriousness of the office, if not the wait until someone directed him toward the back of the long room.
He tried to close his mind to the clashing colors of outright lies and half-truths as he walked past rows of pickpockets and prostitutes to where Harrison’s friend, Inspector Dimm, rated a private cubbyhole. A very young assistant working at a battered desk outside the door directed Rex to knock, then enter the tiny office that contained two chairs, a desk, and files and folders stacked floor to ceiling.
Inspector Dimm was old, with no pretense of being anything else. What hair he had was grizzled gray, his hands had age spots, and his face was creased with lines of experience. His body had lost its shape to good eating and a lot of sitting.
Dimm took his stockinged feet off the desk, the unlit pipe out of his mouth, and heaved himself out of his chair to welcome Rex. As soon as he heard Rex’s name, before reading Harrison’s letter, he was beaming like a boy with a new pony on Christmas morning. His eyes twinkled, and Rex thought he might have rubbed his hands together in glee if they were not filled with his pipe and the letter.
“I was hoping Himself could convince you to stop by,” the Runner said, offering Rex a glass of ale and the other chair, once it was cleared of yet more papers and reward posters. “Just put them on the floor. And do forgive my bare feet, my lord. Or is it Captain? Two many years walking the streets as a Runner, don’t you know.”
“Rexford will do,” Rex said, unwilling to meet the other man’s friendliness and familiarity.
Dimm noticed the lack of warmth in his guest as he filled two glasses. “I suppose Harris had to twist your arm?”
“Do you speak of Harrison?”
“The chap has many names, many enemies, and many ways of solving problems, thank goodness.”
“His ways are not always aboveboard.” Or else Rex would not be here now.
“With the weight of the world on his shoulders, how can he worry over minor details?”
This told Rex much about Dimm’s flexible notions of justice and law enforcement. While Dimm found a pair of spectacles under the papers and read Harrison’s note, Rex’s uneasiness grew at the idea of being associated with yet another authority who believed the ends justified the means.
After asking Rex’s approval, Dimm relit his pipe and puffed for a moment to get it going. Then he sighed in contentment. “I am deuce glad you came, Captain. We are overwhelmed. The criminals are beginning to outnumber the law abiders, it seems.”
“I am interested in one particular case that—”
Dimm set his spectacles back on the desk. “He says to trust your findings. I tell my trainees that an officer of the law has to keep an open mind, to consider every possibility, to look at the facts from every direction, and then trust his own instincts. No explanation for a man’s instincts, eh? And no way to prove they work, either. But now you are adding a scientific bent from your research with the army. Facts and figures don’t lie, eh? All in black and white.”
Not quite, but close.
“Excellent. The world is a better place for the new sciences.”
Science? There was no science to the magic of truth-seeing. It was simply there. But Rex was saved having to lie.
“The letter also says not to discuss your work with anyone.”
Thank goodness. “Major Harrison, or Mr. Harris, considers that spies and assassins are everywhere. This new, ah, science could be a target.”
“Hm. He might have a point, if word got out that honesty was measurable, like time. There are people whose livelihoods depend on bending the truth.”
Rex thought about the spymaster. “Or hiding it.”
Dimm changed the subject. “My superiors do not approve of beating confessions out of suspects, you know.”
So he had heard the rumors, the damning reports of Rex’s military career as an interrogator and gatherer of the enemy’s secrets. Rex supposed everyone knew of the feared Inquisitors. “Nor do I.”
“Good, good. As long as we are in agreement, then, let us see what you can do, eh? Then we can decide how best to use your skills.”
He called out for Clarence to bring in Nate the Skate. While they waited, Inspector Dimm explained that Clarence was one of his grandnephews. “Although the devil if I can remember which nevey’s son he is. I train up a lot of the family. Letting Bow Street give them a salary is easier than paying their room and board myself. Asides, I always say that if you want to see the job done right, use your own relations. The trustworthy ones, at any rate.”
Rex’s father would approve. Out of politeness and a little curiosity, Rex asked the inspector if he had a big family.
“More than I can keep track of. It’s a mixed blessing, never a Sunday without an invite for supper. Never a moment when some whelp isn’t sleeping on my couch or some gal isn’t getting wed or giving birth. They always expect gifts, don’t you know. What of yourself?”
“I just have my father and two cousins.”
“No wife?”
A gleam came to the old man’s eyes that reminded Rex of the French soldiers, before they shot at him. “Not yet. I have been off to war.”
“Quite right, not leaving a poor lass behind to fret. What of your mother?”
Rex did not count the countess as kin. He shook his head, no. He doubted she cared enough to worry.
Dimm must have misunderstood because he said, “My beloved wife, may she rest in peace, had a score of brothers and sisters herself. So did I, so there is no dearth of new recruits to train every year.”
Before Rex had to correct Dimm’s assumption, young Clarence came back with a small man in scuffed boots and tattered frieze jacket, his hands cuffed behind his back. Dimm waved Rex to the corner of the room.
“Now Nate, I am going to ask you a few simple questions and I want you to answer honestly.”
“I did it.”
“Dash it, Nate, I haven’t asked the question yet. Did you break into the warehouse on Donegal Street?”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
Behind Nate’s back, Rex shook his head, no. The man had lied.
“What about the robbery at Lord Peckenham’s?”
“I did that one, too. Got a satchel full of silver. Platters, the tea set, spoons.”
Rex saw nothing but red. He did not understand why the man confessed to crimes he did not commit.
“Because he’d be on the street otherwise,” Dimm said after Nate was led away, “cold and hungry and in constant danger from the other alley dwellers. He comes in once a week, confesses to some crime that made a splash in the newspapers. We give him a hot meal and let him sleep in one of the empty cells. No harm done.”
But a lot of kindness. Rex relaxed. “So did I pass the test?”
“That was too easy, I am thinking. Clarence, bring in Butts.”
The next suspect was not half as innocent as Nate the Skate. Butts was a surly dockworker with tattoos everywhere his clothes weren’t. He spit at Dimm’s feet when the inspector asked if the man had killed his partner.
“No.”
Rex knew instantly that the man was lying, but tried to appear as if he were studying Butts’s mannerisms. There was not much to study in “No.”
Dimm helped him by asking more questions. “How did that crate happen to fall off the ladder just when your partner walked by?”
“How should I know? I weren’t anywhere near.”
Another lie.
Then Dimm asked—an experiment of his own, Rex knew—“Did you kill Sir Frederick Hawley, too?”
“Hell no, why would I? He weren’t bedding my wife too, was he? ’Sides, you can’t pin that on me. Everyone knows the gentry mort did it.”
Now he was telling the truth, and Rex regretted that he wouldn’t get to see Butts hang for his partner’s murder.
When Butts was dragged out, after his near confession, Dimm asked, “Did the mort—that is, the lady—kill him?”
“No.”
“You are certain?”
“As certain as sin.”
“Very well. I can get you the files and the evidence as soon as I clear some of these other cases. Are you willing to help?”
Despite the urgency to get back to Miss Carville, Rex found that he was willing. Interested, even. Dimm accepted his judgments on the next two suspects brought in, because they tallied with the evidence and his own instincts, but the Runner was stymied. “I’ve seen everything in my time, don’t you know. This is something beyond my ken. ’Course, I can’t convict anyone on your say-so.”
“I wish you would not use my name at all.”
“Well, I won’t admit I listened to your guesses. I might as well say I consulted a gypsy fortune-teller. I still need evidence to make a case. But now the field is a lot smaller. I don’t have to look for other suspects, and don’t have to accept any more beggars’ confessions, instead of looking for the real thieves. Harris was right, you are a very handy man to have around. Another hour, shall we say?”
Rex stayed in the back corner, giving thumbs-up for truth, thumbs-down for a lie. He consulted his notes a time or two to try to look official, if not scientific. He could have come to the same conclusions without seeing the men’s faces, but if Inspector Dimm pretended to accept the notion of a learned experiment, Rex was willing to pretend he had a technical system. In fact, he found the experience fascinating.