The Poisoner's Game

Chapter 24

A.

Camden Town, London

Passing the Regent's Canal, whose banks were lined with factories and warehouses, the crowded mixed suburb reminded me of more impulsive moments in my youth. On the rare occasion that I came home from the Navy, I would go to bawdy shows at the Old Bedford Music hall with my mates. We had all been a little bit in love with the star of Nelly Power. The hairs on the back of my neck twitched and I turned around to face the crowd. Yet, I didn't even see the expected pickpocket just the never-ending stream of working bodies. Three-story yellow brick houses lined the wide roads—they had become even more soot-stained and run down since I had last visited.

Shaking my shoulders, I carried on. It had taken me several weeks to learn the executor of Viscount Stanhild's will was alive. His fortunes must have plummeted for him to now be residing in a working-class neighborhood. I doubted that any member of the peerage would choose an executer without the highest qualifications. I stopped in front of a plain brick building with a sign that read "Law Office of Robert Winfield."

Up the stairs to the third floor, I knocked on a peeling door. An old man with snow white hair, sagging jowls, and wary brown eyes opened it. With only his head peeking out from the room, he looked down the dark hallway.

"Who are you?" he asked his voice barely above a hissed whisper.

"Lord Alexander Rocque, I contacted you a week ago. You're Mr. Winfield, correct?"

He looked me up and down, but his gaze didn't stay on me for long. It moved back down the hallway and stayed in that direction. His dry lips stretched over his teeth in something of a grimace.

"Is everything all right?"

Mr. Winfield nodded. "Come in, my lord."

Opening the door, Mr. Winfield allowed my entrance into the cramped room, scattered with papers, which smelt of leather polish and cheap whiskey. Mr. Winfield removed a stack of papers from a cracked leather chair with a sagging seat cushion.

"Please have a seat."

I sat down as Mr. Winfield moved aside the curtain covering the one window to look out on the street before he sat down.

"Mr. Winfield..."

"Lord Alexander..."

I waved, indicating that Mr. Winfield should continue. He composed himself, but for his shaking hands, and poured himself a snifter of whiskey. He offered me some, but I shook my head it was far too early to partake in libations.

"You've endangered me by coming here, my lord, but I am sure you know that. The Duke of Auden has little care for those he steps upon." Mr. Winfield wiped his chin with his stained shirt sleeve.

"How do you know my father?" I asked. My father had too many connections to this case. Each connection put down another nail, but I didn't know what it was building.

"Who doesn't know your father in this city?" Mr. Winfield snorted, setting down his glass with too much force. "He sent you here?"

"He didn't. I am investigating on behalf of Lady Margaret Savoy. Her late father was your client."

Mr. Winfield stilled. "The little girl?" He ran his hand through his stringy white hair.

"Young woman, now." My cheeks felt hot.

"The duke didn't send you?" Mr. Winfield asked again, his voice shaking.

"No. Why does it matter?" I leaned forward, the creaking chair echoing my movements.