Page 21

The clerks—or whoever they were—were not working industriously behind their desks. Instead, they gathered in the center of the room in argument. One man declared stoutly that Sam Millburn would never do all the things he’d been accused of, especially not murder.

My heart warmed, then chilled again when the others chorused that the speaker was a fool—Millburn had done this all right. That’s what came of letting those no better than factory workers into a respectable bank like Daalman’s.

The man who’d spoken up for Sam clamped his mouth shut, but his sullenness told me he wasn’t convinced of Sam’s guilt. He was about the same age as Sam—early thirties—his brown eyes matching his hair, which like Mr. Zachary’s glistened with pomade.

He caught sight of me hovering in the doorway, and his scowl turned to a frown of puzzlement. One of the others noted his gaze and turned to see what he stared at.

“Yes?” The clerk who’d proclaimed Sam was little more than a factory worker addressed me, barely forcing politeness into the word. “Can we help you, madam?”

I wanted to demand they tell me everything. But I knew the dozen or so men in this room would never obey an unknown woman who’d blundered into their midst.

“I lost my way, I am afraid.” Still shaken from Sam’s arrest, I sounded feeble without trying very hard. “Could one of you show me out?”

The man who’d spoken to me showed contempt at my ignorance. “Stairs at the end of this hall. Will take you down to the ground floor. The front door will be obvious.”

None of the others offered any advice. They wanted me gone.

The clerk who’d stood up for Sam pushed his way through them. “I’ll take you, madam.”

I backed into the hall as he came out the door. The man gave his fellow employees a glance of disgust before he slammed the portal behind him.

“My apologies for my colleagues’ rudeness,” he said. “We’ve had a bit of an upset today.”

Unlike Miss Swann and Mr. Zachary, he did not rush to reassure me that all was well.

As he led me through the echoing corridor, I took a chance. “I saw Sam be arrested,” I whispered.

The man halted so abruptly, I nearly ran into him. He swung around and stared at me in shock.

“You know Sam—Mr. Millburn?”

“Very well, yes.”

He continued to stare, trying to decide who I was. I’d used Sam’s Christian name, a highly improper thing for a woman to do, unless she was a relation or on other intimate terms. I did think of Joanna as my sister, and Sam, by extension, as my brother. In their home, we addressed one another by our given names, as did Grace, she appending “Aunt” and “Uncle” to them.

“His wife is my dearest friend,” I supplied.

“Ah.” He cleared his throat, his face softening, as though he’d met the warmhearted Joanna. “I’m Mr. Kearny. Roderick Kearny. I’ve known Sam for years and am his closest friend here.” He glanced around as though worried about listening ears. “Probably his only friend,” he muttered.

“Then I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Kearny. I am Mrs. Holloway. I have known the Millburns for years myself.” I lowered my voice. “Why on earth did they accuse him of murder?”

“To quiet things down as quickly as possible.” Mr. Kearny’sdisgust shone forth. “Easier to throw Millburn to the dogs and declare everything solved than have a proper investigation. That would bring around the police and journalists, and this bank prides itself on discretion.”

“It was a Mr. Stockley who was killed, correct?” I asked. “Who was he, exactly?”

“Who told you that?” Mr. Kearny demanded.

I folded my lips and looked wise.

Mr. Kearny sighed. “I suppose everyone will know soon.” He echoed Miss Swann’s declaration. “Mr. Stockley is a senior clerk. Upstairs.” Mr. Kearny pointed straight upward. “He often clashed with Mr. Millburn, who is a junior clerk. Mr. Stockley was the sort who thought he was right about everything.”

I had met plenty of people like that in my life. “Is that what you are, a senior clerk? Or a junior?”

“Neither. I am one of the bankers. Trusted with the funds of the great and good.” He sent me a self-deprecating smile. “It was hard work that took me up the ranks, not genius. Luck as well.” Mr. Kearny’s mouth pinched. “It was onmyrecommendation that Millburn obtained his post at all. I’m certain blame will be laid on me for that.” He frowned in puzzlement. “Millburn has never mentioned me?”

“He does not speak of his office work at home,” I said. “Sam’s attention is all for his wife and his children then. Granted, I am not there much when he is home.”

Mr. Kearny nodded as though my glib explanation soothed his feelings. “Poor Mrs. Millburn. Perhaps I ought to—”