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Chapter

Seventeen

A DOOR WITHOUT ANSWERS

T he address I’d pried from a reluctant member at White’s was tucked along a quiet, grim little street in the less than desirable, but still acceptable, streets of Clerkenwell—one of those aging rows of brick where the city’s gloss had worn thin, and the business of men with sharp smiles and sharper deals thrived behind discreet plaques.

I had no great hopes as I approached. Men like Walsh didn’t leave their real sins lying about where any curious soul might stumble across them. Still, even a spider’s web left clues if you knew how to look.

A discreet brass plate beside the door read simply: “ Great Western Silver Trust .”

I rapped once with my cane, sharp against the fog-muffled afternoon.

A young man—no more than five and twenty—opened the door. He wore a neat if threadbare jacket, a clerk’s ink-stained fingers, and the wary expression of a man accustomed to saying as little as possible.

"Good afternoon, sir," he said, eyeing me with cautious civility. "May I assist you?"

"I’m here about Lord Walsh," I said smoothly. "Your employer."

The clerk paled visibly, confirming more in that instant than he realized. "I—I’m not sure what you mean, sir. I only manage the post."

"Indeed," I said, stepping over the threshold without invitation. He retreated automatically, leading me into a narrow vestibule lined with battered filing cabinets and the faint, musty smell of old paper. No other living soul was there. Nor did there appear to be any documents of recent vintage. The place was bare—bare of true business, bare of wealth. A false front. No real company worked out of these rooms.

"You handle messages?” I inquired. Clearly, that was the only purpose for his presence.

"Y-yes, sir," he stammered. "I was instructed to receive communications addressed to the Great Western Silver Trust and forward them to Lord Walsh. That’s all. I swear it."

“Who sent them?”

A flicker of hesitation.

"Tell me," I said quietly.

He swallowed hard. "They were mostly from gentlemen. But some were anonymous. A few names came up more than once. Lord Danforth. Lord Finch. Mr. Halwell."

I filed the names away. All men of means. All known in society. "What about the contents?" I asked. "Any impressions?”

The clerk hesitated. "They were usually short. Urgent. Some spoke of 'installments' or 'shares.' Others simply requested meetings. A few warned of consequences if promises weren’t kept."

In other words, threats. Walsh had promised wealth and delivered ruin, and now even his own backers had begun to turn on him.

"Did you handle any payments?" I pressed.

The clerk shook his head violently. "No, sir. Only papers. If money changed hands, it wasn’t here."

I believed him. The poor fool looked ready to faint at the mere suggestion.

Walsh had spearheaded a scheme meant to attract capital with the promise of greater gains. And a number of fools believed him. But he couldn’t have acted alone. No one in their right mind would have taken Walsh’s sole word for it. That would need investigating.

“Did you copy the messages?”

“Oh, no, sir. I wouldn’t do that. It was private correspondence. I just read them, that’s all, as instructed by Lord Walsh.”

“Do you remember who warned of consequences?”

“Lord Finch and Lord Danforth.”

“What about Mr. Halwell?”

“He wanted his money back. He was quite insistent.”

I grew impatient. “What did it say?”

“No more delays, no more dodging. I want my money back— with interest .”

I left the clerk with a warning to forget I had ever been there, though I doubted he would sleep soundly for a month.

As I stepped back into the misty London afternoon, I allowed myself a grim smile.