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Chapter

Thirty-Two

THE INFORMANT

T he trap had been laid. The bait positioned exactly where it would draw his attention. Now came the part I liked least—waiting.

I paced. Constantly. Not just in moments of tension, but in thought, in habit, in the hollow space between questions and answers. By the time noon came around, I’d nearly worn a track through the carpet in my study at Steele House.

When I wasn’t pacing, I was reading. The pages spread out before me weren’t aristocratic genealogies or idle reading. They were copies of the latest legislative amendments tied to land inheritance law, marked with notes from three separate clerks. Dry, dense, and crucial. And utterly impossible to concentrate on.

Because all I could think about was Heller.

It wasn’t until just past four o’clock that the knock came. Sharp, quick, and not at all in keeping with the usual rhythm of staff or messenger.

Waving away Clifford, I opened the door myself.

The boy on the step couldn’t have been more than twelve. Bare-knuckled, sharp-eyed, his cap pulled low over shaggy hair. He didn’t speak. Just held out a crumpled piece of paper, pinched between his fingers like it might bite.

I took it and unfolded it.

Spitalfields. Nine o’clock. The Red Hound Tavern.

No signature. None needed. I recognized the hand as one of my informants, the kind who knew better than to write anything more than necessary.

I looked at the boy. “Anything else?”

He shrugged. “Said you’d know.”

I gave him a coin. He vanished without another word.

I crossed to my desk and penned a brief note to Rosalynd.

Movement confirmed. Meeting at nine. Will update afterwards. Don’t expect me til late.

I signed it with my initials and rang for a trusted footman to deliver it.

Then I turned to the matter of dressing. It had to be something that wouldn’t draw a second glance—plain, rough, forgettable. The sort of thing a common man might wear without notice. I rang for my manservant and explained what I needed. He didn’t bat an eye. This wasn’t the first time I’d gone into the dark under a different face.

The man I needed to be tonight wore threadbare trousers, a coat worn soft with age, and a cap that would not attract undue attention. Nothing that clung to my title. Nothing that would catch the gleam of a streetlamp.

When the time came, my valet rubbed a smear of ash through the white streak above my temple, dulling the mark that too many might recognize or remember. I pulled the cap down low. No one could call me elegant. But it was effective. At the Red Hound, no one looked twice at a man who stayed in the shadows.

At the appointed hour, I took an unmarked hackney and disembarked three streets shy of the tavern. Close enough to watch. Far enough to avoid being seen.

Spitalfields was still, wrapped in the stale fog of supper hour and suspicion. The Red Hound crouched on the corner like something half-forgotten and half-feral.

I stepped inside. It was dim, low-ceilinged, thick with smoke and old beer. The fire burned low. No one looked up.

Good.

I scanned the room—slowly, deliberately. Then I saw him. A man hunched at a table near the back. Ginger hair, dirty around the edges. He sat hunched in the back corner, nursing a pint with both hands, head low, the thatch of red hair catching what little light the hearth gave off.

Benny—my informant—was waiting for me.

I approached slowly, weaving past a pair of drunken labourers and a barmaid who looked like she’d bite before she’d smile.

I stopped just short of the table.

His fingers tightened around a mug of something that smelled like vinegar and regret. I’d recognized him, but it was the nervous twitch in his eyes that gave him away. He was afraid. And he had reason to be.

I slid into the seat across from him. He sniffed as I settled in.

“Gur, Gov’nr,” he muttered, nose wrinkling. “Did you pour the whole bleedin’ bottle o’ perfume on yerself? Smells like a Mayfair brothel in here now.”

I let that pass. “Tell me what you saw or heard.”

Benny leaned in, glancing over his shoulder before speaking. “Saw. A toff. He’d been comin’ here for weeks. Always quiet. Always polite. Just ... askin’ questions.”

“What sort of questions?”

“The sort that don’t start with murder but end there,” he said, voice low. “He’d buy a man a drink, ask what he’d do for coin. Rough work, he’d call it. Nothin’ too specific. Not at first.”

“And you?”

“I turned him down,” Benny said flatly. “Didn’t like his eyes. Too clean on the outside, too dead underneath.”

“Who was it?”

“Heller.”

For a heartbeat, the air left my lungs. My fingers curled into a fist beneath the table, the edge of the wood biting into my palm.

“You’re sure it was him?”

“Oh, I’m sure. You don’t forget a face like that. Fancy gloves. Talks like a gentleman but never once took off his coat. Like he didn’t plan to stay long.”

I was quiet a moment. “Did he find someone?”

“Aye. Bloke named O’Donnell. Big, mean, thick as dock mud. Scar down the right side of his face. Always looking for coin. He came in the week before Walsh was found dead. Heller sat with him longer than he did with anyone. Bought him a bottle and a room upstairs. Next day, both of ‘em gone.”

“Any proof?”

Benny hesitated, then grinned without humor. “I followed ‘im.”

My brow lifted. “You followed Edwin Heller?”

“I was curious.” He shrugged, eyes darting. “Didn’t mean to get involved, just ... somethin’ felt off. He left out the back and didn’t look twice. I tailed him clean to Duke Street. Nice townhouse, green door, gas lamp out front. Quiet. Real quiet.”

That sealed it.

Heller had arranged for Lord Walsh’s murder—with coin, not his hands—and now we had a witness.

“You said nothing to anyone?”

“Not unless I wanted to get my throat cut,” Benny muttered. “This? What I just told you? It stays between us, Gov’nr. I like breathin’.”

I dropped several coins on the table. “Keep liking it.”

He slipped out the door without another word.

I waited a minute, then stood. The game was no longer theoretical. And Heller had just run out of places to hide.

I stepped out into the alley behind the Red Hound, keeping to the shadows. Fog clung low to the ground, thick and oily from chimney soot. The coin Benny had taken hadn’t even settled in his pocket before I felt the shift—the wrong kind of silence.

Then came the sound.

Not footsteps. Breath —fast, too close.

I turned?—

Too late.

The blow came from behind, sharp and fast. My shoulder slammed against the brick wall, pain jolting through my arm. I twisted, ducked another swing, and caught a glimpse of him in the gaslight.

O'Donnell. Exactly as Benny described: tall, broad, thick-necked, and built like a butcher.

“Should’ve minded your business,” he growled, raising what looked like a length of lead pipe.

“I’m terribly bad at that,” I muttered, drawing the pistol hidden beneath my coat.

He lunged.

The gun fired.

O'Donnell let out a roar of pain and crumpled, clutching his thigh where the bullet had torn through flesh. Just a graze—enough to drop him, not kill him.

Before I could say a word, a whistle shrieked from the end of the alley. A pair of boots pounded closer. A constable rounded the corner, truncheon drawn, eyes wide.

“What’s this then?” he barked.

I stepped forward, breath even, pistol lowered but still in hand. “The man you see before you,” I said coolly, “is named O'Donnell. He was trying to kill me. He already murdered Lord Walsh. I suggest you place him under arrest—now.”

The constable blinked. “And you are?”

I pulled off the cap and stepped into the light. “The Duke of Steele.”

That did it.

The constable barked for his partner, who rushed forward. Together they hauled O'Donnell to his feet—bloody, cursing, but alive.

Scotland Yard – Two Hours Later

The room was cramped, the walls scuffed, the gaslight flickering overhead. A constable stood near the door. I stood behind Dodson, arms folded.

O'Donnell slouched in the chair, shirt torn, thigh bandaged, face slack with pain and fatigue.

But his mouth still worked.

“Fine,” he growled. “I did it.”

Dodson straightened. “You murdered Lord Percival Walsh?”

O'Donnell didn’t even blink. “Aye. That’s what I was paid to do. The bloke who hired me gave me all the details. Visited his mistress on Princelet Street Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“Who hired you?”

He hesitated, then sneered. “Edwin bloody Heller. Said it was family business. Said he’d make it worth my while.”

I stepped forward, voice quiet and razor-sharp. “And was it?”

O'Donnell looked up at me. “No.”

“Why are you confessing?”

“Got the clap, Guv’nr. Ain’t got long to live.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

The inspector nodded to his detective. “Get it down in writing. Full statement.”

O’Donnell spat blood onto the floor. “Glad to.” His smile revealed two rows of blackened teeth. “If I’m going to meet my maker. So will he.”