Page 25 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)

Chapter

Twenty-Four

THE WEIGHT OF BLOOD

I arrived at Steele House to find a note from Caleb Finch.

“Come at once.” No more, no less.

There was no time to eat, not even a light supper. Not while urgent matters needed to be dealt with, especially since they pertained to my brother. I headed out and hailed a hansom cab.

Hatton Garden was quiet after dark, the streetlamps glowing amber above shuttered jewelers’ shops and locked counting houses. Only one window still glowed with life. Finch’s.

I rapped sharply on the frosted glass door of his office. No answer. I tried the knob—locked, of course. A narrow stairway led to the floor above, where Finch kept his private quarters. I climbed and knocked—less sharply this time.

After a pause, the door cracked open, and Caleb Finch appeared, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair tousled, a faint sheen of frustration about him.

“You sent a note,” I said.

“This morning.” Finch scrubbed his face. “I expected you hours ago.”

“I was otherwise occupied.”

Finch ran a hand through his rat’s nest hair with a huff, ruffling it in irritation. “Give me a moment.” He stepped back into his quarters, closing the door firmly against me.

Minutes later, he emerged, shrugged into a coat, the top buttons of his shirt still undone. He led the way to his office below, which smelled of pipe smoke and ink. He lit the oil lamp on his desk and faced me. “You interrupted what was shaping up to be a very fine evening.”

That explained the disgruntled look. “Don’t expect me to apologize. Now what did you find?”

“You’re not going to like it,” Finch said, reaching for a folder on the corner of the desk.

“I assumed that after I read the note.”

“You’re in a good mood this evening.”

“It’s been a day. Now talk.”

Finch handed me a slip of paper, scribbled with dates and figures.

“Your brother visited the same gambling house—the Grinning Rat—twice in the past three days,” Finch said, sobering. “Late nights. Private room in a building with a crooked, warped, and unmarked door. The kind of place where the stakes climb fast and fall hard.”

I stared at the paper.

“Was he winning?”

“Not even close,” Finch replied. “If he went in hoping for salvation, he came out with more blood on the books. He’s desperate. Trying to claw his way out of something, but every wager pulls him deeper.”

“And no one’s calling in the debt yet?”

“Not yet. But they will. These sorts of houses don’t make threats. They make examples.”

I folded the paper, tight and sharp, and tucked it into my coat.

Finch studied me for a long moment. “You going to talk to him?”

“I’m going to tear a strip off his hide.”

“Do it soon,” he said. “Before someone else does.”

“I will.” I reached for my gloves, then paused. “One more thing. I want you to look into a family. The Vales.”

Finch glanced up, brows drawing together. “Vale?”

“There are three brothers. The middle one—Nathaniel Vale—frequents the Caledonian Club. A botanist by all accounts. The youngest, Henry, has a reputation for trouble. The eldest—Algernon—is a recluse. The family’s seat is Arcendale Hall in Sussex, but Nathaniel and Henry live together on Park Crescent. Those two are your priority.”

“This connected to your brother?”

“No. Another matter entirely.”

Finch took up his notebook and dipped his pen. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything there is to know about the two brothers. Then the household—staff, visitors, who comes and goes. I want everything. Quietly.”

He nodded, already calculating the angles. “Anything in particular I should be looking for?”

“Someone in that house committed murder.”

His pen halted mid-stroke. “Whose?”

“A young woman who worked there. The youngest brother seduced her. When her life was threatened, she fled. A member of that family saw to it she never spoke again.”

Finch’s manner sobered. “You suspect someone in that household silenced her?”

“I don’t suspect,” I said coldly. “I know. The only thing I don’t know is which one of them ended her life.”

He snapped his notebook shut. “All right. I’ll begin in the morning. Full report by the following day.”

“It has to be thorough,” I said. “I want eyes on Nathaniel Vale, Henry Vale, and their aunt, Lady Harriet. Their activities, their associates, their routines—everything. If any of them so much as sneezes, I want to know who handed them the handkerchief.”

Finch gave a low whistle. “You don’t ask for much, do you?”

“I wouldn’t press you if it weren’t necessary,” I replied.

Finch leaned back in his chair. “I can’t cover three people in that time frame. Not properly. Not alone. I’ll need to delegate some of it to an associate.”

“Can you trust him?”

“With my life.”

“Do what you think best.”

“Yes, your highness.”

Fighting back a grin, I nodded and headed for the door. But before I got there, I turned. “And Finch?”

He looked up.

“I believe they’re hiding something. Something more than the murder of an innocent girl.”

“One of your hunches?”

“A lifetime of witnessing what men are capable of.” I stepped out into the cold, the night wind biting across my coat. But it was nothing compared to the fire rising in my blood.

For the girl who’d been silenced.

For the brother who stood too close to the edge.

And for the answers waiting at the Grinning Rat.