Page 31 of A Murder in Trinity Lane (Rosalynd and Steele Mysteries #2)

Chapter

Thirty

FINCH’S REPORT

T he day after my argument with Rosalynd, I sat alone in the library at Steele House, one hand wrapped around a snifter of brandy, the other cradling my jaw, still aching from the strain of holding my temper with Rosalynd. Not that I’d succeeded.

I had to admit, she’d been right to be furious. But wrong to think I didn’t trust her. It wasn’t her I distrusted. It was the world she insisted on walking into—without armor, without backup. Without me.

As I lost myself in my musings, a log crackled in the hearth. The clock ticked with a rhythm I couldn’t bear.

I drained the glass just as Milford stepped into the room. “Mr. Finch has arrived, Your Grace.”

“Send him in.”

Finch entered a moment later, all wiry tension and narrow eyes, a leather folder tucked beneath one arm. His greatcoat was streaked with soot, his boots damp with London’s filth.

He paused just inside the doorway, his gaze sweeping the study. The lamplight caught a glint of chestnut in his unkempt hair and the shadows etched deep beneath his eyes.

“You look like you’ve spent the day crawling through chimneys,” I said, motioning him in.

“Gutterwork. Might as well be the same,” he muttered, flicking off his gloves. “Stinks worse, anyhow.”

I gestured toward the armchair opposite mine. “Sit.”

Finch gave it a wary glance. “Your staff might object. I’ll ruin the upholstery.”

“If I may, Mr. Finch,” Milford interjected smoothly, “I can have your coat seen to while you meet with His Grace.”

Finch shrugged out of the coat and handed it over. “Much obliged.”

“There you are,” I said. “Would you care for something to eat?”

“If you’re offering.” He sank into the chair with a weary grunt. “It’s been a damn long day.”

I turned to Milford. “A plate of cold meats and cheese for Mr. Finch. And a pot of strong tea.”

Milford glanced toward my guest, the faintest glint of amusement in his eye. “Perhaps Mr. Finch would prefer something stronger, Your Grace.”

Finch snorted. “You’re a man after my own heart, Milford. Whisky will do.”

“Indeed, sir.” Milford bowed, a ghost of a smile on his lips, and departed.

“So what did you find?” I asked.

Finch placed the folder on the low table between us. “You’re not going to like what’s in there.”

“Do I ever? Start with something I’ll like.”

“Doubt anything will,” he muttered, flipping the folder open.

He didn’t speak right away—unusual for him. The silence stretched as he sorted his thoughts.

Outside, the gaslights flickered against the windows. The fire crackled in the grate. The room smelled faintly of smoke, ink, and the sandalwood polish on the desk.

“Lady Rosalynd was seen at Kew Gardens with Nathaniel Vale,” he said at last. “I had my associate keep an eye on him.”

“I know.” I didn’t elaborate.

“And the brother, too.”

“I know that as well. Get on with it.”

“You’re in a fine mood.”

“Has no one ever told you not to talk back to your betters?”

“Oh, so you’re better than me now?”

I gave a dry laugh. “Smell a damn sight better, at least.”

Finch leaned back in the chair with a theatrical sigh. “I’ve been slaving away in London’s gutters for your benefit, and this is the thanks I get?”

Before I could respond, Milford returned with a tray—cold beef, sharp cheese, crusty bread, a bottle of whisky, and a clean glass. He placed it all on the low table beside Finch and reached for the bottle.

“We’ll manage, Milford,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Your Grace.” He gave a respectful bow and withdrew.

Wasting no time, Finch tore off a chunk of bread, took a bite of cheese, and chased it with a long swallow of whisky.

I let him enjoy it. He’d earned that much.

But soon enough—the food forgotten, his expression sharpened—he returned to the matter at hand.

“His lab at the house is real enough—botanical specimens, hybrid records, rows of exotic plants that don’t belong in this climate. But that’s just for show. Where the real work happens . . . is Whitechapel. I followed him there this morning.”

I stilled. “Whitechapel?” Ripper territory. “Why would Vale wander into that cesspool?”

“He’s leased a building there under an alias. Derelict warehouse tucked behind a butcher’s yard, past the old brewery ruins. Locals call it Ash Yard—smoke’s always coming out of the chimney, but no one ever sees anyone enter or leave.”

I leaned forward. “Describe it.”

“Black-bricked, soot-streaked. Windowless. A narrow iron door in the alley—bolted from the inside. No markings, no sign. You wouldn’t look twice unless you knew what you were looking for.”

“And you did.”

“After he left midmorning, I paid a costermonger to let me in through the adjoining yard. The inside was interesting, to say the least. Vats, stills, rows of glass tubes. A wall of crates sealed and labeled for ‘tonics’—but not a single shipping record. He’s not just testing something in there. He’s producing it.”

“What exactly?”

“Opium distillates. Raw morphia. Laudanum base. Aconite. Something else I didn’t recognize—maybe a proprietary blend. Whatever it is, it’s not medicine. Not anymore.”

“But he’s not distributing it himself.”

“No,” Finch said. “That part’s clean. I didn’t find any evidence of it.”

“He’s sticking to the letter of the law.

” I leaned back. “The Pharmacy Act of ’68 didn’t criminalize manufacturing—only controlled who was allowed to sell.

Apothecaries. Licensed chemists. But mass production in a hidden lab?

That’s another matter. Would raise suspicion . . . if anyone bothered to look.”

Finch gave a grim nod. We both knew the truth: the police were overworked, distracted. One year into the Ripper investigation, and they still hadn’t found him. They had no time for quiet operations in back alleys—even if those operations were poisoning the streets.

Finch tore a bite of beef from the slice on his plate. “One thing I can tell you—someone’s moving the product.”

“How do you know?”

“Empty shelves where crates used to be.”

I stared into the fire, jaw tightening. “What about Henry?”

“As I mentioned, he was also at Kew Gardens along with Lillian Travers and her father, George Travers. He made a packet in railroads. Seeks respectability and entry in society.”

“And he approved Henry Vale for his daughter after Phillip vouched for him.”

“Yes, well. How is your brother?”

“I shipped him off to Thornburn Abbey.”

“Bet that did not go over well.”

“He declared he’d return to London. I threatened to ship him to India if he did.”

“That’ll keep him in Yorkshire nice and tight.”

“What about the aunt, Harriet?”

“Lady Harriet manages the Vale household. From the little I could gather, she’s not well-liked by the staff. But they do as they’re told. You know how it is—a roof over their heads and food in their bellies.”

“Did you ask about Elsie?”

“Most clammed up as soon as I mentioned her name. But one brave soul shared that the young master hadn’t done right by her.”

Confirmation that Henry Vale had been the one to seduce her.

“But that’s not all I discovered.” He paused for dramatic effect and reached for the folder. “I talked to a friend about the Vale family.”

“A connection from your previous life, I imagine?”

I’d first met Finch when he stood before a magistrate, charged with a robbery he swore he hadn’t committed, even though he had a shady past. But something about the case—and the man himself—had caught my attention.

I’d looked into it and found enough to prove his innocence.

Once the charges were dropped, I suggested he consider a different path and lent him the funds to start his road to redemption.

He’d chosen to become an investigator and repaid me—with interest—the moment he cleared his first case. He’d proven to be not only an excellent investigator, but, I dared say, a friend.

He nodded. “He knows someone who knows someone.”

“No need to give me chapter and verse.”

“These great estates are managed through a trust.”

“I’m familiar with how trusts operate.” The Steele fortune was managed in just such a way with me as the trustee.

“Right. The Arcendale estate trust runs several accounts,” Finch said.

“One of them—a quiet little fund that usually gathers dust—was put in the name of a Mr. A. Drayton.” He tipped his head, eyes narrowing.

“My source couldn’t find any link between Drayton and the Vale family.

But the money? It’s been flowing through fast—coming in heavy, going out just as quick. ”

I sat up straighter. “They’re passing tainted money through it until it comes out looking respectable.”

Finch’s mouth curved in a grim smile. “That’s my thinking as well.”

“Who is A. Drayton?” I asked.

“That, I’ll need to look into—if you want me to pursue it.”

“I do.”

“It won’t come cheap,” he warned. “I expect a few palms will need greasing if we want real answers.”

“It will be worth it.”

Before he could respond, a sharp knock rattled the door.

“Come.”

Milford entered, outwardly composed as always, but there was concern in his eyes as he extended a silver tray.

“A message from Rosehaven House, Your Grace. Marked urgent.” After handing it to me, he promptly withdrew.

I broke the seal and scanned the contents. One glance at the handwriting sent a jolt through me.

Steele,

I am dining with Nathaniel Vale and his aunt, Lady Harriet, this evening at his home on Park Crescent. Just me. Cosmos has other plans. I do not expect trouble. But I thought you ought to know.

Whatever action you wish to take, I will not condemn you for it. I fully expect you won’t be able to help yourself.

—R

“Bloody hell.” I shot to my feet, the chair scraping back hard across the floor.

“What is it?”

“She’s gone to Vale House. Alone.”

His expression shifted to alarm. “You’d best get her out. Quickly. Not knowing what Vale might do.”

“I intend to.”

Finch stood in a rush. “I’ll come with you.”

“No. That won’t work. You’re not dressed for it.”

“You can’t go charging in by yourself. If you overplay your hand, Lady Rosalynd might pay the price.”

“I’ll take a Rosehaven footman—say someone in the family’s fallen ill and she’s needed.”

Finch rubbed his jaw. “That might work. But do you trust one of them to manage that kind of deception?”

“They’ve several. One of them is bound to be sharp.”

Finch nodded grimly. “I’ll take my leave then. Godspeed.”

As he spoke, thunder cracked overhead, rain lashing in sheets against the windows while a gust rattled the panes.

“You won’t get far in this weather,” I said. “The roads will be turning to muck. Stay the night. We’ve more bedchambers than I can count, most of which stand empty.”

Finch blinked. “I— Right. Thank you.”

“I’ll have Milford show you to a room,” I said, indicating the tray. “In the meantime, enjoy your meal.”

Without waiting for a reply, I left the library and crossed into the front hall, where Milford stood ready with my coat and hat. “Mr. Finch will be staying the night,” I told him as I shrugged into the coat. “See him to a room once he’s finished with his supper.”

“Your Grace,” he said with a deferential nod.

Rain lashed sideways at me as I crossed Grosvenor Square, the wind a howling beast as I sprinted through the deluge. My greatcoat did little to protect me; my topper did less. By the time I reached Rosehaven House, water streamed from my brim and boots alike.

I pounded on the door, breath heaving, hair plastered to my forehead.

Honeycutt opened it with maddening serenity, as though a drowning man hadn’t just arrived on his doorstep. As his gaze swept over my soaked form, the corners of his lips curled ever so slightly.

“Your Grace,” he intoned, drawing the words out like a funeral bell. “How . . . unexpected.”

I shoved my wet hair back. “I need a footman. Immediately.”

“Indeed.” He stepped aside with all the urgency of a man arranging a tea tray. “May I inquire as to the nature of the emergency?”

“I don’t have time to explain,” I snapped, water pooling around my boots. “I’m going to Vale House to retrieve Lady Rosalynd. I need someone with a brain.”

Honeycutt’s brows rose a fraction. “All our footmen have brains, Your Grace. Some even put theirs to excellent use.”

I ground my teeth. “Then fetch me the most excellent one.”

“I shall see what I can do.” He gestured toward the vestibule. “Do try not to drip on the carpet.”

I barely resisted the urge to commit bodily harm.

Moments later, a tall, capable-looking footman appeared at the top of the stairs, already shrugging into his greatcoat. He moved with brisk efficiency, offered a curt nod, and joined me without delay.

As we turned to leave, Honeycutt extended an umbrella with the air of a man bestowing a royal pardon. “You might need this, Your Grace, given the state of the weather.”

“Thank you.”

“I live to serve.”

One of these days, I needed to discover what, exactly, Honeycutt held against me. But not today.

The footman and I descended the front steps two at a time. By sheer luck, a hackney was trundling past along the slick cobblestones. I hailed it, and once we were inside, I gave the cabbie the Park Crescent address.

As the carriage rattled through the rain-slicked streets, I outlined the plan to the footman. He asked no questions—just listened with sharp attention. When I asked him to repeat it back, he did so flawlessly.

Only then did I allow myself to lean back against the seat. The darkness pressed in on all sides, and with every turn of the wheels, a single thought pulsed through me.

Please, God. Let her be safe.