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H aving spent the better part of his morning hunting for clues that would help him find Molly Atkins, Peter Kendrick returned to his Bow Street office only slightly better off than when he’d set out. At least today, he’d happened upon an older woman. Mildred Smith, who worked as a seamstress near the Atkins home, had seen Molly leave the courtyard where she’d been playing the morning of her disappearance and head along Dewy Lane.

According to Mrs. Smith, Molly had been with a man whom Mrs. Smith described as average looking. Brown hair, slim of build, neither tall nor short. He’d blended in with the rest of the working-class people who frequented the area. His clothes were cut from grey wool, the jacket a bit too loose around his shoulders.

Molly had gone with him willingly, her hand clasped in his, so Mrs. Smith had believed him to be a relation. Or possibly a family friend. The only reason she’d even paid attention to the pair for more than a fleeting second was because she’d been struck by Molly’s dress. Tied at the waist with a red satin sash, it had been quite simple, cut from bluish-green fabric with thin red stripes running through it.

Mrs. Smith had found herself inspired and had made a note to try and create a similar dress for one of her clients to purchase.

Her account, however, and the fact that Molly had since disappeared without much trace, left a gaping void in Peter’s chest. He worried for the child, for what might have happened to her in the last five days since she’d wandered off with that stranger.

Nothing good, he wagered. The man who’d taken her hadn’t demanded a ransom. Which meant he’d had other intentions in mind.

Peter shuddered as he stepped through Bow Street’s front doors. He hated dealing with this sort of business. Grown women gruesomely murdered was one thing, but crimes involving children made him physically ill. It didn’t get easier with experience. Each case left a lasting impact on him, his only solace that these types of cases were few and far between when compared with the rest.

“I’ve got something for you,” Jackson said, almost pouncing on Peter as soon as he saw him. The eager look on the young Runner’s face immediately drew his interest. “The coachman who drove Mr. Benjamin Lawrence to Miss Fontaine’s lodgings is here. He’s waiting for you in your office.”

“A blessing at last.” God help him, he could have kissed the young Runner he was so bloody grateful. Finally something to help him move forward in some way or other. Even if it pertained to a case he’d been told to abandon.

He’d do nothing of the sort. Least of all when Croft’s last words to him wouldn’t let up. He chose to cut out her eyes. If he didn’t discard them then that means he kept them. In which case they’re probably hidden somewhere, waiting to be found.

It was something Peter had considered before. Had he not been denied permission to search Mr. Lawrence’s home, he might have found this irrefutable evidence of the man’s guilt before Croft went to trial. But it had been clear higher forces were working against him ever since Croft’s arrest. In order to thwart them, Peter would have to apply discretion.

He halted in the hallway, stepping aside to let another Runner past before asking Jackson, “How did you find the coachman?”

“I visited the cab yards during the last two days. Before and after work. Inquired after a driver who’d picked up a passenger from Compton Street on the day in question. This morning, I found our man. Mr. Perch is his name.”

“Excellent work, Jackson.” He’d given the young man the chance to prove his worth, and by God, he’d done it.

Increasingly hopeful he might at least find out whether or not Benjamin Lawrence had been able to walk, Peter hastened toward his office and entered. The man who waited there was older, slightly hunched with thinning grey hair and sagging features. He pushed himself upright when he spotted Peter.

“Mr. Perch. Thank you for coming to see me. I’m Chief Constable Kendrick.” He stuck out his hand and Mr. Perch shook it. “I understand from Jackson here that you picked up a passenger from Compton Street five nights ago. On August 26, to be precise.”

“That’s right.”

Peter gestured for Mr. Perch to resume his seat and for Jackson to take the vacant one beside him then went to claim his own behind his desk. Leaning back, he considered his witness. Mr. Perch’s eyes were sharp, focused, his expression grave. A serious man, from the looks of it. “How many passengers would you say you drive per day, Mr. Perch?”

“At least fifty. Sometimes more.”

“In other words, you’ve interacted with more than two hundred people over the course of the last five days.” As much as he wished to believe in the coachman, Peter knew he had to examine the veracity of his claim. “How can you possibly remember one man in a group of so many?”

Mr. Perch glanced at Jackson before returning his gaze to Peter. “I was told I’d be compensated for my time here today, and that my employer would receive a letter, notifying him of your need for my assistance.”

“Of course.” Peter looked to Jackson. “Please inform Lewis that he’s to prepare a promise note, made out to Mr. Perch for the sum of…?”

“Eighteen shillings.”

“Make that twenty shillings, Mr. Jackson.” Jackson went to complete the task, leaving Peter alone with Mr. Perch. “I’ll see to the letter as soon as you’ve finished your statement.”

Mr. Perch flattened his mouth but didn’t protest. Leaning heavily on the left armrest of his chair, he said, “The person you’re interested in stood out. He wore a hooded cloak even though the weather was pleasant that evening. Made me suspect he was trying to hide his appearance.”

Peter retrieved his notebook and scribbled that down. “Go on.”

“He seemed to be in a hurry.” Mr. Perch cleared his throat. “Wasn’t exactly rude, but he was curt when he gave the directions. His voice was cultured, though. Upper class.”

“Some servants are capable of affecting that sort of speech. Butlers especially. Perhaps even the occasional footman. Could it be that he merely sounded upper-class?”

“I suppose…”

Not the definite answer Peter had hoped for. He made additional notes. “You dropped him off on Pillory Lane?”

“That’s correct.”

“Anything else you can tell me that might help identify him?”

Mr. Perch shrugged. “His appearance, perhaps?”

Peter blinked. “How do you mean?”

“His face.” Mr. Perch rotated his palm in front of his own face for further clarification.

It was clear he thought Peter daft. And Peter grudgingly had to acknowledge he might be right. Yet he could not help but say, “Wasn’t he wearing a hooded cloak?”

“Yes, but it’s a bit hard to pay a coachman’s fee without looking up at him. All my passengers have to do so when they hand me their coin.”

A sharp exhalation pushed its way up Peter’s throat and became a short laugh. “Well, I’ll be.”

“It was dark, mind you, but the light from the carriage lanterns made a few things abundantly clear.” Mr. Perch shifted his weight, then leaned forward slightly. “The man I dropped off on Pillory Lane that evening was young. Early twenties, I reckon. His hair, while mostly concealed, looked like a curly mass of red beneath that hood.”

Peter could only stare at Mr. Perch as the truth was confirmed. Mr. Croft had been honest in his report. Mr. Benjamin Lawrence had not lost the use of his legs when he’d taken that fall from his horse. He’d walked out of his house that evening, climbed into a carriage, and gone to meet his mistress, whom he’d subsequently killed.

Which meant that he’d probably killed Lady Eleanor too. Exactly as Croft had proclaimed.

* * *

Even though Sir Nigel himself had told Peter to dismiss the idea of Benjamin Lawrence playing a part in Lady Eleanor’s death, that he’d also murdered a footman and Miss Fontaine, Peter chose to call at Number 2, Compton Street anyway.

He arrived there roughly half an hour after Mr. Perch’s departure from his office and was admitted by a maid he’d interviewed during his previous visit.

“I’ll let the butler know you’re here,” she said, her voice apologetic. “He’s been a bit busy since the…um…”

“Before you go,” Peter said, halting her as she started to turn, “I wonder if you might be willing to answer a few additional questions.”

“I…um…” She glanced around warily, as though fearing she might be chastised for even looking at him.

“Lack of collaboration on your part could lead to a fine.”

She went very still, hands clasped before her. “Of course, but I doubt I can tell you anything more than what I’ve already shared.”

“Nevertheless,” Peter pressed, his expression gentle but firm.

She swallowed. A hint of apprehension flickered in her eyes. “What do you wish to know?”

“Mr. Lawrence who recently died,” Petter said, choosing to get straight to the point. “Was there anything to suggest he was merely pretending not to be able to walk?”

The maid’s eyes widened. “Goodness gracious. Of course not.”

Sensing her shock was genuine, Peter thanked her, then glanced around the neat foyer. “I’d like a word with Mr. Banks if I may. Would you please let him know I’m here?”

Her features sagged with relief. “Certainly, Mr. Kendrick.”

The maid bobbed a quick curtsey and hurried off in search of the footman, nearly colliding with a man Peter recognized as Mr. Hollander, the butler, who entered the hallway through the same door she’d prepared to exit through. A hasty exchange took place between them and then she was gone, leaving a middle-aged man with a mild expression in her place.

“Mr. Kendrick.” Mr. Hollander stepped forward. “Perhaps I can help with your inquiry?”

Peter doubted it. Butlers were fiercely loyal to their employers. When Peter had last come here, Hollander had kept his responses brief. He’d offered no indication of Mr. Lawrence being less than an upstanding gentleman. In all likelihood, he’d try to make Peter leave.

Determined to get the answers he sought, Peter straightened his spine. “I’ve a couple of questions I’d like to put to Mr. Banks. The maid I just spoke with said she’d fetch him.”

Mr. Hollander moved a bit closer. “He won’t help you.”

An odd statement Peter reckoned was worth exploring. “Why would you say that?”

The tiniest twitch at the edge of Hollander’s lips, and then, “Because he’s been paid handsomely not to.”

Peter stared at the butler in utter dismay. “I beg your pardon?”

“Every servant in this house is on Avernail’s payroll,” Hollander said, his voice hushed. “Myself included. We’ve even received a hefty raise since Mr. Lawrence’s death.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this when I was last here?” A week had been wasted, critical information concealed.

“Why do you think?” Hollander served him a frank look. “A blade was set to Mr. Banks’s throat after he allowed his suspicions about Mr. Lawrence’s paralysis – or lack thereof – slip. The very next day, he made his statement in court. I’m sure you can figure out why.”

The man’s life had been threatened. He’d been more willing to risk the consequence of perjury than whatever Avernail’s hired thugs might do to him if he refused.

“I ought to charge you with obstruction.” When Hollander merely inclined his head, Peter said, “Your telling me this must mean your position has changed.”

“Or that I’ve finally found the means by which to make my statement without having to fear the repercussions. Volunteering information would likely have sealed my fate, but if you were to take me in for questioning and ensure my safety until this is over, I might be able to share a thing or two.”

“In that case,” Peter informed him, “I must insist you come with me to Bow Street at once.”

The hallway door opened, and the maid returned. She was followed by the footman Peter had seen in court. Perspiration glistened upon the young man’s brow. He looked like he might be about to vomit. Or suffer an apoplectic fit.

“I want you to know that I stand by what I said,” he told Peter. “My statement was true. Mr. Benjamin Lawrence was resigned to his bed since April. He couldn’t walk.”

“That’s not what you told me the day after Lawrence’s death.” Hollander stared the footman down. “You told me that—”

“Stop it.” Distress gleamed in Mr. Banks’s bright eyes. “I was distressed by the news. That’s all. People say all manner of things while in shock.”

Hollander took a deep breath and expelled it. “The truth needs to be heard, so I’m going to tell Mr. Kendrick exactly what you told me.”

“I’ll deny every word,” Mr. Banks said.

“That’s your business,” Hollander told him gently, “but at least my conscience will finally be clean.”

Mr. Banks stared at him, his entire body trembling. “Avernail will punish you for it.”

“He might turn his wrath on us too,” the maid said, her voice filled with alarm. “For failing to prevent you from doing this.”

Mr. Hollander’s jaw clenched. Concern was evident in his tight expression. The maid’s suggestion – the responsibility it placed on Mr. Hollander’s shoulders – hung heavily in the air. But then Mr. Hollander said, “You could leave. As I am prepared to do.”

“I fear such a course will leave me looking over my shoulder forever,” the maid said. She shook her head. “I dare not risk it.”

“Sometimes, standing up for what’s right is worth the risk.” Hollander paused before adding, “We mustn’t forget, Mr. Adrian Croft was charged with murdering Benjamin Lawrence in cold blood. He was sentenced to hang. All because Avernail will not accept that his son was a murderous scoundrel.”

Peter was impressed. He’d not expected the butler to be his trump. Deciding the footman would be unhelpful since he was determined to lie and deny, he suggested to Hollander that they depart.

The maid followed them to the door. “What should we tell the marquess if he comes to call?”

Hollander gave her a firm reply. “Merely that Bow Street has told me to come in for questioning. And that I’ll return as soon as I’m able.”

A lie that would hopefully satisfy Avernail for a brief time.

Not daring to trust the maid or the footman with Hollander’s safety, Peter told the hackney driver who’d waited for him to take them to Bow Street with a brief stop at Doctors’ Commons on the way.

“Why the detour?” Hollander asked as they travelled toward Great Knightrider Street, away from Bow Street.

“Considering what you’ve told me, I’ve no intention of taking any chances. Once we stop, I’ll give the driver new directions.”

“Am I to understand that we’re not going to Bow Street?”

Peter met Hollander’s questioning gaze and held it. “I think it’s best we keep your location a secret for now. Until I’ve figured out how to make sure your statement will have the desired effect.”

They were dealing with influential men, ruthless enough to say and do just about anything to impact lawful proceedings. The last thing Peter wanted was additional deaths on his hands. Which he feared might happen if those who threatened Avernail’s narrative chose to speak up.

After all, the man’s son had no qualms about killing.

Who was to say the father did not feel the same when he’d already threatened to do away with Mr. Banks unless he complied?

Getting Mr. Hollander to a safe location took roughly an hour. After which Peter decided to head directly to Dewy Lane where Mrs. Smith had last seen Molly. He spent the next two hours there, showing the sketch that had been drawn based on Mrs. Smith’s description of the man who’d been with the girl to everyone he happened upon.

“Aye. I reckon I know that fellow,” a bulky man employed by Clayton Tobacco informed him. “Came here once a week for his usual purchase. He’s a couple of days overdue. Figured he might have travelled, but now I’m guessing he got himself onto the wrong side of the law.”

“He’s suspected of snatching a child away from her parents.”

The tobacconist’s expression hardened. He fisted his hands. “That sort of scum has no right to live.”

“I completely agree,” Peter told him. “It’s already been several days since the girl’s disappearance. Any information you can provide would be useful.”

“Well, I can give you the blighter’s name. It’s Jacob Grant. Or at least that’s the name he mentioned to me during one of our chats. He’s a regular in these parts. Seen him at The Fox’s Burrow on numerous occasions, always with the same group of men. Must either work there or have his lodgings nearby.”

“Thank you for your help.”

Peter was starving by the time he made his way back to Bow Street. But at least he’d made headway in the child’s case. A quick stop at The Fox’s Burrow had offered up additional information. Some of the regulars there were familiar with Mr. Grant and his friends. One man had even overheard them planning to travel out of the City. Pagham was the destination they’d mentioned.

Finally, a substantial lead for Peter to follow. He’d take this to Sir Nigel at once, then put together a team to hunt down Grant and his friends.

Confident Hollander wouldn’t be easy for Avernail or his thugs to locate, Peter wasn’t worried about going away for a couple of days. The butler would be well looked after by the man he’d been left with until Peter got back.

Satisfied with the progress he’d made today, he stopped by the bakery down the street from the Bow Street Magistrate’s Court and purchased a couple of pies to enjoy in his office. But when he entered his place of employment, the uneasy looks he received from the other Runners informed him something had happened during his absence.

Apprehension set in and put him on edge.

Jackson was the first to approach. The alarmed look in his eyes was cause for further concern. “The chief magistrate wants to see you.”

Not so unusual, so there had to be something more to it. “Is that all?”

“I’m afraid not.” Jackson looked as though he was about to be scolded for a wrongdoing. “Avernail is with him. And he’s far from pleased.”

“Ah.” Peter took a deep breath, still clasping the bundled-up pies he’d purchased. They would unfortunately have to wait a while longer. He held them toward Jackson. “Take these, will you? Put them on my desk. I’ll go see what the fuss is about.”

“Best of luck, sir.” Jackson pressed his lips together, the look in his eyes informing Peter that entering Sir Nigel’s office right now would not be much different from stepping into a lion’s den.

Jaw set and shoulders squared, Peter prepared himself for the worst. He strode to the closed door and was just about to knock when it opened, putting him face to face with the marquess, who’s bright red complexion darkened to a purplish hue when he spotted Peter.

Not saying a word, Peter stepped to one side so the marquess could pass. The man glowered at him for a moment, appearing as though he would either curse Peter to perdition or strangle him where he stood. Eventually, he merely gritted his teeth and left, his heels snapping so hard against the floor Peter almost expected sparks to appear.

“Get in here,” Sir Nigel blustered. He stood behind his desk, hands planted upon the surface, a dark scowl creasing his brow.

Peter entered the office, closing the door behind him. “You wished to see me, sir?”

All he got was a furious glare before Sir Nigel sat, lowering his bulky frame to the chair behind him. “I believe the orders I gave you were simple enough for a child to follow. Yet somehow, you managed to defy them. Whether because you think yourself smarter than the rest of us or because you’re plain stupid, it matters not.”

“Sir, I—”

“What the hell were you thinking?” Sir Nigel’s eyes were harder than Peter had ever seen them. “You went to Lawerence’s home. Spoke with his servants again . After the case was closed. Interfered in matters that do not concern you.”

“For good reason.” Peter wasn’t about to turn tail and cower when he was convinced he’d done the right thing. “Jackson located the coachman who transported Avernail’s son to Miss Fontaine’s house on the eve of his death. I’ve spoken to him myself. Sir, Mr. Benjamin Lawrence climbed in and out of that carriage unaided. He walked . Which means he deceived everyone. A deception his father is now perpetuating in order to save his family’s reputation.”

Sir Nigel held Peter’s gaze for a drawn-out moment, a weighty silence wedged between them. When he finally spoke, it was not to acknowledge what Peter had told him. Instead, he asked. “Where is Mr. Lawrence’s butler?”

Peter stared back at the man he’d always believed to be above corruption until recent weeks. It now looked increasingly likely that someone had gotten to Sir Nigel. A powerful person with enough influence to force his hand. Avernail was a likely contender, but would a threat from him be enough? Peter didn’t think so, unless he’d joined forces with Carver.

Fearing what would happen to Hollander if he revealed his location, he told Sir Nigel baldly, “I’ve no idea.”

“Dishonesty isn’t to your advantage, Kendrick.”

“It’s better than betraying a man who’s placed his faith in me.” Peter took a step forward. “Can you not see that Croft has become a scapegoat? Men – powerful ones – want him gone so their own wrongdoings can die along with him. It’s not right or just. If anything, it’s proof of criminality at the highest level of our government. And as long as you choose to turn a blind eye or, even worse, support it, you’re actively tarnishing Bow Street’s name.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Sir Nigel murmured. “But the fact that you do does make it easier for me to dismiss you of your duties.”

While a tiny part of him had expected this, he’d not believed it would happen so soon. “What?”

“Anderson will provide you with the remainder of your pay, after which you’re not to set foot in this building again. Unless you’ve a crime to report.” Sir Nigel raised his chin, his expression firm. “That will be all, Mr. Kendrick.”

The form of address used did not escape Peter’s notice. A deliberate reminder that he was no longer chief constable here. Twenty-seven years, snatched away from him in an instant. He gritted his teeth, his disappointment and fury so violent his body shook with the effort it took to contain it.

“I don’t know how you can live with yourself.” The only thing he could think to say before turning away, his angry stride taking him from the room at a swift clip.

Returning to his own office, he grabbed whatever personal effects he wanted to take with him, shoved them into a box, and placed his pies on top. He’d eat those later when he returned home. A sweep of his gaze allowed him to take in the space one last time before he departed, leaving the door wide open.

When he reached the front of the building, Andrews was there, ready to hand him the pay Sir Nigel had mentioned. In other words, the decision to sack him had been determined prior to Peter’s return. No doubt influenced by Avernail’s anger.

“I’m sorry,” Andrews said as he handed him the money. “There’s not a man here who isn’t shocked by what has transpired. We’ll miss you.”

Peter gave the seasoned Runner a curt nod. Jackson and Lewis, who’d been at their desks when Peter exited Sir Nigel’s office, were now closing in around him. Peter met their grave gazes in turn. “Thank you, lads. It’s been an honor serving with you.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Jackson offered.

Peter said a quick goodbye to the rest of the men and stepped through Bow Street’s front door for what might be the very last time. It was an odd sensation that had him reaching for the silver cheroot case he kept in his jacket pocket. It didn’t take long for him to put down his box so he could light up. Or to pull the much-needed taste of Indian tobacco into his lungs.

He exhaled a misty cloud of smoke and glanced at Jackson. “I reckon there’s trouble on the horizon.”

Power had started infesting the system. In all likelihood, it would only get worse from this point onward. Once that line between right and wrong was crossed, the next infraction would be accomplished with greater ease. And the need to cover it up would grow accordingly.

“Keep your head down,” Peter added. “Follow the orders you receive, and I reckon you’ll do just fine.”

“I’ve been tasked with hunting down the Crofts.” Jackson propped one shoulder against the side of the building, hands in pockets.

“What about Molly Atkins?”

“I don’t know. Sir Nigel didn’t ask me to follow up on her case but maybe he told Lewis to do so.”

“She’s a little girl for Christ’s sake. As such she must take priority.”

“Agreed, but I cannot afford to thwart my orders.”

“Jackson, you—”

“However, the information you acquired suggested Molly was bound for Pagham, which just so happens to be on the same stretch of coastline where I intend to look for the Crofts.” A sly smile curled Jackson’s lips. “Don’t suppose you’re in the mood for a bit of traveling?”

Peter took another drag from his cheroot. “Given your line of work, one would think you’d possess an excellent memory. Yet it seems you’ve already forgotten that I’ve been sacked. I no longer work here.”

“Perhaps not, but there’s no man I’d rather consult with on both of these cases. Besides which, no one can stop us from running into each other along the road. Should you happen to be on the five o’clock coach bound for Southampton tomorrow morning, I’d find that coincidental, wouldn’t you?”

It was a struggle for Peter to suppress his answering laughter. A smirk became the result. “You’re sneakier than I ever imagined. That innocent look about you had me fooled.”

Jackson merely arched a brow, in response to which Peter dropped his cheroot and snuffed it out with the heel of his shoe, then picked up his box of belongings. “I’ll think on it.”

They parted ways and Peter strode off, choosing to walk the two-mile stretch of road back to his home, his thoughts already shifting to what he would pack for his upcoming journey.