Page 21

The Lucky Coin sat nestled between a well-worn tailor shop and a bustling bakery, the brass sign by its entrance gleaming in the midmorning sunlight and ushering welcome to passersby.

Frederick stepped through the thick wooden door, the walls instantly muting outside sounds and dousing any sunlight.

Stale smoke lingered in the air, mixing with the aroma of beer and aged leather. The walls were paneled with dark mahogany, adorned with portraits of long-forgotten patrons who had once dominated these very halls, and now gathered dust. This place must have been quite exclusive in its better days.

The clink of glasses and clatter of dice blended in with murmurs of people making low-stakes wagers and high-stakes conversations.

It was difficult to make out some of the figures in the room, as the lighting waxed and waned from shadow to light depending on location, but it appeared to be an eclectic lot of laymen, businessmen, and even one or two gentleman possibly slumming it for a thrill.

Behind the counter, a young attendant with slicked-back hair and a crisp, though worn waistcoat, gave Frederick a view from head to toe tip … and then stood a little taller. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Good afternoon. My name is Lord Astley, and I need a word with Mr. Hargrove, the owner of this fine establishment.” Frederick hoped the information he’d learned outside the building proved true. “It concerns a mutual acquaintance.”

“Lord?” The young man blinked, his professionalism flickering with faint curiosity. “Of course, sir … um … my lord. One moment.”

Within minutes, an older man appeared. His hair swept back in a salt-and-pepper wave, and his sharp eyes assessed Frederick in one swift glance. He was as tall as Frederick but broader, with the kind of confidence that suggested he’d won more than a few high-stakes games himself.

“It’s not every day we entertain such esteemed company,” Hargrove said, a cautious smile lurking beneath a close-trimmed beard. He gestured to the room with a flourish, the tone of a practiced showman. “How can I assist, my lord?”

Frederick offered his hand in an attempt to breach any awkwardness from the man. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate any help you can give.”

The man’s brows rose as he took Frederick’s hand. “You’ve come a far piece, haven’t you?” His gaze moved down Frederick again, lips crooked into a knowing smile. “And I’d bet my cash purse, you’re not here for gambling.”

Astute man. Likely a requirement for his line of work.

“I’m visiting my wife’s family in Harrington, and I’ve come to inquire about a frequent visitor of your establishment. Mr. Anthony Dixon?”

Hargrove’s expression barely flickered, but Frederick noted the tightening of his mouth. “He’s not been welcome here since his last visit due to his behavior.”

“I’m aware,” Frederick replied, inclining his head. “But I understand an unfortunate event occurred involving Mr. Dixon, and it’s important I learn what transpired the night he was … asked to leave.”

Hargrove’s smile thinned as he folded his arms across his chest. “How does a man like you know someone like Tony Dixon?”

“I’m his brother-in-law.”

The man’s brows shot up. “Is that so? Funny, he never acted as if he had family with means.”

Frederick allowed himself a wry smile. “He doesn’t.”

Hargrove’s laughter rumbled. “I’ll wager you he has more than he thought.”

“Had, Mr. Hargrove.” Frederick corrected, holding the man’s gaze.

Frederick’s distinct switch to past tense wiped all humor from Mr. Hargrove’s expression. The man hesitated, then inclined his head. “Let’s discuss this in my office.”

Hargrove led him to a tidy office tucked behind the main lounge. It smelled faintly of pipe smoke and polish, the desk perfectly aligned with a window that likely gave a discreet view of the front entrance. When Hargrove gestured to a decanter, Frederick shook his head.

“Thank you, no.”

Pouring a drink for himself, Hargrove settled into his chair. “What happened?”

“I’m surprised the police haven’t already visited you, Mr. Hargrove.”

“In connection with Mr. Dixon?” He raised a brow. “No. Though I can’t say the same for some of my other patrons.”

Frederick waited for Mr. Hargrove to place his glass back on the desk and then continued the discussion. “Tony Dixon was found dead in his home yesterday morning.” Frederick studied Hargrove, whose slight lift of his brows was his only response.

“And I’m assuming it wasn’t from natural causes.” Hargrove stated, taking a drink from his glass.

“Which is why any information about his altercation here would help us find answers.”

Hargrove rubbed his jaw, then called out through the door. Moments later, a wiry young man with a shock of blond curls entered, looking as though he’d just been told he owed the house more than he had in his pocket.

“This is Caleb Rook,” Hargrove said, nodding toward the boy. “He was working Dixon’s table that night.”

Frederick turned toward the young man, who stood, wringing his hands a little as he shifted his attention from Hargrove to Frederick.

The boy didn’t look more than fifteen.

“Lord Astley has some questions for you, boy.” Hargrove nodded. “About the fight between Tony Dixon and … um … what was the stranger’s name again?”

“Mr. Clark, sir.”

Mr. Clark? So, Lillias had heard correctly. Frederick attempted to keep his expression neutral. Could the entire case be as simple as a disgruntled gambler seeking revenge? But why set up the entire charade with a fake officer?

“Yes, some foreigner, as I recall.” Hargrove gave a dismissive frown.

Frederick studied the lad, whose hands twisted nervously as his gaze darted between the two men.

“You’ve nothing to fear, Mr. Rook,” Frederick assured him. “I’m simply looking for information.”

Rook nodded, though his Adam’s apple bobbed nervously.

“Sit down, boy.” Hargrove barked, waving toward a nearby chair.

Rook obeyed immediately, his gaze darting back to Frederick, who eased back into the chair in hopes of helping the lad feel more comfortable.

“Was Mr. Dixon gambling heavily? Drinking?”

“He always gambled heavy.” The young man laughed. “But no, sir. He wasn’t one for drink.”

“Left here more often depressed and sober than drunk,” Hargrove added.

That information softened Frederick’s opinion of the man slightly. One vice was plenty. “What led to the altercation with Mr. Clark?”

“Well, Mr. Dixon was at the baccarat table most of the night,” Rook said, his fingers worrying the edge of his coat. “Lost a fair bit, I’d wager. Then Mr. Clark accused him of cheating.”

Frederick leaned forward slightly. “And was Mr. Dixon prone to cheat, from your knowledge?”

“No, sir. That’s probably why he lost so much,” Rook replied with a grim sort of sincerity.

“That and bad luck,” Hargrove chimed in, his tone bordering on philosophical.

Frederick nearly grunted at the sharp sting of that addition. Could Tony have been so desperate to gain favor in Lillias’ eyes that he returned, over and over again, to gamble a losing game?

“What happened next?”

“They had words first, sharp ones, and then it turned physical. Mr. Dixon threw the first punch, but the other man was quicker. Mr. Dixon got the brunt of the hits before they were separated.”

So Mr. Clark knew how to fight. An important detail, should Frederick find himself in a similar confrontation.

“Did this Mr. Clark say anything? Threaten Mr. Dixon?”

“I—I heard him say something about owing what’s due.

And then”—Caleb glanced at Hargrove, who gave a slight nod, apparently the arbiter of all things confidential—”I heard Mr. Clark say to Mr. Dixon …

” Caleb straightened, evidently imagining himself as the Scotsman.

“He said, ‘You shouldn’t have said that, lad. Things would have been different for you, if you didnae know that.’“

Didnae and lad ? Those weren’t typical American words.

“What did Mr. Dixon know?”

Rook shrugged, deflating like a punctured balloon. “I didn’t hear that part, sir. But that’s when Mr. Hargrove arrived and broke up the two men. Told Mr. Dixon to stay away.”

“And Mr. Clark?” Frederick turned to Hargrove.

Hargrove shifted in his seat and offered a one-shoulder shrug. “He wasn’t the sort you asked to leave.”

Frederick raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

Hargrove ran his thumb against his finger, his grin both sly and unapologetic. “He came with plenty of money to spend.”

Ah, yes. The universal pass in establishments such as this. Money might not buy happiness, but it certainly bought tolerance. “And what did Mr. Clark look like? Could you place the accent at all? Scottish, perhaps?”

“Yeah,” Rook’s eyes brightened. “That’s it. I thought I’d heard it before but couldn’t place it. Old MacGregor, who used to come in here, sounded a lot like Mr. Clark.”

“Would you happen to know where Mr. Clark is staying?”

“If the patrons don’t tell, we don’t ask.” Hargrove answered. “But there are only a few places in town any man of his style would choose to stay.”

Style, cleverness, a fighter, and Scottish. The profile of Mr. Clark was beginning to take shape, and it wasn’t exactly a comforting silhouette. Frederick was no gambling man, but he’d wager the man who attacked him in the garden was the same as this Mr. Clark.

“Did he only come the one night?”

“No, sir.” Rook shook his head. “That was his third night—the night of the fight.”

“And has he been back?”

Rook glanced at Hargrove, whose brow crinkled like a well-worn map. “Not as I recall.”

So Mr. Clark disappeared at the same time Tony Dixon stopped coming to the Lucky Coin? This sounded much less like a random brawl in a bar. No, it was much more strategic.

Frederick stood, mind spinning through this new information. What else should he ask? What would Grace ask? “Can you think of anyone else who would want to harm Mr. Dixon? Had you heard of any other threats against him?”