Page 15

Finn led the way down a narrow, dimly lit staircase into the basement of a London bar he'd never heard of—no sign out front, just a single door guarded by a bulky figure who, after a glance at Eleanor, stepped aside without a word. Immediately, a haze of stale smoke assaulted Finn's senses, mixing with the stench of spilled spirits. The establishment clearly didn't care about Britain's indoor smoking bans.

He paused near the bottom of the steps, scanning the small, low-ceilinged room. Yellowish lamps glowed overhead, giving everything a sickly cast. Leather-upholstered booths lined the walls, and a handful of men in suits or half-unbuttoned shirts sat at tiny round tables, nursing drinks. A couple of them glanced over, sizing him up. Finn felt them marking him as an outsider.

He leaned close to Eleanor, his voice subdued. “This place doesn’t exactly do subtle, does it? And I’m guessing they aren’t sticklers for the rules.”

Eleanor’s expression was cool, but tension pinched her mouth. “None of these people are,” she said curtly. She scanned the room quickly, as though memorizing every face. “Leopold’s men frequent this place.”

“How do you know? And how come the guy on the door didn't even ask who you were?” Finn asked.

“Please, Finn. Don't ask me.”

Finn nodded, letting her take the lead for now, though he worried why it was that she seemed to suddenly fit in so well to the city's underbelly. She wore a smart jacket and blouse—professional attire that clashed starkly with the smoky, clandestine atmosphere. Even so, her posture radiated an uneasy confidence, a discomfort with returning to a world she’d worked hard to leave behind.

Almost at once, a man in his early fifties strode toward them—dressed in a gray suit that had seen better days, with a flamboyant tie. His face was broad, creased with deep laugh lines, and his hair was slicked back. A broad grin lit up his features when he saw Eleanor.

“Ellie!” he said, arms wide. He pulled her into a hug, ignoring her stiffening. “I can’t believe it’s been, what, four years?”

Finn’s eyebrows rose. Ellie? He could practically feel the tension rolling off Eleanor. She cleared her throat, forcing a polite smile. “Hello, Mickey. It has been… quite a while.”

Mickey held her at arm’s length, grinning with a wistful look. “You look just like your dad, you know that?”

A flash of discomfort flitted across Eleanor’s face. “I get that a lot,” she said briefly, then gestured to Finn. “This is Finn Wright. He’s—”

“A detective,” Mickey cut in, eyes narrowing. “I've seen this fella on the news. That’s what I heard. We don’t really like that word in here.”

Finn felt multiple gazes from the bar shift onto him. He lifted a hand, smiling disarmingly. “If it’s any consolation, I’m not the biggest fan of the word myself. I’m more of a consultant detective. And I’d prefer not to cause trouble.”

Mickey stared him down for a moment, then snorted. “Heh. You’re with Ellie, so you must be fine. But you’d best keep that detective business under wraps.” Turning back to Eleanor, Mickey’s grin returned. “Leopold will be thrilled you came to see him, Ellie. He’s back in the room there with his card buddies.” He gave Finn a once-over. “And you sure this fella can be trusted?”

Eleanor straightened. “Yes, Mickey. He can be trusted. We just need a word with Leopold, that’s all.”

Mickey studied Finn for another beat before shrugging. “Your call, Ellie.” He stepped aside, gesturing for them to move through a curtained archway at the back. “Follow me. Watch your step—some folks in this place don’t take kindly to outsiders.”

Finn glanced around, seeing a couple of men puffing cigarettes at a corner table, eyes flicking his way. He nodded at them, but they didn’t respond, just stared. Charming crowd , he thought dryly.

Mickey led them down a short hallway, every inch of it reeking of stale smoke and liquor until they emerged into a larger back room. A single hanging lamp illuminated a round card table where four men sat, jackets off, glasses of whiskey at hand. Clouds of cigarette smoke curled in the air. One man—Leopold Dawson, presumably—rose when they entered.

Leopold was in his seventies, tall but hunched with age, hair a wispy silver combed neatly back. He wore a tailored suit, fine lines in the fabric hinting it was expensive. He had an air of casual authority, his gray eyes sharp beneath bushy eyebrows. The other three men at the table glanced up, noticing the newcomers.

Leopold smiled, revealing surprisingly white teeth. “Ellie! My dear, it’s been ages, doll.” He extended his arms, and, with visible reluctance, Eleanor stepped into a brief hug.

“Leopold,” she said quietly, voice touched by something between nostalgia and regret. “You’re looking well.”

He turned to the other gamblers, waving a hand in introduction. “Gentlemen, this is Harold Matthews’s daughter. I told you about Harry, didn’t I? One of the best men I ever knew.”

The men around the table rose, each offering Eleanor a handshake and murmured condolences for her father’s passing. “Harry was a diamond,” one muttered, eyes warm with memory. “Sorry to hear he went.”

Eleanor nodded politely, her cheeks coloring at the memory. “He was… quite a character,” she allowed.

After a few more nods and greetings, Leopold turned his attention to Finn, eyes narrowing. “Now, who’s this tall fellow? Tall enough to be a copper, I’d reckon. Are you a copper?”

Finn forced a friendly smile. “Name’s Finn Wright. I’m a consultant with the Home Office. Not an officer, exactly—”

Leopold barked a short laugh. “Consultant detective, is that it? Hmph. Not good enough for a badge at the Met, or what?” His grin had an edge to it.

Eleanor stepped in, voice firm but respectful. “He’s with me. And the only reason we’re here is because people are being murdered—three so far. They’ve been staged like famous paintings, and all of them connect back to the Blackthorn Gallery somehow. We believe forgeries might be at the heart of this, as each murder scene mimics a forged painting.”

Leopold's gaze didn't waver. "Murders. Forgeries. None of that is my business, Ellie. It shouldn't be yours, either."

She pressed her lips together. “I know you prefer to stay out of trouble, but… My reputation’s on the line. I’m attached to this case. I need help to stop any more deaths.”

A flicker of something akin to concern crossed Leopold’s face. He sighed heavily. “You always did have a stubborn streak, like your father,” he muttered. “Fine, come with me. We’ll talk somewhere quieter.” He motioned to the others, who resumed their card game with no fuss.

Leopold led Finn and Eleanor across the room to a narrow door that opened into a small study. A single overhead lamp illuminated a wooden desk cluttered with old ledgers, empty whiskey glasses, and a battered globe that sat in the corner. Once inside, Leopold closed the door behind them, muffling the laughter and clink of glasses from the card table.

"So," Leopold said, hands resting on the desk's edge, "tell me about these murders. And keep it brief. I'm not a gossip, and I won't be dragged into giving depositions."

Eleanor took a breath, crossing her arms. “Three victims, each killed and posed to resemble a famous painting. I identified them: The Cornfield, The Blue Boy, and something reminiscent of Rubens’s Medusa. All had potential ties to the Blackthorn Gallery. We suspect a ring of forgeries is the real motive—someone’s either silencing those who discovered the fakes, or covering up something bigger.”

Finn nodded, stepping in. “That’s why we’re after information on who might’ve created these forgeries. We think each victim may have recognized a painting was fake or learned something about the ring. We believe you, Mr. Dawson, might know who in London’s art underworld has that kind of skill.”

Leopold’s mouth twitched. “You think I’m about to snitch?” He shot a sidelong glance at Eleanor. “You know, Ellie, in my world, snitching is a dirty word.” He winked in Finn’s direction. “Especially to a detective, consultant or otherwise.”

Finn tensed. “We’re just trying to prevent another murder.”

“Were any of the victims, women?” Leopold asked.

“Yes,” Finn replied, starkly. “Victoria Palmer was 73.”

Leopold gave a small, humorless laugh. “Damn shame. That’s not on. Killing women is frowned upon even in my circles. But I appreciate your predicament.” He opened a drawer, pulled out a notepad, and scribbled something. He ripped the page free and held it between two fingers. “All right, Ellie. For the sake of Victoria and your father, I’ll give you what I know, but that's it.”

Eleanor reached out, and he handed her the scrap of paper. She glanced at it but didn’t read it aloud. Finn tried to peer over her shoulder, but she was too quick to fold it away.

“That's the name and address of a company that supplies security for expensive antiques when they're getting moved around,” Leopold said. “All I'll say is you might find your answer there.”

“Thank you, Leopold,” Eleanor replied, sounding sincere.

“You can come back here any time, Ellie,” Leopold said, leaning back against the desk. “But not with your detective friend.” He aimed a dry smirk at Finn. “Sorry, pal. It’s nothing personal. But the clientele here… they’re very choosy about who they drink with.”

Finn shrugged, attempting a conciliatory grin. “Shame. I enjoy a card game now and then.”

Leopold let out a sharp laugh. “Every single person at that table cheats, Mr. Wright. You wouldn’t stand a chance.” Then his smile faded, replaced by a grim seriousness. “Besides, this isn’t your world. Best keep out if you value your safety.”

Eleanor exhaled slowly. “I appreciate the tip, Leopold. Truly.”

He gave her a brief nod, then tugged her into a surprisingly gentle hug. “Your dad was a good man. I promised him I’d keep an eye on you, but that’s hard to do when you don’t return calls.” There was a flicker of genuine hurt in his voice. “If you ever need help, Ellie, call me next time—don’t wait until there are bodies on the ground.”

She swallowed, nodding. “I’m sorry. I needed to step away from… Dad’s world.”

Leopold patted her shoulder. “I get it. If I were a younger man, maybe I'd have done the same thing, known what I know now. But we're all victims of fate, ain't we? Now, let’s get you out of here. I have a reputation to maintain.” He motioned for them to follow.

They returned to the card room, where the men around the table looked up briefly but said nothing. Leopold waved to Mickey, who was leaning against the wall with a half-empty pint in hand. “Mickey, see them out. And keep an eye on them. Make sure no one decides to… cause trouble.”

Mickey knocked back the rest of his drink, set the glass aside, and grinned at Eleanor. “Right you are, boss.” He gestured for Finn and Eleanor to follow him. As they stepped back into the bar’s main area, cigarette smoke curled heavily in the air.

Mickey led them through the scattered patrons, then angled toward the stairwell. On the way, he smiled, turning to Eleanor. “I can’t get over it. I can see your dad in you so much. What a bloke he was, eh? Best bare-knuckle fighter I ever saw, and never lost his cool in a tight spot. Real legend.”

Eleanor forced a small nod. “Yes, well… I knew a different side of him, Mickey.” Her tone was carefully neutral, but Finn sensed her embarrassment.

Mickey didn’t notice, rummaging in his memories. “I remember once in Dublin, your old man took on four men double his size. Took ‘em down like it was nothing! Eh, good times. The all or nothin' days.”

Eleanor tensed, her posture rigid. Finn gently placed a hand on her elbow to guide her up the steps, letting her know she wasn’t alone. She shot him a grateful glance.

At the top of the staircase, near the exit, Mickey turned. “Don’t be a stranger, Ellie. You ever need anything, you know where to find me—or Leopold.”

She offered a tight smile. “Thanks, Mickey.”

They emerged onto a quiet side street, numb against London’s skyline. The bar’s unmarked door closed behind them, the sounds of music and laughter sealed away. Amelia gave a discreet shiver—part from the cold, part from relief.

Finn exhaled. “Well, that was… an interesting glimpse of your father’s world. You okay?”

She shrugged, face shadowed by a streetlamp's glow. "It doesn't matter. I just—I wasn't proud of what my father did or the people he associated with. But I guess it's part of me, too."

Finn paused, letting a wave of empathy wash over him. “For what it’s worth, I grew up in a small Florida town where everyone saw me as that kid from the wrong side of the tracks. But I don’t believe in the sins of our fathers. You’re a good person, Eleanor. You’ve achieved plenty—hold your head high.”

Something in her eyes softened. “Thank you,” she murmured. She withdrew the folded paper from her pocket. “Let’s see what Leopold gave me.” She handed it to Finn.

He opened it under the wan glow of a streetlamp, reading a scribbled note: a name and address. Possibly a warehouse location. He whistled. “So, a security firm outside London… that’s where we might find this forger, or at least their operation?”

Eleanor nodded. “Apparently.”

He stepped aside as she started down the street. “Up for a drive, Dr. Matthews?” he teased lightly.

She managed a genuine smile this time. “Delightful, Mr. Wright. Lead the way.”

And so they walked off together, the smoky bar behind them, gray day skies settling in overhead. Despite the tension, they had a lead at last—one that might unravel the killer’s connection to the forged paintings. If this forger truly was the key to stopping any more grisly murders, Finn and Eleanor would brave any seedy place to find them.