The Custom House Murders (Captain Lacey Mysteries #15) - Ashley Gardner Page 0,13

I asked in surprise.

“You never know with His Nibs. But Lewis will let me in the kitchen if nothing else.”

The front door opened as we stood debating—only a sliver, I noted. The butler, an elderly specimen called Gibbons, who was as cold and hard a man as I’d ever met, beckoned to me.

“He is asking to see you, sir.” The butler’s tones were chilling. “Mr. Brewster, you are to go up with him.” Gibbons turned on his heel and disappeared.

He hadn’t left the door unattended. As I crossed the threshold, four beefy men surrounded me, and one slammed and bolted the door behind Brewster.

Brewster usually waited for me downstairs with his cronies when I visited Denis, or took refreshment in the kitchen, but the stern faces on the men around us told him he’d not be welcome below stairs today. Brewster’s countenance turned sour as he ascended the stairs behind me.

The butler led us to Denis’s study, though I scarcely needed him to show me the way. We entered the spartan room, so different from the clutter that surrounded Mr. Creasey. I wondered if the state of Creasey’s office was a reason Denis kept his study so austere.

Unlike most days when I visited him, Denis was not seated at his desk. Today he paced in front of the fireplace, pointedly halting before his path took him near any window.

A tall, clean-shaven man in his thirties with dark hair in a finely tailored suit, Denis lifted a hand when I entered, his demeanor as cool as ever. However, I spied fury burning in his blue eyes, a rage that few men ever saw, and lived to speak about it.

“Before you ask for details of what happened,” Denis began, “suffice it to say that a man barreled his way past my guards and came at me with a knife. That one.” He pointed to his desk, where lay a long dagger with a slight curve to the blade. The metal was dark with age, the leather on the hilt split.

“Where is the bloke what wielded it?” Brewster rumbled.

Denis resumed his pacing. “Not here. The knife is not significant. It is of Ottoman origin but can be found in any curio shop in London. Likely bought for the purpose. My guards were able to thwart the man, and I entered my house unscathed.”

“He was waiting for you,” I stated.

I kept my chill at Denis’s blunt answer, not here, from showing in my face. The words were a reminder of why Denis was a dangerous man. The would-be assassin very likely had not lived to report to his master, but I had no doubt Denis had pried from him exactly who that master was before he’d sent the man to be dispatched.

“Obviously,” Denis snapped. “I was returning from an appointment. He hid in the lane next to Chesterfield House and darted forth the exact moment I alighted from my coach.”

“Then fools were guarding the house while you were out.” Brewster’s tone held contempt. “He shouldn’t have got near.”

“He was well hidden, and it was not an impromptu attack.” Denis’s glacial tones cut through Brewster’s bluster. “He must have watched this house for a long time. The quick actions of my guards saved me, because, I confess, I had let my mind wander to another matter.”

More anger flashed in his eyes, at himself, I understood.

“This incident is not why I asked you to come in, Captain.” Denis halted his pacing, putting himself squarely in front of the empty fireplace. “You delivered my package?”

“I did.” He’d have known I’d set off directly after breakfast.

“Thank you for being so prompt. You found Mr. Creasey at home?”

“If that warehouse is his home, then yes.”

“He does, indeed, live there.” The words held disdain. “Not many know that, which is what he prefers. Tell me, what did he say when he opened the parcel?”

I did not question how Denis knew Mr. Creasey would unwrap it as soon as I handed it to him.

“He threatened to kill me. No—” I amended. “He told me the chess piece meant he could kill me where I stood and then said he would not.”

“Good.” Denis closed his mouth, finished speaking. I had not thought he’d bother to tell me anything more.

“He also asked whether I played chess and said he’d welcome the diversion of a game any time,” I added.

Denis’s expression changed, a hint of amusement entering it. “I would not choose to do so. Mr. Creasey is a master. He entices people into