The Custom House Murders (Captain Lacey Mysteries #15) - Ashley Gardner Page 0,2

I was now thankful Brewster had insisted on accompanying me. I’d have had to think long and hard before entering that passageway alone.

“Lacey? Good Lord, it is you.”

I turned at my name and gazed, mystified, at the man who strode toward me from the arched doorway of the Custom House. He wore the black of a fashionable gentleman, with a tall hat slightly askew, his coat tightly buttoned. He had no walking stick and approached with a swift, easy gait.

As he drew closer, memory cleared, and I went gladly forward to meet him.

“Captain Eden,” I exclaimed.

The man grasped my hand and shook it hard. I faced Miles Eden, a fellow officer of the Thirty-Fifth Light Dragoons. “It’s Major now,” he said breezily. “Was promoted after Waterloo.”

“Well deserved.” I stepped back to study him. Miles Eden was a tall man, standing an inch or so above me, with a thatch of light-colored hair that had grown thicker since I’d last seen him. Thin sideburns curved along his cheeks to a mouth that was prone to smiles. His eyes were brown, like strong tea, and his skin had tanned to a shade of butternut, a thin scar from Peninsula days white on his cheek.

Eden had been one of the few officers I’d respected. He’d gained his commission through family connections—his uncle was a baron—but he’d proved competent in leading men and thinking quickly in battle. He’d also been good-natured and likable though not a soft touch. His sergeants and men had respected him as well.

“Is it still Captain Lacey?” he asked. “I’ve been away—Antigua, actually. I sold my commission, and since then have heard little of the Thirty-Fifth.”

“I indeed bear that title. I took half pay after Vitoria and came home.”

“After your injury.” Eden glanced at my walking stick in sympathy. “Waterloo would have gone quicker and not been so bloody if you’d been there, I’m certain.”

I had to laugh at the exaggeration. “I doubt that very much. Have you returned to England permanently? Or have you become a colonist in truth?”

“No, no, I am home to stay. In fact …” Eden stepped closer to me, bending to me as men and carts teemed around us. “I would not mind speaking to you about a thing, Lacey. You’re just the man to advise me.”

“Of course. I am happy to help, if I can.”

Eden relaxed as though he’d been afraid of his reception. “Would now be convenient? Or do you have business?”

He trailed off with a glance at the Custom House, where men flowed in and out, shippers paying duties or trying to collect goods held there. I’d heard that the Custom House regularly had plenty of brandy and other seized smuggled goods like gunpowder in their cellars. Indeed, the previous building, only six or seven years before, had exploded like a fiery volcano when it had caught fire. The building I faced now, built a little to the east of the original site, was quite new.

“I do have a man to visit, but my errand should not take long,” I explained. I gestured with my stick to the foggy lane. “Just there.”

Eden blinked. He regarded Brewster, who hovered at my back, then the small street, then me. “There? A more menacing track I’ve not seen in a long while, and I have been to some terrible places, Lacey.” He squared his shoulders. “Perhaps I ought to accompany you.”

Brewster gave him a slow nod. “Another pair of fists might not be amiss.”

“I think you are both making heavy weather of it,” I said. “I do not intend to linger. But very well. This is Thomas Brewster. He is …” I could not think of a word to describe his position. “He works for me.”

“I’d say a good thing he does. Well met, Mr. Brewster.” Eden stuck out his hand.

Brewster gazed at him askance for a heartbeat then conceded to the handshake.

“Getting darker by the minute,” Brewster said once introductions were finished. “Storm must be coming in.”

“Rain will clear the fog,” I said with optimism. “Shall we, gentlemen?”

I led the way, my walking stick tapping. Truth be told, I was glad of my friends’ presence, both stout fellows, as we reached the mouth of the Stygian lane and plunged inside.

CHAPTER 2

F og packed the alley. It roiled around us, reaching with cold, damp fingers. Above the tall buildings at the end of the lane rose the steeple of St. Dunstan’s-in-the-East parish church, by London’s hero, Christopher Wren. The steeple was ghostly pale, a mere