The Custom House Murders (Captain Lacey Mysteries #15) - Ashley Gardner Page 0,3

outline in the gloom.

None of the dock workers trundled goods here, the passageway empty of all but us. Our footsteps echoed in the muffled silence.

Number 11 Hill Lane looked no different from the brick buildings to its right and left, and in fact shared a common facade wall with them. Only the number differentiated Mr. Creasey’s abode from the doors on either side. The doorstep was crumbling stone, the door itself a black paneled slab.

I stepped up to this door and rapped on it with the head of my walking stick.

Time ticked past, giving us no response. From the end of the lane came the rumble of wagons, the clopping of horses, the shouts of men, but here, in the blanket of fog, all was eerily quiet.

As I was about to tell my friends I would give up and call another time, a bolt slid ponderously back and the door creaked open. A pair of bloodshot eyes under a blotch of greasy dark hair peered out.

“What you want?”

I removed the package from my coat but did not hand it to the apparition in the doorway. The man was thin, dressed in worn and stained clothing, and smelled rancid. I doubted Mr. Denis would thank me for leaving the package with this specimen.

“I have a delivery for Mr. Creasey. Is he at home?”

Home was not the word for this place, but I could be polite.

“What delivery?”

“One of a personal nature.” I tucked the parcel into my pocket and drew out a card. “Will you be so kind as to give him my name?”

The man sneered through the crack at the card. “What you fink this is? A palace?”

“Now, look here, you.” Eden took an indignant step forward with the air of command he’d turned on insubordinate soldiers. “You fetch your master as you’ve been told.”

The man didn’t budge. He was not impressed by gentlemen officers annoyed at his slowness.

Brewster rumbled behind me. “Get him, and right sharpish. This is from Mr. Denis.”

The man’s dark eyes widened a fraction, and the door slammed shut, the bolt scraping into place. I turned to Brewster in mild annoyance.

“We may never see him again, Brewster. I want to be shot of this errand, my obligation finished.”

“Obligations are never finished with His Nibs. You know that.”

“Good Lord, who is this Mr. Denis?” Eden asked in bewilderment.

I was happy Eden had never heard of him. James Denis was a ruler of the London underworld, with his fingers in many pies from smuggling to theft to forgery. He also procured legitimate artworks for connoisseurs who might not have the connections to obtain what they wanted. Sometimes he did this legally, sometimes not. His clients never asked too many questions. He had connections in high places that kept the magistrates from looking too closely at him, and MPs and aristocrats in his pocket. Denis was unapologetic for his dealings and quick to sort out those who stepped in his way.

“No one you ought to meet.” My acquaintanceship with Mr. Denis was too complex to explain. “Necessity makes for strange bedfellows.”

Eden’s face creased with a weary smile. “Well do I know that. As a matter—”

The bolt rasping back and the door opening once more interrupted him. The lackey had returned.

“Inside.” The man jerked his thumb behind him. I trudged forward, Brewster and Eden following. The man growled at me. “Just you. Not the others.”

Before Brewster could protest, Eden preempted him. “We’ll not let our friend enter such a place alone. We accompany him, or your master speaks with us outdoors.”

Brewster folded his arms and became a bulwark, not about to let me enter without him. The lackey muttered a few foul words but dragged the door all the way open.

We entered a long, narrow space that was clearly a warehouse, but no goods filled it. Empty shelves ran along the walls, and thick wooden pillars lining the center aisle held up a lofty ceiling.

Our guide took us through the cold, echoing room to a door in the very rear of the house. This opened to a winding stair surrounded by brick walls. Brewster mumbled under his breath as I followed the guide, steadying myself with a hand on the cold and mold-streaked walls. Bartholomew would not be happy about the state of my gloves when I returned home, but I less still wanted to fall against that surface.

Eden, directly behind me, said nothing, but I found his presence reassuring. He’d been an excellent soldier, unafraid to ride straight at armed