The Custom House Murders (Captain Lacey Mysteries #15) - Ashley Gardner Page 0,66

that he was ready for us to go, and I rose. “One more question I have for you, Mr. Seabrook, while I am here. Your men seized an artwork from Mr. Fitzgerald, a painted box. Why did they?”

“Eh?” Seabrook’s brow wrinkled a moment. “Oh, yes, that. I have chappies who are experts in art, and they wondered if Fitzgerald had stolen the thing. But Fitzgerald was able to produce paperwork that said it belonged to him. He paid a man on St. Maarten three hundred guineas for it. Imagine.”

“He must have wanted it very much,” I agreed.

“That amount of money for a painted box, I ask you.” Seabrook shook his head. “Well, I’m not much of a man for art. Commodities I understand. That is why the other fellows are in charge of looking at paintings and the like.” He chuckled.

“So, you found nothing wrong with Fitzgerald’s receipt?”

“No, all was legitimate. I charged him a duty for bringing an expensive luxury into the country, which he paid without fuss.” Seabrook’s eyes twinkled. “We customs men thrive on such things, you know.”

I expected a response from Brewster, but he remained stoic, while I laughed courteously.

I had no more questions for the man and thanked him for his assistance.

“Not at all, Captain. I welcome the respite from the mundane tasks that fill my day. Drop in anytime. I enjoy chatting with those not in my tedious business.”

Seabrook came forward and shook my hand. I thanked him again, and Brewster and I departed his office, much to the clerk’s relief. Bristow slipped in to see his master as we left, carrying another ream of paper to slap on the overworked man’s desk.

Brewster and I went down the stairs, navigated the long room, and made our way outside. The hackney waited, as promised, and Brewster hurried me toward it.

“That box is worth far more than three hundred guineas, guv,” Brewster told me as the hackney driver took us toward Mayfair. He’d chosen to ride inside, likely to discuss this point.

“What did you say the artist’s name was? Van …”

“Van Hoogstraten. Probably is one of his. I’d need to have a look at it to be sure.”

“Fitzgerald did say the man he bought it from was in need of money. Fitzgerald might have sensed this and driven a hard bargain.”

“A very hard one. I think you should tell His Nibs about this.”

“His Nibs made it very clear I was to stay out of his way,” I countered.

“But he didn’t know about this box then. He’s keen to keep his eye on valuable artwork what comes in and out of the country.”

“Why? So he can put his hands on it?”

Brewster shrugged. “Sometimes. And to make certain rivals aren’t poaching his customers.”

“Rivals such as Creasey?”

“Aye. Though Creasey might have nothing to do with Mr. Fitzgerald and his pretty box. But someone else might be using blokes like Fitzgerald to get pieces into England and on the market.”

Cutting out James Denis and his high price for his trouble. I understood why Denis would wish to hear about such competition. I wondered if he’d take over the other fellow’s business or eliminate it, and then decided I did not want to know.

“Seabrook found nothing wrong with the price,” I said. “Thought it rather high.”

“Begging your pardon, guv, but he’s talking out his arse. His sort are happy to retrieve the fees, collect their pay for doing it, and go home, after cheating honest importers out of half their profit.”

“He’s only doing a job, Brewster,” I said, amused. “Every man has to eat.”

“He could take a different one,” Brewster said stubbornly. “There’s a reason His Nibs does everything he can to go around the customs agents.”

More things I did not wish to know.

I wondered what Thompson had done with the carbine. I wanted to examine it again, as though it could give me a clue as to where it had come from. I thought of a man who might know. He was no longer in the King’s army, but he remained close friends and cronies with those who were. He might be on half-pay, but he’d never truly left the military behind.

Brewster and I fell silent after that as the carriage took us back across London and into Mayfair to Curzon Street.

CHAPTER 16

G ibbons informed us coldly, when he at last opened the door to Number 45 a crack, that Mr. Denis wasn’t seeing anyone. Only Brewster’s insistence gained us admittance.

“I will inquire,” Gibbons said in his chill tones. Several