The Custom House Murders (Captain Lacey Mysteries #15) - Ashley Gardner Page 0,69

Mr. Fitzgerald is indeed an art smuggler and stop him. It is bad for business.”

Denis spoke with an unruffled manner that belied the fact that he was hiding in his bedchamber, not allowing light to leak through the curtains.

“I can question Fitzgerald,” I offered. “You have much to do.”

Denis gave me a minute shake of his head. “He will only lie and convince you otherwise. I can reach the truth. If he is innocent, then he is. But his is an unlikely tale.”

“Very well.” I did not like the idea of Denis pinning down the cordial Mr. Fitzgerald, but I had told Eden that I’d known congenial men who were the worst sorts of criminals. “I do dislike to see you cowed. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Brewster, Gibbons, and the other guard stiffened. Denis’s expression did not change.

“My current circumstance is a precaution, not cowardice,” Denis said. “I’d be foolish indeed to show myself in a window, when likely a sharpshooter has been placed in a house behind me, or on a rooftop. Mr. Creasey is thorough.”

I glanced at the muffling draperies. “He would require a precise weapon for that distance.”

“Such things exist. A crossbow, for instance, can be quite deadly and accurate in the correct hands.”

I swallowed. I had not had to worry about such things as sharpshooters since leaving the army, and even then none of them had wielded anything as archaic as a crossbow.

“I hope you solve the problem soon,” I said.

“I intend to. Good day, Captain. Please greet your wife for me and have a pleasant journey to Oxfordshire.”

Denis wanted me gone, out of the way. One less worry for him. I would oblige him, whether I wished to or not. Brewster and Donata would make certain of it.

I nodded politely to him, and Brewster and I took our leave.

I SPENT another pleasant night with my wife and daughter at home. After taking supper with Donata, I carried my books on chess from the library, set up the board in her sitting room, and began working through various problems in the tomes. One was in French, and I would have to brush up on that language.

Donata watched me in part-amusement, part-alarm. “You are not going to play that awful man again, are you?”

“I have no desire to.” I studied a page then moved a rook to box in a king. I remembered this play, I was pleased to note. “But the match intrigued me, and I thought I’d find out what I recalled. Perhaps your father will fancy a game.”

“He might.” Donata relaxed and went back to her newspapers. “Though I will declare both of you mad.”

I thought of the chess-obsessed gentleman from whom I’d taken lessons to pass the time in Pairs and conceded she could be right. But then, Gabriella might enjoy learning to play, if she did not know how already, and so might Peter. He was a bright boy and would catch on quickly. I looked forward to teaching him.

We retired to bed before long, Donata reposing with me once more. I could grow used to having her at my side every night, though I knew it was highly unfashionable for an aristocratic lady to share a bedchamber with her husband.

I was again in an amiable mood in the morning as I made my way down to breakfast. Bartholomew served me, and Barnstable set my correspondence and a morning newspaper at my elbow.

I scanned the few letters I would read thoroughly later and unfolded the newspaper. About halfway down the first page, words in large type leapt out at me.

Murder in Cable Street.

Horrific death of a gentleman just returned from the West Indies.

CHAPTER 17

I had shoved a large hunk of toasted bread into my mouth, and I half choked on it. Coughing, I slurped down coffee even as I leapt from my chair.

Bartholomew, who’d lingered to see if the sideboard needed to be replenished, started back in alarm, the lid to a silver tray in his hand.

“Are you all right, sir? What’s happened?”

I waved the newspaper at him. “They’ve killed Laybourne.” My words were muffled until I gulped more coffee and cleared my throat. “The chap from Eden’s ship. Where is Brewster?”

Bartholomew slammed the lid onto the tray of sliced ham. “I’ll find him, Captain. Want a coach?”

“Please.”

We dashed from the room, Bartholomew and his youthful energy taking him out ahead of me. He ran down the back stairs while I made for the front door, calling for my