would make much difference. In any event, there was nothing he could do about it.
“Everything all right, sir?”
Douglas turned from the window and looked up. The landlord, having little to do this evening, was making the rounds and chatting with his customers.
“Never better,” replied Douglas in a tone he hoped would dismiss further intrusion. But the man remained hovering over the table.
“Mr. Flinders-Petrie, is it not, sir?”
“Indeed so.” He offered a bland smile to cover his annoyance at being recognised on this night of all nights. “I fear you have me at a disadvantage. I was not aware that my name would be common knowledge.”
The landlord chuckled. “No, I suppose not. But do you not recognise me, sir?”
Douglas looked more closely at him. There was a vague familiarity about the fellow, but . . . no, he could not place him.
“Cumberbatch, sir,” the landlord volunteered. “I worked for your father, I did. Oh, quite a few years ago.” At Douglas’ dubious expression, he said, “I was his footman—Silas.”
“Silas! Certainly, I remember you,” Douglas lied. “Do forgive me. Yes, of course, now that you remind me.”
“’Course, I was younger then, and you were away at school and university and whatnot.” The landlord wiped his hands on the towel around his waist and smoothed it out as if this put the matter to rest. “Happy days they were.”
“Yes, yes,” agreed Douglas amiably. He was aware that the other patrons were watching them, and actually relieved now that the place was not more crowded. “Happy times, indeed.”
“Pardon my asking, sir,” said Cumberbatch, leaning nearer the table. He lowered his voice. “If you don’t mind, there’s something that I’ve always wanted to know. I’d be most obliged.”
“I’d be happy to help if I can, Silas. What is it?”
“Did they ever find the man who killed your father?”
To buy himself a little space to think, Douglas took a drink of his ale, then, placing the glass carefully on the table, said, “I am sorry to say they never did.”
“Oh dear, oh dear.” Cumberbatch shook his head. “That’s a right pity. Did they never have a suspicion, then?”
“Suspicions, yes,” replied Douglas, “but nothing more. The coroner’s verdict at the time of the inquest reads ‘unlawful killing by person or persons unknown.’ At this late date, I fear it is likely to remain a mystery.”
“Ah, dear me,” sighed Cumberbatch. “That is a shame, that is. He was a good man, your father—a very decent chap, if you don’t mind my saying. A solid and upright fellow—always treated me well, and that’s a fact, that is.”
“Yes, well, as you say it was all a long time ago. Perhaps it is best forgotten.”
“No doubt, sir. I’m with you there.” Cumberbatch brightened once more. “But it is good to see you, Mr. Flinders-Petrie. Here, now, can I get you another pint?”
“Thank you, but no, I—”
“On the house, sir—for old time’s sake. It would please me no end.”
“Very well, then. Thank you, Silas. I would enjoy that.”
“Coming right up, sir.”
The landlord beetled off to pull the pint. Douglas drew his pocket-watch from his waistcoat and flipped it open. It was half past nine. In another hour he would make his move. Until then, he had a warm place to wait and watch. The landlord returned with his pint and, after another brief exchange, he was left alone to finish it and his meal in peace.
It was after ten thirty when he finally rose and, promising to return for another visit next time he was in the neighbourhood, retrieved his black cape from the coatrack and went out into the mist and drizzle. The weather was perfect for his purposes—a miserable night meant fewer folk around to notice any peculiar comings and goings. The gas lamps hissed and fluttered, pale orbs that did little to cut the all-pervading fog. Perfect.
He smiled to himself as he walked to the corner of Montague Street, turned, and proceeded along the side of the museum to where the service alley joined the street at the rear of the building. There he paused to observe the street one last time; a lone hansom cab rattled away in the opposite direction, and two men in top hats staggered along—one in the gutter, the other on the pavement—oblivious of their surroundings, singing their way home from an evening’s celebration.
Satisfied, he ducked into the alleyway and hurried quickly and unerringly in the dark to the back of a town house opposite the rear of the museum. There, lying in the