A Wicked Conceit (Lady Darby Mysteries #9) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,38
could already smell her sultana scones baking in the kitchen beyond.
She grinned at my flared nostrils, aware of how much I adored them. “I’ll be back in a trice,” she told us, ushering us toward the table we normally occupied at the back of the shop, farthest from the windows.
Sergeant Maclean, on the other hand, was a former pugilist, and as tall and brawny as they came. His features were crooked from too many bouts in the ring. His nose had been broken multiple times in the past, and his smiles were stiff and awkward, not so much because he didn’t do so often, but more because it seemed like his cheek muscles could only lift so far.
He waited politely as Gage settled me in my chair before sitting carefully in his own. I noted that he sported a new scar across his brow, and when he rested his hands on the table, his knuckles were as scabbed and scarred, as always.
“I can see you haven’t grown lax with criminals,” Gage jested.
His face darkened. “Nay. Least no’ like Mugdock suggests.”
Though Maclean hadn’t been mentioned by name, The King of Grassmarket had implied there were officers of the Edinburgh City Police involved in the corruption scheme that Gage and I, or rather Mr. Gale and Lady Dalby, were a part of. And the only policeman we regularly collaborated with was Maclean.
Gage’s own humor deserted him. “I hope you’ve had better luck than we have uncovering who this Mugdock fellow is.”
Maclean shook his head. “The publisher isna singin’, and we canna force him. Least no’ yet.”
“What does that mean?”
“The superintendent claims he’s got a few tricks up his sleeve. Meanin’ favors he can call in.” He narrowed his eyes. “In truth, I dinna think it’ll be hard to convince one o’ his judge cronies that ’tis in the public’s best interest to ken who’s stirrin’ up unrest.”
“And by ‘unrest,’ I surmise you mean the rash of recent thefts,” I speculated.
He turned to me. “Heard aboot that, have ye?”
“They’ve been commented upon in the newspapers,” I replied. At least, in that morning’s edition of the Caledonian Mercury.
He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Aye, and most o’ ’em are naught but a bloody nuisance.”
Gage sat back in his chair, his brow creased in interest. “What do you mean?”
But my attention was diverted by the sight of Mrs. Duffy bearing a tray piled with scones, a pot of tea, and a bowl of clotted cream. My mouth began to water before she’d even set the items on the table. I listened with half an ear as I helped myself to the tempting fare. All my gowns might already be too tight for me in my condition, but that did not mean I was going to pass up these delights.
“A fair percentage o’ the thefts have been perpetuated by lads who have ne’er been in trouble wi’ the law before—lads simply playin’ at bein’ a criminal.” Maclean sat back, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “One night, I caught three young lads—ages ten, eleven, and twelve—attemptin’ to cut the glass o’ a toy shop window so they could steal the toy cannons on display, and another two scamps burglarin’ a snuff shop. Some o’ these lads are from a class that should ken better. Just two days ago, a respectable shoemaker’s son was arrested for robbin’ an establishment near Tollcross.” He suddenly leaned forward. “And the whole sparky lot o’ ’em have been entertainin’ one another at the police house by performin’ bits o’ that bloody play—singin’ and dancin’ for one another’s amusement.” He shook his head. “They’ve gone barmy for Kincaid.”
“Or at least the tales of his exploits,” I interjected between bites.
“Aye, weel, it’s difficult to separate the two,” he replied gruffly, adjusting the belt under his gray greatcoat to which his baton was strapped.
“Then most of the crimes have been petty in nature?” Gage asked, slathering a scone with raspberry jam.
“Aye, pickin’ pockets or burglarin’ houses.” Maclean scratched at the dark bristles peppering his jawline. “But there’s also been a handful o’ more darin’ raids. A week ago, one warehouse was robbed o’ all its whisky by a gang o’ ruffians, and the night watchman they restrained claims one o’ the men was whistlin’ that flash song from the play.”
“Kincaid’s men?”
It was a natural assumption, but based on Bonnie Brock’s mood the previous evening, I already knew the answer.