‘That hit the mark,’ he said. ‘And what’ll you be doing while I’m off in search of a tart?’
Adam leant back on the bench and surveyed the chophouse. It was not yet midday and there were few people in the place. Three men were huddled over cups of coffee at the table next to them, conducting a conversation in conspiratorial whispers. Another man at a corner table — a junior clerk of some kind, judging by his dress — looked up briefly from his copy of Reynolds’s Weekly and then returned to his reading.
‘I shall endeavour to find out more about the mysterious Mr Creech. He is at the heart of everything that has been most puzzling in the events of the last few weeks. Who exactly was he? What mark did he make upon the world before his untimely death in that Herne Hill villa?’
‘And ’ow you proposing to do that exackly? You didn’ ’av’ much luck the other day. Even his servants knew bugger all about ’im.’
‘True enough.’ Adam smiled. ‘I am not entirely certain how I am to put flesh on Creech’s poor dead bones. But I think I might begin by making enquiries of the men named in his notebook. He knew something of them. Perhaps they know something of him.’
‘The nobs, you mean.’
‘Sir Willoughby Oughtred. And Lewis Garland and James Abercrombie.’
‘’Ow you going to get to speak to them?’
‘They are all MPs.’ Adam turned over in his mind the possibilities of approaching the three men in the Houses of Parliament. But would this be a suitable setting in which to ask them questions they might be uncomfortable answering? Perhaps less formal surroundings would be better. A thought struck him. ‘We also know that Oughtred, Garland and Abercrombie are members of the Marco Polo. I wonder if Mr Moorhouse might be able to put me on the right track. He spends most of his waking hours in the club. And many of his sleeping ones, too. He knows everyone.’
The clerk at the corner table had finished reading his Reynolds’s and was making his way towards the exit into Chancery Lane. He raised his hat as he passed them. Adam returned his polite salute.
‘And how will you begin to look for Jinkinson’s femme fatale?’ he asked, turning back to his manservant.
‘Maybe I should go back and have another word with that little ink-spiller in Poulter’s Court. Put the fear of God up him. He might know something more about her.’ Quint had clenched his fists and was examining them as if confirming their ability to put the fear of God up people.
The waiter returned with their plates of food. He banged them down on the table like a military drummer striking his instrument and walked off without a word.
‘Simpkins?’ Adam dismissed the idea. ‘No. He’s told us all he knows.’
‘Just a thought. For half a farthing, I’d be happy to tan that young rip’s arse.’ Quint unrolled his fists and picked up his knife. He poked suspiciously at the meat on his plate. ‘This is thin flank, by the looks of it.’
‘Do stop complaining, Quint. We’re not at Simpson’s or Verrey’s. We’re in a Chancery Lane chophouse. I had no idea you were so difficult a man to please at table.’
‘I ain’t.’ As if to prove he wasn’t, Quint began to shovel meat and mashed potato into his mouth at an alarming rate. He spoke between mouthfuls. ‘I just likes to see some sign the meat come off a fat cow, not a scraggy dog.’
‘I am sure the neighbourhood curs are safe enough from cook’s attentions.’ Adam picked up his own knife and fork and began to prod half-heartedly at the food. ‘Although this is indeed an enigmatic dish the waiter has flung before us. Is it beef? Or is it pork?’
‘Maybe neither. It tastes better ’n it looks.’
‘It is a relief to hear you say that. Although, it would be difficult for it to do otherwise.’ Adam took a mouthful of the food, grimacing slightly as he did so. He chewed and swallowed with the air of a man undertaking an unpleasant but unavoidable duty. ‘But you have still not answered my question about looking for Ada.’
Quint ceased eating just long enough to lay down his fork and tap the side of his nose with his forefinger.
‘Ain’t no need for you to worry about that. It might take a few days, but I’ll find her.’
‘Very well, I bow to your superior knowledge. We shall meet back at Doughty Street at six. And let us both endeavour to avoid the eagle-eyed vigilance of Mrs Gaffery when we return there. I have no wish to endure another cross-examination of the kind she has been undertaking so regularly of late.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
In the smoking room of the Marco Polo, the modern world with all its noise and bustle and distraction was kept firmly at bay. Deep in the embrace of one of its enormous leather chairs, Mr Moorhouse seemed to have entered a kind of tobacco-induced trance. On entering the room, Adam thought at first it was empty. Only when he noticed smoke signals arising from a distant corner and followed them to their source did he find his man.
Ah, Carver. You’ll join me, I trust?’ Mr Moorhouse said, coming back to consciousness and waving to the seat opposite his own.
Adam sank into its enveloping depths and lit a cigarette. His companion seemed to have no desire for conversation. He was happy enough just to rest in silent harmony amidst the swirling clouds of smoke. Several minutes passed. Adam finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in one of the vast brass ashtrays the Marco Polo provided for its members. He began to suspect that Mr Moorhouse, although his eyes remained open, had fallen once more into a state of transfixion.
‘The Glorious Twelfth,’ the old clubman said suddenly.
‘I beg your pardon, Mr Moorhouse?’
‘Just thinking about the shooting. Glorious Twelfth. Start of the grouse season and all that. Exactly two months from today.’ Mr Moorhouse took a long pull on his cigar and blew smoke in large plumes towards the ceiling. ‘Never been much of a one for shooting,’ he continued. ‘Don’t seem to have the eyes for it. Last time I went out with Oughtred on his moors, I shot one of the beaters.’ He paused and watched his smoke drifting through the air. ‘Well, winged him. Fellow was awfully good about it. I gave him a guinea and he said no more.’
His sporting recollections seemingly at an end, Mr Moorhouse fell silent. Now that the old man had himself referred to Oughtred by name, Adam was quick to seize the opportunity to introduce the subject that was uppermost in his mind.
‘You will remember a gentleman named Creech at the Speke dinner, Mr Moorhouse.’
Adam was far from sure that his elderly friend would, but he decided to give Mr Moorhouse’s memory the benefit of the doubt.
‘Creech? Tallish chap? With an odd scar?’ Mr Moorhouse gestured vaguely towards his own eyebrows. ‘Yes, I remember him. Seemed a decent sort of fellow.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you that he’s dead.’
‘Dead? Good God, that’s a bit sudden, isn’t it?’ Mr Moorhouse appeared genuinely distressed to hear of the death. ‘His heart, was it? Or an apoplexy, maybe? I always think those dinners are just disasters waiting to strike. All those steaming plates of rich food. And all those fine wines. I never take more than a few mouthfuls myself.’
‘He was murdered, Mr Moorhouse.’
‘Murdered?’ If he had been upset by the news of Creech’s death, Mr Moorhouse was utterly aghast at the mention of murder.
‘I was unlucky enough to be the person who found him.’
‘My dear fellow! How absolutely awful!’ Mr Moorhouse was so cast down it seemed as if he might be about to shed tears of sympathy. ‘Murder’s a wretched business. I remember the Courvoisier case. The valet who murdered his master. You must recall it yourself.’