"Please, Harry. I know I do not know much about that sort of thing, but I believe I could learn quickly. I realize that I would not be of much use to you or Peter, but I could function as an assistant to Sally, could I not?"
"You are quite right, Augusta," he said coldly. "You know nothing about this sort of thing." And as God is my witness, you will never learn, he thought. I will protect you from that kind of knowledge if it is the last thing I do.
"But Harry—"
"Your offer is appreciated, my dear, but I assure you, you would be more hindrance than help."
"But my lord, there are elements of your investigation that concern me as much as they do you and your friends. I want to be a part of your efforts. I have a right to be involved. I want to help."
"No, Augusta, and that is absolutely the last word." Harry picked up his quill and pulled a journal toward him across the desk. "Now, I must bid you good day. I have much to do this afternoon and I will be out for most of the evening. I shall be dining at my club with Sheldrake."
Augusta straightened slowly, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "Yes, my lord." She turned and went toward the door.
It was all Harry could do not to go after her, take her into his arms, and relent. He forced himself to remain where he was. He had to be firm. "By the way, Augusta."
"Yes, my lord?"
"Do not forget to give me the schedule of your plans for tomorrow."
"If I can think of anything sufficiently boring and therefore unobjectionable to your lordship, I will definitely put it down on the schedule."
Harry winced as she slammed the door on her way out of the room.
He sat quietly for a long while contemplating the gardens outside his window. There was no way he could tell her the real reason he could not give her even a token role in the investigation.
It was bad enough that she was angry about being excluded. But he could deal with her anger better than he could the pain he knew would come if she were to get involved in this situation and thereby learn too much.
Once he had deciphered Richard Ballinger's encoded poem, Harry had known that the rumors that had circulated at the time of the young man's death were founded in fact. The last male in the Northumberland Ballinger line had in all likelihood been a traitor.
Later that night Harry, accompanied by Peter, stepped down from the cab of a hired carriage and into the very heart of one of London's grimiest stews. It had started raining an hour ago and the paving stones underfoot had become slick. Moonlight gleamed dully on the greasy surfaces.
"Do you know, Sheldrake, it concerns me somewhat that you know your way so well around this part of Town." Harry saw a pair of beady red eyes glinting in the shadows and casually used his ebony walking stick to discourage the rat, which was the size of a large cat. The creature vanished into a vast pile of offal that marked the entrance to a narrow alley.
Peter chuckled softly. "In the old days your sensibilities were rarely offended by the notion of how and where I acquired my information."
"You will have to learn to refrain from amusing yourself in places such as this now that you are about to become a married man. I cannot see Claudia Ballinger approving of this sort of outing."
"True. But once I have married Miss Ballinger I expect to have far more interesting things to do in the evenings than dive into the stews." Peter paused to get his bearings. "There's the lane we want. The man we are seeking has arranged to meet us in the tavern at the end of this filthy little street."
"You trust your information?"
Peter shrugged. "No, but 'tis a starting point. I was told this man Bleeker witnessed the fire the night the Saber Club burned down. We shall no doubt discover the truth of that claim soon enough."
The lights of the dingy tavern shone with an evil yellow glow through the small windows. Harry and Peter pushed their way inside and found the interior smoky and overheated by a fierce fire on the hearth. There was a sullen atmosphere about the place. A handful of patrons was sprinkled about the long wooden tables. Several of them glanced up as the door opened.
Each pair of ratlike eyes took note of the shabby cut of the coats and the worn boots Harry and Peter had donned for the occasion. Harry could almost hear the collective sigh of regret as the would-be predators decided the new prey did not look promising.
"There's our man," Peter said, leading the way toward the back of the tavern. "Near the door at the rear. I was told he would be wearing a red scarf around his neck."
Bleeker had the look of a man who had downed far too many bottles of gin in his time. He had small, restless eyes that darted about constantly, never staying focused for more than a few seconds on any one object.
In addition to a red scarf, Bleeker was also wearing a filthy cap pulled down low over his sweating brow. His heavily veined nose was his most prominent feature. When Bleeker opened his mouth to growl a short greeting, Harry saw huge gaps between the man's yellowed, rotten teeth.
"You be the coves what's wantin' to know about the fire at the old Saber Club?"
"You have the right of it," Harry said, sliding down onto the wooden bench across from Bleeker. He was aware that Peter remained on his feet, his gaze moving with deceptive casualness around the stifling room. "What can you tell us about that night?"
"It'll cost ye," Bleeker warned with a foul grin.
"I'm prepared to pay. Assuming the information is good."
"Good enough." Bleeker leaned forward with a conspiratorial air. "I saw the cove what set that fire, I did. I was in the alley across the street from the club waitin' for a likely cully to come along. Just mindin' me own business, ye know. Then I hears this sudden roarin' noise. I looks up and there's flames in all the windows of the club."
"Go on," Harry said calmly.
"How do I know ye'll come across with the blunt?" Sleeker whined.
Harry put a few coins on the table. "You will get the rest if I find the information sufficiently interesting."
"Bloody 'ell, you're a mean 'un, ain't ye?" Bleeker leaned closer, his poisonous breath wafting across the table. "All right, then, 'ere's the rest of it. There was two men come runnin' out the front door o' the Saber that night. The first is clutchin' his stomach and bleedin' like a pig. 'E makes it across the street and falls down at the entrance o' the alley where I was standin'."
"Convenient," Harry murmured.
Bleeker ignored the remark. He was growing increasingly enthusiastic about his own tale. "I stays in the shadows and the next thing I know, this second cove comes rushin' out. Searches the street until 'e finds the poor bleedin' cully, 'e does. Then he goes up to 'im and stands there lookin' down. I could see 'e's got a knife in 'is "and."
"Fascinating. Pray continue."
"Then the poor dyin' cully says to 'im, You've killed me, Ballinger. You've killed me. Why'd ye do it? I'd never 'ave told a bloody soul who ye really was. I'd never 'ave said nothin' about you bein' no Spider." Bleeker sat back, satisfied. "Then the poor sod dies and the other 'un takes off. I got outta there, I can tell ye that."
Harry was silent for a moment as Bleeker came to the end of his story and sat waiting expectantly. Then he got slowly to his feet. "Let us be off, friend," he murmured to Peter. "We have wasted our time this night."
Bleeker scowled in alarm. "'Ere, now, what about me blunt? You promised to pay me for tellin' you what 'appened that night."
Harry shrugged and tossed a few more coins on the table. "That will have to suffice. It is all your lies are worth. Collect the rest of your pay from whoever told you to feed me that tale."
"Lies? What lies?" Bleeker blustered furiously. "I was tellin' ye the bloody damn truth."