Page 53 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

“While I’m gone, you’re to look after Mrs. Thornhill.”

Boothroyd lifted his brows.

Justin ignored him. “I want you to watch over her. You, Paul, and Jonesy.” He held Neville’s gaze. “Do you understand?”

Neville gave a solemn nod. “Yes, Justin.”

“Good man.” He looked at Boothroyd. “No one will come. There’s no one in King’s Abbot who would dare risk the cliff road. Nevertheless…be vigilant.”

“As always, sir.” Boothroyd stood. When Justin left the kitchen, he followed after him. “What shall I tell Mrs. Thornhill?”

Justin frowned. It occurred to him that he should have left a note for her. An oversight on his part, but one that was easily remedied.

He headed upstairs to the library, taking the steps two at a time. There was money in Boothroyd’s desk that he would need for his journey. There was pen and paper as well. As Boothroyd counted out coins, Justin dipped a sharpened quill into the inkwell and scratched out a short message to Helena.

Gone to see Finchley. Will return in two days.

Yr. obedient, etc.,

Thornhill

He paused, quill poised in his hand. After a moment’s reflection, he added a postscript.

P.S. — Trust me.

London, England

September, 1859

Finchley shared his premises in Fleet Street with another solicitor, a gentleman by the name of Mr. Keane. Upon arriving, Justin was shepherded into Keane’s office by his clerk, a harried fellow with uneven side-whiskers, who was juggling a stack of law books.

“Shall I bring in tea and biscuits, sir?” the clerk asked.

Mr. Keane rose from behind a heavily cluttered barrister’s desk, causing several pieces of paper to spill over from their respective piles and waft down to the floor. After casting a questioning look at Justin, he waved the clerk out. “Mr. Thornhill, I apologize for the disarray. We’ve been at sixes and sevens this week.” He motioned to a chair. “Won’t you sit?”

Justin remained standing. His clothes were stained from travel. He’d come directly from the station. “Where’s Finchley?”

“Ah.” Mr. Keane’s face fell. He sank back into his chair. “Most distressing, sir. And very unlike him. I’ve been obliged to —” He stopped. “But I won’t complain. There’s been many an occasion when he’s taken it upon himself to manage my cases when I’ve been called away. Only last Christmas, when my mother was ill—”

“Called away?” Justin interrupted. “To where?”

“It’s his sister, I believe. Some difficulty at home. He was needed quite urgently.”

Justin’s eyes narrowed. Finchley didn’t have a sister. He didn’t have any family at all. None of them did.

“She arrived here Tuesday morning in a terrible state,” Keane continued. “He took her away at once. And then—quite extraordinarily—a message arrived, informing me that he wouldn’t be returning until matters at home were resolved. Naturally, I expected him back directly. He’s never absented himself for longer than the space of an afternoon. I can only guess that the crisis is of a grave and serious nature. An illness or, possibly, a death.”

Justin listened to Keane rattle on, a sense of amazement rendering him temporarily mute. Good God, was it possible his work-obsessed friend had at last taken a mistress?

“Did he say where he was going?” he asked.

“Home, I expect. To be with his family.” Keane opened a drawer of his desk and shuffled through the contents. “He gave me his sister’s direction. Said it was confidential. That I wasn’t to share it with anyone. Excepting you of course. Or Mr. Boothroyd, if he should… Ah. Here it is.”

He withdrew a folded piece of notepaper from the drawer and extended it to Justin. An address was scrawled on it in black ink.

Justin departed Fleet Street moments later in a hansom bound for what turned out to be a small but quite elegant house in Half Moon Street. When he arrived, he vaulted up the steps and applied the knocker with no little force. Long seconds passed before the door was cracked open, not by a servant, but by Finchley himself.

“Thornhill!” His eyes flashed with relief behind his silver-framed spectacles. “I knew you’d come.”