Page 8 of The Detective and the Baroness

“Head to Old Montague Street.” Mitchell didn’t know his way around the East End, as all his police work had taken place in the West End, and his parents brought him up north of London, but he mentioned the one street he knew of. It wouldn’t hurt to ask around about Hallahan before heading home. Not only did he have Corrine as a client, but now, Hornsby as well.

Corrine.

He shouldn’t be thinking of her by her given name, but hang it all, all this overwhelming yearning had taken him by surprise. Mitchell did not possess a vast romantic history. There had been no intense affairs of the heart or even casual encounters beyond some in his twenties.

Some? Try four.

And there had been nothing for the past five years. Work had become his entire life. Routine and discipline guided his every move—until three months ago, when he’d discovered he was the bastard son of a disreputable duke. Since then, Mitchell’s life had been cut from its moorings, drifting in all directions, taking unexpected turns. And it certainly showed in his recent decisions, such as taking on cases for the Galway Investigative Agency, moving in with Drew Hornsby, and creating a group with him to find the other bastards. But he’d be damned if he would sit and brood over these upheavals. And the beautiful baroness was indeed part of that turbulence.

The hansom stopped; Mitchell paid the driver, gingerly exited the cab, and then slowly strolled along the street. He noticed many synagogues, as the Jewish population of London lived mainly in the East End. It was hard to believe ten years had passed since the unsolved Jack the Ripper murders, but the area remained scarred by the incident. The discrimination toward Jews at the time of the murders and even to this day turned his stomach.

Whitechapel Mortuary, where the Ripper’s victims had been kept, was gone, and laborers were hard at work erecting a new school in its place. Mitchell stopped and watched as several men dug, exhuming graves in the burial ground next to the mortuary. He pondered over where the remains would wind up. Not coming up with a satisfactory answer, he continued along the street, passing tailors, furriers, and shoemaker shops.

After walking for several minutes, Mitchell entered a pub, The Old Commodore, and located a table in the corner. Groaning from discomfort, he sat, relieved to take the weight off his leg. The pain was bad, but at least it wasn’t mind-numbing or disabling. There’s a mercy. Grabbing his cane, he laid it on the table.

A bearded man with a bar towel slung over his shoulder approached him. “What can I get you, guv?”

“A pint of bitter—and some information. I’m not a copper but a private investigator.” Mitchell looked about the primarily empty pub. “You’re not busy. Surely you can spare a moment.”

“Aye, that I can. I’ll fetch your drink.” The older man hurried away, waited on another customer sitting at the bar, and then returned with Mitchell’s pint. The man sat across from him. “What do you want to know?”

“I’m trying to locate someone. The man in question’s family hired me. One particular member is very anxious to find him.” That is not exactly a lie. “The last information I was given was that he managed or owned a pub in the East End.”

“Blimey, mate. Do you know how many pubs and taverns are hereabouts? There are half a dozen just in this section alone.”

“I have my work cut out for me then. Still, perhaps I’ll get lucky. The name of the man is Liam Hallahan.”

The barkeeper sat back in his chair and shook his head incredulously. “Well, you just got lucky, mate, for I know of the bloke. He owns The Crowing Cock on the corner of Brick Lane and Chicksand Street. Just a few streets over. You can’t miss it.”

What were the odds of finding him that easily? It had to be luck—or fate.

“What can you tell me about him?” Mitchell asked between sips.

The barkeeper shrugged. “Not bloody much. The blighter keeps to his territory. Big Irishman with coal-black hair. And piercing blue eyes, much like yours.”

That statement about the eyes caught Mitchell by surprise, causing a swift pain around his heart, as if someone had slipped a blade between his ribs. It reminded him, once again, that there were serious ramifications to heading down this road. And one of them was to make him relive his own shock and distress at learning of his duke father. Perhaps looking for the duke’s bastards was not a wise idea if it meant he’d experience this reaction with every revelation.

“It’s a bigger place than this one,” the man continued. “He ran a brothel upstairs up until six months ago. It’s a pub and nighttime gaming establishment, mostly cards. He fancies himself a chef, if you imagine. He’s branching out into lunches, teas, early suppers, and the like, trying to lure in a better class of clientele. Good luck to him and all. One thing—you don’t want to cross him.”

“Oh, why is that?”

“He nearly murdered a man who slapped around one of his girls. I think that’s when he gave up flesh peddling. Not worth the trouble and strife.” The barkeeper stood. “That’s all I know about the boyo.”

Mitchell held out several shillings. “You’ve been very accommodating. For the pint and some extra. Have one for yourself, as well.”

“Cheers, mate.” The barkeeper touched his forelock, spun about, and headed to the bar where another customer waited.

Mitchell didn’t intend to go to the pub right now, at least not inside it. But he’d quickly inspect the exterior and surrounding streets, then catch a hansom cab home.

Fifteen minutes later, Mitchell stood in front of the corner lot pub. The front entrance was dark wood, with large windows on either side. Above the hanging sign, the building had two stories with red brick walls. Is that where Hallahan lived and where he had housed his brothel? The rest of the street was filled with various flats and small businesses, some in better condition than others. Rising over the horizon, farther along the street, he saw the brick pipe stack of Trueman’s Brewery. Mitchell inhaled. He could detect the faint odor of hops. And the underlying smell of sulfur from the yeast. He wrinkled his nose in distaste.

Mitchell returned his attention to the pub. It was a lively spot, with waitresses carrying trays of food and drink to the many tables and booths. The aroma was heavenly, an olfactory mixture of fried onions, bacon, and grilled steak. It all but eradicated the odors from the brewery. A tall man appeared from the rear, yelling instructions to the servers. Mitchell had a good look. Just as the barkeeper described, the fellow was big, as in muscular and tall, and dark Irish all the way—it had to be Hallahan.

Yet another half-brother. God above!

Mitchell turned and hailed a hansom. He would return to this pub with Drew—and soon. How he’d approach the Irishman was another question.

As he settled in the cab, his thoughts returned to Lady Addington. It would be best to wrap up her case as quickly as possible. Married or not, she appealed too much to him, and Mitchell didn’t know how long he could hide it.