Page 22 of A Murder at Kew Gardens

Chapter

Ten

A Ghost in Good Standing

The room above the Villiers Street chop-house had been my parliament while we’d hunted a ghost. It was the last place in London a duke would be sought, which was the whole of its merit.

Three men waited for me at a table scarred with the rings of other men’s suppers and four chairs that did not match. A single lamp was turned low against the one window. Below us the perpetual clamor of the grill and the smell of mutton fat worked its way up through the boards.

Finch had the chair by the window, notebook open. He gave me a small nod. Beside him sat Graves, out of his Yard coat and into a plain one. It did not make him look less like a policeman, only made him look like a policeman in disguise. At the table’s far end, a leather case open before him and his papers squared to the grain of the wood, sat Whitfield, the accountant I had worked with on previous matters. He was a soft-spoken man of fifty, round at the middle.

Within easy reach of each of them sat tankards of the chophouse’s best brews.

“Gentlemen.” Taking the fourth seat, I turned first to Finch. “Where does the street stand?”

“As you and I discussed two days ago, Your Grace, we have made some progress. Pyke remains the keeper of the ledgers at the Limehouse house and signs for deliveries, but he is no more than a steward. He never retains the money.”

“Have you managed to discover who does?”

“I have. A collector named Renton. On the same evening each week he visits three establishments under our observation, gathers the takings, and carries the whole to a courier waiting near the river.”

“Only three houses?”

Finch nodded. “At least three. I suspect there are more.”

“And the courier?”

“He receives the money and boards a small boat almost immediately. My men followed as far as they dared.” Finch took another swallow of ale. “One of them had worked the river for years before entering my service. He recognized the launch at once. It belongs to Mallow and Company, a wharf concern on the Surrey side.”

“Did they follow it?”

“At a distance. The boat tied up at Mallow's wharf, and the courier disappeared into the counting house. He did not emerge again while my men watched.”

I leaned back in my chair. “Someone higher still.”

“Precisely.” Finch's voice remained calm. “The courier answers to someone within Mallow and Company—or perhaps only passes the money onward again. We do not yet know. Each man knows only the one above and below him. Should one be taken, he cannot betray the whole.”

“A ladder with its upper rungs hidden.”

“Exactly so.”

“Cagey devils,” I muttered. No wonder we had not managed to lay hands upon the man who truly mattered.

Finch inclined his head. “Just so. But there is another difficulty. There is no reason to suppose the money remains at Mallow's. It may leave again by another hand before ever reaching its final destination.”

“Then we'll have to find another way.”

“If I may, Your Grace,” Whitfield said.

“Go on.”

The accountant settled his spectacles upon his nose and laid two fingers upon his uppermost paper. “Mr. Finch was kind enough to provide me with the name of Mallow and Company. That gave me a lead to follow.”

“I gave him permission to do so. Proceed.”

“A man who runs a wicked trade suffers a difficulty an honest tradesman is spared. His money comes in small coin and in darkness. He can no more spend it as it stands than he can wear muddy boots to a court presentation. It must be washed—made to appear as though it came from some respectable enterprise.” He permitted himself the smallest smile. “And the washing leaves marks of its own, if one knows where to look.” He tapped the paper. “I have found them.”

Finch grinned into his tankard. “I'm impressed, Mr. Whitfield.”