Page 58 of The Rum and The Fox

Chapter 25

To be in a pucker - in a fright

- The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose

Inspector Formby held the candle aloft and frowned at the wall. What he was doing here at this time was beyond him. He could have left early and gone home and avoided the rain that he could hear hammering against the large, elegant windows of the late viscount’s house on Abbey Green. His wife had promised him a nice lamb stew when he got home, with pearl barley and dumplings. His empty stomach growled in the silent house as if to second the idea that he was being ridiculous. But he had a duke in the cells who was lying through his teeth, two murdered villains, a missing boy, and a young woman who looked scared to death and who’d been seen running the streets of Bath at night with a pistol. He also had a case of raging indigestion, but that seemed to be normal going-on, the past few days.

Muttering obscenities, Mr Formby turned his mind from his own cosy parlour and the enticing thought of lamb stew to look around once more. The recent discovery that Martin Snyder had a rather healthy bank account was an interesting one. The life of a valet, even one who worked for a fellow far plumper in the pocket that the late Lord Todd, did not ought to provide such a staggering sum of money. A little further digging around the pawn shops had provided enough info to reveal that Martin was often sent by his master to sell off goods when things got tight. It wouldn’t do for a viscount to be seen doing such things, of course. The idea that perhaps Martin hadn’t been entirely truthful about the value he’d received for such items had born fruit. With a bit of persuasion, once the late viscount’s ruby ring had been turned up right before the eyes of the unfortunate shop owner who’d accepted it, the fellow had been strong-armed into admitting that he’d given Martin false receipts for less than the value he’d actually got. Martin would pocket the rest, and the shop owner got a bit extra for his trouble.

A second thorough search of the house, this time overseen by the inspector himself, had turned up a locked box stashed beneath the floorboards. Here were papers and books of notes detailing people who had been blackmailed and extorted in various manners, what their crimes were, and how much they’d paid up to keep the fellow quiet. All of which had made Mr Formby wild. If only he’d have gotten his hands on this when the devil was alive. Going through the viscount’s papers had also turned up some rather more pertinent and intriguing information. Like the fact Martin Snyder was wanted for the murder of an innkeeper in Scotland, something Mr Formby had no doubt whatsoever Lord Todd would have used against him to force him to do his bidding. Nonetheless, when he’d seen the two men together, he’d sensed no real animosity; in fact, he’d gotten the impression that they’d, literally, been thick as thieves, and surely Martin had a good thing going? But maybe he’d simply had enough and decided to cut free?

Maybe.

But then there was the blood.

There was blood at the foot of the stairs, but Lord Todd had been found in front of the fireplace in the parlour where there was less of a blood stain. The amount of blood by the stairs suggested a serious injury, but no one, other than Todd himself, had seemed to have been hurt. Martin Snyder had been free of any signs of past injury, other than the bullet in his brain, and either Ashwicke was a better actor than Formby realised, or he wasn’t hiding a serious wound either.

So the body had been moved.

Or perhaps it had moved itself?

What if Lord Todd hadn’t been dead, but dying?

Formby raised the candle higher still as he pondered, staring at the papered wall in front of him as though it contained the all the answers he needed, which was daft, of course … or possibly not.

Mr Formby reached out and touched a small divot that had been previously hidden by the extravagant, cherry gold patterned wallpaper. “Well, well, well,” he said, grinning as he ran his finger over what appeared to be a lead ball. “Ain’t that a turn up.”

Scratching his head for a moment, Mr Formby decided that the God-fearing lady next door needed another visit.

***

“I ain’t goin’!” Frankie replied, his eyes wide with fright and his face as pale and pasty as a milk pudding. “That inspector, ‘e’ll ‘ave me banged up again, ‘e will!”

“No he won’t, Frankie, honestly,” Keziah pleaded with him. “Not for giving evidence.”

Frankie folded his arms, pouting and looked mutinous. “I already nearly got me bleedin’ throat slit once,” he said, shaking his head back and forth with a decided air. “I ain’t chancin’ it a second time.”

Keziah swallowed her impatience and reminded herself he was just a frightened little boy. Sitting down beside him, she reached out and laid a hand on his arm. “I know you’re scared, Frankie …”

“No, I ain’t!” the boy objected, masculine pride quite obviously making him push her hand away in disgust as he swelled visibly. “I ain’t afraid.”

Keziah bit her lip against the curse that bubbled in her throat, and decided on another tack. “Well, then,” she said with a relieved sigh. “That is a good thing, as I’m in the most dreadful fix, and it would only be the most heroic sort of fellow who could help me out of it.”

Frankie blinked, watching her with mistrust. “What sort of fix?”

“Well, Frankie,” she began with a smile. “Just the sort of fix you can help me out of.”

***

Mr Formby strode into the station house, water dripping in rivulets down his sodden overcoat and his feet squelching in the most unpleasant fashion, but with the sense of satisfaction that only came to him when he knew he’d caught hold of the thread that could unravel this whole blasted affair. Sadly, his good humour was cut short as he met the panicked eyes of his constable, and a familiar, over-bred voice cut through the rumble of thunder that sounded overhead. For a moment he wondered if he didn’t have a hold of a thread but rather … a tiger’s tail.

“And about time you showed up, inspector,” the voice said, giving Mr Formby the strong desire to give an immediate and reverent bow which he ruthlessly suppressed.

“Your grace,” he replied, inclining his head a little with a smile instead as he looked upon the dowager Duchess of Chartley.

“What do you mean by keeping my grandson in the cells?” she demanded, getting to her feet and glaring at him with fury. “He’s a duke, you fool! Can’t you imagine the scandal if it gets out? Not to mention the fact that you’re a bigger fool than I took you for if you actually think he did it!”

“Oh, I know he didn’t do it,” Formby replied, finding himself really rather pleased as the dowager opened and closed her mouth. She narrowed her eyes, then, a distinctly dangerous look in her eyes. “Well, then, inspector, would you mind explaining to me why he’s still in a cell?”