Page 59 of The Rum and The Fox

Mr Formby hung up his hat and shrugged out of his coat, doing likewise with it as it dripped a puddle onto the floor. “Well, your grace,” he said, sounding just a little apologetic. “It’s surprising the things that turn up if you let people have their head, and the fellow did insist I arrest him, after all.”

For a moment, he thought he saw a slight smile flicker across the woman’s lips, but before he could be sure, the door crashed open and three more drowned rats tumbled in.

“Lady Ashwicke,” Formby said with satisfaction, beaming at her as she and her maid, and blasted Frankie Lightfingers, stood dripping in the entrance. “I’ve been looking for you, young man,” he said as his gaze fell upon him, glowering a little at the lad, who paled and began to back up.

“Courage, Frankie,” Lady Ashwicke said, grasping him by the arm and towing him further into the room before he could make good his escape. “Now, tell the inspector what you told me.”

Frankie glowered at her for a moment before he opened his mouth to speak, but Mr Formby held up his hand. Now things were starting to fall into place, he was rather enjoying himself, and he was damned if he wasn’t going to make the most of it. He didn’t have all the answers yet, but he flaming well would before this evening got much older.

“Why don’t we all step into my office,” he said, moving back and holding open the door for the ladies and a very reluctant Frankie to go through. “Bring us some tea and biscuits, constable,” Formby said to his startled colleague. “May as well make ourselves comfortable.” And with that, he left Constable Greenly looking perplexed, and followed everyone else into his office.

“Well, then, young Frankie, what have you to say to me?” Mr Formby said, sitting down and grimacing as his wet clothes clung to him and made him shiver. He made a mental note to get Greenly to stoke the fire when he came with the tea.

“I saw that valet of Lord Todd’s, sir,” Frankie said, looking like he quaking in his shabby boots. “T’was ‘im who popped ‘is lordship off, like. I saw ‘im!”

Formby frowned as his previous suspicions wavered a little, but he said nothing, just leaned forward on his elbows and gave the boy a hard look. “So you say you saw Martin Snyder shoot Lord Todd in the chest?”

“I jus’ said so, didn’t I?” the boy replied, folding his arms, his eyes darting around the room as though someone might grab him and lock him up at any moment.

“Don’t you give me no lip, you young Tyburn blossom,” he warned the lad, raising a finger in warning. “I ain’t got no quarrel with you, but you mind your tongue and tell me the God’s honest, or that’ll change, hear me?”

Frankie muttered something that might have been agreement, and scuffed what remained of the toe of his boot against Mr Formby’s desk. Repressing the urge to give the young fellow a clip round the ear, the inspector tried again.

“Now, then, Frankie, you say you saw Martin Snyder kill Lord Todd, but right at this moment, I have Lord Ashwicke, the Duke of Chartley, in the cells, who swears blind he did it.”

Frankie frowned, staring at him in confusion. Turning, he looked up at Lady Ashwicke. “’Ere, this duke,” he said, tugging at her sleeve. “Ain’t that the swell cove I took to yer ‘ouse t’other night?”

Lady Ashwicke nodded and smiled at him. “That’s right, Frankie.”

“Ah,” Frankie nodded, grinning as he remembered. “‘E was a square cove, generous, ‘e was. ‘E a friend of yours, Miss Keziah?”

Mr Formby cocked an eyebrow at hearing Lady Ashwicke referred to as such, but she didn’t correct the lad. “Actually, Frankie, Lord Ashwicke is my husband, and he’s in a great deal of trouble,” she said, and even Mr Formby could hear the catch in her voice. He frowned as much as Frankie did at hearing it, wondering if perhaps there was more to her marriage to Lord Ashwicke than he’d imagined.

“You worrit for ‘im, Miss?” Frankie asked, looking at Keziah with big eyes.

Mr Formby watched as Lady Ashwicke crouched down, then nodded at the boy and took his hand. “I’m very worried, Frankie, so if you know who really killed my father, you must tell the inspector, so that the duke can come home to me.”

“Well, it weren’t no bleedin’ duke what killed her old man,” Frankie said, looking at the inspector in disgust.

“I might remind you that he gave himself up,” Mr Formby replied with dignity, and everyone fell silent as Greenly bustled through the door with an overburdened tea tray, looking rather affronted at playing maid for the likes of Frankie Lightfingers and Lady Ashwicke’s abigail.

By the time the tea had been served and Frankie’s attention could be arrested from the ginger biscuits and back to the case in hand, it was a good ten minutes later.

“Now lad,” Mr Formby said, gathering his patience in his hands. “Why do think it couldn’t have been Lord Ashwicke what killed Lord Todd?”

The boy shrugged, stuffing the last of his fifth biscuit into his mouth. “Well, stands to reason, don’t it?” he said, showering the inspector’s desk with crumbs before wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“And why is that, Frankie?” Mr Formby asked, pinching the bridge of his nose and wondering how much longer before they got to the point.

“Well,” Frankie said, scratching at his head with enthusiasm and in a manner that made Mr Formby frown and feel the need to do likewise. “‘Cause the blighter was already dead.”