Page 90 of Corpse in the Canal

“We know,” Lenny said calmly. “But that was before we knew Mr. Percival was dead. Do you know where he kept his pistol?”

“His pistol?” Darren was clearly startled. “In his bedchamber, usually. But he took it with him when he traveled, so I doubt it’s there.”

He led the way through a good-sized sitting room and opened the door on the right, going straight to the small desk beneath the window. He pulled open the top-middle drawer and rummaged.

He straightened. “It isn’t there.”

“Would you mind if we looked around?” Janey asked cheerfully.

It was a rhetorical question, for Lenny was already going through the open drawer more thoroughly. Darren looked for a moment as though he would object on principle, then he simply threw up his hands and walked away.

“Have you taken anything out of these drawers?” Lenny called after him. “Or from anywhere else, come to that?”

Darren swung back to face them, his expression one of offended dignity. “As Mr. Harvey, senior, instructed, I have removed several monogrammed handkerchiefs and jewelry, which I shall carry to Channing House tomorrow when I attend the funeral. I believe they are intended for Mrs. Harvey. Mr. Harvey himself will see to any papers and other personal property. The clothes will be given to Mr. Percival’s favorite charity.”

“What is that?” Janey asked. “His favorite charity?”

“I have no idea. Mr. Percival did not discuss such matters with me.” On that lofty utterance, the valet made his exit.

Janey opened the wardrobe door and felt all around the empty shelves, and inside the shoes and boots that were lined up along the bottom. Percy’s clothes had already been packed away into two open trunks, so kneeling beside them, Janey went methodically through everything. By the time she had finished, Lenny was searching beneath the mattress of the stripped bed without a great deal of hope.

They moved through to the sitting room. Lenny shook out the few journals on the shelves, while Janey went through another desk and its drawers and compartments, finding nothing but bills and demands for payments, plus a couple of letters from his mother and some notes from friends about dinners and theatre parties. No love letters.

On top of the desk were a few cards of invitation to London soirees and balls. And beneath the ink stand, a notebook. This seemed more promising, though when she opened it, she found only rows of figures in columns.

“Lenny? Can you make head or tail of this? Is it his living expenses? Makes my eyes water if it is. Who needs to spend that kind of money?”

He came over and took the book from her. “No one. In this case, I expect it took him a few years. I think these are debts.”

She believed him. Lenny ran his own carpentry business and understood figures. “Lummy. My eyes are still watering.”

“I think his were too,” Lenny said. “It looks to me as if he was finally trying to work out exactly what he owed to whom. Perhaps he was making an effort to get his affairs in order.”

“Or working out what he needed to borrow to get debtors off his back?” Janey suggested. “The shady fellow that herself was asking about and Tulip knows—Henry Hope—does a bit a moneylending by all accounts, and he ain’t the man to welch on. Comes round and breaks your legs.”

“Maybe that’s why Percy went home. He’d borrowed the money already and wasn’t making his payments?” He flipped over some more empty pages. “There’s nothing here to show that he did or didn’t. Just a list of debts that look long-standing—a list of initials with several figures for each, all added up. Would this shady moneylender really have this kind of sum to lend? And would he lend to such a bad risk as Percy?”

“There ain’t no risk,” Janey said. “’Cause Percy’d have sold his soul and had to pay for the rest of his life. As well as get his legs broken.”

Lenny raised his eyes slowly from the book. He had beautiful eyes, did Lenny, intelligent and quick, and layered with the tragedy of his past, when he had annoyed the wrong people and been reduced to living in a dangerous slum, where the roof had collapsed and killed several people, including his wife and child. Lenny battled his own demons, as she fought hers. But she thought they were both winning.

He wasn’t smiling, though. “Or get killed?”

Janey caught her breath. “As an example? Jesus, I never thought of that.”

“Find anything?” Darren asked from the doorway.

“No pistol,” Lenny replied. “Tell me, did you get paid for your services to young Mr. Harvey?”

“Yes.” For a moment, Darren’s nostrils flared with disdain, then his lips twisted. “When he remembered.”

“Or when he happened to be in funds before he lost it all again?” Janey suggested.

“Something like that,” Darren admitted.

“What’s your first name?” Lenny asked.

Darren blinked. “Alfred. Why?”