“My memory is a bit hazy about the meeting.” Damen pointed to his bruised forehead by way of explanation. “Be so good as to recount our discussion and where I said I was going afterward.”
“Uhmm-Uhmm, I’d be delighted, Mr Ravenhill.” Marbanks scrubbed his hand through his tufts again and coughed. “We went over the ledgers for the Falgate properties in London. As you left, you said you would visit the Painted Lady to talk with one of the property managers.”
“May I see the ledgers?”
“Most certainly.” Marbanks jumped to his feet and scuttled to the oak-paneled door. He and his assistant soon returned with several large ledgers, set them on the desk and opened their heavy bound covers.
At the sight of them, the hairs prickled on Damen’s arms. He was heir to all these London properties, but for some reason, his father kept them secret. After university, he’d sent him to Liverpool to manage and enlarge the family’s holdings.
Damen sat forward, running his finger down the columns of addresses as he flipped through the ledger. He’d known his father owned warehouses but never imagined he had so many lodging houses and tenements.
“Lord Falgate used to take a more active role in his properties. He’d three men who oversaw the building managers and reported directly to him. A few months after your father became ill they disappeared. How is he?”
“About as well as can be expected. Thank you for asking.” Damen turned the page. His eyes flew to the Painted Lady’s address and those above and below. It appeared his father owned nearly every building on the block. He turned more pages to find the addresses of tenements surrounding Lady Strathford’s Mission of Mercy.
Damen squinted at the writing and pointed to several ledger entries. “What do these red marks mean?”
“Those are the buildings that suffered fires.”
“And what is this column in blue?”
“Those are the rent declines compared to a year ago. As you can see, the vast majority of properties have fallen an average of thirty percent.”
Muscles tightened in Damen’s neck and down one arm. Cory had been investigating the fires and this was what he’d found: massive rent declines? While their father had been ill, someone had compromised his properties. “Why have the rents declined?” He kept his voice low and even.
“Some of the buildings are unable to be rented while they’re being restored after the fires. In others, the property managers say they’ve experienced trouble getting the prices we used to ask.”
Damen recently visited to the Painted Lady and saw how packed the neighborhood looked. By all appearances, it wasn’t for a lack of people needing lodgings.
“How many fires have there been?”
Marbanks dug through a folder and handed him a neatly printed record of addresses, dates and damages. “There were twenty-seven total.”
Damen studied the list. “What started the fires?”
“Various things. Some were unexplained. In the domiciles, stoves and fireplaces were the main culprit.”
“How about the warehouses?”
“I have another sheet here somewhere…” Marbanks fished through a file. “Here it is.” He studied it a moment. “Those have been more difficult to define. Two were caused by lanterns, four have yet to be explained and three were explosions.”
“Explosions?” The word conjured more alarm than a fire. Cory had been searching for an arsonist, yet the word ‘explosions’ seemed to attach greater intent to the villainy. Icy talons scraped down Damen’s spine. What caused them?”
Marbanks glanced at his paper. “Two of the blasts were suspicious in that the tenants claimed the exploded articles were not theirs. The other was an inventor who’d been conducting experiments.”
“Who was this inventor?” Damen held his breath.
Marbanks quickly thumbed through the ledger for the corresponding address and pointed to the name of the tenant. “It says Lord Strathford rented the back portion of the Flatiron warehouse.”
Damen’s pulse quickened and he gulped in air. He squinted at the fuzzy numbers, and rubbed an eye. Strathford had rented a warehouse from his father, and there’d been an explosion? Another chill went down his spine. “When did it happen?”
The man of business pointed to the red printing in one of the ledger columns. “Approximately three years ago.”
Cory’s journal entry had been dated three years before as well.
“As I recall” – Marbanks yanked off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief – “there was a confusing story about a young woman’s disappearance after the fire.”
“Did I mention if I intended to investigate her disappearance further?” Damen asked.
“As a matter of fact, yes. You seemed to know the woman.”
“Another woman,” Damen muttered to himself. How did Cory keep them all straight? “What was her name?”
“I thought I heard you say Mary Turner.”
“Women convicted of murdering their husbands used to be hung and burned at the stake.” Sarah stared at the thin circle of fire on the end of her cigar and grimaced.
“That hasn’t happened in at least a hundred years,” Amelia, her best friend since childhood, and now the Countess Grancliffe, reassured. She reached across the outdoor table and placed her hand over Sarah’s. “Don’t let the police inspector upset you. He’s obviously an uncivilized bully. Is your brother helping you deal with him?”
Sarah slowly gazed about the beech tree’s long branches extending to the ground around them, forming a spacious leafy cave, and shielding them against unwanted onlookers. She shook her head. “His answer, as always, is to let my husband take care of it.”
“But you don’t have one.”
“Precisely. I know my brother loves me, but problems often get bigger, rather than smaller, when he gets involved. His solution is for me to marry his friend.”
Amelia frowned. “Never you worry. You have a top solicitor. He will take the inspector in hand.”
Her solicitor had been helpful in the past, but he’d not filled her with confidence when they met with Hooker. “I’ve been advised to contact someone with influence in judicial and police matters.”
Calista, Amelia’s cousin from New York, expertly tapped the ash off her cigar into the ashtray and blew a thin trail of smoke into the air. “Lord Sutterland would be the one to talk to.” She gazed at Amelia. “Don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes. I agree. He’s very well connected in those matters.” Amelia fingered her cigar. “Do you play chess?”
“My father and I used to play.”
“Good, we’ll introduce you. Calista plays chess with him every week. In the meantime, we must do something to take your mind off your troubles.”
“I don’t wish to make light of your situation.” Calista waved her cigar expansively through the air. “I, of all people, can certainly sympathize. But it helps to go somewhere highly diverting, someplace amusing… with lots of entertainment.”
What would Sarah do without her friends? The world had seemed to be closing in on her until they’d arrived to cheer her up. She took another dainty puff on her cigar and made a little cough, still not quite accustomed to the mechanics of smoking.
Calista