“I’m not acquainted with anyone of that nature,” Cynthia said. “But Judith might be. She knows everyone in Britain, I believe.”
Miss Townsend herself would be a perfect candidate. She mingled with all walks of society, in spite of her scandalous life, as no one wanted to offend the daughter of such a powerful family. Miss Townsend was also observant, intelligent, and determined, and she could dissemble well.
However, I viewed Miss Townsend as an honest woman who would directly ask for reforms instead of resorting to threats and underhanded means. But in my current state of mind, I was willing to believe anything of anyone.
“Do ask Miss Townsend,” I said. We were approaching Cheapside, and I pocketed my notebook, ready to put this unpleasantness behind me for a while.
When Lewis halted the cab, Mr.Thanos scrambled out and held out a hand to assist me.
“Thank you very much for the transportation, Mr.Thanos,” I said as I alighted. “It was generous of you.”
“Not at all.” Mr.Thanos gave me a gallant bow. “It is a long walk across London.”
“I am robust,” I assured him. “But it is a kind thought.”
“Saves your feet for walking about with Grace,” Cynthia called cheerily to me. “You never did tell us why Daniel was addressing the envelopes.”
“Because I do not know,” I said as Mr.Thanos climbed back into the cab. “If we find the letter writer, I believe all will become clear.”
“As simple as that,” Cynthia said wryly. “Good day, Mrs.H. Give my best to your girl.”
I assured her I would. Lewis, in the impatient way of cabbies, started off, leaving me to wave after them. At least he’d let Mr.Thanos sit down first.
Once they were lost in the traffic determinedly making its way along Cheapside, I turned to Clover Lane, leaving off my troubles to immerse myself in the joy of my daughter.
* * *
Once I’d had my walk with Grace and we’d returned to Joanna’s house for a nice long tea, I turned my steps westward again, making for the Strand.
Joanna’s afternoon tea had been in no way as fussy as the one I’d had to serve to Mrs.Bywater and her cronies. We had bread and butter, a few scones with jam Joanna had broughtout as a treat, and that was all. But the conversation and merriment were far preferable to me to a tray of perfectly matched petits fours.
My belly and heart both full, I hurried along Fleet Street, passed Temple Bar, and turned south down Whitehall at Charing Cross.
Scotland Yard’s entrance lay along the narrow lane called Great Scotland Yard, from which the Metropolitan Police had obtained its nickname. The police would soon move to new premises on the Victoria Embankment, but the construction on that building, on the site of what was supposed to have been an opera house, was slow.
The ground-floor hall was as busy as ever, with constables moving to and fro, members of the populace trying to get attention or to leave as quickly as they could, and general pandemonium. I walked purposefully to the desk near the stairs and spoke to the sergeant behind it.
“I would like to see Inspector McGregor, please.”
The sergeant, whom I’d dealt with before, gave me a side-eyed glare. “He’s busy.”
“I imagine he is. Will you please send word that Mrs.Holloway has come to call on him?”
“That I won’t, missus. Unless you have some information on whoever pushed that bloke’s dead body into the Thames.”
“I might, actually.” I fixed him with a stern gaze. “I’d guess Inspector McGregor would be a bit put out if he does not hear it.”
The sergeant wasn’t going to give way. One of the constables though, a friend of Constable Greene, I recalled, came forward. “I’ll take her,” he offered.
“Then you get his wrath on your head,” the sergeant muttered.
The constable ignored him. “Mrs.Holloway?” He gestured me to follow him.
I gave the sergeant a final disapproving look before I turned away.
The constable led me out to a smaller building in the courtyard, which now housed the Criminal Investigation Department as well as the Public Carriage Office, where cabs were licensed. Once inside, we went up a flight of stairs to a narrow corridor and so to the office to which Inspector McGregor had moved.
Inspector McGregor’s outer office, in which his detective constables and sergeants worked, was indeed busy. The men scarcely raised their heads from desks filled with papers and books as the constable ushered me through.
