The decision toreopen the doors of Campion’s Gentlemen’s Emporium precisely at six had been one of Robert’s wiser decisions as of late. Tradesmen who were leaving shops and offices, curious to see if anything had changed following the death of the owner, stopped in first. A sparse crowd, they wandered through, played a few hands of cards, and headed home to their wives and children. Some would be back after payday. Most, their curiosity satisfied, would not.
The more serious gamblers would begin arriving around eight or nine, their evening obligations to hearth and family behind them, and settle in for several hours of risk and reward. The small window between allowed the dealers to regain their rhythms, finding the comfort zone so disrupted by Bill’s death.
Robert watched from the office, noticing that glances up toward the plate glass window were more frequent than usual, from both gamblers and employees. That nothing would change in the short term had temporarily eased most fears and anxieties, but he knew the curiosity about what would happen next loomed large for everyone.
Including him.
On the desk, the stack of paperwork seemed to expand hourly, as Nora emptied Bill’s study and sent over boxes and crates of records and ledgers. Most of the crates contained archived files, some dating back to Bill’s first businesses—a boxing salon and leather shop. Those Robert simply stacked in one corner of the office. More recent boxes contained receipts and invoices from ongoing concerns, vendors that stocked the various venues with food, fabric, stores, and supplies on a regular basis. The leather shop—still a lucrative concern—received a shipment of tanned hides and fur pelts from America every thirty days, along with an invoice for payment within the next forty-five days. Just one enterprise of many.
And Bill had overseen it all. Robert found an indication in one of Bill’s diaries that he had tried using a man of business—a financial manager—for all of two weeks before he caught the man making some spurious deals. Bill had fired him the next day.
Eloise’s offer to help began to look even more enticing than ever.
A tap on the office door—which had been retrieved and returned to its frame—got his attention. “Enter.”
The door opened and Saunders ushered in a short, squat man with a red face, a round belly, and an ill-fitting woolen suit with fraying cuffs and collar. A bowler sat low on his head as if it were a permanent fixture. The bags under his eyes matched the jostling roll under his chin.
“Are you Lord Ashton?”
“Lord Robert, constable. But Ashton is sufficient.”
“You people and your titles. But you know who I am?”
Robert knew he needed to be rational, evenhanded—and calm. “I thought it reasonable to assume you are the same constable who has been roaming Convent Garden as of late, trying to locate Timothy Surrey. Constable Lewis?”
“I am. I have also heard rumor that you are doing the same.”
“I have an interest in the boy’s welfare, yes.”
“And what would that interest be, sir? Personal? Professional? Both?”
Ah. So at least the constable had discovered the seeds he had been planting. “Not professional, no, not if you are implying that Campion’s caters to the kind of trade that would be interested in young boys.”
“So. Personal.”
Robert crossed his arms. “Let us call it social. I am friends with a member of his family. Since he was last seen here, I offered to make some inquiries.”
“Discover anything?”
“Nothing particularly helpful. I would suggest you talk to the man who shot Bill Campion, however.”
“Morgan? Why is that?”
“Rumors.” Robert uncrossed his arms and gestured at one of the wingbacks. “Feel free to sit, constable. I am.” He dropped into his chair and propped his forearms on the edge of the desk. “I attempted to talk to Morgan about Lord Timothy, and he did not take kindly to my implications. It was our altercation that led to Mr. Campion’s death.”
Lewis sat on the front of the chair, squashing the rounded cushion flat. “What do you think he knows?”
“Morgan is a predator. He will do anything for money—and not out of desperation like so many others do. He is a greedy arse who has been known to procure young men for two or three different underground organizations.”
“He snatches them off the streets.”
“Yes. Off streets, out of pubs. In one case, off a ship the lad had been impressed for. Told him he would help him escape the impressment. If Timothy Surrey has been lured into that world, Morgan will know.”
“Is that why you’ve been trying to get into Newgate to see him?”
Robert smiled. “Apparently, I have not been able to bribe the right official.”
Lewis cleared his throat. “Is that why Campion’s hasn’t been raided in several years? Bribery?”
