The clerk lifted his chin with understanding. He stepped away, moving to a long desk behind him with shelves and thick, leather-bound ledgers. He plucked down one and began to thumb through the pages. A minute later, he returned.
“There is no Niles Foster listed among our clientele,” he reported with a smug arch of his brow.
It wasn’t surprising, considering the aide had been in reduced circumstances. Jasper took the photograph he’d pocketed from the boxes of Foster’s things, a bit creased after the attack last night, and placed it on the marble counter. He tapped it. “This man, standing behind the chairs. Do you recognize him?”
The clerk sighed and leaned forward for a look. There was a second clerk assisting another line of patrons; Jasper would ask him next. But the first clerk straightened and made a small sound of interest. “I believe I do recall this man.”
Jasper pocketed the photograph. “When did you last see him?”
“Last week,” the clerk answered. “Thursday, it was.”
Oliver had last seen Niles Foster either Monday or Tuesday. So, he’d come here after his request for money had been rejected by the viscount.
“Why do you recall him with such specificity?” Jasper asked the clerk.
Behind him, a man in line coughed loudly to indicate his growing impatience. The clerk looked around Jasper’s shoulder and politely told the gentleman he’d be right with him.
Less politely, he returned his attention to Jasper and said, “It was his manner that was quite memorable. The man in your photograph asked to speak to our manager. When he was told that the manager was in a meeting with members of the board of governors, he insisted upon waiting.” The clerk pointed to a row of chairs against the wall behind Jasper. “He sat there for nearly half an hour before the meeting let out. Fidgeting and coughing and tapping his foot incessantly. Rather a nuisance, as it does echo in here. High ceilings and marble, you see.”
“He then spoke to the bank manager?” Jasper queried.
“Yes. However, he spent no more than five minutes with Mr. Stewart before coming out again. In quite a fit of pique too.”
Comprehension stole down Jasper’s spine. He stared at the clerk. “Stewart?”
“Mr. Porter Stewart, yes,” he replied. “He is our manager.”
Banking. Sir Elliot had informed him that was Mr. Stewart’s business. Niles Foster had come here to speak to Geraldine Stewart’s husband? His mind tumbled over the revelation for a prolonged moment, though the lingering throb from his concussion slowed him considerably.
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Stewart,” he said. The clerk shook his head.
“He isn’t in today.”
Without a doubt, the clerk knew of Mr. Stewart’s predicament with his wife. The story had been in numerousnewspapers, and surely, the bank’s board of governors were scrambling to protect its reputation. They would likely sack Porter Stewart to cleanse themselves and their institution of any connection to her purported crime.
Jasper took down the clerk’s name and thanked him for his time. As he left, the lingering nausea from his head injury cleared. With a witness now who could place Niles Foster with Mr. Stewart, there was no longer any doubt—the connection between his murder case and Inspector Tomlin’s case against Mrs. Stewart was solid.
He went on foot to Whitehall Place rather than hire a cab or catch an omnibus. Though his ribs regretted the choice as he approached the Yard, the extra time gave him the opportunity to clear his head and prepare for Tomlin’s certain displeasure. Ignoring the startled looks and questions lobbed at him as he entered the building, he made his way to the detective department. The bricklayers had made good progress on the reconstruction of the wall, but the clamor of their work hammered at his brain.
“Hell’s bells, guv,” Lewis said, standing up. “What in the blazes happened to you?”
Jasper removed his coat and tossed it onto his chair, longing for his office and some privacy. “I’ll explain later.”
A shrill whistle pierced the department. “Look at you, Reid,” Tomlin called from the collection of desks in the corner of the room dedicated to the Special Irish Branch detectives. He had his boots on the blotter, hands laced behind his head. “Did you lose to one of the toffs at your fancy boxing club?”
Tomlin and a few other detectives around him snickered, including Constable Wiley. He looked to be socializing with them rather than doing his own job. Jasper’s membership at Oliver Hayes’s boxing club had become common knowledge, and some men, like Tomlin, mentioned it at every opportunity,if only to draw a line in the sand between them. Jasper was, in their opinion, reaching beyond his station.
He braced himself and walked toward them. Passing over Tomlin’s goading remark, he got to what needed saying.
“I’m investigating the murder of a man named Niles Foster. His postmortem showed the same bruising patterns on his wrists as were on Constable Lloyd’s and matching gashes on their cheeks, most likely inflicted by the same ring. Both men were bound and beaten in the hours before their deaths, and it appears their assailant was one and the same.”
Rapidly, Tomlin’s smug grin fell. Jasper pressed onward.
“I have a witness who says my victim approached Geraldine Stewart’s husband last week, before his death and before Constable Lloyd’s. I have another witness who can place Foster in some sort of tussle with a Spitalfields Angel, and yet another witness who says PC Lloyd had some interaction with the Angels, too.”
Tomlin took his feet from his desk and stood up. “What is all this you’re spouting, Reid? I’ve closed the Lloyd bombing case. We’re now centering our attentions on Clan na Gael for the other three explosions.”
They didn’t look especially industrious at the moment, but Jasper kept that observation to himself.
