“Fucking clumsy of me,” Langford said, now dabbing at his damp trousers with his handkerchief. “But damned odd of my elbow to give out like that.”
“Maybe you should see a doctor,” Wesley said, because it was better than sayingactually, we’re lucky Sebastian scurried off to calm down before he had every mortal in this entire hotel on the floor in piles of useless goo.
Langford set the handkerchief down and picked up his cigar. “Well, now that he’s gone—”
“Did you send me a letter, by chance?” Wesley interrupted.
Langford’s mouth thinned. “No,” he said shortly. “But I know who did.”
“Who?” Wesley said at once.
“A man you met last night.” Langford stuck the cigar back between his teeth. “Alasdair Findlay.”
“Alasdair? The textile fellow who’s clearly wandering about day drunk?”
“That’s the one.”
Wesley frowned. “Major, what’s going on?”
“If I’m perfectly honest with you? I don’t know.” Langford leaned forward. “I’m here on behalf of the War Office. We’re investigating Sir Ellery.”
Wesley’s eyebrows flew up. “Ellery? Why?”
“The valet you hired in February, Benedict Chester, who met his death here in New York,” said Langford. “The War Office was looking into him before he died. He was an internationally wanted criminal.”
“Well, he hardly put that in his references, did he?”
Langford gave him a flat look. “Chester murdered his previous employer—Sir Ellery’s second cousin, Sir Harold Kerrigan. Sir Harold and Chester worked together five years, ran quite a lucrative side business of collecting and selling rare artifacts.”
Rare artifacts. Magic artifacts, perhaps? Wesley now knew Chester had been smuggling the pomander relic with him, which had been among the Earl of Blanshard’s collection. “So you think Sir Harold—what? Passed the family business on to his cousin, Sir Ellery?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Langford said. “I asked for the case. I’ve known Sir Ellery since the war, so easy enough for me to visit without raising his suspicions. He’s been in New York for a month, staying with his friend, Alasdair. Now you ought to know that Alasdair’s mad as a hatter, if you’ll forgive the pun, since the man is in textiles.”
“He’s a bootlegger,” Wesley pointed out. “Are you sure he’s mad and not just constantly enjoying what he purveys?”
“Quite sure. Alasdair’s a teetotaler, doesn’t drink what he sells. Got strong beliefs and morals, that one.”
They’d seen Sir Ellery and Alasdair today, heading to Tarrytown—the same damn place Arthur’s inn was. “But if Sir Ellery is a friend of Alasdair’s, why the devil would he sendmea warning letter?” Wesley said. “You said it yourself, he and I metlast night.”
“I think Sir Ellery may be trying to bring Alasdair into the business too,” said Langford. “Alasdair is trying to warn you away. From where I’m sitting, probably a good idea; there’s precedent for questionable decisions when it comes to who you choose for company.” His gaze darted in the direction Sebastian had gone, then back to Wesley. “Like your valet. A person you chose to travel with.”
Wesley wasn’t going to rise to the bait. He sat back in his chair. “You’re telling me all of this for a reason. What do you want?”
“You were a damn fine captain—again, pardon the pun. Had a couple soft spots I’ll never understand, but the rest of you more than made up for it. War Office could use more men like you.” Langford took the cigar out of his mouth and leaned forward again. “There’s more going on with Ellery than you could ever guess. I’ve got whiskey in my trunk. Come drink with me tonight and we can talk.”
If Sir Ellery could possibly be mixed up with anything relating to Chester the valet and Sir Harold’s theft of paranormal relics from the Earl of Blanshard, then Wesley wanted to talk to paranormals about it, not Langford. “I can’t,” said Wesley. “Sebastian and I are leaving for the Caribbean in a couple days. We have business to finish.”
“Business and holidays are a damned waste of a ruthless man,” Langford said. “Come up for a drink. Your advisor’s already abandoned you. He’s about to pull with that girl.”
Fucking hell. Wesley turned, already knowing what he’d see. And sure enough, a pretty flapper in a sequined dress and matching headband over her black bob was leaning on the bar, talking to Sebastian.
“I can’t take him anywhere.” Wesley left most of his cigar in the ashtray and stood, ignoring Langford’s irritable huff to cross over to Sebastian.
“—know a speakeasy called the Magnolia?” Sebastian was saying, as Wesley got within earshot.
“Heard of that one, it’s supposed to be the best,” the flapper said. “Don’t know where it is, though.” She flashed Sebastian a smile framed with perfect red lips. “We could go look for it.”
Wesley cleared his throat. Loudly.
