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“What about census or probate records?”
“Nothing.”
“No tenancy agreement?” John asked, increasingly puzzled. “No mortgage?”
“No. Six months ago, she bought a house in Mayfair, but according to the seller, she paid the lot in cash. And I can’t view private bank accounts or records of securities without a court order.”
“Why is she under suspicion?”
“She’s not under suspicion yet. But we have evidence that she and Mr. Farlow are planning to establish an all-women’s bank branch in Knightsbridge. I want to know the nature of their relationship—business and personal—and how much authority she’ll have in this branch. I’ll need regular reports of who she meets with and an assessment of her potential as an ally in an investigation. That’s why I’m asking you to apply for a position in her household.”
John frowned deeply. “Why not just haul Farlow in for questioning?”
“That would be my preference,” Ransom admitted. “But he has powerful connections. If I launch an inquiry without reasonable grounds, he’ll see to it that I’m hung up like a pheasant for roasting. Even worse, it could start a panic among the depositors and lead to a bank run.”
After taking a swallow of ale, John asked reluctantly, “What kind of position do you want me to take?”
“According to a Mayfair employment agency, Miss Martin is seeking a butler to manage her household staff. As I understand it, in smaller houses such as this, one man can serve as both butler and footman, so you’ll be in an ideal position to—”
“No,” John said flatly. “You’ll have to find someone else.”
“There is no one else.”
His soul revolted at the idea of going back into service, even as a ruse. A servant’s identity was bound up in the existence of his or her upper-class employers: “The family.” There were no other families to consider, no lives nearly as important. Anything that caused inconvenience to the family was an outrage. Illness was an outrage. Wanting even one day off a month was an outrage. So were ordinary human desires, ambitions, needs, or anything else that distracted from a servant’s work.
A servant was only a minor player in the larger, far more important story of an aristocrat’s life.
Unless you were the servant.
“You have charge of more than four thousand men on the Metropolitan force,” John told the assistant commissioner. “Pick one of them.”
“It averages out to one constable for every four hundred and thirty-two London residents,” Ransom said. “I don’t have a man to spare, and none who are as qualified for this job as you are. Your background makes you a perfect fit.”
“Give me any other job, no matter how vile or dangerous, and I’ll do it. But I won’t serve at the beck and call of some high-and-mighty bitch.” John set his napkin on the table. “My thanks for the meal,” he said brusquely. “I regret the wasting of your time.”
Silence.
Ransom regarded him as if they were in the middle of a chess match. “You intend to stay here and carry on as usual,” he said after a moment.
“Aye.” John began to rise to his feet.
“Sit,” Ransom said evenly. “I have one more point to make.”
John lowered himself to the chair with a quiet growl.
“While you’re apprehending criminals one at a time here in Manchester,” Ransom continued, “William Farlow may be robbing tens of thousands of hardworking people. Men who’ve finally managed to save enough to marry and start a family. Women who’ve never had a new dress or a full day of rest in their entire lives. Many of them won’t survive the loss of their savings. You could spare a thought for them. And then try to find the peace of a good night’s sleep, knowing you did nothing to help.” He paused. “But at least you’ll have your pride.”
John quietly cursed the man in Welsh. Not because he didn’t want Ransom to understand what he was saying. It was only that Welsh was far more eloquent than English when it came to remarking on a man’s uncanny resemblance to a knot of dung stuck in the fleece of a sheep’s arse.
“I understood most of that,” Ransom said pleasantly, when John paused to draw breath. “I have a good friend from North Wales who curses me out and takes great enjoyment in explaining it afterward.”
“Northern,” John said, his gaze murderous. “How do you know the woman would hire me? I don’t look or sound like anyone’s idea of a butler.”
“You may be interested to learn that Miss Martin’s household staff includes five ticket-of-leave prisoners—including a particularly vicious brute who never should have been approved for parole in the first place.”
John was caught off his guard by the information. “Why would she fill her house with convicts?”
“What an interesting question,” Ransom marveled. “If only there were someone who could find the answer and report it to me.” He ignored John’s incinerating glance as he continued. “Miss Martin is one of two things: a criminal conspirator or a misguided do-gooder who’s more in need of protection than any woman in London. Either way, I want a man in that house.”
