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Mr. Croke’s hands came alive as he said, “The bank is in the center of town. It is a whitewashed building and is attached to the new coffeehouse.”
“That is rather progressive of this town, to have a coffeehouse.”
“It is,” the innkeeper agreed. “The mayor pressed for one since he moved here from London a few years back, and he’d developed the taste for it.”
“I shall have to try the coffee, then.”
Mr. Croke made a face. “I do not like that black stuff. It is much too strong for my taste,” he said. “Ale is what I enjoy.”
“As do most men.”
Mr. Croke cracked a smile. “I knew I liked ye, Mr. Stewart.” He walked over to the door and opened it. “If ye walk down the road, ye can’t miss the bank.”
“Thank you,” Guy acknowledged.
He exited the coaching inn and headed down the street towards the center of town. Glancing in the storefront of a modiste shop, he caught his reflection in the window. He was dressed fashionably in a blue jacket, buff trousers, intricately tied cravat, and black top hat, marking him as a gentleman.
This was supposed to be his life, he thought. He had received an impressive education and had been destined for great things. But it had all changed when his father died and he became responsible for his family.
At times, he found himself angry at the man responsible for killing his father. He was the one who had taken away his dreams. Not his father. Not his mother or sister. The man who had mugged his father had drastically changed his life.
Up ahead, he saw the two-level bank with the coffeehouse next to it. He approached the main door and opened it. The hustle of the street seemed to disappear as he stepped into the quiet building.
A solemn young man rose from a desk and greeted him. “Welcome to Shrewsbury and Tilbury Mutual Society,” he said. “How may I help you?”
“I am here to see Mr. Huxley,” Guy replied, removing his hat.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I do not, but I do believe Mr. Huxley is expecting me.”
“May I have your name?”
“Mr. Stewart.”
The young man tipped his head in acknowledgement. “Please wait here, Mr. Stewart.” He opened a door and disappeared into a back room.
After a long moment, the young man returned and said, “Mr. Huxley will see you.”
Guy followed him into the back room and saw an older man bent over his desk. He didn’t look up and acknowledge him at first, so Guy waited.
Mr. Huxley placed the quill down next to the ink pot and eyed him critically. “I received word from Mr. Watson that you would be arriving, but I do contend that your visit is unnecessary.”
“Why is that?”
Leaning back in his seat, Mr. Huxley regarded him for a moment before saying, “You are here to inspect the conditions of Linton Colliery, are you not?”
“I am.”
“Then you are wasting your time, since we have not had a reported death in over a year,” Mr. Huxley said, “which is quite above standard for our industry.”
“I do not question that, but I was hired to inspect the colliery’s conditions,” Guy replied. “It is a role that I take quite seriously.”
“Is it because that child got hurt?” Mr. Huxley huffed.
“I am not at liberty to say.”
“It was his fault for falling asleep,” Mr. Huxley declared. “The putters beat him because he did not open the doors for them when he was supposed to.”
