“No, for I checked that first thing, as soon as I saw the money was gone from the safe. Everything was locked up tight as a drum.”
“Even the safe?”
“Aye, it was,” the linen-draper said, much struck. “A curious thing, the thief taking the time to lock the safe back. I should have thought he would have wanted to get out as quickly as possible, wouldn’t you?”
Pickett nodded. “Exactly. Whoever he was, he had no fears of being caught out before he was done.” He also had no fear of Brutus, which was to Pickett’s mind even more telling. Still, he didn’t want to point this out, at least not yet. He didn’t want to put anyone at the shop on their guard by letting them know they were themselves under suspicion.
“What about the keys to the safe?” he asked. “How many are there, and who has them?”
“There’s only one, and I keep it myself.”
“And yet when I inspected the safe, it was your daughter who opened it with a key she kept in her, er—” Pickett made a vague gesture in the direction of his chest.
“Aye, I left the key with her while I was gone to the bank, and told her to put it someplace where no one could get at it. No one,” he repeated, and there was that in his tone, as well as his expression, that told Pickett it would have been wiser not to have mentioned where Miss Robinson had hidden the key.
“And it hasn’t been out of your possession, or your daughter’s, at any time?”
Mr. Robinson shook his head. “No—that is, no time lately. I did misplace it, oh, a month or so ago, but it was found within half an hour after I discovered it was missing—just before I sent for the locksmith, in fact.”
“Was it indeed?” Pickett asked, his ears pricking up. “Where was it found, and by whom?”
“Jem found it lying just underneath one of the tables—the one where the new silks are displayed. Can’t imagine how it got there, nor how we managed to miss it, for I would swear we searched every inch of the shop—and parts of it more than once—in that half-hour. Sometimes it seems as though objects sprout legs when no one’s looking and move about on their own, doesn’t it?”
“It does indeed,” Pickett agreed. “Clever lad, Jem, to have found it, though. How long has he been with you?”
“About six months.”
“And Andrew?” This, in fact, interested Pickett far more than the boy, Jem, did.
“He’s been with me for nigh on ten years, ever since he was nobbut a lad of twelve.”
A lad of twelve, Pickett thought. A twelve-year-old boy would have little interest in a girl very nearly his own age. A young man of two-and-twenty, however, thrown into daily contact with an attractive young woman of similar age was a very different matter. And who better to favor Pickett with a candid opinion of that young man than another, a still younger man who might be a rival for the same young woman’s affections?
Having discovered, at least for the nonce, all he could from the linen-draper, Pickett took his leave and headed back toward Bow Street, where he planned to report back to his magistrate before setting out for the City, and the London warehouse of Brundy and Son.
“Hullo, what’s this?” demanded Mr. Colquhoun when Pickett returned to Bow Street with one hand swathed in bandages.
“Oh, that,” Pickett said, glancing dismissively at his injured hand. “Just a small disagreement with an overprotective watchdog. The dog won,” he added unnecessarily.
“Shall I send for a physician?” the magistrate asked in some concern, lifting his hand to summon a messenger.
“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” Pickett assured him hastily. “It’s hardly more than a scratch, really, and Miss Robinson washed and dressed it.”
Mr. Colquhoun’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Miss Robinson, you say?”
Pickett nodded. “The linen-draper’s daughter.”
“I see.” The magistrate regarded him with a speculative gleam in his eye. “Is she pretty?”
“I fail to see what that has to do with anything,” Pickett said, very much on his dignity.
“Then I fear you haven’t half the intelligence I’d credited you with,” the magistrate informed him bluntly. “In all seriousness, John, females do tend to form sentimental attachments to the men they nurse. You might do far worse than a merchant’s daughter.”
It was true, Pickett knew, and yet there was more than one barrier to such a match. “I know you’re right, sir, and I will admit that yes, Miss Robinson is very pretty. But setting aside the fact that I already have a wife—” Mr. Colquhoun dismissed this circumstance with a snort of derision. “—I’m sure you would advise me to be certain Miss Robinson hasn’t been helping herself to the contents of her father’s safe before making any overtures in that direction.”
“Very true,” conceded his mentor. “Have you any reason to believe she has been?”
“N-no,” Pickett said slowly, considering the matter. “But I think it very likely that someone in the shop has. There were no scratches or any other markings to indicate that the lock had been forced, and no one recalls hearing the bell ring, or the dog bark.”
“That would be the same dog that, er—?” Mr. Colquhoun’s inquiring gaze dropped to Pickett’s bandaged hand.
“The very same, sir.”
“Yes, unless for some reason this dog finds your presence uniquely repugnant, I agree that it sounds as if the intruder must have been someone familiar to him,” the magistrate concurred. “So, what is to be your next move? Have you decided?”
Pickett let out a sigh, and leaned against the wooden railing that fronted the magistrate’s bench. “I should like to find out what I can about the characters of some of the persons involved. The younger Mr. Brundy of Brundy and Son might be a likely source of information. He delivers cottons to Mr. Robinson’s shop, and his foster father, the senior partner, insists on payment upon delivery and in cash. Miss Robinson seems to think the old man is merely being disagreeable, but it occurs to me that he might have other reasons for refusing to extend credit to her father.”
Mr. Colquhoun nodded in agreement. “Very well, Mr. Pickett, I believe you can find the Brundy warehouse in Cheapside. Near Queen Street, if memory serves.”
“Thank you, sir,” Pickett said, and turned to go.
“Oh, and John,” the magistrate’s voice called him back.
“Yes, sir?”
“Be careful of any dogs that may cross your path, will you?”
Pickett acknowledged this verbal hit with a rueful grin and a wave of his bandaged hand, then set out on foot for the City.
* * *
Upon reaching the warehouse of Brundy and Son, Pickett stepped inside and blinked in amazement. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he found himself standing in a cavernous room filled with row upon row of shelves, each one stacked floor to ceiling with bolts of fabric in every color of the rainbow, and of every pattern from demure floral prints to bold Greek key designs. He collared the first person he saw and, in a voice echoing weirdly in the vast space, requested a word with Mr. Brundy.
“I hope you’ve got a good set of lungs, then,” came the reply. “They’ll have to be, for him to hear you all the way in Lancashire.”
“He isn’t in London, then?” Pickett asked, deflated.
“Didn’t I just say so? He lets young Ethan come to Town twice a year to handle all the London business. If you want one of the Brundys, you’ll have to make do with him.”
Pickett castigated himself for not making it clear at the outset precisely which Brundy he wished to interview. Privately, he considered Ethan Brundy rather young to be trusted with the London side of what was apparently a very large business concern but, remembering how frustrated (and, yes, insulted) he’d often felt by disparaging references to his own age, he resolved to give the fellow the benefit of the doubt. “Very well, where can I find him?”
“He’ll be in his office.”
The man jerked his thumb toward the back of the warehouse, but made no offer to accompany him. Pickett thanked him for the information, and set out in the direction he had indicated. Thankfully, he met Mr. Brundy halfway, coming toward the front of the building as Pickett headed toward the rear. Each sighted the other at exactly the same time, and both stopped in mutual recognition.
“Mr.—Pickett, is it?” Brundy asked in the same unrefined accents Pickett had noted the day before. “Nancy Robinson’s intended?”
“Yes and no,” Pickett said, grimacing at the thought that by claiming him as her “young man,” Miss Robinson might have prejudiced young Brundy against him. “I should like a word with you, if you can spare a minute.”
“Aye, if you’ll follow me,” he agreed, eyes bright with curiosity as he led the way to the small office carved out of one corner at the back of the warehouse. He closed the door, shutting out the din on the other side, then seated himself behind the desk, leaned back in his chair and propped his booted feet on its scarred surface. “Now,” he said, his voice strangely loud now that it no longer echoed, “what do you want from me?”
“I should like you to tell me what you know about George Robinson.”
“Wanting inside information on your future papa-in-law, are you?” Ethan Brundy grinned knowingly, and something about his smile was so engaging that Pickett wanted to smile back in spite of the fact that the fellow had entirely the wrong idea about him and Miss Robinson.
Pickett shook his head. “No, I’m not. That is, I do want inside information on Mr. Robinson, if you have any to give me, but not on his daughter’s account. In fact, I’d never laid eyes on Miss Robinson until yesterday.”
Young Brundy let out an appreciative whistle. “Fast worker, aren’t you?”
“Look here,” Pickett said impatiently, “I’m not really courting Miss Robinson. She only said that because she doesn’t want to be pressured into marriage with you. I’m sorry if you had hopes in that direction, but there it is.”
Brundy sat up abruptly with his feet on the floor, staring at Pickett in astonishment. “And ’oo said I wanted to marry ’er?”
“Well, no one, exactly,” Pickett admitted. “But apparently Mr. Robinson has some idea of broaching the subject with your foster father—a sort of business merger, as I understand it, as well as a personal one.”
“ ’e’ll catch cold at that, ’e will,” Brundy predicted confidently. “Mr. Brundy is quite ’appy with ’is business just the way it is. As for me and Nancy, well, I’m sure she’s a very nice girl, but I ’aven’t the least desire to marry ’er.”
He spoke so emphatically that Pickett drew the logical conclusion. “I take it your affections are engaged elsewhere?”
“No,” Brundy confessed cheerfully. “In fact, I ’aven’t yet met the woman I’d like to marry, but I’m in no ’urry. I figure I’ll know ’er when I see ’er.”
“If only it were that easy,” Pickett muttered.
“What do you mean?” asked the weaver, much struck. Clearly, any such complication had never occurred to him.
“Only that the lady might have other ideas,” Pickett pointed out with some asperity, nettled by the younger man’s easy confidence.
“In that case, I’ll ’ave a bit of work to do, won’t I?” young Brundy said, undaunted.
There was nothing Pickett could say to this. He’d
known
(as Mr. Brundy had put it) from the moment he’d seen Lady Fieldhurst standing over her husband’s dead body—but he also knew that he could work his fingers to the bone, and it still wouldn’t make him an eligible match for her. He hardly knew whether to wish Brundy luck in his courtship of the theoretical female of his choice, or to hope she led him a merry dance, if for no other reason than to shake the fellow’s extraordinary self-assurance.
“That’s as may be,” he said, “but I didn’t come to discuss your marriage prospects—or mine, for that matter. I came to learn what I could about George Robinson.”
“Right you are, then. What do you want to know?”
“What sort of man would you say he is? Is he honest?”
Mr. Brundy seemed to have no doubts on this head. “Me foster father wouldn’t do business with ’im if ’e wasn’t.”
“And yet he—your foster father, that is—insists on being paid up front, and in cash,” Pickett pointed out.
“Aye, but ’e’s that way with everyone. ’E’s a shrewd ’ead for business, ’as old Mr. Brundy, but tough as an old boot, ’e is. Some of ’is ideas are a bit old-fashioned, but ’e won’t ’ear of changing them.”
“So this isn’t a business practice reserved for George Robinson?”
“Lord, no! I can’t tell you the brangles we’ve ’ad over it—that, and other business practices, for that matter.”
“I see,” said Pickett, mentally crossing George Robinson off his list.
“Say, if you don’t mind me asking, what’s your interest in George Robinson? Setting aside ’is daughter, of course.”
Pickett struggled with his conscience. If Miss Robinson were to be believed, her father was going to considerable lengths to make sure no one knew about the recent robbery. And yet, it was impossible to solve a crime while keeping secret the fact that one had been committed. The shopkeepers on either side, for instance, had answered Pickett’s questions readily enough, but had almost certainly drawn their own conclusions as to why he was asking them. And why shouldn’t they? If there was a robber at large, he couldn’t blame them for wanting to know, so they might take whatever precautions they could.
“There was a robbery at Mr. Robinson’s shop on Christmas night,” he said at last, laying all his cards on the table, “and I was summoned to investigate. I’m with Bow Street,” he added by way of explanation.
“Are you, by Jove?” exclaimed Brundy. “I’d always thought you fellows were older.”
Pickett was accustomed (though by no means resigned) to hear disparaging remarks about his age, but he would be hanged if he would allow such comments from a fellow several years younger than himself. “Look, let’s reach an agreement before we go any further, shall we? You don’t make any unwanted observations about my age, and I won’t make any about yours.”
“Fair enough,” said the weaver, with a rueful grin that gave Pickett to understand he was not the only one plagued by such remarks.