Page 57 of Speculations in Sin

“Those writing the checks likely have no idea,” Sam said. “Unless they were devoted readers of Mr. Dickens, they’d not question the names. Likewise, they might only know the amount to be paid, not the circumstances of the investments.”

“Mr. Stockley, though, began to believe in you,” I broke in.

“Yes. It took months, but I finally made him see reason. He is—was, I mean—a stubborn chap. Very upright but obtuse. We began meeting in the upstairs file room, where no one went, to discuss things.”

“Which brings us to the day of his death.” I made another line in my notebook and wrote the date, Monday, 22 January 1883. “He said he would send for you?”

“Yes, he told me this on Saturday—we work half days on Saturday mornings. When I was leaving that day, Stockley took me aside and told me he had thought things over and wanted my help exposing the embezzler. He’d send for me on Monday, and we’d meet in our usual place. He had hold of my coat collar and whispered all this into my ear. I admit his spittle annoyed me and I gave him a little shove to get away from him. Several of the clerks saw that, unfortunately.”

Which gave credit to the tale that Sam and Mr. Stockley were at odds.

“I will guess that the embezzler either heard him or already realized that Mr. Stockley was onto him,” I said. “He waited for Mr. Stockley near your conferring place, somehow coaxed him into the strong room, and killed him there, locking him in.”

“A good possibility,” Daniel agreed. “We have to discover how the killer knew Stockley would be in so early and that he’d go to the third floor as soon as he arrived.”

“Maybe the killer also arranged to meet him,” I suggested. “Said he could explain away why Mr. Stockley thought him an embezzler, perhaps. It sounds as though Mr. Stockley thought himself a superior sort of man and would not hesitate to confront the embezzler, even alone on a quiet floor in a mostly empty building.”

“That is his character exactly,” Sam said. “Or was, poor chap.”

I flipped back to the page where I’d written the wordKeys. “Was Mr. Stockley’s key found on him? In his hand or in his pocket? If two keys were needed to get into the room, then two keys would be needed to lock him inside again. Two keys to open the door again to reveal Mr. Stockley there.”

“I will ask,” Daniel said. “McGregor would have made note of anything found on the body, and the City chaps will have cataloged it if they are efficient.”

“Why did the person who found Mr. Stockley decide to go up to the strong room?” I asked. “Again, they’d need keys, or to take someone with them who had the keys.”

“I told them to look there,” Sam said, shoulders slumping. “Or at least on the third floor. Stockley was missed, and Miss Swann was vexed. At least, she said Mr. Zachary was vexed, but we knew what she meant. I was busy and harried. WhenChandler, the head of the junior clerks’ room, said loudly that Millburn always seemed to know where Stockley was—in the sneering way he has—I growled at them to check the third floor. I didn’t intend to give away our conferring place, but as I said, I was rushing to finish copying documents Mr. Zachary had demanded. So up Chandler and Miss Swann went. They seem to have fetched the necessary people to open all the doors up there, they found him, and sent for the constables.” Sam let out another defeated breath. “I have helped condemn myself every step of the way.”

“A logical person would ask why you’d direct people to find Mr. Stockley’s body instead of answering that you had no idea where he was,” I said.

“Logical people don’t work at Daalman’s,” Sam answered with a twitch of his lips. “Maybeyoushould be my brief, Kat.”

“My dear Sam, if I appeared in court in wig and gown to address the judge and jury, the whole lot of them would faint dead away. Or burst into laughter. The building might fall down as well.”

“It would be worth observing,” Daniel said, and Sam gave him a feeble laugh.

“When you have finished poking fun at me”—I frowned at the pair of them—“the gist of the matter is this: You found suspicious contracts under fictitious names in the pile of things you were to copy. I will assume other clerks had these sorts of papers in their piles as well but noticed nothing wrong. You approached Mr. Stockley, the head of the senior clerks’ room, and persuaded him that something was amiss. He did digging of his own, conferring with you in an unused file room from time to time. On Saturday last, he took you aside and told you to be ready for a meeting with him on Monday. Sometime between Sunday and Monday, Mr. Stockley met his killer on thethird floor—either by chance or prearrangement—unlocked the strong room and entered it, unsuspecting. He was killed, the strong room locked again, and the killer departed or went to his own desk to begin work as though nothing had happened. You were late on Monday because of our unruly brood and missing ingredients for breakfast. You then worked hastily to catch up on your work, throwing out the information that Mr. Stockley sometimes went up to the third floor. He was found, police summoned, you arrested.”

I finished to find both men staring at me. I sent them a questioning look.

“An excellent summing-up,” Daniel said. “Are you certain you won’t apply at one of the Inns of Court?”

I rolled my eyes at his impertinence. “Is there anything else you can tell us?” I asked Sam. “Anything at all that could help?”

Sam lifted his slim shoulders. “I can think of nothing. All of this has shocked me until I don’t know what I understand anymore.” Weariness settled on him. “Please make certain Joanna isn’t touched by this. Not her fault I’ve made a complete mess of our life.”

I reached for Sam’s hand again and squeezed it. “You have done nothing wrong, Sam Millburn. You remember that. Someone has shoved all their villainy onto you, but we will make them see that was a mistake.”

Sam’s shaky smile broke through. “You are very certain.”

“Of course I am.” I tightened my grip, then released him and closed my notebook. “You will be reunited with your family, and everything will end well, just like in one of your favorite books.”

“You haven’t read much of Mr. Dickens, then,” Sam said gloomily. “Wrongly accused men sometimes come to bad ends in them. He knew much of the real world, did Mr. Dickens.”

* * *

I was ashamed of how quickly I raced out of the confines of Newgate, drawing a relieved breath once we were through the gates.

“Poor Sam,” I said as I took Daniel’s offered arm. “Poor, poor Sam.”

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