Page 66 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
There was no time to eat, not even a light supper. Not while urgent matters needed to be dealt with, especially since they pertained to my brother. I headed out and hailed a hansom cab.
Hatton Garden was quiet after dark, the streetlamps glowing amber above shuttered jewelers’ shops and locked counting houses. Only one window still glowed with life. Finch’s.
I rapped sharply on the frosted glass door of his office. No answer. I tried the knob—locked, of course. A narrow stairway led to the floor above, where Finch kept his private quarters. I climbed and knocked—less sharply this time.
After a pause, the door cracked open, and Caleb Finch appeared, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair tousled, a faint sheen of frustration about him.
“You sent a note,” I said.
“This morning.” Finch scrubbed his face. “I expected you hours ago.”
“I was otherwise occupied.”
Finch ran a hand through his rat’s nest hair with a huff, ruffling it in irritation. “Give me a moment.” He stepped back into his quarters, closing the door firmly against me.
Minutes later, he emerged, shrugged into a coat, the top buttons of his shirt still undone. He led the way to his office below, which smelled of pipe smoke and ink. He lit the oil lamp on his desk and faced me. “You interrupted what was shaping up to be a very fine evening.”
That explained the disgruntled look. “Don’t expect me to apologize. Now what did you find?”
“You’re not going to like it,” Finch said, reaching for a folder on the corner of the desk.
“I assumed that after I read the note.”
“You’re in a good mood this evening.”
“It’s been a day. Now talk.”
Finch handed me a slip of paper, scribbled with dates and figures.
“Your brother visited the same gambling house—the Grinning Rat—twice in the past three days,” Finch said, sobering. “Late nights. Private room in a building with a crooked, warped, and unmarked door. The kind of place where the stakes climb fast and fall hard.”
I stared at the paper.
“Was he winning?”
“Not even close,” Finch replied. “If he went in hoping for salvation, he came out with more blood on the books. He’s desperate. Trying to claw his way out of something, but every wager pulls him deeper.”
“And no one’s calling in the debt yet?”
“Not yet. But they will. These sorts of houses don’t make threats. They make examples.”
I folded the paper, tight and sharp, and tucked it into my coat.
Finch studied me for a long moment. “You going to talk to him?”
“I’m going to tear a strip off his hide.”
“Do it soon,” he said. “Before someone else does.”
“I will.” I reached for my gloves, then paused. “One more thing. I want you to look into a family. The Vales.”
Finch glanced up, brows drawing together. “Vale?”
“There are three brothers. The middle one—Nathaniel Vale—frequents the Caledonian Club. A botanist by all accounts. The youngest, Henry, has a reputation for trouble. The eldest—Algernon—is a recluse. The family’s seat is Arcendale Hall in Sussex, but Nathaniel and Henry live together on Park Crescent. Those two are your priority.”
“This connected to your brother?”
“No. Another matter entirely.”
