Page 44 of Anastasia and the Duke
Gilmour had been with the de Vere family for almost forty years, and his vocabulary rarely stretched beyond those three words; yes, your Grace. He returned, moments later, with Mr Adams trailing in his wake.
"Your Grace," Mr Adams greeted him stiffly, though they had already met when Oliver had engaged his services. Adams was a burly fellow, of about thirty years, who looked like he would be better suited to farming in some backwater than dealing with the underbelly of London society.
Still, despite appearances, Mr Adams was very adept at his chosen profession, and when Oliver bid him sit, he hastily outlined all that he had discovered on Miss Blackmore.
"It was easy enough to corroborate her story," Mr Adams said, as he perched himself--rather uncomfortably--on the Bergère chair opposite Oliver's desk.
"The matron at the Lambeth school confirmed that Miss Blackmore was left there, in the winter of ninety-six, speaking only French," he continued, his brow creased in a frown, "After that, I went to visit Mr Robert Morrison, a noted wine merchant. He agreed that Miss Blackmore entered into his employ as an indentured servant from the Lambeth school, and worked her way up to the position of companion and nursemaid to his elderly mother, a position which ended upon the lady's death."
"Very good," Oliver released the anxious breath he had been holding, "And anything about Miss Blackmore prior to entering the Lambeth school?"
"Nothing," Mr Adams cleared his throat, "Though if you'll permit me to speak freely, your Grace?"
"By all means," Oliver answered amiably, though inwardly he was filled with fear. Had Adams discovered something untoward about Miss Blackmore? Had Oliver's initial beliefs about her been correct?
"I found it strange that the young woman's story could be corroborated so quickly and so easily," Adams explained, "It was almost as though both the matron and Mr Morrison were expecting my call."
"Oh?" Oliver prompted, trying to quell the disappointment in his chest.
"I took the liberty of looking into both characters," Adams added, "Mr Morrison, though he gives the outward impression of comfortable wealth, has suffered some heavy losses at the card table. He plays mostly at The Grand, down Soho way, and had not been seen there for quite some time, until he returned after a recent change in fortunes."
"I see," Oliver answered, heaving a sigh.
"While Mrs Finkleton, the matron, is a frequent visitor to a gin-shop down by Lambeth Bridge. She likes a dram or two of an evening, but after failing to settle her bill she was temporarily barred."
"But has since returned, after a recent change in fortunes?" Oliver guessed, and Adams smiled and gave a nod.
"Both establishments are run by a fellow by the name of Sidney Pritchard," Adams finished, "The self-styled King of London Thieves."
"It could be a coincidence," Oliver ventured, though the investigator gave a bark of doubtful laughter.
"I am of the school of thought that there is no such thing as a coincidence, and certainly not two so intricately linked, your Grace," Adams offered, half-apologetic, "Though, it is up to you to make your mind up on the information--I just provide it."
"Thank you," Oliver answered, eager for the man to be gone so he could digest the news, "Have the bill sent to my man on Goodge Street; he will look after you."
"It's already sent, your Grace," Adams gave a smile, before rising to a stand, "My thanks for your patronage; if I can be of further assistance, you know where to find me."
Mr Adams took his leave, and Oliver sat for a few moments in ponderous silence. The tale of Miss Blackmore's life appeared to be a work of fiction, but did that take away from the fact that even Morris believed she was a credible candidate to be the lost Anastasia?
Oliver was overtaken by a nervous agitation and decided to abandon his desk in favour of a brisk ride. He changed quickly and made for the stables, where a groomsman saddled his horse.
He made to The Green Park, which was far less fashionable than Hyde Park where the bridle paths were too crowded to allow for a proper ride. Oliver spent a good hour, racing along the almost deserted paths of the park, until both he and his beast were sweat soaked and exhausted.
He had just decided to return home, when he spotted a familiar figure atop a horse in the distance.
"Hunter," he called, as he nudged his mount into a canter.
"Hawkfield," his friend called in return, as Oliver neared, "I see you also wished to avoid the crowds on The Row."
"One doesn't ride there, one parades," Oliver sniffed, referring to Rotten Row which where the fashionable of London went to rideandto be seen.
"I concur," Hunter grinned, as the two men fell into a gentle trot.
"How is work?" Oliver asked, as they began to trot towards the gate, genuinely eager to know. Hunter's work was always interesting and was far better conversational fodder than talking politics.
"Rather grim, I'm afraid," Hunter grimaced, "I had a lead on my Republican group--a pawnbroker in Holborn reported a gent who had attempted to sell him some stolen goods--but when we called upon the man in question, he was already dead."
"That's quick work to kill him for informing before he'd even informed," Oliver laughed, despite the graveness of the tale.
