Page 7 of Ghost in the Garden
“His business does, most probably,” Juliet said, sloshing amber liquid from a decanter into three glasses. “It’s what happens to those who cross him that worries me.”
“What is his business?” Solomon asked.
“Property,” Juliet said. “He owns buildings all over London.”
“Devil’s Acre?” Constance asked quickly.
Juliet shrugged, carrying the three glasses across to them. “Possibly.” Setting the glasses on the nearest table to Solomon, she presented him with one, gave another to Constance, and kept the largest for herself. “Though even he wouldn’t want that lot after him. Definitely Cheapside, Whitechapel, and St. Giles, moving into the city and the west. I hear he’s trying to get into Prince Albert’s good books and build some of his model houses for all those poor people he currently crams into his old places, ten families per leaky room.”
“He’s a slum landlord,” Constance said, frowning as her mother eased herself into the chair beside her drink. “Is there much money in that?”
“Ten families per leaky room,” Solomon said wryly, “and the pennies soon mount up.”
“Especially with nothing going out on such nonsense as repairs to the leaks, stone, roofs, rot, or anything else.” Juliet regarded him with a bit more respect. “In the property business yourself, Mr. Grey?”
“To a small degree. But I’ve never come across the name of Caleb Lambert.”
“Expect you’ve heard of Huxley Gregg, though.”
Solomon’s breath caught. “Wasn’t he the owner of that building that collapsed in St. Giles a couple of weeks ago? People died.”
“Bloody right they did. Well, Gregg was Lambert’s partner.”
“In that particular building?” Constance asked, sitting down abruptly.
Juliet shrugged. “I’d say so, though they never touched him for it. Gregg must have kept his mouth shut. The parish is leading an inquiry into how it happened, threatening to bring a prosecution against Gregg. But I don’t reckon he’ll make it that long. There’s a lot of bad feeling against him, and someone will take the law into their own hands. He knows it too, keeping least in sight, I hear. He’d probably rather be in prison.”
“They’d get to him there too,” Constance said. “And not many would cry for him.”
“Retribution,” Solomon murmured, meeting Constance’s gaze. Was that what Angela Lambert truly feared? It would certainly explain her nervousness and her desire to involve outside help to find her “ghost.”
Constance took a distracted sip of her drink, looked faintly surprised at herself, and set her glass on the table. “Interesting.”
“Unsavory,” Solomon added.
Juliet raised her glass in a bitter toast of agreement. Like Constance, she seemed to be an odd mixture of caring and hardness. Yet when he tried to visualize Constance being brought up by this woman, his imagination failed.
“What do you know of the wife?” Constance asked abruptly. “Angela.”
“Nothing. Didn’t know he was married. Don’t like to think of a bastard like that with kids, do you?”
“No,” Constance said bleakly.
Even through the closed door of the parlor, Solomon heard the front door opening to let in a raised voice. It sounded like the young man who’d let them in, answered by another, deeper voice.
Juliet knocked back the rest of her brandy as though it was water and struggled to her feet. “Excuse me one moment.”
She moved with surprising speed toward the parlor door, which was thrown open from the other side to reveal a stocky man in a fur-collared coat that hung open to show long gold fobs and a loud tartan waistcoat.
Beside Solomon, Constance stiffened.
“Mrs. Jules,” purred this vision fondly. “I knew you were at home. The whole place feels different when it basks in the glow of your presence.”
“It certainly feels different in yours,” Juliet murmured. “You must excuse me, Mr. Boggie, when I am privately engaged.”
“I excused you last time,” Boggie said unpleasantly. He was a florid man, prosperous and oily looking, which might have had something to do with his neat, waxed moustache. His eyes lacked the hard, mean look of many bullies, but to Solomon they also lacked any humanity, as if there was no one at home.
Until they flickered over him without interest and strayed to Constance, where they lingered. “And what friends they are.” He swept off his hat and bowed, not without elegance. “How do you do, madam?”
