Page 87 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Connor held his breath. “When was that?”

“Late. After we ate supper.”

“How long was he here?”

The scullery maid shrugged. “Dunno. I had other duties than to watch a deliveryman.”

Connor circled the room, making sure everyone got a good look at the drawing. “Did anyone else notice this man coming or leaving?”

After casting a furtive glance at Gibbs, a footman spoke up. “I opened the kitchen door to let him in.”

“Did you see where he went? How long was he here?”

“He carried in the box and put it in the corner of the kitchen. I didn’t see him leave; I was running polished silver to the butler’s pantry.” Defensively, he added, “I didn’t leave a stranger in the house; the cook was here.”

Connor turned to the chef. “You didn’t see him?”

The chef held up his hands. “I don’t remember a deliveryman coming especially late… but I was busy going over my lists for the meals the following day. Milord had requested specialty items, and I needed to be sure I had ordered everything. I might not have noticed a deliveryman.”

“I think I saw him, not that night, but a while back,” the man who served as valet for the late Lord Hennessy said in an accent that suggested he’d been practicing King’s English but hadn’t quite overcome his working-class pronunciation. If memory served, his name was Martin. Based on his livery, he’d been demoted to footman when his lord perished.

“Here in the house?” Connor asked Martin.

“No, I saw him—or someone who looked like him—tossing back a few pints with Ol’ Dan.”

A prickling sensation went down Connor’s back. “Where did you see them?”

“Joe’s Folly.” Martin glanced at the butler as if fearful that admitting he’d been drinking at a tavern would jeopardize his position.

Connor nodded. “I know the place.” And a seedier pub never existed.

Martin tugged at his lower lip. “I seen Ol’ Dan drinking with that fellow a few nights in a row, talking real serious. Ain’t seen either of them there since.”

Connor leaned against the wall to affect a relaxed posture despite the energy racing through him. “Tell me more about this...Ol’ Dan.”

“He works yonder, across the street for the Finches,” Martin added.

Someone having a drink with the killer two nights in a row sounded an awful lot like a thug getting hired. And that was the second clue leading back to the Finches.

Connor tempered his excitement. It could be nothing. But it certainly seemed like something. A special errand boy having drinks with their rat-faced killer was the most promising lead so far.

“What is his job at the Finches? Footman, is he?”

Martin laughed. “With a mug like that? No, Dan’s some kind of errand boy.”

“How do you know that?”

With a shrug, Martin said, “I join him for a pint sometimes, and once, Dan said he always gets his hands dirty so the master could keep ’is clean.”

“He was bragging about it?” Connor asked.

“Nah, he was none too happy about it.”

So, Mr. Finch employed a reluctant errand boy named Ol’ Dan who specialized in dealing with errands of a messy nature. A special errand boy, indeed. It was beginning to look more and more like Mr. Finch’s servant, Dan, might be just the sort of servant who would commit murder, or at least hire the murderers. This could mean that Mr. Finch had orchestrated Hennessy’s murder. If Dan had been unhappy about it, perhaps he’d been coerced, which meant he could be convinced to turn on his master.

Connor would need to proceed with caution. Showing up at the Finches’ house demanding to speak to Dan might arouse suspicion and put both men on the defensive. No, this would require a softer touch.

“When do you usually see Ol’ Dan at the tavern?” Connor asked Martin.