Page 96 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Dan nodded mournfully. “Caught me knifing a scurvy runagate what ruined me sister. Now I gotta do his dirty work, don’t I?”

Connor shrugged. “Not so bad, eh?”

“Not at first. Deliveries. Messages.” He sank even lower into his chair as if his burdens pressed down on him.

Connor ordered another drink for Dan. “Got bad later, did it?”

Dan held his cup with both hands and stared at it. “Bad. Real bad.”

“What’d ya haff ta do, crash some cull?”

“Tried to make me but I wouldn’t, so I hired someone to knife the nob.” He swallowed.

So, Dan had hired Margaret’s killer—under duress from his master.

“Lawmen found out about ’im—the wife squealed—we mighta been traced to the swell...so I had to clean up.” He shook his head. “I guess I’m going to the devil, anyway. And then the lady… the lady….” He pressed his head in his hands. Then he slumped over and his head hit the table with a bang.

There. A confession. That’s all Connor needed. At last, he had found the murderer. All he had to do was drag in Dan, prod him into confessing again to Birnie, then arrest Finch. Finally, he could close the case. He could give peace of mind to the Amesbury family and the Hennessy family—not to mention a little peace of his own for having no reason to see her high and mightiness, Lady Margaret, again. He might finally be able to forget how close he’d come to putting himself into the hands of another society woman who only wanted a plaything. Best not to see her again. Ever.

The thought should have cheered him, but it only made him want to punch someone. Perhaps he’d start with giving his own head a good thumping.

Connor paid for their drinks, muttered something to anyone who might be listening about getting his friend home to sleep it off, and maneuvered a drooling, snoring Dan onto his shoulders to carry him to justice. The poor sot was a murderer, never mind that he’d been forced to hire and then kill the murderer. Dan would likely hang.

What had he meant by the lady? Had he regretted framing Meg for killing her husband?

Outside, fog crawled along the streets like a predator searching for the weak. Connor adjusted his hold on his prisoner and glanced about for a hackney. He could carry Dan, of course. It was a goodly distance, and not nearly as pleasant as carrying Meg had been, but traveling encumbered by a body at night would leave him unable to defend himself should an unsavory character attempt to rob him.

A cat raced across the cobbled road. Three men staggered along, singing a bawdy song, ignorant of any dangers. No cab appeared. With a sigh, Connor headed toward the Bow Street office. Perhaps he could hail one along the way. A night bird sailed overhead across Connor’s path and swooped up to perch on a rooftop.

Alert for any danger, Connor kept to the middle of the road where he’d be less likely to be attacked from an alley. Dan mumbled something about a lusty wench and resumed snoring.

The clatter of a lightweight coach drew nearer. Turning, Connor stepped back to get out of the way. Perhaps it was a hackney. The closed coach drew alongside Connor and slowed. Connor’s senses went on alert. Three men jumped out. As the coach sped off, the men surrounded him, and the gleam of knives shone in their hands.

“I’m not carrying blunt,” Connor said while he glanced about for a better defensive position to take.

They closed in on him. Connor put Dan down and narrowly missed the first blade slicing down on him. Another attacked from the other side. Connor landed a blow that sent one of them flying backward. The other barreled into him. After scuffling with him, Connor threw a hard punch. His assailants struggled to their feet. Connor stepped back, grabbed his gun, and pointed it at them. All three scattered into the darkness like so many cockroaches.

Dan moaned.

Connor stowed his gun and went to him. Something was wrong. His breathing sounded more like wheezing. And gurgling. A death rattle.

“Dan?” Connor put his hand on Dan’s chest and checked for bloodstains. Even in the near darkness, the dark, spreading smear from multiple locations on his chest and stomach could not be mistaken.

Dan took one final gurgling breath and went still.

“Poor fool,” Connor muttered.

This could not be a random attack. Now Connor had no proof but his word of what a dead man had told him. Someone had murdered his best witness.