Page 95 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Chapter 26

Wearing the clothes of a dock worker, Connor slouched in his chair in a dark corner of the tavern and nursed his drink. Martin had been non-committal about what time he planned to arrive, so Connor had no reason to watch the time or be so jumpy. It must be Meg that had him in such a mess.

In truth, he had no one to blame but himself. Crossing social lines as wide and thick as what separated them, always resulted in ruin. Not to mention, she only wanted him as a plaything. Her words had nearly matched Vivian’s words about arranging for a lover’s nest where they could meet. He had fallen in love with Vivian quickly. Then she had cast him off, and he had been left alone. He would never do that again.

Even if Margaret would consider marriage—a highly unlikely possibility—what options did they have? He lacked the income to support a wife. According to his mother, his father had set aside money for Connor. But no. Never from him. No man who cast off his family deserved to have his conscience assuaged by a mere monetary contribution. It would feel like dirty money. Not to mention, he had no reason to believe Margaret would stoop to marrying a working man.

The door opened, and three dock workers tumbled in smelling of fish. No sign of Martin yet.

Once again, Connor casually glanced about the room in search of a man meeting Martin’s description in case he had already arrived. The poor lighting provided the perfect place to hide if someone were trying to do so. Connor would need a much closer look at most of the occupants, which would be too obvious.

A gangly youth appeared at the table next to Connor’s and neatly placed used tankards onto a tray. He might be a good source.

Connor discarded his proper accent in favor of one more fitting the streets. “You there.”

“Aye?” As the lad wiped off the table, he gave Connor only a passing glance. “Need another?”

“I’m waiting for a friend name of Ol’ Dan. Maybe I missed him. ’e’s a regular—small man, pocked face….”

“Yeah, yeah, I know ’im. Usually comes in ’bout now.”

Connor nodded. “A bit late.”

The lad made a non-committal noise.

Since the lad had proved helpful, Connor pulled out Margaret’s drawing of the killer. “I’m also looking for this bloke. Yea seen ’im?”

The lad, to his credit, gave the sketch a good look. “Yeah, yeah, I seen ’im. He and Ol’ Dan were thick as thieves awhile back. Ain’t seen ’im in a good long while. Must’a got hisself pinched or sumin’.”

Killed, actually, but Connor kept that to himself. He tossed a coin to the lad. “My thanks.”

A grateful grin came by way of reply. The lad picked up the tray and headed to the kitchen.

Connor tamped down a cry of victory. That confirmed it. Ol’ Dan had met up with the killer, presumably to hire him to do the job under orders from Mr. Finch. This was the best lead he had. Now, if he could get a real confession, that would tie up the case in a neat bow that he could hand-deliver to Birnie at Bow Street.

Where the devil was Martin? Connor glanced about again and took a sip of his drink, which he’d discreetly watered down to ensure his head stayed clear.

The door opened and in shuffled a diminutive man. As the man passed by a lamp, the light shone on his pocked skin. Ol’ Dan. Connor’s quarry slumped into a chair, sighed as if he carried a terrible burden, and ordered an ale. Connor nursed his drink and bided his time while Dan got progressively more drunk.

When the man became so foxed that his eyes crossed, Connor took a seat next to him. “Buy ya ’nother drink, mate?”

Dan tried to stare at Connor but swayed in his chair so much he ruined the effect. “Who are ya?”

“Just a fellow sufferer.” He flagged down the serving lad. “Another for me and me mate.”

The drinks came, and Connor slipped in his own special blend of herbs designed to loosen tongues before handing the tankard to Dan. They made small talk, such as it was, grumbling about a lack of coin, a lack of lusty women, and an abundance of rich nobs who deserved to be drowned in their own pompous superiority. They talked and grunted until the tallow candles burned so low Connor could barely make out his tablemate. With all the dropped letters in Dan’s accent, making out his speech proved almost as difficult. Connor mentally translated all the poor trucklebed’s words.

Where was Martin? Had he decided not to come after all? Perhaps the butler refused to let him leave.

When Connor and Dan’s conversation turned to work in general, Connor dragged out a long-suffering sigh. “Hate me job. The worst.” He shook his head mournfully.

Ol’ Dan snorted. “Can’t be. Mine’s the worst.”

“Naw. Don’t believe it.”

“I’m a slave for that rank swell, I tell ya. Hafta do his biddin’ or he’ll turn me over to the law to hang, he will.”

“Naw, he can’t, can he?”