According to the spymaster, the initials L.C. could stand for a Lysander Cord whom Rex did not know, but he lived at the Albany, so could be assumed a gentleman.
J.J. was Joseph Johnston, with two locations, one near the docks, another in a newly fashionable section of Kensington; or Joshua Jacobs, a jeweler on Bond Street. Rex would bet on Johnston, the wealthy merchant who now supposedly had Sir Frederick's valet in his employ.
G.C. had only one name beside it, George Cuthbert, with a question mark. Rex whistled. Cuthbert was second son to a prominent member of the Cabinet, and a former officer in the navy. No one knew why he'd been shipped home, which silence was unusual in itself, but there had been rumors.
R.V. might be any of three men, only one known to Rex. Roland Vaughan had been a university classmate of his and Rex liked the fellow, despite his idiosyncrasies. Vaughan was decent enough, if one avoided him in dark corners. One of the others had an Esq. after his name, another lawyer; and the last had Fleet Prison as his address.
T.H. was followed by two names, both with minor titles, both of Rex's father's generation.
The single name under A.B. was well known to Rex. Aldritch Bowdecker had been a fellow student at Eton, some years ahead of Rex, who exulted in tormenting the younger boys. The Aide's question mark next to his name meant nothing. Rex thought the man capable of any cruelty, any misdeed.
The last set of initials on the list, N.T., also had one name: Nigel Turlowe, with no question mark.
These were obviously people the Aide's office held in suspicion, but nowhere did the note say suspicion of what. Spying, smuggling… hell, they could be white slavers for all Rex knew-and for all Harrison, or Harris, told him. The only directive the man gave was written in an elegant hand at the bottom of the page. Ask questions.
Rex knew what was meant was get answers, get the truth.
He just might get the answer to another question at Mrs. Burton's establishment, Rex decided. Or at least a different hunger satisfied.
Daniel insisted on dinner first. "And it won't hurt to be seen about, remember? The more people who notice us, the better."
The wine and food at the Grand Hotel was excellent, the company less so. A group of foxed gentlemen at a table at Rex's back were loud and crude, belittling the waiter and demanding faster service than the poor man could provide. They took offense when Daniel and Rex were served first.
Daniel put his wineglass down and stood to his full, intimidating height, quieting the men for the length of the fish course. Then they started to whisper, none too softly. Rex easily made out the words "Inquisitors," "murderess," and "cripple." He set his own glass aside, stood, and turned.
"Why, speak of the devil," he muttered, spotting Aldritch Bowdecker at the center of the group, food stains spotting his neckcloth, his small eyes sunken and bloodshot. The man looked far older than his years, raddled and wrinkled, and far meaner than he used to be, if possible. Rex did not bother with pleasantries. One did not bow to a boa constrictor. "Did you know Sir Frederick Hawley?" he asked.
Surprised at the blunt question, Bowdecker answered. "Of course I did. We all did." He shifted his beady eyes to his companions.
The others nodded. One raised his glass. "To Sir Frederick, may he rest in peace."
Another guffawed. "Not where he is now, I'd bet."
The fourth man raised his glass in a toast to the wench who'd sent the baronet to his just desserts.
Rex looked directly at Bowdecker. "Miss Carville did not kill him. Did you?"
The man stood up with a roar. "What kind of question is that? I'll murder you, you scurvy, scarred dog. Trying to blame me for your whore's crime!" He pushed his table aside, silver and china and food gone flying. "You always were a sneaky little rat. Word is you still were, in the army. No one trusted you, I heard; not the Spanish, the French, or our own troops."
Daniel sighed as Rex took his coat off. "My roast beef."
"My reputation-and Miss Carville's."
"My dining room!" a voice with a French accent called out. No one would have listened except for the seven undercooks in clean white aprons lined up behind the chef, meat cleavers and carving knives in their hands. "Out! I serve only the best. The best food to the best patrons, no? My soup, she is on the floor? Out, or I call the Watch!" He advanced on the man who dared to show his shirtsleeves in the finest restaurant in London. Or in Paris, as it used to be.
Bowdecker's associates were already dragging him away, out of the chef's sight, before a challenge or a punch could be thrown. Bowdecker was known to be a terrible shot, a clumsy fencer, and a coward when it came to facing someone his size, even someone with a limp. They saved his life, for another day.
Rex and Daniel left, apologizing to the gaping diners at other tables on their way out. Daniel lifted a lamb chop off a lady's plate. He shrugged when she screamed. "She was already thinking we were savages. Could you try a little subtlety next time?"
Next time was at Bancroft's, a private men's club that let in anyone with the right price. They were said to serve unwatered wine and well-cooked meals, along with high-stakes games in the back rooms and clean apartments above. Before they could be seated, a gentleman called out to them, inviting them to share their table. Roland Vaughan and a younger man were smiling in welcome. "My dear boy, how happy I am to see you recovering! Such sad news, when you were reported injured. Why, I could not sleep for days, could I, Harold? And your poor face! What a tragedy. I have the perfect concealing cream, don't I, Harold?"
"Um, I don't think I am hungry after all, Rex. I'll just take a peek at the dice tables, shall I?" Daniel looked at the glasses of negus at the men's table, a woman's libation. "And I'll order us a bottle of brandy while I am at it."
"I'll join you in a moment. Roland, did you know Sir Frederick Hawley?"
The young man screwed up his face as if he'd swallowed a lemon. Vaughan answered yes, to his regret.
"Unpleasant chap, don't you know. I always avoided his company."
"Did you kill him?"
Tears sprang to Roland's eyes. "Oh, how could you think such a thing of me? I thought we were friends."
"I take it that is a no?"
"Why, I would not kill a spider in my bathing tub, would I, Harold?"
"But did you kill Sir Frederick, yes or no?"
"No!" The man started sobbing, the nearby patrons frowned at Rex, Harold offered a lace-edged handkerchief, and the manager wanted to know what Rex meant by bothering one of his best customers and favorite residents.
"I meant no harm. My apologies." He tossed a banknote on the table. "Have another drink on me. A pleasure, Mr., ah, Harold."
Daniel was not happy to be leaving so soon.
Rex was not happy to have made a grown man cry. "You drink too much anyway."
"Well, I need some kind of sustenance, don't I? I still haven't had my dinner."
"Let us try Lidell's." That was a place frequented by navy men on leave.
George Cuthbert was there, as Rex had hoped. The former ship captain sat in a corner with a half-empty bottle. No one was near, no one spoke to him. Rex headed in that direction.
Daniel took one look at Rex's target. "Uh oh. I won't bother taking a seat. Or ordering supper."
"I won't be long." He neared Cuthbert's corner, knowing every eye in the place was on him. "Sir, I have a question for you."
Cuthbert looked up, trying to focus his eyes. "Rexford, is it? One of the Aide's boys, eh? And they say I did some dirty deeds. Hah! But you're the one got the commendations, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir, and a bad leg and a scar to go with them. My question is this: Did you kill Sir Frederick Hawley?"
"I wish I did. I wish I did." He threw his bottle across the room, to smash into a window, sending glass flying and officers cursing. "I wish I did!"
"I wish you did, too, sir. Good night."