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Chapter 1
November 5 Guy Fawkes Night
"That awful man is never going to be welcome in this house again," Abigail Chase muttered to her husband. They stood in the doorway of their elegant Chelsea town house and watched as the man in question disappeared around the corner and into the mews. "He completely ruined my dinner party." She glared at her husband for a moment before turning and flouncing off.
Gordon Chase closed the door and hurried after her. "Darling, it wasn't that bad. Gilhaney's a bit rough around the edges, but he meant no harm."
She stopped at the entrance to the drawing room. "Meant no harm," she sneered. "He insulted every single one of our guests and frankly, it's all your fault. You should never have insisted we include him and don't even think about asking him to our Christmas party. I'll not have that ruined as well."
"But, darling, be reasonable, I had to ask him, I had no choice. Newton's put him on the board and he made it very clear, he expected us to host him tonight." Gordon hurried after her as she continued into the room.
"I don't care how important Newton Walker thinks the man is to his company, he's a boor and a bully and I'll never have him in the house again." She pointed to the carriage clock on the mantel. "It's not even nine o'clock and our guests have gone. Most of them didn't even bother to finish their dessert. That wretched man ruined our Bonfire Night festivities." She grimaced as a loud noise boomed through the house. "Hear that? Fireworks are still going off, people are out having fun and enjoying the evening, but not us. There's no revelry here, there's no November the fifth celebration for us, thanks to that odious fellow." She glared at her husband in exasperation. "You shouldn't have told him about the shortcut through the mews-it would have served him right to go the long way around. Well, I for one hope that Christopher Gilhaney breaks an ankle when he takes that shortcut. It'll be dark enough, that's for certain."
Unlike his host and hostess, the man in question had thoroughly enjoyed himself at the Chase dinner party. He chuckled as he went farther into the mews, squinting just a bit to make his way. Mind you, it had ended a bit early for his taste, but heÕd had a fine meal as well as the satisfaction of watching them squirm. He pulled his coat tighter against the chill night air and smiled as he remembered the shocked expressions on each of their faces as heÕd quietly attacked them with his carefully scripted comments. God, it had been glorious and it was just the beginning. Before he was finished, the whole lot of them would be sorry.
Another explosion rocked the night, this time from the direction of the river. Shouts and laughter mingled with the faint, acrid scent of smoke and for a brief moment, he was overcome with nostalgia. He wished he were back in the old days, back when he'd have been on the banks of the Thames with his beloved Polly and their friends; drinking beer, watching the bonfires, and setting off the few fireworks they could afford. But those times were long gone. Polly was long gone.
He slowed his steps as he moved farther into the darkness, but his eyesight was excellent and he could easily see his way. Tonight had been far more successful than he'd hoped. When Chase had originally invited him, he'd been going to content himself with firing off a few verbal salvos. But his well-rehearsed comments had hit their individual targets with amazing success and, one after another, they'd fled the battlefield. Silly fools, this war was just beginning. He felt a bit bad about poor Mrs. Chase; she'd looked horrified as her guests disappeared, but she'd get over it.
Another burst of fireworks exploded into the noisy night, rising above the shouts, screams, and laughter now coming from all directions. Bonfire Night was drawing to a close and he, for one, intended to get home to his warm bed. The November night was cold and the dampness was seeping through his shoes and into his feet.
As the fireworks faded, he heard footsteps ahead. He stopped for a moment and listened. Someone had come into the mews from the other end, but he wasn't overly alarmed. There were a lot of people out and about tonight and he wasn't the only person using this shortcut. It slashed a quarter of a mile off the walk between Chelsea and the railway station. Nonetheless, he put his hand in his pocket and slipped his fingers through the brass knuckles he carried for protection. It paid to be cautious.
Ahead of him, a figure emerged and came steadily toward him. The sky suddenly dimmed as the moon slipped behind the clouds so he couldn't see anything except a human shape, but whoever it was moved to the opposite side of the mews. Apparently, they, too, were wary of meeting strangers in dark places.
Reassured, he picked up his pace and began planning what he'd do tomorrow. Newton had told him the first clerks arrived at eight o'clock. He intended to be there at five past eight. He wanted a few words with the accounts clerks before anyone else was present. Newton had assured him that the management didn't arrive till nine at the earliest.
His companion was now close enough for him to make out some details. His steps faltered as he realized whoever it was wore a shapeless, hooded cloak, a garment that looked like it should be hanging around the figure of one of the Old Guy effigies along the riverbank. The cloak covered whoever it was from head to toe, making it impossible to determine if it was a male or female. Surprised, he stared as they came level and then passed each other on opposite sides of the mews. Suddenly uneasy, because there was something about the figure that simply wasn't right, he sucked in a deep breath of air and hurried toward the gas lamp at the far end.
A rash of fireworks went off, along with cheering and shouting from the throngs near the Thames. But despite the noise, his sharp hearing caught the sound of footsteps racing toward him and he turned, pulling the hand wearing the brass knuckles out of his pocket as he moved.
But he was too late; just as the last of the sound of explosions filled the air, the cloaked figure held out a gun and fired three bullets straight into his heart.
Christopher Gilhaney had barely hit the ground before his assailant knelt down and pulled the brass knuckles off his cold, dead hand.
Inspector Nigel Nivens stood in Chief Superintendent BarrowsÕ third-floor office at Scotland Yard and argued that he was the right man for the task. ÒThis isnÕt a murder, it is a robbery gone wrong. According to his landlady, when he left his lodging house last night, Mr. Gilhaney was wearing a diamond stickpin on his cravat and a gold ring with a black stone in the center. Neither of those items was found on his body.Ó
Nivens was a man of medium height with dark blond hair graying at the temples, bulbous blue eyes, cheeks that were turning to jowls, and a thick mustache. He wore a gray pinstriped suit tailored to disguise the fact that he was running too fat around his middle.
Chief Superintendent Barrows stared at him impassively. He now wished he'd gone with his first instinct when he'd been informed of the murder last night and called in Inspector Witherspoon. But he'd hesitated and now, given the politics of the Home Office and Nivens' family's influence, he was probably stuck with the fellow. Drat. "The landlady is prepared to swear at the inquest that he had those items on his person when he left her premises?"
"She is, sir. This crime was most definitely a robbery, and as such, I believe I'm the most qualified to handle the case, not Inspector Witherspoon. What's more, Kilbane Mews is well within my district, not Witherspoon's."
"When it comes to murder, you know good and well that the spot where the corpse was found isn't the most important factor. Catching the killer is." Barrows pushed his glasses up his nose and leaned back in his chair. He toyed with the idea of giving the case to Witherspoon simply because he didn't like Nivens, but at this juncture, that might cause more trouble than it was worth. The fellow was from a family that had both money and aristocratic connections. Nivens wasn't a bad copper, but he wasn't a brilliant one, either, and they needed this crime solved. On the other hand, if the killing of Christopher Gilhaney was the result of a botched robbery and not murder, then perhaps he was more qualified to handle the case; he was actually quite good at solving burglaries and catching robbers.
But Barrows wanted to ensure that justice was done properly as well. He might be in administration now, but he was still a policeman at heart. "What's more, I'm not as certain as you seem to be that the crime was a robbery. Gilhaney died from three gunshots to his chest. Robbers and ruffians don't use guns. If they get violent at all, they cosh their victim over the head or knock the wind out of him."
Nivens was ready for that question. "What about the Ogden case? Harry Ogden was killed by a gun when he was robbed. He was shot twice."
"Yes, but it was his own pistol," Barrows reminded him. "Ogden carried it for protection, remember? He was only shot with it because Jack Rayley, his assailant, grabbed it when Ogden pulled it out of his pocket."
"I know that, Chief Superintendent, but nonetheless, it was a case of a firearm used during the course of a robbery, which means that regardless of the circumstances, it's likely this is merely a case of a botched robbery, not a murder." Nivens' gaze flicked to the window. He stared at the busy boat and barge traffic on the Thames. He needed to make a compelling argument to keep this case away from Inspector Witherspoon. He was sick and tired of Gerald Witherspoon always being the one the Yard called upon when there was a newsworthy case to be solved. "Furthermore, there was the case in Brighton last month of another gun being used in a robbery. That young hotel clerk who was taking the day's receipts to the bank. If you'll recall, sir, that resulted in a shooting as well. The clerk was wounded in the leg and the perpetrators managed to get away."
"Brighton isn't London," Barrows said.
"But it isn't that far from London, sir. What's more, the criminals that committed the Brighton robbery could have easily come here. My point is this, sir: We've seen a steady rise in the number of cases involving firearms. There was also that shooting in Stepney, sir, and the victim claimed he was being robbed."
"The victim was a Whitechapel thug that was involved in a fight for territory with the Stepney gang. He only came up with that story to keep from being arrested himself." Barrows sighed inwardly. "But in one sense, you're right. There is some evidence that points to the increased use of firearms. So you can take this case."
Nivens nodded smartly. "Thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me, Inspector-I expect you to find the person or persons that did this dreadful crime."
"Of course, sir. I've got constables out questioning the locals, just in case someone might have seen something, and I've got the word out to my network of informers so we should have something from that quarter soon."
"Good, we've already got the Home Office sticking their oar in so I'll expect you to take care of this quickly and efficiently."
"I assure you, sir"-Nivens gave him a tight smile-"I've every confidence I shall have it solved in just a few days."
But the case wasnÕt solved in a few days or, for that matter, weeks later. It was as if the assailant had simply vanished into thin air.
Nivens stood outside of Barrows' office and took a deep, calming breath. He knew why he'd been summoned here and it wasn't so that the chief superintendent could compliment him on a job well done. He was at his wits' end, but blast it, it wasn't his fault. No one, not even the great Witherspoon, could have solved this case.
None of the neighbors in the mews had paid any attention to loud noises. After all, it was Bonfire Night and half the city was letting off fireworks, drinking like sailors, and screaming as the "Old Guy" burned. A few gunshots wouldn't have stood out. Nor had anyone seen a suspicious figure in the area-again, it was November the fifth and half of London was out roaming the streets.
His network of informers had also drawn a blank. No diamond stickpins or gold rings had shown up at any of the dodgy pawnshops suspected of fencing stolen goods. No matter how much pressure he applied, no one, not even his most reliable informers, had heard anything about a botched robbery.
It was now December eighteenth and Nivens knew he had to come up with a way to deflect the blame off himself or, failing that, make sure that Witherspoon took over the case. That was the only way he could rebound from this failure. This crime wasn't going to be solved by anyone, but if he tried to make that argument right now, Barrows wouldn't believe it. Their glorious inspector, the one who'd solved more crimes than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police Force, needed to fail as well.
Now he just had to make certain that Barrows handed the case to the right person. Getting rid of this case was the wisest course; if anyone was to have a black mark against his record, let it be Gerald Witherspoon. Nivens smiled in satisfaction. He'd go ahead and enjoy the holidays by accepting Lord Ballinger's invitation to spend Christmas at his estate in Scotland. He chuckled as he lifted his hand and knocked on the door.
"Come in."
He stepped inside. "Good morning, sir. I understand you wish to see me."
Barrows looked up from the open file on his desk. "I'd like you to explain yourself, Inspector. I've gone through your reports on the Gilhaney case and there's not so much as a hint that you're close to an arrest. For God's sake, Nivens, what's going on here? You insisted that you'd be able to solve this case easily, but it's been six weeks!"
