Secret Night (3 page)

Rand's voice boomed through the small room, making the clerk wish Banks would come out. Returning to his work, the young man reflected that he'd not expected to entertain a brothel madame nor the surly, rough-mannered man now before him when he'd sought employment with the much-admired Hamilton. Everyone had said the barrister was a man on the way up, a man capable of making his assistants as successful as he was. But so far he'd not seen it—Banks had been there two years and he'd passed more than six months with the barrister.

The door opened, admitting Hamilton. With his tall, surprisingly muscular figure clad in a flawlessly tailored dark blue superfine coat, plain waistcoat, and buff-colored trousers, his light brown hair brushed into a perfect Brutus, he appeared the epitome of the fashionable gentleman. For the briefest moment, his hazel eyes took in the situation, then they met Rand's without betraying anything. Bartholomew Rand, Purveyor of Quality Bricks, had been the old gent with the girl in the courtroom.

"My apologies for your wait," he murmured, extending his hand. "Patrick Hamilton, sir. I collect neither Mr. Byrnes nor Mr. Banks could assist you?"

"Eh? No—no, though the little fellow was polite enough, I guess." Rand's manner changed on the instant, and as he shook Patrick's hand, he smiled broadly. "Pleasure to know you, sir. Been watching you for nigh to a year—would have made your acquaintance earlier today, in fact, but for that little dustup. Had to get Elise out of there before she was mobbed, you know. Got to forgive her though—gel's got a soft heart."

"Oh?"

"My daughter, you know," Rand explained, nodding. "Aye, I told Mrs. Rand just this morning I
was thinking of engaging you. Always get the best,
I
say— and you are the best, sir—the best."

"Thank you," Patrick acknowledged politely, adding casually, "You are to be congratulated—Miss Rand is quite lovely."

"Oh, she don't take much from me," the older man admitted openly. "Looks like her mama, and a good thing that is, ain't it? My folks was all unremarked for their looks, I can tell you." His smiled broadened into a knowing grin. "Aye, you was taken with her, wasn't you? Well, you wouldn't be the first as was—no, sir."

Not wanting to betray an interest, Patrick changed the subject. "Did Mr. Byrnes offer you a drink perhaps?"

"Eh? No, but he wasn't the interfering sort, at least," Rand conceded.

"As a general rule, he is to inquire as to both your comfort and your business."

"Wouldn't have done him any good if he was to ask," the old man retorted. "I
got to see for myself before I open the budget about my affairs. I
like to keep things close." Leaning nearer, he added, "I don't suppose you got somewheres as we can be private, eh?"

"Of course." Patrick crossed the small reception room and held open the door to his inner office.

The brick merchant stepped inside, and his smile faded briefly as he scanned the room shrewdly. Then he nodded approvingly. "Don't waste your blunt, do you? I like that."

As he shut the door behind Rand, Patrick followed the man's gaze. With naught but mahogany bookcases, a sideboard, a cluttered desk, and two chairs, the office was extremely plain. But it suited him. Smiling, he murmured sardonically, "Unlike Mr. Banks, I'm afraid I don't hang any letters of recommendation on the walls."

"Don't need 'em," the older man assured him, sitting heavily in a chair. "Ain't a soul breathing in London as ain't heard of Patrick Hamilton, sirrah! 'Hamilton will take those cases as cannot be won, and afore God, he'll win 'em,' 'tis said."

"I'm afraid you flatter me."

"Why?" Rand asked bluntly. " 'Tis the God's truth, ain't it?"

Without answering that, Patrick took his seat and turned over a large sand-filled glass, then sat back, his hands folded over his plain buff waistcoat. "You behold an intrigued man, sir."

"One of them as wants me to get to business, eh? Well, in the ordinary way, I'd be wanting to, but just now I'd rather be getting to know you." For a moment the man's bluff affability slipped as he looked at the small hourglass. "Eh, what's that?"

"It merely tells me when half the hour is passed. In consult, my fee is measured by time. Mr. Banks requires five pounds for his work, and I expect no less than twenty. Beyond the consult, if
I
choose to defend a client, I'm afraid I require a great deal more than

that based upon the nature of the charges filed against him."

"I'll say one thing, sir—you are dashed plain-spoken, ain't you? Well, I like a man as can tell me straight out, so's there ain't no mistaking what's expected, eh?"

"Yes."

"But there ain't need for that glass, is there? Any as knows Bat Rand knows as he's got all the gold as you could ask." He stopped to dab at a deep scratch on his neck, then rubbed his balding pate with a fine lawn handkerchief before asking, "You ain't got any wine, have you? A bit of sherry or hock even—I ain't too proud to drink most of it. And put away that demned thing—a profitable arrangement ain't made in half the hour."

Rising, Patrick went to the sideboard, opened a door, and drew out a bottie and two glasses. "Which is it—port or Madeira?"

"Please yourself, sir—either one'll wash the dust from m'throat. Like I told you, I like all of it well enough."

When Patrick turned around with the filled glasses, he noticed that the brick magnate had removed the sand timer from the desk and placed it on the floor. Before he could say anything, the fellow grinned. "Caught me out, didn't you? Well, all you got to tell me is the tariff, and I'll pay it—I ain't one of your fancy gentlemen as dodges the tradesmen, no sir. When I deliver the bricks, I get m'money on the spot—and you can expect the same from me."

"An admirable trait." Handing one glass to Rand, Patrick sat down and took a sip from his. It was, he knew, considered the best port to be had in London.

Rand drank deeply, then nodded. "Good stuff, damme if it ain't." He met Patrick's gaze. "Got you a wonderin', ain't I?"

"Yes."

"Been followin' you for a good bit of time—saw you first when they was hearin' the Volsky mess, in fact. You was brilliant, sir! When they was a-tellin' it like

she was a demned adventuress, you was a-getting her a fine setdement from that Russian."

Patrick's expression did not change. "Scarce my usual business," he said. "I merely took it on as a favor to a friend of Latly Townsend's. Under ordinary circumstance, I should have referred the matter to Mr. Banks."

"But there was money to be made there, eh?"

"More than you might expect," Patrick admitted. "And I wished justice for Latly Townsend."

"Come to think of it, I did read it somewheres as she snared Viscount Townsend, wasn't it?" Rand recalled. "Well, if you was to ask me, I'd say each deserved the other." The older man peered at Patrick from beneath heavy brows that nearly met above his rather red nose. "Then there was the Coates thing." Leaning closer as though he were a conspirator, he asked, "Did you really believe the mort innocent?"

"I believe the murderer was a man," Patrick answered.

"You don't say it!" For a moment Rand seemed shocked. "No!" Then, "But how was you to think that?"

"The dead girl's weight."

"But the Coates woman is fat! And the watch said—"

"If you had attended the arguments earlier, you'd merely have heard him say he saw a stout female just after he heard something hit the water, and he presumed that female to be the murderer."

"Aye—Mrs. Coates."

"Not necessarily. In the course of examination, the watch admitted the fog was so heavy that he could scarce see the next street lamp, and whoever passed him had a hooded cloak pulled over the head. I'm inclined to think he saw a man."

"Aye, but she passed right by him! I read it in the papers! He saw her, sir—he saw her!"

"He saw
someone,
Mr. Rand. But when pressed, he had to admit he did not see Mrs. Coates's face."

"But the Coates woman had reason, didn't she?"

the old man argued. "The girl had run away from her, they said. And you heard her today—she ain't going to let that other girl go neither. Woman's a demned flesh peddler, that's all—no skin off any of us if she was to hang," he muttered.

"If any had bothered to inquire of Mrs. Coates's female employees, it would have been learned that the Parker girl wished to return to her, that life on the street was more difficult than she expected."

"Employees!" Rand snorted. "Her tarts, you mean."

"Moreover," Patrick continued, unperturbed, "it might also have been learned that Mrs. Coates suffers from an inflammation of the bones. It is her physician's considered opinion that she could never have lifted Margaret Parker's weight." Patrick paused much as he would have before a jury, then drove home his winning point. "But you see, Mr. Rand, you have made the same assumptions, based on little more than contempt for Magdalene Coates's profession, that the prosecution did. In truth, because Maddie is a madam, you failed to note that no one asked any questions that might have exonerated her."

"You don't say! Well, I wasn't there for all the arguments, of course—just went to hear the verdict read." Setting aside his empty glass, Rand wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, then stuffed it back into his coat. Leaning forward, he asked curiously, "What d'you think will happen about it all now?"

"Nothing. By tomorrow, Peg Parker won't even be a memory."

"Aye."

"And unless the murderer is caught while killing again, he will never be brought before the bar of justice."

"How'd she afford you—the Coates woman, I mean? I'd heard—well, you said yourself you wasn't to be had on the cheap, you know."

Patrick took a sip of his port. "That, sir, is a matter of confidence."

At first, Rand appeared taken aback, then a low

chuckle rumbled somewhere beneath the wide expanse of his waistcoat. "Damme if you ain't as good as they say! Without you, it would have been 'damn the evidence and hang her!' "

"Probably. But we are afield. You wished to discuss some business, I believe," Patrick prompted him.

"Now I ain't about to be rushed," Rand protested. "Like I said, I got to know you first." Leaning toward Patrick again, he said, "But I'm liking what I see, sir— d'you know why?"

"No."

"I can tell you got a passion for what you are doing." As Patrick's eyebrows lifted, Rand nodded. "Aye—passion. Like I said, I heard you at the Volsky trial. Went home and told Mrs. Rand you was worth the gallery ticket—I been to plays where the demned actors ain't had half the feeling, I can tell you."

"Thank you."

The older man held out his empty glass. "I'd have another, if you was to offer it." As Patrick took it and rose to pour him the drink, Rand conceded, "Oh, it ain't much—my business here, that is—nothing like what you are used to. I just want to know as I got the best in everything."

While pouring the port, Patrick reflected that he could see what made the man successful. Rand practiced flattery as though it were an art. Returning to his desk, Patrick handed the older man his refilled glass.

"Go on."

"Bat Rand don't do anything halfway." Setting his glass on the desk, the older man reached into his coat to draw out a leather money folder. As he handed it across, he watched Patrick. "Go ahead—there's five hundred quid in there, and that's but the beginning."

For a long moment, the younger man regarded him soberly. "Mr. Rand," he asked finally, "are you accused of a crime?"

"Eh? No, of course not! Just want a bit of insurance, that's all. Ain't to say I won't need you someday, is there? A man of wealth ought to have more'n a decent lawyer," Rand insisted.

length over more port," he coaxed. "Meet m'family— Mrs. Rand's one of your people—born Quality, I mean. And Elise—the gel you saw—is a great admirer of yours." Afraid Patrick might decline, he added slyly, "My only issue, you know."

"No, but—" Patrick hesitated, torn between the opportunity to see the intriguing Miss Rand again and the prospect of an interminable evening among strangers not of his class.

"Got all the fine manners, too," the old man declared proudly. "She wouldn't have been with me, but when she heard I was going to hear you, I couldn't keep her away."

"And I rather thought she'd come to see—er— Pearl, was it?" Patrick murmured sardonically. "Yes, I think the girl's name was Pearl."

"Oh, that don't signify! Told you—m'gel's got a soft heart, that's all. Besides, who's to say it wasn't you as drew her down there? Mebbe she was a-wanting to see you a bit closer, eh?" Rand winked. " 'Tis a handsome buck you are, Hamilton, and you got to know it."

"As a general rule I regard work and pleasure rather like oil and water," Patrick said.

"And you don't mix 'em. Aye, but you've seen my gel, and you will, eh? Good, good. Look forward to it." Rising with an effort, the old man held out his hand again. "See you about eight—or later, if you was to wish it. Damme if Emma and Ellie won't be pleased when I tell 'em you are coming, sir."

As tired as he was, as little as he relished the prospect of dressing again for dinner, Patrick considered the girl and relented. "Then eight it is, sir."

"Good. I can promise you a fine dinner, too. I got a Frenchy cook by the name of Jacques Millet as was in Napoleon's own kitchen once. Why, you won't know but what you are eating like a royal duke, I swear it." His business concluded, Rand started for the door, then turned back briefly. "My gel's going to be in Alt, sir—Alt," he predicted.

After the old man left, Patrick settled back in his chair and contemplated his half-filled glass. Earlier

Patrick eyed him skeptically. "A criminal barrister? Mr. Rand, I assure you I have not the least competence in civil law. You are better advised to seek a solicitor, and I do not hesitate to recommend my associate. Mr. Banks is as thorough as—"

"Dash it, but you took the Voisky woman's case, didn't you? A man don't have to kill nobotly to engage you, does he?"

"I believe we have discussed Latly Townsend alreatly."

"Only meant she wasn't in the way of your ordinary client," Rand said hastily. Leaning forward again, he sobered visibly. "Look—I ain't forgot how the Luddites burned the looms and ruined businesses. Well, bricks—millions of 'em—is my living, don't you see? What if it was to happen to me? What if I was to have workers as despises the hand as feeds 'em."