Read Chapter 27: The Debt Repaid

The rain had stopped by the time Graves reached the address Ashworth had given him, but the cobbles of the City still gleamed like oiled slate beneath the gaslights. The building was a counting house, unremarkable save for the brass plaque beside the door: HOBBS & SON, MARINE ADJUSTERS. Graves had learned long ago that the wealthy did not keep their secrets in grand places. They kept them in plain sight, filed under innocuous names.

A footman in sober livery admitted him without a word and led him up two flights of stairs to a room that smelled of beeswax and old paper. Lord Ashworth stood at a window overlooking the Thames, his back to the door. He turned when Graves entered, and Graves saw that the man had aged ten years since the morning. His collar was undone, his cravat missing entirely, and there was a tremor in the hand that held a glass of brandy.

“Inspector,” Ashworth said. “You came.”

“You said you had a plan.”

Ashworth gestured to a table spread with maps and papers. Graves approached and saw an ordnance survey of the fen country, marked with ink in a fine, deliberate hand. A red circle enclosed Helmsley Grange, and a series of smaller marks indicated roads, drainage dykes, and what appeared to be a network of old drover’s paths.

“I have men,” Ashworth said. “Private security, ex-military mostly. Some of them served under me in the Crimea, or their fathers did. They are loyal to our family, not to any uniform or office. They will do what I ask without question.”

Graves studied the map. “How many?”

“Twelve. Discreet, well-armed, and accustomed to working in the dark.” Ashworth set down his glass and came to stand beside Graves. “I owe you a debt, Inspector. You saved my cousin’s life today, and you have kept my name out of the papers. My men will ride with you to Helmsley Grange and see this business finished. Consider the debt repaid.”

Graves looked up from the map. The offer was generous, even surprising, but he had spent too many years in the police to accept generosity without accounting for its source. “And what do you want in return, Lord Ashworth?”

Ashworth’s mouth tightened. “Finch has something of mine. A document. I spoke of it before—the evidence of a fraudulent inheritance. It implicates my late brother’s estate and would ruin my family name if it ever reached the courts. I believed it lost. But if Finch has kept it, I want it back.”

“The ledger you mentioned.”

“Not the ledger. The ledger is Finch’s obsession—Eleanor’s ledger, the one he believes contains the key to his scheme. What I want is a letter. A single page, signed by my brother, acknowledging the fraud. Finch must have taken it from Henley Court days ago.”

Graves nodded slowly. The request was reasonable. Every man who helped him had his own reasons, and Ashworth’s were rooted in family shame rather than treachery. But Graves had been burned before by men who claimed loyalty.

“You’ll have your letter,” Graves said. “But I lead the team myself.”

Ashworth blinked. “Inspector, with respect, you are no longer a young man, and these men are trained for—”

“I said I lead them myself.”

A silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant cry of a riverboat’s horn. Ashworth studied Graves with the shrewd, appraising look of a man who had spent his life assessing other men’s resolve. At last he inclined his head.

“Very well. The men are assembling at a warehouse in Wapping. They’ll cross the river tonight and ride north by rail as far as Ely, then overland to the Grange. You’ll travel with them.”

Graves folded the map and tucked it into his coat. “And my companion?”

“Miss Ashdown is at the safe house with my cousin. She is well, though I suspect she is not pleased to be left behind.”

Graves allowed himself a thin smile. Clara had never been pleased to be left behind, and he had learned that her displeasure was often more formidable than any enemy’s. But he could not bring her into the fens. Not for this.

“She understands the stakes,” Graves said. “Did she give you a message for me?”

Ashworth’s expression flickered. “She said to tell you that Finch has gone to ground somewhere he believes is safe. She believes he is in the fens, and that there is someone there—someone who knows where Eleanor’s ledger is hidden. She said to trust no one you meet on the road.”

Graves absorbed this. Clara’s instincts had proven reliable before. If she suspected a trap, he would do well to heed her.

“I never trust anyone on the road,” he said. “It’s the people who meet me at the destination who worry me.”

Ashworth did not laugh. He crossed to a safe set into the wall, worked the combination, and withdrew a long, narrow box. He opened it to reveal a revolver, its barrel blued and polished, the grip worn smooth from use.

“You’ll need this,” he said. “It was my father’s. He carried it in India. It has never misfired.”

Graves took the weapon. It was heavier than his own service revolver, balanced better. He weighed it in his hand for a moment, then tucked it into his coat.

“Tell your men to meet me at the warehouse at midnight,” he said. “I have a few stops to make first.”

Ashworth nodded. “Be careful, Inspector. Finch is not a man who fights fair.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Graves left the counting house and walked north through streets that had grown quiet with the late hour. The gaslights cast long shadows, and he kept his hand near the revolver as he moved. He did not believe Ashworth had set a trap for him—the man’s fear of Finch’s release of the letter was too genuine—but old habits died hard.

He stopped at a telegraph office still open for night business and sent a message to Superintendent Marsh at Oxford, informing him of the planned approach to Helmsley Grange and requesting that the local constabulary be kept clear of the estate until dawn. He signed it with a name he had not used in years, a false name from a case long closed, and waited until the clerk confirmed the wire had gone before leaving.

The streets grew darker as he approached the river. The warehouse district of Wapping was a maze of narrow alleys and shuttered buildings, and the air smelled of tar, salt, and rot. Graves found the warehouse door unlocked and slipped inside.

A dozen men stood in the dim light of a single lantern, dressed in plain dark clothing. They looked up when he entered, their faces hard and unreadable. One of them, a grizzled man with a scar across his jaw, stepped forward.

“You’re the inspector?”

“I am.”

The man studied him, then nodded once. “Lord Ashworth said you’d be in charge. Name’s Trevelyan. I served under his lordship’s father. These men will follow me, and I’ll follow you.”

Graves looked at the men, saw the discipline in their stillness, the way their hands rested near their weapons without seeming eager. They were professionals. Good.

“We move at midnight,” Graves said. “We’ll reach Helmsley Grange by three. Finch will have guards, but he won’t expect an approach from the fens. We’ll use the old drover’s paths and come at him from the east, where the ground is softest.”

Trevelyan frowned. “You’ve scouted the property?”

“I’ve studied the maps. It will have to be enough.” Graves drew a breath. “One thing before we leave. Finch has a list—twenty-three names. Men and women who ordered their deaths through his insurance scheme. If he is still alive when we reach the Grange, he will not hesitate to begin killing those people to protect his secret. We cannot give him that time.”

The men were silent, absorbing this. Then Trevelyan spoke. “And if he’s not alone?”

Graves thought of Clara’s message, of her suspicion that Finch had gone to the fens to kill someone who knew the ledger’s location. He thought of Marsh, who might have warned Finch once already. He thought of the letter Ashworth wanted, and the ledger that Eleanor had hidden, and the names on the list waiting to die.

“If he’s not alone,” Graves said, “we make sure he doesn’t leave alone either.”

A murmur of assent passed through the men. Graves turned toward the door, toward the night and the river and the long road north. He had a debt to repay too, not to Ashworth, but to every name on that list, every family that would grieve if he failed.

He would not fail.