“As police beatings go, this was rather minor,” Blackwell said almost genially.
McTavish blanched. “Let me be the first to apologize for—”
Blackwell held up a hand to silence him. “Before I pay you, I require some information.”
Puffing on his own little piece of heaven, McTavish nodded. “Anything.”
The Blackheart leaned down. “Tell me everything you know about Mrs. Farah Mackenzie.”
Pausing mid-puff, McTavish asked, “Mrs. Mackenzie—the clerk?”
Blackwell was still and silent, but his droll stare was easy to interpret, even in the darkness.
Perplexed, McTavish scratched the back of his neck, trying to think of anything interesting to say about the woman. “She’s been around as long as any of us can remember. Before me, even, and I started at Scotland Yard seven or eight years ago. Come to think of it, though, I havena learned much about her in all that time. She’s efficient and well liked, but keeps to herself. Quiet. Which is a rare and commendable female trait, in my experience. She works harder than the other two clerks, but gets paid less.”
“What sort of work does Morley have her do?”
“Oh, the usual sort of clerical business. Bookkeeping, records, paperwork, supply orders, courier bookings, note-taking, filing documents at court, that sort of thing.”
Blackwell remained motionless. Expressionless. But McTavish could feel the hairs rising on his neck again. He was trained to read people, and though the Blackheart of Ben More was an enigma, the inspector in him noted that his gloved hand was clenched just a little too tight.
“Her husband?”
“A Scotsman, if ye’d believe it.”
“What do you know of him?”
“Next to nothing. Story goes she married young and he’s a long time dead…”
“And?” Blackwell prompted, belying more impatience than McTavish had thought him capable.
McTavish shrugged. Intrigued, but knowing better than to show it. “That’s pretty much all we know, come to think of it. Sure, we’ve speculated over the years, but she’s never inclined to talk about it, and it’s not polite to ask a lady about such matters.”
“Is she … romantically involved with any of the men employed at Scotland Yard?”
McTavish found the idea so ludicrous, he laughed aloud. “Were she not such a pretty bird, most of us would forget she’s even a woman.”
“So … no one?”
“Well, the rumor is she’s been spending an increasing number of evenings out with Sir Morley.”
They simultaneously spat on the stones at the mention of the chief inspector, and Dorian’s split lip curled with disgust.
McTavish froze. Something about the increasing intensity of Blackwell’s demeanor caused his heart to kick. “I think he’s sniffing around the wrong skirts for what he wants,” he hurried to say, waving his hand as though it was of no consequence.
Blackwell’s one good eye sharpened. “How do you mean?”
“Well, for one thing, she’s a right proper widow, and I don’t much know a man who’s into that sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing?”
“Oh, you know. The bluestocking sort. Cold. Straitlaced. Er—frigid, some might say. Besides, she’s closer to thirty than twenty, and though she’s the face of an angel, she’s about as bedable as a hedgehog, if ye want my opinion.”
“If I wanted your opinion, McTavish, I’d promptly inform you as to what it was.”
“Fair enough.” Heart really hammering now, McTavish puffed on his cigar, hoping with each breath that it wouldn’t be his last. What did Blackwell want with Mrs. Mackenzie? Records access? Documents? Bribery? Couldn’t be he was sweet on her. Men like Dorian Blackwell didn’t go for upright ladies like Farah Mackenzie. Word about town was, he employed scores of foreign, exotic courtesans and set them up in his mansion like a private harem. What would a spinsterish widow like Mackenzie have to offer a man like him?
“Where does she live?” Blackwell demanded.
McTavish shrugged. “Couldn’t say exactly. Somewhere off Fleet Street in the Bohemian sector, I think I heard.”
Blackwell’s nostrils flared with increased breath, remaining silent for a moment too long before McTavish thought he heard him whisper. “All this time…”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.” The Blackheart of Ben More seemed—shaken, for lack of a better word. McTavish couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Here is for your services, and continued discretion.” A note was pressed against his palm.
McTavish looked down and almost lost another cigar to shock. “But—this is half a year’s salary!”
“I know.”
“I—I couldn’t take this.” McTavish shoved it back toward him. “I havena done anything to earn it.”
Dorian Blackwell stepped back, avoiding the money and any physical contact. “Let me give you some free advice along with that note, McTavish.” It was amazing how the inflection of that cruel, cold voice never once changed, and yet the menace palpably intensified. “Scruples are a dangerous thing for men like you to have. If I can’t trust your greed, then I can’t trust anything about you. And if I can’t trust you, your life is worthless to me.”
McTavish snatched the note to his chest. “Right ye are, Blackwell, I’ll be thanking ye for yer generosity, then, and be on my way.” If his legs weren’t shaking too much to carry him.