Chapter Two
The morning after Giles’ meeting with Lord Kittridge, gloomy clouds leftover from the previous evening’s rain coated the April sky. They mingled with the perpetual haze of smoke and grime that filled the London air.
Carriages rattled down the busy West End street beside a few automobiles puttering their way alongside. As they did, people of all shapes and sizes went about their business pushing carts, walking to work, looking at items in shops, or otherwise living their lives. It was an orderly and respectable enough part of town, yet nowhere in the city could anyone escape the dark smears of coal powder on the walls or the stench of the river. Giles pulled some coins out of his pocket and bought a newspaper from a stand. He walked toward the windows of one of the shops standing along the black, paved road and glanced inside to see Lille looking over cases of jewelry. A man, the shop’s owner by the look of him, eyed her warily from behind the counter. After a few moments, Lille looked up and got the man’s attention.
“Sir, could you open this case, please?”
The owner was visibly reluctant, but he obliged. Pulling a key out of his pocket, he unlocked the glass case and opened the top. Lille ran her fingers over a number of pieces inside, the owner’s eyes never leaving her. The owner knew she didn’t belong there. By her clothes and the way she acted and how she carried herself, it was clear she couldn’t afford a single item inside that case. He knew it, and Lille knew he knew it. She lingered on one specific necklace before moving on. After examining several of the items, she picked up a particularly fine broach in her right hand and held it out so the owner could see.
“This broach is quite nice,” she said with a pleasant smile.
“From the Queen Anne period,” the owner replied, neither pleasantly nor smiling. “An antique.”
The owner still watched her closely, as though he feared Lille might grab the broach and run at any moment. However, he wasn’t watching closely enough to notice Lille’s left hand curling around the chain of the necklace she had been examining a few moments earlier. She took a closer look at the broach.
“It’s a very good representation of the style at the time,” she said.
The owner cleared his throat. “Indeed, ma’am, but it is very expensive.”
Giles saw Lille let out a dramatic sigh and set the broach back down in the case.
“It is, isn’t it? Do you have anything in a similar style for a lower price? A reproduction, perhaps?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Such a shame. A girl can dream, I suppose,” Lille said.
She grabbed her umbrella and headed toward the door. The owner, just glad to be rid of her, thanked her and bid her good day. She stepped out of the store and walked down the road. Giles, carrying his newspaper under one arm, fell into step with her.
“The way he acted, you’d think I was a street urchin,” Lille said, equal parts annoyed and pleased with herself.
“He wasn’t far off; the main difference being you have money,” he murmured back.
Once out of sight of the jewelry shop, Lille let the necklace she had stolen dangle out of her left sleeve. She looked at her new acquisition and smiled. “Not this much money.”
“Enough that you don’t need to resort to petty thievery,” he shot back, continuing their way down the rain-slicked street.
“There is nothing petty about my thievery,” Lille said in a faux offended tone. “Besides, you don’t have any problem with my skills when it’s for a job.”
“That’s business; this is an unnecessary risk.”
Lille placed the necklace into her bag and sighed. “It just doesn’t feel like I’ve earned it if I pay for it.”
He scoffed and ground his teeth for what had to be the hundredth time because of Lille. The woman thought she could do no wrong, that she could outwit anyone, and nothing would ever hurt her. To be fair, she had been right so far; he just didn’t want to see what would happen when the time came where she was proven wrong.
“One day, you’ll cross the wrong man, and I won’t be there to save you,” he told her in a vain attempt to curtail her attitude.
“Giles, if you ever died, thievery would be the least of my worries.”
“If I ever died, it would be because you pushed me in front of a train.”
Lille rolled her eyes and barked a laugh. “You’ve known me for how long and you still don’t trust me?”
“Miss Lille, I’ve known you for three years, eleven months and ten days, and you’ve never even told me your given name.”
“Said the pot to the kettle,” she said, eyeing him up and down.
“I’ve told you my bloody name.”
“And little else,” she volleyed back playfully.
“But not even your Christian name?”
“It just seems so personal,” she smiled coyly.
Lille had always had a deep interest in Giles’ past, and how a man with a deep knowledge of the nobility but no visible connections to any family—or anyone else for that matter—had become the self-appointed custodian of the aristocracy’s secrets. Likewise, the attractive, impulsive, skilled woman who sported a French name, but a London accent guarded her own past with equal tenacity. Giles Northbridge didn’t like thinking about the past, though, and he had no desire to share it with anyone else. With neither of them willing to reveal their secrets, the two of them were left at a long-standing impasse.
A few minutes later they came to a warehouse. They used it as a meeting place and workspace when they didn’t want to conduct their business at Giles’ proper office a few streets away. A shipping company stored items brought in from overseas inside, but they only used it for a month at a time two or three times a year. Otherwise, it sat empty save for Giles and his companions, who found it preferable having a place to talk and plan their often-illegal schemes without the possibility of being overheard. Giles had bribed a secretary to warn them when the actual owners would begin using it again and they entered using a key Lille had nicked from one of the employees several months earlier.
A number of crates were spaced around the perimeter of the room, and a table and chairs sat in one corner. They had replaced the ordinary kitchen chairs that sat around it with large, plump lounge chairs which they had pulled out of some of the crates stored in the building. Apparently, among the stock the company brought back from the Orient was finely-made furniture. It seemed a shame letting it just sit in a box and go to waste. The space was large, secluded, and safe, making it perfect for their needs; and, unlike Giles’ office, they knew they would not be disturbed there. After entering, they both sat down at the table, Giles pulling out his newspaper and reading it.
“It’ll be nice having a project where there will be no guards, no police, no one chasing after us … nice and easy,” she said, leaning back in her chair.
“… For a change,” he added.
When they weren’t hiding the embarrassing mistakes of the rich and powerful, they were covering up their crimes. It was rarely anything too macabre—a financial indiscretion here, a stolen inheritance there—but there had been a few exceptions in the past. Giles did his best to forget them.
“All we have to do is separate some poor bloke from his tragic lady-love,” said Lille.
He detected a note of uncertainty in her voice, but a door flying open behind him interrupted his thoughts. A booming voice echoed through the open door, loudly singing some bawdy song or another with a heavy Scottish accent. The voice belonged to Mors Glasford, Giles’ and Lille’s most frequent collaborator. A tall and handsome man, he sauntered into the room, jumped down the single step that separated the entranceway from the floor of the warehouse, and practically danced his way past Giles and Lille.
“A pleasant morning to all and sundry!” he said in his thick brogue. “Giles, Lilly,” he said, striding past them briskly.
“’Morning, Mors,” Giles said from behind his paper.
“You haven't heard of the actress Patricia Vourdeaux, have you?” he said, hanging up his coat on a wall peg in one fluid motion. “Recently seen on the stage of the Chesterfield, the Morningtide, and as of last evening, my genitals.”
Lille made a face that was equal parts disgust and resignation. “Must we really work with that man?” she asked, slumping forward in dramatized anguish.
“He’s good at what he does, and he would be too hard to replace,” Giles said, turning a page.
“Yes, wherever would we find another unemployed actor in London?” Lille muttered, only half under her breath.
As it happened, Giles rather liked Mors, crude as he was. A talented actor wasn’t a bad resource to have at hand, but it was more than that. For all of his bluster, avarice, and outward foolishness, Mors thought well on his feet, was always reliable, and was loyal in his own odd way. Giles had met him at a pub for a job some time ago and found himself hiring him again and again until he had become his trusted right hand. Besides, Mors brought life into every room he entered, a skill which was not to be despised; especially since Giles usually had the opposite effect. Mors liked the good pay and the challenge of it all, so it was a good arrangement. The way the actor told it, parts on stage had gotten more and more difficult to come by, so having a more reliable source of income wasn’t something he was at all opposed to. Everyone hiring actors was focused on motion pictures. Mors called it a passing trend that would soon blow over. Giles wasn’t so sure, but—regardless—it ensured the Scotsman was available when needed.
Mors, still humming, sauntered over to one of the crates, lifted a lid, and retrieved a half-finished bottle of whiskey and some glasses. He brought them over to the table and sat down.
“So,” he said clapping and rubbing his hands together, “what dastardly deed are we perpetrating today?”
Giles folded his newspaper and set it on the table in front of him. “A young aristocrat has fallen in love with a Black girl.”
“Oof. I’ll bet his ‘da didn’t care for that one bit,” Mors said, pulling the cork from the bottle.
“Exactly,” said Giles. “We need to split them up and send our mark running back to his father with his tail between his legs.”
“I assume we’ve tried the greed angle?” Mors said, pouring them each a glass.
“Yes, Lord Kittridge—the boy’s father—did repeatedly, but the boy seems to be quite the romantic,” said Lille. “If we made any bribes, arguments, threats … he’d just play the hero and slam the door in our face, the same as he did his father.”
“Convincing our man to leave the girl will be a dead end,” Giles said. “He’ll have to come to the conclusion himself.”
“So, how do we get him to do that?” said Mors.
“His family has been telling him again and again the girl only wants him for his money,” said Giles. “We simply need him to discover that would be the truth.”
First, however, they needed to find him.
***
They began their search thanks to a tip courtesy of Lille. While Giles had been speaking with Kittridge the previous night, she had slipped away and spoken with one of the maids. After some commiseration about getting dragged out in the middle of the night by her employer, Lille had shifted the conversation to what it might be about. The maid playfully admitted she had heard the rumors of who young George was courting and shared it with Lille over a cigarette. Over the course of their conversation, the maid had also inadvertently pointed Lille in the direction of the Kittridge’s chauffeur who frequently drove the entire family, George included, around London. With some harmless flirting, Lille had discovered George frequented a particular pub—The Old Harper—in a part of the city he had no business being in. The three of them began watching The Old Harper from the roof of a building across the street. Their vantage point had a good view of the front of the pub and anyone who came and went. Lines of laundry hung out to dry between the buildings provided them with a reasonable level of concealment.
That part of town had no shortage of dirt and grime coating the walls and featured a few alleys that they wouldn’t have ventured down without an armed escort. It was certainly no place a man like George Kittridge would go unless he had a very particular reason. Giles had brought the photo of their quarry with them so they could identify him. After waiting for three hours, they’d had no luck. Giles started worrying that this lead would turn out to be a dead end just as Mors emerged through the stairwell door. He carried their lunches inside a small basket and laid them out on a blanket Lille had brought.
An odd sort of picnic for anyone except us.
“Fish and chips!” Mors announced. “The food of real Englishmen!”
“You’re Scottish,” Lille said pointedly.
“Aye, and have you ever tried Scottish food?” Mors said, grinning cheekily and pulling out some cheap, tarnished silverware.
The trio set about eating their lunch, Lille and Giles on the blanket and Mors on the ledge of the building, so they wouldn’t miss their target.
“Still no sign of our man yet?” said Lille a few minutes later.
“Not yet,” Mors said through a mouth full of food. “Are you sure this is the right place?”
“The driver told me he drove George Kittridge to this pub at least once a week for two months,” said Lille. “If she doesn’t live in one of those rooms above the pub, they at least came here as a meeting place.”
“And if they switched where they met after the lad fell out with his family?” said Mors.
That was exactly what Giles was afraid of.
“Then we would have a problem,” he said. “I’m starting to regret telling Lord Kittridge we would have this done so quickly.”
“It wouldn’t be so bad,” said Lille. “Asking for more time, I mean.”
Giles shook his head.
“The longer it takes us to find him, the more opportunities Kittridge’s rivals will have to discover the whole situation. If they do, not only would we not get paid, but it would become known that we had failed. People hire us because we have no small amount of mystique. The moment it seems as if we cannot solve every problem of theirs with magic—”
“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait!” Mors interrupted. “Hand me that photograph!”
Giles did so. He and Lille dropped their lunches back into the basket and walked over to Mors.
“Fellow in a blue jacket walking next to a Black girl; that him?” Mors said.
The trio peered off the roof onto the street below. There was indeed a man in a blue jacket—a nicer blue jacket than anyone living in that part of town would be wearing—and he walked beside an attractive dark-skinned woman. Giles compared the man with the photo. It was a spot-on match.
“It is indeed,” he said, feeling his stomach finally unclench.
“Alright then. Shall we introduce ourselves?” said Mors.
“Not yet. Although if we took a trip down to the pub, he might just bump into the good Miss Lille.”
A few minutes later, down in The Old Harper, George did quite literally that.
“Oh, excuse me, miss!” George said after Lille made it appear as though he had almost knocked her over.
The short exchange couldn’t have lasted more than three seconds, but it was enough time for Lille to relieve George of his pocketbook. Most people imagined pickpockets merely as small children slipping their hands into someone’s coat or purse. Lille turned it into an art form. It was a dizzying dance of distraction, stealth, and speed, all passing within the span of a few moments. It occurred to Giles that it was a bit like what he did himself, only on a far smaller and faster scale. You had to get your mark looking where you wanted them to, acting how you wanted them to, and responding to you how you wanted them to—or never seeing you at all—all without them knowing any of it had happened. He had never considered himself a criminal, but if Lille was a thief, he could only wonder what that made him.
George Kittridge recovered from his brief collision and walked past the bar where Giles sat. He looked as he did in the photograph—light brown hair, blue eyes, and a handsome face—but the image didn’t capture the youthful energy he exuded. The lad thought the world was at his fingertips and every day would be a new adventure. Giles hated him for that but envied him as well. Who wouldn’t? He had all the folly of youth, with the resources and money to embrace it—at least he did before his father had cut him off.
Giles watched the younger man stride toward a booth at the far end of the pub, careful not to get caught staring. In the booth sat the woman he had entered with, the woman presumably at the heart of the entire situation. Seeing her, he easily understood why George had fallen for her. She was shockingly attractive, with a light brown complexion, curly hair that cascaded over her shoulders, and brown eyes big enough to fall into. More importantly, she had the same happy-go-lucky energy as George. A surprise really, since George had a life of privilege that taught him he could have whatever he wanted. By all normal standards, the world should have beaten down this poor young woman, yet seemingly it had not. Giles briefly wondered if Lord Kittridge had so much as laid eyes upon the woman he was so convinced was a threat, but swiftly banished the thought away.
This is the business. This is what we are paid to do, and it is time to get to work.
If someone tried to paint an image of the quintessential British pub, they would end up with The Old Harper. The booths were dark and shaded but relatively clean. The bar held a reasonable selection of choices, but nothing its working-class clientele couldn’t afford. A pair of cricket bats hung crossed above the doorway. Giles turned on his ancient wooden stool and called over the gruff bartender who added up numbers on a sheet of paper in between taking orders from customers. Giles ordered a pint and when the bartender brought over the—rather awful—drink, Giles pulled out some coins to pay, exchanging some pleasantries with the man in a common London accent. In an establishment like that, using the proper posh accent he used with clients and around Lille would sound out of place. No one ever guessed that neither was the accent he had been born with.
An impression you’ve worked very well to cultivate, as you know damn well, a voice in his head responded.
“Say, who’s the darkie with fancy-man over there?” Giles said after taking a few sips, shrugging his head toward George and his companion.
“Nora? Nice girl. She lives in one of the flats upstairs,” the bartender grunted.
“Well …” Giles began in his most lascivious voice, “I think she needs a real man, not some poncy rich lad.”
“Now don’t you be causing no trouble for her,” the bartender said, pointing a finger at him. “Besides, she’s marryin’ fancy-man.”
“Him?” said Giles, feigning shock. “What’s he even doing in here? Shouldn’t a bloke like that have a club outside Piccadilly or something?”
“No idea,” the bartender said. “But I know he’s living here too now.”
Giles took another drink of beer and scoffed. “I’m surprised he would debase himself by being seen around the likes of us.”
The bartender gave an appreciative smile.
When you’re with the rich, insult the poor; when you’re with the poor, insult the rich.
“To hell with ‘em,” he told the bartender, grinning, and pretending to forget all about George and Nora. After the bartender went back to his sums at the other end of the bar, Lille walked up and sat down on the stool beside Giles. She plopped George’s pocketbook down on the bar.
“Enjoying yourself?” said Giles, once more in his posh accent.
“It wasn’t even a challenge,” she scoffed, so full of herself that she could have burst. “The hard part will be sneaking it back on him without him seeing.”
She dove inside the wallet and removed a significant amount of cash.
“This should cover our bill,” she smirked.
“A little missing cash from his wallet won’t be enough to convince him not to trust her,” he said. “It can’t just be a suspicion that she’s stealing from him. He has to catch her red-handed.”
Mors walked over, a drink in each hand, and sat down next to them.
“Oh, this is just an hors d'oeuvre,” Lille said, leaning forward. “See that necklace she’s wearing? That’s a real ruby. I could tell from ten paces away. It had to have come from George. It’ll be perfect.”
Mors slid one of the drinks toward Lille.
“I may have found something that will help us along,” Mors said, taking a long draft from his glass.
“What do you have?” said Giles.
“I was chatting up the landlord and he says that the room above hers has been empty for weeks. It’ll be the perfect place to watch them and find out when and how we make our move.”
A girlish laugh echoed over the bar. Giles looked toward the source of the sound and so did Lille. It had come from Nora. Lille looked toward the couple with an expression he couldn’t identify. Was it anger? Envy? Pity?
“Look at them,” she said. “True-bloody-love. Poor fools have no idea what’s about to happen to them.”
That’s the job.
“That’s the job, Lille.”
“You don’t feel at least a little bad about this one? Haven’t you ever felt that sickeningly happy because of someone?”
He braved another sip of his sub-par beverage.
“Sick because of a person? Yes. Sickeningly happy? Never. What about you?”
“Maybe this one gent,” she said, a wry smile on her lips, “but he was so closed up and dense that he never realized it.”
Giles only half-listened. George and Nora had finished their drinks and were making their way up the steps, presumably to her flat.
“This gent of yours sounds like an idiot,” he said to Lille.
“He is.”
“Why Miss Lille, are you going soft on us?” Mors interjected. “I’ve seen you crack a man’s skull with a bottle before kissing him.” He took a long gulp. “… And that isn’t hyperbole, there was that assignment up near Liverpool a few months back.”
“How is your head by the way?” Giles asked him.
Lille looked down into her own beer. “It’s just a shame. That’s all.”
A few minutes later, the three went upstairs and inspected the empty flat Mors had spoken of. It was totally empty save for a cheap rug on the floor, a small table with a wobbly leg, and a significant amount of dust. They went out for a drill and then waited for the couple to leave. Then they drilled a hole in the floor so they could listen to everything George and Nora said. After retrieving their belongings from the roof across the street. They left Mors—much to his chagrin—with the first shift.
***
The next morning, Giles made his way to his office. Lille would be relieving Mors just about then, and Giles would relieve her that afternoon. It would allow him the morning to ensure no potential clients had called on him while they had been working the previous day. He had an apartment that was reasonably nice for a man of his means, though attaining one both cheap enough to afford but well accommodated enough to maintain his standard of living had meant finding one quite a distance away from the city center—and his own office. He kept his place of business on the edges of one of the more respectable parts of the city near the river. It was close enough to lend him legitimacy, but just far enough away to still be affordable. It also allowed many of his clients an opportunity to visit him without deviating too far from their ordinary routines.
The five-story brick building listed several businesses on a sign near its door, among them “Underhill & Co.” It was the law office of Robert Underhill, a property solicitor with a very limited clientele who specialized in large country homes, townhouses, and real estate inheritance. Of course, there was no Robert Underhill any more than there was an Underhill & Co. It was all a front that allowed Giles to maintain an office where prospective clients could visit him and inquire about his services. Anyone seen visiting him could claim they were merely visiting their attorney about some legitimate business matter without it deviating very far from their usual activities. If anyone ever wandered in off the street and wanted to actually hire someone versed in property law, Giles simply told them that Mr. Underhill was out of the office and that he was not accepting additional clients at that time. Should anyone strike back at him after one of his assignments, or if anyone found out that it wasn’t actually a law office, he would abandon the business, safely retreat into anonymity, and let any potential blame rest on the shoulders of the conveniently nonexistent Robert Underhill. Then Giles could start again somewhere else with a new fictional employer.
The neighboring businesses were all legitimate enterprises. He had ensured so when he had chosen the location. There were two other law offices, an architecture firm, an accountant, an office for a waste hauling business, and a large space on the first floor used by a series of metalware shops in the city that housed their excess inventory. Each of these businesses provided a viable excuse for the majority of Giles’ clients to enter the building. Each of them kept very dependable business hours, and each of their proprietors left him to his own devices save for the occasional “good morning” while passing in the hallway. It allowed his illegitimate business to hide in plain sight—a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Making his way up the steps that morning, he found a man already waiting outside his office. He appeared to be a very strait-laced fellow and was well dressed, but not so well that he appeared to be from money himself. He was older, perhaps in his fifties, and spoke in a way that revealed no discernable sense of humor.
“Mr. Northbridge?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Daniel Beech; I was hoping I might speak with you.”
Giles was polite but careful in his speech. “What is this regarding?”
Beech looked anxiously around the empty hallway. “Might we speak inside? I have a matter to discuss with you that requires the utmost discretion.”
Don’t they all?
He agreed, unlocked the door, and showed the other man in. His office consisted of two rooms, a parlor that served as a waiting room—though he never had enough business at the same time for anyone to actually be kept waiting—and his office. He kept it prim and professional. A chesterfield sofa, two chairs, and two tables took up the parlor. A desk, a safe, two chairs, and several filing cabinets filled his office. Carpets covered the wooden floor, but no superfluous artwork hid the dark blue wallpaper; it was simple and uncluttered, the way he liked it.
Giles showed Beech in, took his hat and coat, and ushered him into the office.
“Most people make an appointment, you know,” Giles said.
He inserted the slightest bit of aggravation into his pleasant tone. The gentry and their like always expect others to maintain the finer points of manners, even when they themselves are in violation of them. Not that Beech was a member of the gentry himself. Though judging by the way he carried himself, he did work for them.
“I do apologize,” said Beech, “but I was not entirely sure how to go about any of this.”
“Most don’t,” Giles grinned.
Beech sat down and folded his hands. He looked as though he was trying to find a way to begin their conversation.
“The door … outside … it said this office belonged to a Robert Underhill?”
“A useful fiction,” said Giles. “A respectable person can visit a man of the law for any number of reasons without it seeming untoward.”
“It is a fiction I appreciate then,” Beech said.
Giles offered him a drink, but Beech declined. Given the early hour, he left his own glass inside the drawer as well. Besides, you never get drunker than they do. You might miss something.
“So, what is the particular non-fiction that brings you here today?” he asked the visitor.
“I am here representing a very influential Member of Parliament.”
He likes saying that phrase.
“Which member?”
“I don’t think that is—” Beech began.
“I assure you Mr. Beech, it is very necessary, and I would find out regardless of whether or not you told me. I can all but guarantee full knowledge of who I am working for will be essential to whatever task you might hire me for.”
Beech cleared his throat, “I am a barrister in the employ of Lord Robert Fowler.”
That surprised Giles slightly. Lord Fowler was a leading member of the Liberal Party, and the papers said he had the ear of the king—not to mention a great number of other members of Parliament. He was a master at skirting the line of reform without being dismissed as a crackpot or revolutionary. His distinguished family line helped, of course, but he was an expert at negotiation and forging unlikely alliances. Half the nation believed he would be the next Benjamin Disraeli, and he was the first name that came to anyone’s lips when discussing who the Liberals would support as the next prime minister.
“You didn’t exaggerate when you said he is influential.”
“Indeed,” Beech nodded. “My employer would like you to quietly locate someone.”
“Who might that be?”
“Lord Fowler’s daughter. Lady Henrietta. She has disappeared.”
“If Lord Fowler believes foul play may be involved, no matter how unseemly, I would still suggest the police—”
Beech smiled condescendingly.
“This is not the first occasion that the young Lady Fowler has fallen out with her father and left home. It is simply a matter of finding her; something we have been able to do on our own in the past, but recently … she has made acquaintances of a very nasty sort, and our previous methods no longer seem sufficient. Also, it would be preferable if these troubles with the girl were not publicized.”
“Hence: me,” Giles offered.
“Precisely. Obviously, anything done by a politician as equally esteemed and … envied as Lord Fowler would attract attention, thus everything must be done through intermediaries. Hence: me,” he said, grinning genuinely for the first time during their conversation.
“So, a meeting with your employer is …?”
“Completely out of the question,” Beech finished.
“This is highly irregular,” Giles said. And an enormous hurdle you’re putting in my way, he might have added. There was additional risk as well. Until he did some research—which he most certainly would once Beech had left—strictly speaking, he had no idea whether Beech actually worked for Fowler at all.
“We were informed ‘highly irregular’ was a particular specialty of yours,” Beech said.
Giles had to cede him that point.
“True, but it will hinder my ability to complete the assignment.”
“Lord Fowler is prepared to compensate you for any additional difficulty,” said Beech.
Lords and gentry always think they can throw their money around to get their way. Fortunately for Lord Fowler, in my case, he’s correct.
He worked out the details of their arrangement with Beech and extracted as much information as Beech would part with. He then showed him out.
Only then did he notice the post sitting on the floor. It contained a few periodicals he read to keep up with the latest comings and goings around the city, as well as a single letter. Expecting it was from a potential client, he was pleasantly surprised that it instead came from an old friend—and Giles had few genuine friends. It invited him to dinner the following night at the Carabineers Club. He would ensure Mors or Lille took shift that night watching over Nora’s apartment. This would be a meeting he couldn’t bear to miss.