a hen got her foot caught up in some string. I can’t get her out of it.’
I followed her reluctantly back down the yard. I didn’t want cow-byre smells clinging to my clothes, and the hens were the property of Mr Colley who kept the cows and ran a milk-round. Naturally, there was no sign of him or his idle son-in-law.
‘There.’
A big red hen had got her leg tangled in a loop of old string attached to the wooden bars of the chicken coop and was flapping and clucking.
‘How in the world did she manage to do that?’ I said.
‘Dunnow.’
There was nothing for it in all humanity but to crouch down in the dust and try to free her. I put my reticule down on top of the coop.
‘Can you hold her?’ I said to Tabby.
Her brown and grimy hands enfolded the hen. The string was frayed and terribly tangled round the scaly leg. I broke a fingernail and was set coughing by the warm dust from the hen’s feathers, but at last she was untangled.
‘It doesn’t look as if the leg’s hurt,’ I said. ‘Let her go and we’ll see.’
The hen stood for a while, not realising she was free, then shot off to join three or four others that were pecking by the manure heap. I watched her go and laughed.
‘Well, there’s nothing much wrong with her. It’s a good job you saw her before she died of thirst.’
‘You got straw on your dress now,’ Tabby said.
She kneeled down in the dust and started brushing at it with her hand.
‘No, never mind. I’ll do it.’
I picked up my reticule, adjusted my bonnet and hurried out of the yard, knowing that I’d have to walk fast now to get to Lincoln’s Inn by four.
Mayfair was crowded and in sociable mood under the blue skies. I had to weave a zig-zag course among the gentry strolling and looking into shop windows or standing in the middle of the pavement, talking in the loud voices of people who have nothing much to say but are determined the world should hear it. As I went, I tried to plan in my mind the interview with Mr Lomax. Through Disraeli, he’d offered me an intriguing and well-paid case, and I’d been minded to accept. But that had been before the discovery of Simon Handy’s body. Did I still want to accept the case? Yes. Would Mr Lomax still want me to accept it? That was another question altogether. Simon Handy’s death might have changed the situation for him too. There were things about it that the Brinkburns wanted hidden, or why had Lomax gone to so much trouble to coach the steward in his evidence? And he had coached him, I was as sure of that as if I’d heard him doing it.
I was still thinking about it when I got to High Holborn. The crowds were less fashionable there, but just as annoyingly inclined to drift along the pavements or make sudden changes of direction to watch two cab drivers arguing or avoid argumentative drunks.
‘Hey, stop! Stop, miss.’
The voice came from behind me, a husky female voice. I thought it might be a beggar or an unusually importunate posy seller, so didn’t turn round.
‘Miss, you lost this–’
I turned round and there was Tabby, red faced and panting. Her shawl had slipped, leaving her bare-headed. She was holding something in her hand.
‘Your purse, miss. You must have dropped it when you was seeing to the chicken. I’ve run all the way after you with it.’
She held it out to me. Her eyes were as appealing as Whiteley’s had been.
‘You followed me all the way here?’
‘Yes, miss. There’s still all your money in it. I haven’t opened it.’
All my money. Seven pence halfpenny, as far as I remembered. I took it from her.
‘Thank you, Tabby. I’ll see you when I get back this evening.’
Disappointment clouded her eyes. A plump woman who’d stopped to listen looked at me reproachfully. She thought I should at least give this honest girl a penny for her trouble.
‘Is that all then?’
‘All for now. I’ll see you later.’
I turned and hurried on, aware of a pair of hurt eyes at my back.
Oliver Lomax had not given me his address at Lincoln’s Inn. Was that arrogance, or did he assume I knew it from Disraeli? If arrogance, it might have been justified, because the first person I asked at Lincoln’s Inn–a clerk weighed down with bundles of papers–pointed out his staircase at once. I climbed the stairs and knocked on his door just as a clock was striking four. He was waiting in his clerk’s room to meet me and led me through to his office. It was simply furnished, but the furniture, carpet and curtains were of fine quality, with touches of comfort that suggested he might spend more time there than at home. Two leather armchairs with brocade cushions stood either side of an empty fireplace. Instead of a conventional desk he had a big mahogany table, with books and papers in tidy piles. A drawing in a simple gold frame of a Roman centurion’s head in a crested helmet was the only picture in the room. It looked to be Renaissance and expensive. A smaller table held a tray with a silver teapot and two bone china cups. He invited me to sit down at one of the upright chairs by his table.
‘Tea, Miss Lane?’
China tea, served without milk or sugar. That was the way he liked it, so that was the way his business associates would have to like it.
I sipped and put down the cup, deciding to unsettle him from the start.
‘Did the adjournment this morning surprise you?’
For a moment he let his annoyance show, but his voice was level.
‘In the circumstances, the coroner had little choice.’
‘I was surprised he thought misadventure might be a possible verdict,’ I said. ‘It would have to be a strange kind of misadventure, wouldn’t it?’
He turned the force of his slate-coloured eyes on me. The temperature seemed to drop by a few degrees.
‘Miss Lane, you know very well that this is not the question on which I wish to consult you. I’m surprised you attended the inquest.’
‘Why? I was there when they found the body. Did Mr Brinkburn tell you that?’
He gave the faintest of nods.
‘He naturally regrets having caused you to be present at such a distressing occasion.’
I doubted that. Miles Brinkburn still seemed far too shaken to indulge in conventional politenesses. I didn’t say that because I’d only intended to unsettle Mr Lomax, not antagonise him.
‘The unfortunate death of Handy is not your concern,’ he said. ‘I want to make it clear from the start that, if we do come to an understanding on the other matter, you are not to ask questions about it or take advantage of your position in any way.’
I let my eyes drop and picked up the teacup. If he wanted to interpret that as agreement, it was up to him. From the way he settled back in his chair, he did. The atmosphere became less frosty.
‘Mr Disraeli seems impressed by your talents and your discretion, Miss Lane. I’ve made inquiries in other directions that seem to confirm his good opinion…’ He paused, then added: ‘…on the whole.’
So he’d heard that I’d once refused to complete an investigation when I took a dislike to the client. I said nothing.
‘I take it that your presence here means you’re prepared to accept the commission?’
I met his eyes again.
‘To find out if Lady Brinkburn is mad or misguided?’
‘In a nutshell, yes.’