Steeplejack (Alternative Detective, #1)(40)

Indoor plumbing, then.

That meant I couldn’t count on Billy’s lady friend coming outside anytime soon. I tried to remember what he had told me about her and realized I had forgotten the woman’s name. She was a scullery maid, the lowest of the household servants, and would be responsible for unskilled chores: fetching and carrying, scrubbing floors and washing dishes, boiling water, disposing of kitchen refuse. That would have to be my way in. I steeled myself to talk, even to act, then descended the steps and rapped on the door.

It was opened by a harried-looking white woman in her forties, too old and plump to be Billy the pickpocket’s belle.

“Yes?” she said, looking past me to the locked gate.

“I was wondering if I could speak to whoever is responsible for your trash collection,” I said.

“That would be the butler, but he doesn’t talk to tradespeople without an appointment,” said the woman. She had opened the door only wide enough to squeeze her florid face through it, and she was already starting to close it again.

“Actually, I would prefer to speak to the person who actually handles the refuse,” I said, improvising. “We have a new line of pails and crates specifically for trash that are lighter and stronger than what most people have access to.”

“I don’t think we’re interested,” said the woman I took to be the housekeeper.

“Enables the carrying of twice as much in considerably fewer trips,” I pressed, wondering where this newfound confidence came from. “Our clients say the kitchen operates far more efficiently for their use.”

The closing door hesitated. “Wait here,” said the woman.

The door closed. Somewhere inside, pots clanged. I heard voices, distant and muffled, one of them low and masculine. There was another silence, and then the door flew open.

It wasn’t the housekeeper or the scullery maid. It was a man in formal black and white, and his face was flushed with an anger that made his eyes flash. “How did you get in here?” he demanded.

“The gate was unlocked,” I lied, taking a step backwards.

“No, it wasn’t,” he shot back. “Reporters!”

“Not a reporter, sir,” I said, fighting the urge to run, all my usual diffidence returning like a blanket thrown over my head. He was a big man, and for all his civilized attire, he looked capable of taking a swing at me. “I’m a consultant working with a governmental office—”

“Ha!” he sneered. “Badge? Warrant?”

“I don’t carry any formal identification—” I began.

“I’ll bet you don’t, you Lani whore,” he said, taking another step toward me. “Now, get out of here before you feel the back of my hand and I have you arrested for trespass.”

I did not need telling twice.

*

“I HAVE NO AUTHORITY!” I protested. “I’m not police. I’m not army or government. I’m not even a licensed private investigator. No one will talk to me!”

Driven by frustrated humiliation, I had taken a cab all the way to Willinghouse’s town house, insisting that I be reimbursed for the expense the moment I arrived. This was my one day away from the baby. I had to achieve something with the time I had bought.

“Pretending to be a salesman?” Willinghouse shot back, his scar reddening. “You are supposed to be using your abilities to investigate. No one hired you because of your people skills. I must say that I had hoped you would have made more progress by now. Now, I have to get to Parliament, so if you don’t mind—”

“I do mind!” I exclaimed, surprising us both. I stood in front of him, face hot, fists clenched, but when he gave me a long, thoughtful look, I managed to calm down enough to say what I meant. “I can’t do what you want me to without earning people’s trust. The police can demand that people tell what they know. I can’t.”

“But that is the point!” Willinghouse shot back, returning his gaze from the cuff link he was trying to fasten. “You are supposed to use unofficial channels. I can combine those with the official channels in order to get to the truth.”

“Then I need to partner with the police.”

“Unacceptable.”

“Then how can I do my job?”

“The police will not share information with a private investigator,” said Willinghouse.

“So they can tell you and you can tell me.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me,” I said, snatching his shirtsleeve and deftly fitting the cuff link in place. Morlak wore cuff links; he thought they made him look sophisticated.

Now Willinghouse gave me a fierce look, but when I held his gaze, he sighed and glanced away. When he turned back to me, it was with eyes and voice lowered.

“I am not entirely sure that the police can be trusted,” he said. “That is why I need someone to investigate independently.”

I hesitated, taken aback. “I don’t know that I can,” I said, mentally sidestepping the implications of what he had just told me. “Can you at least protect me if I am arrested?”

“Probably,” he replied.

“Probably?”

“I don’t suppose we’ll know for sure till we have to try,” he said.