Someone to Watch Over Me (Bow Street Runners #1)(13)

"I have to dress this way at court," Keyes said defensively.

Chuckling, Flagstad began to guide Keyes away before an argument could brew.

"Wait," Keyes said, an urgent note of interest entering his voice. "Morgan, I heard you were sent out last night to investigate a bloat found in the river."

"Yes."

Keyes seemed impatient at his terseness. "Talkative as a clam, aren't you? Well, what can you tell us about it? Was the victim male or female?"

"What does it matter to you?" Grant asked, perplexed by the Runner's interest in the matter.

"Are you going to take the case?" Keyes persisted.

"Probably."

"I'll take it for you if you like," Keyes offered. "God knows you haven't much interest in investigating a dead woman. I hear bloats aren't paying much these days."

Flagstad snickered at the lame jest.

Grant stared at Keyes with new alertness. "Why do you think it's a woman?" he asked idly.

Keyes blinked, and took a moment to answer. "Merely a guess, lad. Am I right?"

Giving him a last questioning glance, Grant refused comment and entered Cannon's office.

Sir Ross sat with his back to the door, at a massive oak pedestal desk arranged to face the long rectangular window overlooking the street. A massive brown-and-gray-striped cat occupied a corner of the desk, glancing lazily at the newcomer. The reticent feline had been discovered on the front steps of the Bow Street office a few years earlier. She was missing a tail, either by accident or some act of mischief, and had promptly been dubbed "Chopper." Strictly a one-person cat, Chopper reserved all her affection for Cannon, and barely tolerated anyone else.

Cannon's dark head turned, and he regarded Grant with a pleasant but unsmiling expression. "Good morning," he murmured. "There's a jug of coffee on the side table."

Grant never refused an offer of coffee. His passion for the bitter brew was rivaled only by Cannon's. They both drank it black and scalding hot whenever possible. Pouring a liberal amount into an empty creamware mug, Grant sat in the nearby chair Cannon indicated. The magistrate bent his attention to some documents on his desk once more, signing one with a deft flourish.

While he waited, Grant let his gaze roam over the comfortably familiar room. One wall was covered with maps of the city and surrounding counties, as well as floor plans of Westminster Hall, the Bank of England, and other buildings of significance. Another wall was covered with bookshelves, containing enough volumes to crush an elephant. The furniture consisted of a few heavy oak pieces, plain and functional. A library terrestrial globe was poised on a mahogany stand in the corner. Enough wall space had been allowed for a single painting, a landscape of North Wales in which a small stream rushed over craggy rocks, with dark trees and gray hills looming in the distance. The landscape was jarringly pristine in comparison with the bustling artifice of London.

Finally Cannon turned toward him, black brows arched in a request for information. With its sharp features and wintry gray eyes, his face possessed a wolfish cast. Were he to allow any warmth in his expression, he would have been considered handsome. "Well?" he murmured. "What of the bloat you investigated last night? Is there a need for a coroner's inquest?"

"No bloat," Grant replied briskly. "The victim--a woman--was still alive. I brought her to my home and sent for Dr. Linley."

"Very charitable of you."

Grant responded with a careful shrug. "I know the lady rather well. Her name is Vivien Duvall."

The name caught Cannon's interest. "The one who rebuffed you at the Wentworth ball?"

"I gaveher the shove-along," Grant said with a quick flare of annoyance. "Somehow in the course of gossip, the story was twisted around."

Cannon's black brows inched upward, and he made a sardonic "hmm" deep in his throat. "Go on. Tell me about Miss Duvall's condition."

Grant drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. "Attempted murder, no doubt about it. Heavy bruising and finger marks around the throat, not to mention a blow to the head. According to Linley, she'll be all right...but there is one difficulty. She's lost her memory. She can't provide a single detail of what happened, or even recall her own name."

"Did the doctor say when or if her memory might return?"

Grant shook his head. "There's no way of knowing. And until the investigation brings some evidence to light--or she regains her memory--it's safer if everyone thinks she's dead."

Cannon's gray eyes narrowed in fascination. "Shall I assign one of the Runners to investigate, or will you take the case?"

"I want it." Grant drained the last of his coffee and wrapped his long fingers around the cup, absorbing what little warmth remained. "I'm going to begin by questioning her former protector, Lord Gerard. It seems likely that he or some jealous lover may have tried to strangle her. The Devil knows there's probably a long list of them."

Cannon's mouth twitched with suppressed humor. "I'll send a man to question the waterman who found her, as well as the others who were ferrying passengers near Waterloo Bridge last evening. Perhaps one of them may have seen or heard something useful. Let me know how your investigation proceeds. In the meantime, where will Miss Duvall reside?"