Gracie, I ain't seen.'
'Does Grace have family, or friends she might have gone to?'
'There's her sister.'
I checked my rising impatience. 'Do you know where she lives?'
'Place near Covent Garden. I took her home once. Street called Rose Lane.'
I felt a dart of irritation. Rose Lane was one over from Grimpen Lane. The girl had been under my nose for days.
'What about the valet?' I asked.
John snorted. 'Marcel? Gent next door snatched him up, didn't he? Had his eye on Marcel ever since Marcel came here, oh, three months ago. Soon as he heard the master was dead, Marcel lit out and took his new position that very night.'
The gent next door must have made Marcel an unrefusable offer. I wondered, had the valet made all haste to dissociate himself from the crime, or had he simply jumped at the offer of a lucrative position? John was right, good places were hard for servants to find. But if Marcel had anything to do with Horne's death, would he have fled only as far as next door?
'What is the name of this gent?' I asked.
'He's a lordship. Lord Berring. A viscount or some such.'
'Right- or left hand?'
'Sir?'
'Which house? The right- or left hand house as you face them?'
John blinked a moment then pointed toward the south wall. Left hand it was.
'And who is in the right-hand house?'
John stared a moment, then to my surprise, he broke into a grin. 'Gent called Preston. Never home. Son is, though.'
I remembered the very first time I'd stood before number 22, when Thornton had been throwing bricks at it and screaming his grief. The curtain in the window above number 23 had shifted, the person behind it far more interested in what was happening outside than in protecting himself.
'Who is this son?' I asked.
John chuckled. 'Young Master Philip. He likes a chat, sir, whenever I goes by. Hasn't got many who'll talk to him, poor lad.'
I stored that information away, reflecting that a lad who liked looking out the windows might prove useful.
'Thank you,' I said, and turned to depart.
'You wouldn't happen to be looking for a footman, would you?' John asked wistfully. 'Only I can do all kinds of work. Except garden.'
I shook my head. 'If I hear of anything, how may I send you word?'
'Oh, I'm going back to my ma too. In the Haymarket. She so wanted me to go into service. She thinks I'm a useless lout. Maybe she's right.' He stopped a moment. 'What happened to the girl, sir? The one called Aimee.'
I raised my brows. 'Aimee has gone to live with her aunt.'
John sighed and dropped a bulging sack into the crate. 'I told her, if she ever wanted me, all she had to do was send word. She never did.'
I could not feel surprised by this. Likely Aimee wanted to put anything associated with Horne's household far behind her.
'She needs time to heal,' I offered. 'When she has rested and mended, perhaps she will remember you.'
I very much doubted it, but he so wanted the crumbs I tossed him.
John brightened. 'That may be, sir. I can wait.'
I wondered for a moment if John had murdered his master in jealousy and anger over Aimee. He was a large and strong young man who could easily have overpowered the smaller Horne and stabbed him in one quick blow.
My speculation ended there. I could not imagine John calmly waiting for the body to be discovered, and still longer for Aimee to be found. He would have smashed open the wardrobe door and carried her off into the night.
I said good night and left the kitchen through the scullery. As I closed the door, John tipped an armload of cups into a crate, where they landed with a smash of porcelain. He tossed in a copper pot on top of the lot.
I climbed back to the street. The rain came down harder, and the low clouds darkened the day. I walked to the left hand house, my shoulders hunched against the wet.
I did not know Viscount Berring, and calling on him without introduction or appointment, especially with his lofty station, would be extremely bad manners. He'd think me an uncouth lout, but I had to waive etiquette in pursuit of my quest.
The footman, who looked as though he had a few more thoughts between his ears than did John, took my card, ushered me silently into a reception room, and disappeared.
This house matched Horne's in layout-a fine staircase on one side of the house, and two grand rooms on the other-but there the similarity ended. Berring had decorated his house with paintings of taste and furnishings of comfort and elegance. I sensed a woman's touch, evident in the embroidered cushions, soft colors, and overall feeling of warmth.
The footman reappeared and, to my surprise, told me to follow him upstairs.
High above, on the landing that encircled the very top of the house, a little girl, a slightly older girl, and a woman, clearly their mother, watched me with undisguised curiosity. I saluted them, and the two little girls giggled. The woman gave me a gentle smile.
An unlooked-for and nearly overwhelming wave of loneliness swept over me. The image of a very small girl, very long ago, filled my vision, and in an instant I was carried back in time. I felt warm sun on my face, saw the flash of gold on my daughter's hair, saw her smile at me, reaching her small hands to mine.
The chill dark of London rushed back at me. It mocked me, that chill, reminding me of all I'd lost. I quickly looked away and followed the footman to the first-floor hall.
Viscount Berring received me in a bright room facing the square. He was a middle aged man, slim and upright, with a full head of gray hair. He held out his hand.
'Captain Lacey? I have heard of you.'
I grasped his hand politely. 'I apologize for the intrusion,' I said. 'It is actually your valet, Marcel, that I have come to see.'
Berring gave me a look of surprise and alarm. 'Don't tell me Mr. Grenville sent you to lure him away. I pay the fellow well-he's a topping valet-but I could never offer him the distinguishment he'd get valeting for Mr. Grenville.'
'Grenville is in no need of a valet that I know of. I wished to ask Marcel about his former master, Mr. Horne.'
Berring made a face. 'Nasty business, that. My footmen had to bodily evict the newspapermen all that night. Impudent fellows. What have you to do with it?'
'I am trying to discover who killed him.'
He raised his brows. 'Why the devil? Isn't that what the constables and Bow Street are for? Oh, do sit down, there's a good fellow. But you must already know Horne's butler has been arrested. Marcel told me all about it. Nothing more to discover.'
'But I believe Bremer did not kill him. That the murderer has not been found.'
'Good Lord.' Berring looked at his sofa cushions as though the murderer might be hiding beneath them. 'Are you certain?'
'Fairly certain,' I said. 'If I can find another culprit, I can make the magistrates certain.'
'But see here, surely you have no need to muck about in it yourself?'
I knew what he meant. A gentleman didn't soil his hands chasing criminals or investigating crimes.
'I'm afraid there is no one else to muck about in it. On the day Horne died, did you happen to note anyone
