Charles’ fingers drummed against the purple silk of his hat impatiently, the hat that he still held tucked under his arm. Behind him, Florence was fussing over the maid as if they were childhood friends.
And she had the audacity to tell him to show some decorum.
His hand reached for the brass door knocker once more, freezing when the sharp click of a bolt sliding out of its hasp sounded from within. Moments later, the heavy door swung open to reveal a tall, wiry fellow. His dress was immaculate. Not a single crease was visible on his trousers, and his black waistcoat was buttoned tightly over a starched white shirt. But he possessed, as Charles noticed with amusement, a peculiarly long, white face that ended with what could only be described as a bony muzzle. The butler reminded Charles of a particularly bad-tempered mule.
“Yes?” asked the stern-faced fellow coldly. “May I inquire as to your business, Mr…?”
“Dickens, my good fellow. Charles Dickens,” he replied with a cheerful flourish, instantly putting on his finest public smile. “And if I may ask, you are?”
“Naggleby, sir. Butler to His Lordship,” the butler said flatly, offering a smile that never touched his oddly dark, drooping eyes.
“Well, that is jolly fortunate now, for we were hoping to speak to the Baron. Is he in residence?”
“No, he’s not here. We don’t know when he’ll be back, sir.”
Charles noted the slight hesitation before that final honorific.
Stepping up beside Charles, Florence interrupted, “Oh, we are quite aware that he’s not here, Mr Naggleby. That is precisely why we have come. You see, Her Majesty is becoming increasingly concerned about his whereabouts.”
“And you are, miss?” The butler droned, turning his eyes on her.
“Don’t mind her, my good man. My poor niece is suffering from that most terrible affliction that affects all ladies once in a month, and makes them rather excitable,” Charles said, tapping his right forefinger against his temple. “I’m sure you understand how the fragile sex can be at such times?”
Was that a slight twitch at the corner of Florence’s mouth? Charles thought to himself, smiling. It wasn’t often that he managed to break her composure, if even briefly, but it always gave him a chuckle when he did.
“The Queen? She said Her Majesty has something to do with this, Mr… Dickens?”
“Oh, good lord no. If Her Majesty had anything to do with this, you would have Scotland Yard knocking at your door, not an old man and his flighty niece. No, I was merely hoping to speak with Baron de Rothschild regarding a couple of small business matters,” Charles said with an elaborate flourish of his hand. “Just out of interest, when was the last time that you saw the Baron?”
“He retired to his room as usual, sir. The next morning when the valet went to wake him, he was gone.” Naggleby shrugged his too wide shoulders.
Dipping his hand into the pocket of his waistcoat, Charles pulled out a gold sovereign. It glinted brightly in the afternoon sun as he rolled it across his knuckles.
Behind him, Florence let out a sharp, scandalised click of her tongue. Charles’ smile deepened. Cracking that stoic façade twice in as many minutes was something worth savouring.
“Mr Naggleby, you are a good fellow, I can see that. Are you quite certain you have no idea where your master may have gone?”
Mr Naggleby’s eyes flicked to the coin dancing effortlessly between Charles’ gloved fingers, his tongue running greedily across his narrow lips.
“As I said, Mr Dickens,” he said after a short moment, “the last I saw of His Lordship was when he retired for the night.”
“Very good, dear fellow. In that case, we’ll bid you good day and trouble you no longer.”
With one final flourish, he flicked the coin into the air. It tumbled end over end before dropping deftly right back into his waistcoat pocket.
Turning on his heel, he strode down the path, skipping with every step.
“Come along, Florence, there really is no time to dilly-dally,” he called back over his shoulder. “We have got two more butlers to have a little chat with, and the afternoon draws on.”
Her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed pink, and Charles Dickens smiled again. That was three now. He was enjoying himself far too much.
Miss Nightingale stepped back into the carriage, smoothing down the thick black fabric of her dress before settling into her seat, the leather creaking softly beneath her. She watched as Mr Dickens climbed in after her. His mouth was drawn into a wide grin, and his eyes twinkled.
What did he have to be so cheerful about?
“Well, Florence, that’s been a rather insightful day. Wouldn’t you say?” Mr Dickens said, propping his hat on the cushion beside himself.
“Insightful, Mr Dickens? Insightful?” She tried to remain calm despite the twitch at the corner of her mouth. “How can that be called insightful? You have spent it dragging me around London to interrogate three butlers who claim ignorance, yet quite obviously know far more than they care to admit.”
Mr Dickens’ left eyebrow arched quizzically.
“You believe they’re deceiving us, my dear? What, pray tell, brings you to that conclusion?”
A smile spread across Miss Nightingale’s face, her voice taking on the sort of tone that she would use when addressing her young nephew. “Simple observations, Mr Dickens. Did you not notice the sheen of perspiration on Mr Naggleby’s brow, or the way his pupils dilated when you questioned him on the whereabouts of the Baron? Then there was the way Mr Austerbury constantly fiddled with his watch chain, and of course, Mr Bindle. Surely you could not have missed that twitching right eye? Those are not the composures of men who are simply unaware, but the unconscious, physiological responses of men trying to conceal a grave secret. As things stand now, we know the butlers are liars, but other than that, we are no better off than we were on leaving Buckingham Palace.”
“On the contrary, my dear child. Your diagnosis is absolutely correct. We know they are lying, and that’s a massive leap forward. Those fine chaps have been very helpful indeed.” Mr Dickens glanced up at her from under his greying brows. “While you see the method, the lie; I see the motive, the why.”
Child? How dare he call her child! Her mouth twitched as the thought slashed through Miss Nightingale’s mind.
“Mr Dickens, we know nothing new,” she sighed. “If you had only pressed for entrance to the houses, we might have discovered some piece of evidence to explain what is really afoot here.” Her voice was growing thin with impatience at this intolerable man.
Mr Dickens let out a small chuckle. “My dear, you spend so long looking for the little things that you miss what’s right there in front of your face. A butler takes pride in knowing everything about his master, from his favourite brand of snuff to the regularity of his daily constitutional. A butler knows his master’s whereabouts at all times.”
A small knot tightened inside Miss Nightingale’s stomach at his patronising tone, but the thrill of the puzzle was beginning to override any feeling of indignation.
Miss Nightingale leaned forward. “But why would they lie?”
“Why indeed? Now that is the real question, isn’t it, my darling girl?” he replied, his voice dropping low, his eyes flicking around the carriage as if worried someone might be listening. “My guess would be to hide a scandal. What sort of place might a gentleman visit that would cause a scandal that’s worth more to a butler than a gold sovereign?”
Miss Nightingale shook her head. These were respectable gentlemen. Fine, upstanding members of Parliament. They weren’t the sort of gentlemen from whom she would ever expect scandalous behaviour.
Mr Dickens looked up at her and continued. “There are many places of revelry in the city, my dear child. Many places where a well-respected member of society would not want to be seen. Gambling dens, opium houses, brothels… the list is endless.”
“You will address me as Miss Nightingale, as is proper, please, Mr Dickens,” she said coldly, her head spinning with the idea that these pillars of society could be involved in such things. “You think this den of debauchery,” she spat the words, as if leaving a bad taste on her tongue, “you think this foul establishment could be responsible for the disappearances? But where is it? How do we find it?”
“Yes, that’s the next question, isn’t it…” His voice trailed off, his eyes staring absently out of the carriage window.
A sudden bubble of excitement rose inside Miss Nightingale’s stomach as the realisation struck her. Why hadn’t she seen it before?
With trembling fingers, she unclasped her black reticule and plucked out a piece of paper. Unfolding the map on her lap and smoothing out the creases, she looked down at the city laid out before her. The addresses of the missing gentlemen, the routes they would have regularly taken, she had marked them all out meticulously. The roads they travelled were all different. The distances varied. She had been looking for some pattern, some correlation, but had found nothing.
Until now.
She traced a trembling finger from one address to the next, linking them in a loose circle. It had been there all along, plain to see, but she had missed it. She had been searching for all the wrong things.
“Cadogan Square!” she blurted out in a voice that quivered with far more excitement than she had intended.
Mr Dickens glanced over to her.
“Cadogan Square, Mr Dickens! Look here, each of the missing gentlemen’s houses is centred roughly a mile from Cadogan Square. If they are all frequenting the same establishment, this would suggest that we shall find it there, or very close by.”
Mr Dickens’ eyes suddenly snapped to meet hers, a broad smile spreading across his face.
“Bless my soul, Florence, I do believe you’ve cracked it!” Mr Dickens said, hopping up and down in his seat like a boy on Christmas morning.
“But why Cadogan Square? It’s a respectable address. I cannot begin to believe there could be anything there so scandalous and debauched as what you are suggesting.” She spoke in a voice that was soft and thoughtful.
“Quite right you are… if you are visiting during London by Day…” Mr Dickens hesitated, his eyes rising to fix her in a dark stare.
“You know something, don’t you, Mr Dickens?” she said, her head tilting slightly. “What is it? What’s at Cadogan Square?”
“An informant told me of a place, not more than a fortnight ago. A place that exists only in London by Dark. A pit of such pleasure and sin that you cannot even begin to imagine. A place for those with tastes too rich even for the most demanding West End courtesan. He called it The Lotus Blossom.”
A cold shiver rippled up Miss Nightingale’s spine at the mention of London by Dark.
“Yes, my dear,” Mr Dickens went on, “it appears that we are going to have to go back.”