Murder in the Caravan: A Redmond and Haze Mystery Book 4 (Redmond and Haze Mysteries) by Irina Shapiro

Author:Irina Shapiro [Shapiro, Irina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Merlin Press LLC
Published: 2021-02-08T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

Daniel was back in Brentwood by nine o’clock. Leaving the dogcart at a nearby livery, he walked up Gresham Road, searching for the red lantern. It was a narrow street lined with two-story red-brick houses inhabited by families of merchants and clerks. This wasn’t by any means a slum, like London’s Seven Dials or Whitechapel. This was a respectable neighborhood. Did the people who lived on this street know that there was an opium den in their midst? Did they mind? Or were they too intimidated to do anything about it, fearing for the well-being of their families and opting to turn a blind eye as long as they deemed themselves safe from the goings-on inside?

The house with the lantern was at the end of the street. Thick drapes covered the windows on the ground floor, not even a chink of light escaping through the folds, but two of the upstairs windows were lit, the curtains parted just enough to reveal something of the high-ceilinged room. Daniel used the brass knocker to announce his presence and hoped he wouldn’t be instantly turned away if he asked to speak to Tristan Carmichael. A burly young man opened the door but used his body to block Daniel’s view of what lay beyond.

“What do ye want?” he demanded rudely.

“I need to speak to Mr. Carmichael,” Daniel said.

“And who might ye be?”

“Friend of a friend,” Daniel replied. “It’s rather urgent that I speak to him.”

“I know all of Mr. Carmichael’s friends,” the man scoffed. “And he don’t know ye.”

“I know Moll Brody, and I’m here to speak to Mr. Carmichael regarding her disappearance,” Daniel tried again.

The man squinted at Daniel, his indecision obvious. “Ye with the police?” he finally asked.

“Not tonight,” Daniel replied, hoping to confuse the man enough to gain admittance.

“Fine. I’ll see if ’e wants to see ye. Wait ’ere,” he said, and turned away, ready to shut the door in Daniel’s face. “Wait, what’s yer name?” the man asked.

“Daniel Haze.”

The door closed, and Daniel was left waiting on the step. At least he’d found Tristan Carmichael at home, which was fortuitous. If he wasn’t allowed in, Daniel would find a place to kip for a few hours and then keep vigil outside the house until Carmichael came out in the morning.

Daniel didn’t have long to wait. “Come on in,” the man said, stepping aside to allow Daniel to enter. “He’ll speak to ye.”

The sickly-sweet scent of opium enveloped him in its suffocating grip as soon as he stepped into the entrance hall. The man jutted his chin toward the staircase that hugged the wall on the left, but before Daniel turned away, he peered into the parlor, and the sight made him sick with disgust. He’d never seen an opium den, and although he had a fairly good imagination, he couldn’t have summoned up anything like the scene before him. At least a dozen men lay haphazardly around the room, some on velvet couches, others on soiled pallets strewn across the floor.

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