A Reputation Dies: A thrilling combination of detective fiction and romance (The Rutherford Trilogy Book 1) by Alice Chetwynd Ley

Author:Alice Chetwynd Ley [Chetwynd Ley, Alice]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Sapere Books
Published: 2019-10-02T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 11

On most evenings Mr Dick Probert, senior clerk to the lawyers Binns & Moody in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, took a tankard of ale at a nearby tavern before returning to his modest home in Carey Street. While at his place of business he was efficient and self-contained, with little to say beyond what was necessary to the junior clerks under him; but once in the cosy atmosphere of the Wheatsheaf, he allowed himself to relax. The truth was that he was a lonely man and therefore ready to engage in casual conversation with any respectable, solitary drinker like himself, though he always avoided the noisier groups.

Joe Watts, strolling into the tavern on the evening of his consultation with Justin Rutherford, summed his man up at a glance. He carried his tankard over to the settle, which Probert was occupying alone.

‘Mind if I sit here?’ he asked carelessly.

‘Not at all, pray do,’ replied Probert, striking a careful balance between politeness and a more positive welcome.

He eyed the newcomer warily as he spoke, trying to assess his place in the scheme of things. A tradesman, perhaps, in a thriving way of business? He had the air of one accustomed to controlling staff. Not, he thought, a clerk; he lacked the pallid complexion of the indoor, sedentary man.

He permitted himself to chat to Watts on a number of innocuous topics, sat there for his accustomed time — less than an hour — and departed with a civil goodnight.

Watts came into the Wheatsheaf on the following evening and again sat by his quarry. This time the conversation grew more personal, especially after Watts had insisted on buying Probert another drink.

‘I never do take another, Mr Rowlands,’ protested Probert half-heartedly. ‘But seeing as I’m enjoying your company and you’re so kind as to offer, I’ll make an exception. I’ve not much to go home to, and that’s the truth, since my dear wife died.’

Watts made the appropriate remarks of commiseration and asked when the melancholy event had taken place.

‘Three years since,’ replied the clerk in sombre tones. ‘And me left with a fifteen-year-old girl to bring up on my own, barring a little help from my sister who lives nearby. But she and Kitty don’t get on, no use saying they do, so she don’t come in often these days. Have you any family, Mr Rowlands?’

‘Neither child nor wife,’ said Watts cheerfully. ‘Reckon I get along better that way. Suits me, any road.’

‘There’s much in what you say,’ agreed the other. ‘I don’t mind admitting that my daughter’s a constant source of anxiety to me. She’s in the house all day on her own, and dear knows what she gets up to when my back’s turned. She’s past eighteen now.’

Watts nodded sympathetically. ‘Often frisky at that age, young ladies,’ he ventured.

‘You may certainly say so, Mr Rowlands. I used to like her to look in on me occasionally at the office during our midday break, but I had to put a stop to it.’ He looked grave and clicked his tongue.

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