It was as if someone had opened a window and an icy wind had swept in from the north. So, he could admit bad memories plagued his dreams but refused to give any insight as to the root of the problem. Surely it had something to do with his mother.
“Forgive me,” she said, retreat being the best course of action to prevent him from erecting a wall between them. “Curiosity drives me to pry. I cannot help but find you somewhat of an enigma. And like my father, I cannot walk past a puzzle without examining the pieces.”
“There is no puzzle to examine, no mystery to solve,” he said bluntly. “My mother left when I was eight, and I have not seen her since. My father sent me to school, made an effort to pay the fees but had time for little else except playing tormentor.”
Her heart lurched.
She cut into her poached egg, for he would see pity if she looked into his eyes. “And how did you meet my father?”
“He came to school to give a lecture. It was supposed to be an education in philosophy—few masters see the value of science—but it turned into so much more.”
The urge to ask a hundred questions burned in her veins, but Mr Daventry held a world-weary air, a look that begged her not to press him further.
Sybil gestured to the newspaper on the table. “I see something caught your interest in the broadsheet. Reform is the topic of the day. Peel is determined to grant the judges power to give lesser sentences for some crimes where the death penalty is mandatory.”
Mr Daventry snatched the paper and pushed it across the table. “I only wish your father had lived to witness the fact. But I found this in his journal, a sheet taken from an old newspaper. There was a riot at Smithfield Market two years ago. He’d made some notes at the top in pencil, though they’ve faded.”
Sybil took the paper and read the article while Mr Daventry finished his meal. The riot started over an argument between a customer and a butcher. A crowd gathered to support the customer who complained the meat was rancid. The rioters took umbrage and smashed carts and overturned stalls. Fights ensued. Someone opened the gate to the livestock pens, and the animals stampeded through the market, trampling over people amid the chaos.
“Five people were pronounced dead at the scene,” Mr Daventry said gravely. “One with a stab wound. Two suffered broken necks in the crush. Two from internal injuries. Your father was interested in the man with the knife wound to the chest.”
“Mr Cribb,” she said, finding the name at the bottom of the article.
“They found the butcher guilty of causing and encouraging a riotous assembly. A felony punishable by death. Despite a description and witness reports, the customer complaining of the rancid meat disappeared.”
Sybil absorbed the information, though she wasn’t sure what it had to do with her father. “Was my father championing a repeal of the Riot Act?”
“Your father believed someone murdered Mr Cribb and arranged the riot to cover the crime. He questioned witnesses and recorded evidence in one of his journals.”
A hard lump formed in Sybil’s throat. “And you think whoever killed Mr Cribb killed my father to prevent anyone discovering the truth.”
“Perhaps.” He glanced at his plate for a few seconds before adding, “Another member of the Order worked on the case with your father, though he is also dead.”
Sybil’s cutlery slipped through her fingers and clattered on the china plate. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she’d hoped Mr Daventry’s suspicions were wrong, that her father’s heart had given out, and he had died from natural causes.
“How did the man die?”
“I found him in the Thames.”
She sensed the scene was probably more gruesome than that.
“Mr Proctor used to work as a runner,” he continued. “He was an expert interrogator. His skill at reading people, at picking apart statements was second to none. Hence the reason your father recruited him to the Order.”
An image of Atticus scribbling away behind his desk sprang into her mind. Her heart ached when she thought of the many secrets he’d kept hidden. The stress of righting injustices must have taken its toll.
She studied the handsome gentleman sitting opposite. He seemed so different from the arrogant rogue who’d had a string of mistresses. Was this the first time he had let anyone see the real man behind the façade?
“Losing a colleague must be difficult. I get the sense Mr Proctor was also a friend.”
“Proctor was an honest man, one who had witnessed firsthand how money and position create their own version of the truth. His stories of corruption are the reason I trust no one at Bow Street.”
The need to reach out to Mr Daventry came upon her from nowhere. It boggled the mind to think that this strong, confident man needed comfort. And yet she couldn’t banish the thought of cradling him in her arms and stroking his hair until he slept without being haunted by memories of the past.
“How many men did my father recruit to the order?”
“Seven. The men are masters of their craft, men who share the same vision. A mathematician, physician and enquiry agent, to name a few. There are two empty places. Places left by the death of two exceptional men.”
“Yes,” she said, speaking of her father. And yet the more time she spent in Mr Daventry’s company, the more she found him rather exceptional, too.