“I have met him a handful of times over the years, but it has been at least three months since our paths have crossed at Highley Grange.”
In itself, that was suspicious. Or perhaps the man had stolen Isabella’s brooch and knew he would struggle to look her in the eye without revealing his guilt.
There were two doors on the first-floor landing. They knocked on the one nearest to the stairs, heard groans and grumbles emanating from within when they knocked for the third time.
“What have I told you drunkards about—” The woman stopped abruptly. She opened the door fully and met their gaze. With a quick glance at the quality of Isabella’s vibrant gown, her filthy scowl became a beaming smile, despite the absence of a front tooth. “What can I do for you fine people at this very late hour?”
Isabella placed her hand on his arm, a gesture to inform him of her desire to address the woman. “We are looking for someone,” she said. “A Mr. Blackwood. We were told he lives here.”
The woman narrowed her gaze and scratched the greying hair at her temple. “A Mr. Blackwood you say? Does he have thick dark eyebrows that meet in the middle?”
“I would not say they were entirely thick, but they do meet just above the bridge of his nose.”
“Does he have a large mole on his cheek?”
“Yes, I believe so,” Isabella said with a sigh.
The woman rubbed her chin as she glanced up at the ceiling. “Does he have—”
“Good heavens,” Tristan interrupted. “Can you just tell us if you know of him or not.”
“He … he did live here, but now he’s moved.”
“When?” Tristan stepped closer. “Do you know where we might find him?”
“You’re not the first to come here looking for him. I could tell by Blackwood’s shifty stare he was up to no good.” With a mischievous glint in her eye, the woman said, “It can get mighty cold at night.” She took the ends of her shawl, wrapped them across her chest and shivered. “It doesn’t help having the door open all this time.”
Isabella nudged him.
He raised a brow in enquiry and through a series of animated facial expressions revealed he did not have so much as a coin on his person.
The woman raised her chin as she was obviously well-versed when it came to silent communication. “You know, it’s not just woollen gloves what keeps your hands warm.”
It did not take a genius to decipherer her meaning.
Isabella held her hand out. “What about these gloves? Do you think they will help keep the cold at bay? You may have them if you can tell us where we might find Mr. Blackwood.”
Clasping her hands to her chest, the woman gasped. “Oh, how kind of you, madam, to think of an old woman in her hour of need.”
Tugging the gloves at the ends of the fingers, Isabella pulled them off. She clutched them in her hand. “Mr. Blackwood’s address and they are yours.”
“Church Street.”
Isabella offered the woman her silk gloves. “And the number.”
“It’s behind the modiste. Number twelve, on the ground floor. I do some sewing for her when she’s running behind. That’s how I know he’s moved there.”
Tristan put his hand out to prevent Isabella from delivering the prize. “Before we go, you mentioned someone else was curious to know of Mr. Blackwood’s whereabouts. Do you recall this person’s name?” Call it simple curiosity. Call it a need to be thorough in their investigation. “Did you tell them where to find the gentleman?”
The woman’s rough fingers hovered in the air as she gripped the tip of the gloves. “He never gave his name. Neither did he offer any reward for keeping me standing at the door.”
Tristan lowered his hand, and the woman greedily claimed her reward.
“Pleasure doing business. Please call again.” With that, she closed the door to leave them standing in the hallway.
Isabella turned to him. “Well, I cannot say I have ever heard of Church Street.”
“It is but a five-minute walk from here. We will instruct Dawes to wait in Wardour Street and then see if we can find the elusive Mr. Blackwood.”