“No.” Grainger had come to stand beside Fergus. “I’d gone past earlier—the key was on the nail and the gate was locked, but when we checked after she’d gone, the key was in the lock and the gate was shut but unlocked.”
“No one heard anything?” Tristan asked.
Fergus shook his head. “Nor saw anything, either. We asked everyone.”
“She opened the gate.” Deverell frowned. “Why? She’s not witless, and she knew she was in danger.” After a moment, he answered, “Someone must have lured her out with something she assumed was safe.”
No one commented.
“Time.” Dalziel fixed Fergus with his dark gaze. “How long was it before you realized she was gone?”
Fergus grimaced. “Half an hour or so. We thought she was with Mrs. Edith and Miss Audrey, but then Mrs. Edith sent the maid down to ask where Miss Phoebe was as her tea was getting cold.”
“So.” Dalziel steepled his fingers. “Half an hour, then time to ask about, then your journey here.” He glanced at the clock. “An hour, at least, but not much more.”
Fergus nodded.
Deverell opened his mouth—before he could speak another knock fell on the front door. A polite knock.
Gasthorpe had gone downstairs a few minutes before, presumably to summon all the footmen and boys who ran messages for the club members. A murmur of voices rose from the front hall, then footsteps, steady and sure, climbed the stairs.
“My lords.” Gasthorpe stood back and waved the visitor in.
Montague appeared in the doorway. He glanced around at the tense assembly. His gaze touched each face; most he didn’t know, but his lids flickered in surprise when he saw Dalziel. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then his gaze traveled on to Deverell’s face. “I do hope I haven’t called at an inopportune time, my lord.”
“Not at all.” Deverell felt hope bloom; setting his jaw, he waved Montague to a chair. “You’ve found a name?”
Looking unusually grim, Montague sat. “I have.” He glanced again at the others, all except Dalziel. “My news, however, is of a highly sensitive nature….”
“In the circumstances, I’ll ask you to speak freely before all here—Miss Malleson was kidnapped an hour ago and we’ve no time to lose. We all need to know the identity of the gentleman who’s been assisting the white slavers.”
Montague’s round countenance registered his shock, but he quickly set it aside. He glanced at Dalziel, then looked back at Deverell. “In that case…” He drew a deep breath and stated, “There are only two accounts in all the city’s banks that show sizeable deposits consistently made at or about the time each missing girl vanished.”
Deverell opened his mouth to demand just the name—Montague stayed him with an upraised hand. “You need to hear this. I’ll keep it brief, but you will need to judge the validity of what I’ve learned.”
Puzzled, Deverell frowned, but reluctantly nodded.
“One account is an investment account belonging to a Mr. Thomas Glendower, a young man of good family with a knack for investing. However, the payments made into that account are not as consistent in amount and timing as the deposits to one other account.”
“Whose?” It was Dalziel who demanded.
Montague looked at him. “Henry Hubert Lowther, Lord Lowther. He’s one of the law lords.”
A stunned silence followed, then Christian said, “I can see why you were so hesitant to name him.”
“And why,” Dalziel said, “you wanted us to hear the proof.”
“Indeed.” Montague’s lips tightened. “But there’s more.”
It was Dalziel’s turn to hold up a hand. “Does anyone know where Lowther lives?”
No one did. Deverell looked at Grainger. “Go and ask Gasthorpe.”
Wide-eyed, Grainger rushed off.
All those remaining returned their gazes to Montague.
Who looked more than grim. “Be Lowther who he may, the facts are inescapable—indeed, they are otherwise impossible to explain. I didn’t trust to anyone else’s interpretation—I went and looked at the records myself. All highly irregular, of course, but I trust you’ll overlook that. What I found…every time one of those girls went missing, Lowther deposited two hundred and fifty pounds into his account. Every time. I traced his estate income, which is pitifully little but is his only other income. Against that, he’s withdrawn large sums. Those sums pertain to purchases of notable pistols—he’s an avid collector apparently well known as having all but bottomless pockets.”