Chapter 12
The chandler’s shop had a maritime feel that had little to do with the assortment of tools, cooking utensils, and other strange metal objects scattered about and more to do with the fact that every wall and surface was wooden. Daphne imagined it was like being below deck on a frigate and at any moment the whole room would shake from the sound of cannon fire.
The smell of tar, tallow and varnish in the air created a not too unpleasant aroma. It was better than the stench of rotting vegetables one found in Covent Garden.
“Can I help you fine folk?” A man with bushy white hair and side-whiskers approached them, wiping his hands on the brown leather apron tied around his waist. The compartment to store tools for ease of access were empty but for a smoking pipe and pouch of tobacco.
“I’m told Lily Lawson lives here,” Thorpe said in the stern tone that left most people quaking in their boots. “Would you ask her if she can spare a moment of her time?”
“We have a mutual acquaintance,” Daphne added in a friendlier tone.
The man narrowed his gaze. “And who would that be?”
Daphne contemplated saying her dead husband, but that was unlikely to gain them any ground.
“Let’s just say our mutual interest spends time aboard the Carron.” Thorpe looked the man straight in the eye. “I think you understand my meaning.”
Oh, Thorpe was by far the better enquiry agent; his mind was quick, sharp. Daphne would have floundered at the direct question.
The trader’s gaze flitted between them. “The Carron you say. Most people around here are acquainted with sailors. I’ll need the name of this acquaintance.”
“Names are not to be bandied about lightly. This particular person prefers to spend most of their time in France.”
“And he told you to come here?”
Thorpe huffed to show his impatience. He had been deliberately vague about the gender of their supposed acquaintance. Was the chandler’s use of he a ploy to discredit their claim?
“Tell Miss Lawson we’re here,” Thorpe insisted, “and let her decide if she wishes to speak to us. Tell her we’re here about Thomas Chambers.”
Daphne suppressed a gasp. She’d not expected Thorpe to mention Thomas directly.
The chandler frowned. “I know no one of that name.”
“It is not for you to know.” Thorpe’s chest swelled as he sucked in a breath. “But the Turners can vouch for me should you wish to question my intentions.”
“The Turners?” The man’s face grew as pale as his hair.
Thorpe inclined his head. “Like most people who live and work here, I’m sure you’re acquainted with them.”
Silence ensued.
&n
bsp; Every muscle in Daphne’s body clenched tight while she waited for the man’s reply.
“I shall take your lack of response as a refusal to co-operate,” Thorpe continued. He turned to Daphne. “Come, let’s venture back to The Compass Inn and ask the Turners if—”
“Wait!” The man held up both hands. “Lily lives above stairs. I can see if she’ll agree to speak to you but … but that’s all.”
“I’m sure if you tell her it’s about Thomas Chambers she’ll not object,” Daphne said politely. “I am Mrs Chambers, the gentleman’s widow.” If Lily was her husband’s lover, she must have had feelings for him. Perhaps Lily had spent the last three years wondering what had happened to Thomas, too.
The chandler nodded and scuttled off through a door behind the counter.
A heavy tension hung in the air while they waited for the fellow to return with a reply.
The empty feeling in Daphne’s stomach had nothing to do with meeting her husband’s mistress, nothing to do with understanding the motive behind Thomas’ death. Every step that brought them closer to finding the truth meant less time working with Daniel Thorpe. The thought of going their separate ways, of not seeing him again for years, made her legs weak, her chest tight.
She hoped there was nothing simple about this case, that every lead proved false. She hoped every snippet of information sent them searching in random locations, forced them to travel for long hours in Thorpe’s carriage, rent rooms at a coaching inn, dine together in a private parlour.