“He died in a cell, stripped of his dignity. They said he was sick. But I saw what they did to him,” Alasdair said, voice low.
Farnleigh nodded once. “I know.”
“How?”
“I spoke to one of the guards who worked the wing. A quiet man with a guilty conscience. I paid him well.”
That landed like a stone in Alasdair’s chest.
“All these years,” he said. “Ye’ve been investigatin’ him?”
“Yes. I never trusted Kittridge. Men like him never show their teeth unless they plan to bite.” Farnleigh paused, eyes sharpening. “But I didn’t know your father’s death was tied to this until much later. By then, it was too dangerous to pursue openly.”
The older man inclined his head slightly, then reached for the folder, and drew out a thin packet of folded correspondence, some of it yellowed with age, and one newer note that bore a distinct postmark.
One that Alasdair didn’t recognize.
Farnleigh laid it down between them. “His name is Thomas Cray. He worked under Kittridge as a clerk. Officially for his land agents, but unofficially, he kept the private ledgers. For a time, he knew everything: the bribes, the foreign accounts, the favors traded between minor northern lords.”
Alasdair narrowed his eyes. “Cray. Never heard of him.”
“You wouldn’t have. He vanished ten years ago. Right around the time your father was arrested.”
A cold chill swept over Alasdair’s skin. “Ye think that’s connected?”
“I don’t think,” Farnleigh said quietly. “I know. He was bought off, or frightened into silence. But he’s reappeared. A contact of mine saw him in South Shields, working under a different name. He’s older now, goes by Thomas Curren. I had someone verify it. Same face. Same handwriting.”
Alasdair picked up the newest note, his eyes scanning the tidy, slanted script.
“He was spotted only once?” he asked, voice low.
“Yes. He’s not hiding, but he’s cautious. Lives quiet. Works in a dockmaster’s office, doing clerical work. But if we move slowly, we’ll lose him again. He’s the sort of man who’ll vanish the moment he senses risk.”
Alasdair let out a breath. “Then I have to go after him.”
Farnleigh’s gaze flicked up. “I thought you might say that.”
“Ye said yerself, this is the first solid trail. I’ve been graspin’ at ghosts, fragments, whispered names. This Cray—Curren—he’s flesh and blood. A real man who might remember enough to bring Kittridge down.”
“Perhaps,” Farnleigh said cautiously. “But he’ll not talk easily. And if he’s bought off once, he may be again. Or he may still fear what Kittridge can do.”
“Then I’ll make him unafraid,” Alasdair replied. “Or too convinced by the promise of safety. I’ll speak to him. I’ll get what he knows.”
The older man leaned back. “You realize this will take you out of London. Perhaps far beyond.”
“Aye. And I’ll go.” Alasdair’s voice had steel in it now. “I cannae just sit here, wearin’ polished boots and smilin’ at lords who might’ve helped hang me faither. This is the best lead I’ve had in years.”
Farnleigh studied him. “I won’t stop you. But know this, Redmoor: once you step out of the ballroom and into the shadows, you’ll start to disappear in their eyes. The ton forgets fast. Power loves performance. Vanish too long, and they will not wait to crown you hero.”
Alasdair gave a grim smile. “Then I’ll not vanish. I’ll hunt in silence. And when I return, I’ll return with Cray’s truth.”
“And if he dies before he can speak?”
Alasdair paused. The idea hadn’t occurred to him until now, but it rang with awful plausibility.
“Then I’ll search deeper. And longer. But I’ll find another.”
Farnleigh folded his arms. “Very well. But be discreet. And take someone with you. Men like Kittridge have long memories and deeper pockets.”