No sooner had Inspector Pickering and I set off in search of Prentice Hancock than I regretted not having asked the man in question to give me his card after I had presented him with mine at Lizzie Hopman’s funeral. This feeling was compounded when we reached our destination. The building in front of us was not a residence, but a laundry. Upon inquiring with the current proprietor of the establishment, a rather intimidating-looking woman who stood nearly a foot taller than my young companion, we learned that she had converted it from a haberdashery.
“Which is precisely what Mr. Hancock ran,” I said, turning to Inspector Pickering.
“He told me I could do whatever I wanted to the place,” the laundress said. Her voice, both in tone and volume, would have shamed a fishmonger’s wife. “It’s not my fault he weren’t asking a fair price. If he don’t need money, what business is it of mine?”
I recalled that Mr. Hancock had mentioned selling his shop upon his retirement. This, combined with the woman’s continued shrieks proclaiming her innocence regarding the details of the transaction, lent credence to his claims that he did what he could to improve the lives of those who dwelled in the East End. Inspector Pickering, pushing up his spectacles, stepped directly in front of her and gripped her firmly by the shoulders.
“I’ve no interest in Mr. Hancock’s business transactions,” he said. “But I have a great deal of interest in his current whereabouts. Tell me where I can find him. If I’m successful as a result, you’ll receive a handsome reward.”
She pursed her lips and looked down at him. “Well … I suppose there’s no harm in it, is there? He lives six blocks over, beyond the Black Swan. Wouldn’t take her that way if I was you.” She scowled at me and then held her hand out to the inspector, palm facing up.
With a quick gesture, he pinned her hand behind her back. “The reward comes only if I’m successful.” I cast a sideways glance at him, shocked that he could sound so authoritative, and then glared at the laundress. I would have liked to have barked out a sharp retort of my own, but confess that, in the moment, none came to mind. Instead, I let Fenimore Pickering bustle me back into our waiting cab.
“Well done, you,” I said, after he’d closed the door.
“I find that appearing meek often keeps my opponents off guard,” he said. “Not that I would say our laundress constitutes an opponent. Still, I do like to stay in practice.” His grin was that of a naughty schoolboy who has just pulled off a grossly inappropriate scheme.
After a short drive, we reached the modest terrace house that stood at the address the laundress had provided. We knocked on the door and were told by a pert young maid, her uniform starched almost to snapping, that Mr. Hancock was not at home.
“Oh, dear, how perfectly dreadful,” I said, doing my best to imitate a female version of Jeremy’s favorite drawl. “Whatever am I to do now? Fenimore, dear, give me your arm, I’m afraid I’m feeling a bit unsteady.” I swayed to lend verisimilitude to my words. The inspector, not missing a beat, caught me and propelled me up the stoop closer to the door.
“Out of the way, girl,” he said. “Can’t you see she’s about to faint?”
Flabbergasted, she stepped aside and let us into the house. Once there, I flung myself onto a settee and called for water. The inspector prodded her to produce it, and she flew out of the room. He closed the door behind her.
“What do we do now?” he asked.
“Search the place, of course,” I said. “See if you can find anything that might prove a connection to the King’s Boys, or any other criminal activities. Or to Harold Godwinson.”
“King Harold?” he asked. “Of the arrow in the eye?”
“Yes.”
He did not question me further, but made quick and efficient work of inspecting every inch of the room. I was doing the same, of course. Neither of us found anything of interest. When I heard the click of the maid’s heels in the corridor, I returned to the settee and draped an arm over my face. She handed me a glass of water, but I pushed it away, insisting that I was no longer in need of refreshment. “Fenimore, go to the study and fetch me some paper. I will have to leave a note for Mr. Hancock.”
The maid did not stop him when he left the room. I took this to mean that there was, in fact, a study, and that Mr. Hancock did not, if I may be permitted a naval analogy, run a particularly tight ship. “Do you need anything else, madam?” she asked.
“How long have you worked for Mr. Hancock? It’s so good to see what he’s done for the old neighborhood.”
“The old neighborhood? Surely you didn’t used to live here, did you?” She was blinking rapidly. Knowing that I would not be able to convince her that I had been reared in the East End, I took a different tack.
“No, no, of course not,” I said. “But he’s told me so many stories of the place that I feel like I know it as well as he. I’ve helped him find work for—”
“That’s so very kind of you, madam,” she said. “I should’ve known when I saw you at the door. Your hat told me you’re a lady of fashion, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“How long have you worked for Mr. Hancock?” I asked.
“Only three months,” she said. “He rescued me from a far worse life.”
Her cheeks colored and I decided there was no need to inquire further about her previous employment. “And he is a good master?”
“The best. Kind and generous.”
“How large is his staff?”
“There are five of us, all from the old neighborhood, as you say.”
A small number, but more than nearly anyone else had in this part of town. Mr. Hancock’s house was no larger than those surrounding it, but it was in far better condition. No peeling paint or broken windows here. The furnishings were modest and tasteful, almost as if they had been selected in a deliberate effort not to be showy.
Inspector Pickering returned to the room with a sheet of paper and a pencil, which he handed to me. A quick and subtle shake of his head told me he had discovered nothing of significance in the study. I penned a note, asking Mr. Hancock to call on me at his earliest convenience, thanked the maid for her assistance, and we quitted the house.
Stepping back into the street, the smell of something rotting assaulted us. Mr. Hancock had succeeded in creating a haven for himself, but it would not be so easy to do the same for his surroundings. A pack of boys ran past us, all of them sporting emerald green scarves. I reached out to stop one of them, but they were too quick.
“You won’t get anywhere with them, Lady Emily,” Inspector Pickering said.
I pulled a face. “True, but I know someone who might.”
* * *
Back home, after I’d dropped the inspector at Scotland Yard, I found my husband in his study, where, beneath a cloud of cigar smoke, he was poring over a stack of papers that pertained to hypothetical threats against King Edward. He looked relieved to push them away, explaining that he had been over them twice already and could find no connection between any of them and the murders.
“Perhaps I can present an alternative possibility,” I said. He listened attentively when I detailed my theory about the King’s Boys.
“It’s a reasonable idea,” he said, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands behind his head. “I read through Pickering’s files as well—I assumed that’s why you left them on my desk downstairs—and find it striking that there is no information about the leaders of the gang. That’s quite unusual. Ordinarily, those in charge are happy to reap the rewards of their positions. They command a great deal of fear and respect, and are careful to never be implicated in any criminal schemes. They’re dashed difficult to arrest.”
“I suspect Prentice Hancock is the king in question. And before you ask, no, I have no evidence to support my claim,” I said. “So far as I can tell, he’s a model of propriety and a beacon of light in the East End. It is his very sincerity that gives me pause.”
“How very cynical of you, my dear. I should have thought you’d be singing his praises.”
“It is wholly out of character for me, I agree. But he is the man who gave Ned Traddles his second chance—a second chance that never amounted to anything at the time. So far as I can tell, Ned joined the King’s Boys immediately after the police let him go. If Mr. Hancock is the king, he was in the perfect position to get Ned under his control. The child would have been so grateful not to have been sent to jail that he’d do anything his savior asked.”
“And by maintaining a reputation for goodness, who would suspect him of anything nefarious? But what does Hancock gain from it all? Based on your description of his domestic arrangements, he’s hardly living a life of luxury. What does he do with his ill-gotten gains?”
“Perhaps he prefers power above everything,” I said. “Which would explain why he chooses to be called king, not captain. Furthermore, he could be a miser.”
“I take it you want to warn him that he may be in danger?”
“I don’t see how I can do otherwise. He may be a vicious reprobate, but I cannot stand by and let him be slain.”
“Quite,” he said. “However, you haven’t confirmed whether he is, in fact, running the gang. Warning him could put you in a great deal of danger. It would tip him off to your interest in the organization. Even if he’s not in charge, word might get back to their so-called king. On another subject, I have news of my own. In my ongoing quest to find the chalice illustrated in our last clue, I went to your favorite spot in London today, the British Museum. And there, behind a case holding a rather magnificent Anglo-Saxon vessel very like the one in the drawing, I found this.” He passed me a sheet of paper sheathed in an envelope bearing the Hargreaves coat of arms.
“The brother of the king, the noble Duke Humphrey, was wounded in the groin. Gore flowed down from the sword. Having fallen to the ground, the king stood over him to assist him. He was in this battle the defender of his brother. Your much-loved Tito Livio Frulovisi again?” I asked, studying the sword sketched at the bottom of the page.
“No,” he replied. “This is from a chronicle penned by a monk in Canterbury, Thomas Elmham. Humphrey was wounded at Agincourt.”
“I don’t see how this fits with any of our theories,” I said. “Let us consider the broader implications of the messages. All of them refer to Henry V, correct? Why would Queen Victoria have wanted to turn your attention to him in particular?”
“Perhaps she believed her own son would prove as disappointing a monarch as Henry V’s did.”
“Henry VI wasn’t all bad,” I said. “He founded Eton and King’s College, Cambridge, which to my mind has one of the most beautiful chapels in all of England.”
“Don’t ask a Trinity man to start lauding King’s, my dear.” He motioned for me to return the letter to him, which I did. He picked up a magnifying glass from his desk and scrutinized every word on the page. “There’s nothing in the handwriting, nothing unusual in the paper. Not that I expected there would be.”
“I don’t suppose King’s College could have a connection to the King’s Boys?”
“Highly improbable. I shall have to focus on finding the sword and the next clue.” He sighed and turned his head at the sound of a knock on the door. “Yes?”
Davis opened it and peered in. “A Mr. Prentice Hancock to see you, Lady Emily. I’ve put him in the crimson drawing room. It seemed the most appropriate place for someone who looks so much like Father Christmas.”
Truly, my butler was a man after my own heart.