Rose ducked into an alleyway as Mr. Gallagher's companion glanced over his shoulder. In the interest of avoiding being seen, she'd spent much of the past half hour in dirty alleys. If not for the early hour, Rose suspected she likely would have met a great many unsavory locals.

Mr. Gallagher, along with the other suited man from the repair yard, continued their short trek through town. Rose followed along behind them, at as minimal a distance as she dared. To advance closer would undoubtedly get her noticed. This irritated her, as she was unable to overhear the vast majority of conversation that took place between the two men.

They made several brief stops along the way, inspecting a building here, or conversing with a person there. Based on his behavior, the man with Mr. Gallagher seemed to be a solicitor of some sort. Rose knew they would ultimately end up at Gallagher Automotive Factory, but this in between time was pure reconnaissance gold. She made note of every address at which the pair stopped and the description of every person to whom they spoke. Hopefully some scrap of information she gathered would be of use to William.

When at last the pair reached the factory, they made their way around to a side entrance that appeared to be inaccessible to the floor workers.

“Must keep a degree of separation from the riff-raff,” Rose muttered under her breath.

She was unfamiliar with this area of town. To loiter in the street staring at the factory like it had done her some type of personal offense was highly conspicuous. She had to remain unnoticed.

Continuing along the street at a leisurely pace, Rose soon happened upon a tea shop. The Cavendish Kettle, the weather-worn sign read. The shop was aslant to the factory on the opposite side of the street, and likely had a good view of the main entrance, as the wide front windows were large and unobstructed.

Taking a deep breath, Rose went inside.

The sitting area was cozy, clean, and hosted a smattering of petite round tables and straight-backed chairs, all empty. Splendid. Rose selected a table immediately adjacent to the front window to better observe any activity across the street.

“What's it to be, love?”

Rose looked up at the tall gray-haired man who had appeared beside her table. “Oh! Um, yes,” she said, slightly taken aback. Of course, she would need to order something. It'd look unnatural if she didn’t, and he would have no reason to let her stay. “Black tea, please. Crème, very little sugar.”

“Croissant? Toast? Biscuit?” he prompted. “I got the best chocolate biscuits this side o' the River Irwell, if I do say so me'self.”

“That sounds lovely,” Rose agreed. “Yes, I'll take two.”

“Lass after me own heart,” the man said. “Back in a jiff.”

As he vanished behind the counter, it occurred to Rose that this gentleman could be a wealth of information. She should use that to her advantage. The shop was well-kept, but not by any means new; it clearly predated the factory's latest proprietor. The worn wanescotting and hazy glass were telltale signs that the building had existed in this location for quite some time, therefore, so too might the gentleman currently preparing her tea. It was entirely possible that he was not a great admirer of James Gallagher.

“Here we are,” the man said upon his return. He set a steaming cup of tea and a small plate of biscuits on the tabletop. “Nice an' hot.”

“Thank you so much,” Rose said. “Are you the owner, Mister..?”

“Cavendish,” he supplied. “Indeed, I am. Thirteen years now. And it's no trouble. If ya don't mind me sayin' so, Miss, you've got quite the posh accent on you. Not from around here, are ya?”

“No, I'm not,” she answered, grateful for his segue. “Quite new in town. Actually, I'm in the market for a job. Do you know of any openings in the area? Perhaps at the factory across the way?”

“Ah, no, Miss,” Mr. Cavendish said. He shook his head in a discouraging manner. “Factory work is not for a nice, proper lass like you. Not a good fit, ya see? You look capable 'nuff, I don't mean to say otherwise, but the factory floor is a hard place, if ya catch my meanin'. Especially James Gallagher's factory floor.”

Rose nodded her head in contemplation. “I see. Do you think Mr. Gallagher is harder on his workers than other employers in the area?”

“I do, at that,” Mr. Cavendish confirmed. “I get alotta the floor workers in here for their lunch breaks. Always exhausted, they are. And they got nothin' nice t'say about their boss, that's for sure. Mr. Gallagher ain't known for bein' a kind man. Although, he'd probably hire the likes of you for— No. Never mind. It's not a good idea.”

“What?” Rose pressed. “Please, tell me what you were going to say.”

“Well…” Mr. Cavendish mumbled. His eyes darted to the side, conflicted, but he took a breath and continued. “Rumor is, Mr. Gallagher's lookin' for a secretary. Someone to work in his office. But the workers who've come in here the past few days says he turns away all o' the applicants. ‘Too low class,’ he claims. They s'pose he wants someone with education and etiquette. Someone like you.”

“Is that right?” Rose asked, elated. She pivoted in her seat and quirked an eyebrow. Secretarial work was something she could do! While in New York, she had helped to negotiate a higher pay out for several of the gigs performed by Duke Ellington and his jazz band. During her stint in Bath, she'd assisted a family friend to organize his office and assemble a list of clientele. Both had written her glowing letters of recommendation.

“Aye, but... Well, tread with care, Miss,” Mr. Cavendish forewarned her. “Mr. Gallagher has a nasty constitution. Sweet thing like you, you'd be better off gettin' employment somewheres else. Anywheres else. Even with them damn Mercers.”

“Your concern is very kind, Mr. Cavendish.” Rose gave the shop owner a sincere smile. “I'm grateful for your candor and the information. Thank you. I promise I will proceed with caution.”

【♖】

Daphne was tugging on her shoes in preparation to depart when a slow, rhythmic knock sounded on the front door of her flat. Surprised, she hobbled to the modest entryway, clasping the buckle on the strap of her high heel as she went.

“Yes? Who's there?” she called through the door.

Muffled by the wooden barrier between them, a masculine voice replied, “It's William Mercer.”

Daphne jumped back from the door as though it had caught fire. “Ohmygoodlord,” she gasped.

What in the name of the Wee Man was he doing here at this hour? Daphne scoffed at her own pointless question. He was trying to throw her off, of course. Arrive at an absurd time they hadn't discussed in order to take control of their impending conversation.

Well, to hell with that.

Squaring her shoulders and taking a steadying breath, Daphne opened the door. She greeted her unexpected visitor with a polite but cool eye. “Mr. Mercer,” she said. “What a pleasant surprise.”

In truth, his appearance was neither pleasant nor a surprise. And the irksome manner in which he arched his eyebrow in response suggested that he knew as much.

“'Morning, Miss Lancaster,” he said.

“Good morning. Alas, the article on the benefit isn't quite ready yet, but it will be released in tomorrow's issue,” Daphne said, feigning regret. She knew that wasn't the reason for his visit. “I'm afraid you'll just have to wait.”

“I'm not concerned about the article,” Mr. Mercer stated. “Thought we could have that promised chat. No pretenses. No bull shit.”

Daphne gifted him with her largest, most saccharine smile. “As much as I would delight in a chat sans bull shit with you, Mr. Mercer, your timing couldn't be worse. I'm due at the newspaper in twenty minutes.”

“You're gonna be late,” he informed her. Stepping across the threshold without invitation, he brushed past her and made his way into the kitchen.

Daphne tsked under her breath and shut the door with more force than necessary, purposefully leaving it unlocked. She followed Mr. Mercer into her kitchen and watched as he inspected the contents of her cupboards and icebox.

“Please, just make yourself to home,” she said, her tone flat.

After he'd thoroughly looted through her cabinetry only to remain empty-handed, he took a seat at one of the chairs that surrounded the table. “Can I get a drink?” he asked.

Daphne bristled and perched her hands upon her hips. The gall. Just who in the blue hell did this man think he was?

But Daphne knew exactly who he thought he was. And as long as he kept the good people scared and the bad people rich, he was indeed that person.

“Of course,” Daphne answered with faux sweetness. “Coffee?”

He looked up at Daphne, tilting his head off to one side. “Do I look like a man who drinks coffee?”

Rose had educated Daphne on Mr. Mercer's affinity for answering questions with questions. She was prepared. “This early in the morning? Yes, you do. It's coffee or nothing, Mr. Mercer. Your choice.”

Mr. Mercer sniffed a chuckle, almost as if he appreciated her cheek. “Coffee, then. Black.”

“Lovely,” Daphne said, walking past him to the range. She'd just had a cup herself, so the kettle was still warm. A couple minutes on the burner and it would be steaming again. “And what do you propose I tell my editor and chief regarding my tardiness this morning?”

“The truth,” Mr. Mercer said. Pulling a slim silver cigarette case from his pocket, he plucked a lone cigarette from containment and lit the end with his lighter. “Tell Mr. Hughes that you were meetin' with me for some follow up questions.”

So, he knew Mr. Hughes by name. That was interesting. The implications were many and disconcerting. She grimaced at his lit cigarette. She didn't want her flat smelling of smoke.

“What follow up questions would you like me to ask, Mr. Mercer?” Daphne inquired. She made a show of waving her hand in front of her face as he exhaled a stream of white vapor. Leaning over her kitchen sink, she pushed open the small window. “I'm assuming you want to control the narrative. Shall I ask about the unlicensed gin you're manufacturing in the lower levels of Holcroft Distillery? Or your plans to ship said gin to the States? Or perhaps your business...oh, let's see, what's a diplomatic term..? ‘Arrangements’? Yes. Your business arrangements with the Russians over the years?”

“Learn about all that from Sid Dawkins, did ya? Or maybe my sister-in-law?” he asked. His tone suggested he wasn't concerned, which was no surprise.

The kettle was hot. Pouring the dark liquid into a porcelain cup, Daphne served the coffee to her guest along with an ashtray, then slid onto the chair across the table from him.

“Why, Mr. Mercer,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “Thanks to your spectacular benefit party, and my own research, I have a myriad of sources! People are so keen to gossip when they drink, aren't they?”

“They certainly are,” he agreed. He sipped the coffee and bobbed his head in approval. “Booze loosens their lips and lulls them into a false sense of security. They think their words are safe.”

“Quite.”

“Mm. Much like writin' in a diary.”

The comment, made with maddening flippancy, was heavy with implications, and they both knew it.

Daphne rolled her eyes at her unwanted visitant. “Ah, yes. You found Rose's diary,” she recalled. “Was it a riveting read, Mr. Mercer? Nooo. I don't think it was. I imagine you were quite disappointed in the amount of viable damning information you found.”

Mr. Mercer's expression was impassive. He took another swig of the coffee, his gaze on Daphne's face. “Not exactly the makeup of a Tolstoy novel, but certainly not disappointing,” he said. A little smirk appeared on his face and he looked down at the tabletop for a brief moment, like he was privy to a joke she wouldn't understand. “That bein' said, we both know that book is nothin' but a tasting. Rose's real diary is you.”

Daphne would not be baited. “And what if I am? How do you suppose that could possibly aid you?”

Mr. Mercer stared at her for the length of a political speech. She stared back. At long last, his cigarette down to the butt, he snubbed it out in the ashtray she'd provided.

Daphne inwardly sighed in relief. She would not allow him to stay long enough to light another.

“I need some information on Rose,” he said.

Daphne cast him with a wry smile. “You need information?”

“Aye.”

“On my cousin?”

“Aye.”

“Of what nature?” she questioned, her expression dubious.

“Somethin' from the past. Somethin' no one else knows.”

Daphne laughed. The sound rang hollow in her ears. In her mind's eye, she could see Rose and Mr. Mercer dancing together at the benefit. The way he'd held her. The way they'd looked at each other. Now he was here, asking for particulars that could harm her, and expecting Daphne to provide those particulars. He couldn't be serious. “And what type of past information do you want, Mr. Mercer? Not that you're likely to get it.”

“You're a journalist, Miss Lancaster,” he replied, as though that statement explained everything. “Information of the muck-raking variety.”

“Dirt?” Daphne translated.

“Dirt,” he confirmed.

“Mm-hmm. Why?”

“Might need it to supply motivation at a later date,” he said with a vague gesture. “Gotta keep my employees in line.”

【♜】【♞】【♟】

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