The coach was plain and black, likely hired for the occasion. I recognized the coachman—a cabbie called Lewis, who was Daniel’s friend. I wondered if Lewis had changed jobs or whether he drove both hansoms and hired carriages.

Mr. Fielding sat in the backward-facing seat in the coach, scowling as I climbed in. Daniel took the seat next to me, highly improper of him, but there wasn’t much point in perfect manners at the moment.

“Tell me now,” I said as Daniel slammed the door and the coach jerked forward. “Where are we going?”

“The Foundling Hospital.” Daniel sent a stern look to Mr. Fielding. “You are coming along in the hope that you can keep him coolheaded.”

“A vain hope,” Mr. Fielding snapped. “We discovered the reason the ruffian swine of Seven Dials did not want you down that road, Mrs. Holloway. Because if you’d continued, you might have found the bawdy house specializing in children that Luke and his friends help stock. I’m guessing Nell found it too, and that is why she was killed. I’m off to turn the director upside down and shake him by the heels until he spits out answers. That is, if I don’t murder him outright.”

20

Gone was the Mr. Fielding who, no matter how bitter he became, managed to be glib and sardonic. This man was grim and furious, and I did not blame him.

“Did you summon the police?” I demanded. If they hadn’t, I would.

“Yes.” Daniel’s word held finality. “Inspector McGregor and many constables are storming the premises of the bawdy house as we speak. Errol is convinced the Foundling Hospital has been furnishing the house with children, and I decided I’d better go with him to keep him from setting fire to anyone.”

“Daniel believes you will calm me and not let me kill every bastard responsible,” Mr. Fielding said, eyes flashing. “He is wrong.”

“What about the children?” I asked. “If constables are storming the building, what happens to them?”

“I admit, I don’t know,” Daniel said. “They won’t be hurt, Kat. Inspector McGregor will see to that.”

“I’ll see to it,” I said with conviction. “I too want to speak to the director. Mr. Fielding, please leave him alone long enough for me to question him.”

Mr. Fielding barked a laugh, not a nice one. “Do your worst, Mrs. Holloway. Did you bring one of your meat cleavers?”

I did not smile. “I do not believe violence will be necessary.”

“Won’t it?” The highborn tones Mr. Fielding had taken on from his schooling slipped away, and the man of London’s backstreets emerged. “I say we give his arse a right kicking, and then shake him until he spills all his rot.”

“I understand your agitation, but we must question him first.”