Walsh drew closer. “Thing is, Mr. Royce, I did try to get her to come, but the old woman—Mrs. Young, she calls herself—she weren’t having it. Says she won’t travel outside Hertfordshire on no account. And seeing as how you said I wasn’t to use violence—”

Gabriel leveled a look at him. “Hertfordshire? Is that where you’ve been since Tuesday?”

Walsh nodded. “A blacksmith chap in Church Lane directed me. Claimed this Mrs. Young knew everyone from the old days in St. Giles. She lived in the same lodging house as him ’til five years ago when she moved to Trowley Green—a village outside Sawbridgeworth—to lodge with her widowed sister.”

“And she knew Grace, did she?”

“She says she knew of her.”

Gabriel exhaled a weary breath. It appeared he would be making a journey to Trowley Green.

The timing was scarcely convenient. Sawbridgeworth was over thirty miles away. He’d lose nearly a day traveling back and forth on the train, and for what? A few very likely useless scraps of information about someone else’s aged family servant?

But not someone else’s. Effie’s.

He straightened from the sideboard, leaving the rest of his drink unfinished. “Give Kilby the address.”

“Yes, Mr. Royce.” Walsh bobbed his head.

“Kilby?” Gabriel summoned the butler next. “I presume you have something pressing to tell me?”

The butler approached. “A footman delivered this for you earlier this afternoon, sir. He claimed it was important.” Kilby handed Gabriel a white envelope sealed with a pale violet wafer.

“From Compton?” Gabriel asked as he took it.

“The footman was from the Belwoods’ residence in Brook Street, sir.”

Gabriel stilled. He stared at the envelope in his hand. The direction had been written in a firm but delicate hand. His direction.

He didn’t wait until he was alone to open it. While the three men stood back, with varying expressions of unease, Gabriel broke the seal on the envelope. The letter inside was short and to the point—only a few lines, penned in the same elegant hand as the one that had written out his address.

Dear Sir,

I shall be visiting Cremorne Gardens tomorrow evening, along with a small party of friends, to view Mr. Galezzo’s high-wire act. We would be pleased if you would join us.

We depart Brook Street at eight o’clock. Meet us there, if you are so inclined.

Yours etc.,

E. Flite

Gabriel read the message twice through before folding it back into its envelope and thrusting it into the pocket of his waistcoat. He was aware of his heart beating rather more heavily than it had a moment ago. It did nothing to improve his mood.

How the devil had she obtained his address? And what friends? Gentlemen ones, no doubt.

Scowling, he picked up his glass again. “What about you, Ollie?” he asked crossly. “Anything you want to add?”