The Candle Man by Alex Scarrow

really could .
    She knew the house well. She knew where she could break in without alerting anyone. Or better, if she had the brass nerves to do it, she could walk right into the letting agent’s office
and place six months’ rent right there in his hand. He wouldn’t know who she was – the scurrilous au pair who’d ‘tempted’ Mr Frampton-Parker. That was three
years ago, anyway. So long as all the money was up front and she appeared to be suitably well-mannered.
    I can do that.
    There was something in that idea that provided a unified solution to variously conflicting dilemmas. Yes, she could run with this money – but she realised she didn’t want to. Her
wiser, older self rationalised that quite reasonably: ‘John’ might just be a businessman, as Dr Hart had suggested. A businessman with significantly more money back in America.
Who knows? A business empire of some sort? Factories? Warehouses? Ships? Her wiser, older self calmly explained that she didn’t want to run because there was, quite possibly, much more money
to be made from this poor lost soul than the five thousand she’d found in his satchel.
    But another part of her also couldn’t help suspecting she didn’t want to run because, well, truth be told, she was rather fond of John Argyll. There was something about him. A
gentleness. A kindness. An innocence.
    Oh, Mary. Get a grip!
    She looked at the sponge cake, her appetite suddenly gone. Her stomach lurched and churned with butterflies. Nerves. If she was going to do this, she was going to need to be smart and calm, and
not play around with childish fantasies and dreams of romance.
    John’s my investment. Nothing more.

CHAPTER 11

    17th July 1888, Great Queen Street, Central London
    ‘T his has become very dangerous. Very dangerous indeed.’
    The others present nodded in agreement as they watched the crackling fire in the grate send phantoms dancing across the oak panelled walls of the Barclay Room.
    ‘George, how the hell did this happen?’
    Warrington stirred in the winged-back armchair, worn leather creaking beneath him. ‘I used a local thug to deal with the matter. Local and not particularly well-connected. Awful scoundrel
wouldn’t have been missed by anyone.’
    ‘But now this scoundrel appears to be blackmailing us?’
    Warrington shifted uncomfortably under the gaze of the others. ‘He claimed to have something in his possession. A memento, a keepsake. Some sort of damned locket. I would have given our
chaps the nod to . . . deal with him then and there. But, I just thought we need to be sure if he’s telling the truth or not. He could be trying to play us for silly buggers. Or he really
could have found something.’
    ‘Perhaps, George, whether he has something or not is irrelevant. The fact is he suspects there’s reason to blackmail. That alone means I’d rather this low-life was at
the bottom of the Thames and crab-food as soon as possible,’ said Henry Rawlinson. His eyes twinkled beneath thick white brows and above drawn, liver-spotted cheeks. He stroked a bare chin
thoughtfully as the others nodded in silent agreement.
    ‘If the fellow even suspects there’s some rich pickings to be had, then he already knows far too much,’ said Rawlinson.
    ‘My concern, Henry, is that he does really have something.’ Warrington wondered if there was ever going to be a better time to tell them the worst of it. ‘He mentioned a
portrait . . . a small photographic portrait. A miniature.’
    A spoon clattered noisily against fine china.
    ‘Good god!’ one of them gasped.
    ‘Warrington, are you serious?’
    ‘That’s what he claimed.’
    ‘Please tell us you mean a portrait of the woman alone.’
    If only.
    ‘All of them, I’m afraid. “Very much the happy family.” Those were his words.’
    The men sat in silence, contemplating that information. The old man, Rawlinson, stirred his tea gently. The three others in their little group – The Steering