Free Maelstrom by Jordan L. Hawk

unfortunate
news concerning one of your employees.”
    Dryden paled and glanced about, although I’d
taken care not to speak anything specific in the hearing of any
other customers. “I see. Please, join me in my office.”
    Small and cramped, the office was filled
with cloth samples, catalogs, and other tools of the tailor’s
trade. “This is about Mr. Lambert, isn’t it?” he asked as we sat
down. He didn’t sound at all pleased, and I noted he didn’t bother
to offer me any refreshments.
    “I’m afraid Mr. Lambert is dead,” I
said.
    Dryden went even paler. “Oh no. How?”
    “Heart failure,” I said dryly.
    “I see.” Dryden stared off into nothing,
then shook himself. “Forgive me, Mr. Flaherty, but are you with the
police?”
    “I’m a private detective. Mr. Lambert hired
me to clear his good name.” A small lie would go farther to explain
my investigation than the more fantastical truth. “He paid me
before I had chance to render services to him, and as a result, I
feel I’m still in his employ. I would prefer he not go to his grave
with a stain on his reputation.”
    Dryden frowned. “You didn’t come here to
give me the news of his death. What is it you want, Mr.
Flaherty?”
    Here was where things became tricky. “Were
there any customers dissatisfied with Mr. Lambert?”
    “Certainly not!” Dryden seemed shocked by
the very idea. “We at Dryden and Sons pride ourselves on seeing
that every customer leaves this shop happy.”
    “If I may be blunt, that seems a bit of a
tall order, people being as they are,” I said. “You could give some
men a free suit cut from gold cloth, and they’d complain about the
fit.”
    The corner of his lip twitched in an attempt
not to laugh. “True. But there were none who complained
particularly about Mr. Lambert. Certainly not to the point where
they’d go to such lengths to discredit him.”
    “Was Mr. Tubbs—the man who originally
accused Mr. Lambert, and whose murder Mr. Lambert was arrested
for—among your clientele?”
    “No.” Dryden’s lip curled slightly. “We
serve a...more refined class of gentlemen.”
    In other words, poor clerks just starting
out in life weren’t welcome. “Of course,” I said. “It would be a
great help to have a list of the customers Mr. Lambert served in
the last few months, if you have such a thing about.”
    Dryden’s brows climbed toward his receding
hairline. “We would never share the details of our clients without
their permission,” he said. “I cannot believe you would even
suggest such a thing.”
    I had expected as much, but I’d hoped he
would cooperate. Time for a bit of bribery, then. “I understand,” I
said soothingly. “Your customers are all gentlemen of a certain
station in life. Although you’d never simply give out their names,
their recommendation of your shop to others is valuable to your
reputation.”
    His eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“Naturally.”
    “And of course, having persons of a certain
caliber being seen to patronize this store helps a great deal as
well.”
    “Your point, Mr. Flaherty?”
    Whyborne was going to kill me. “What if I
said I could ensure that Dr. Whyborne—Niles Whyborne’s son, heir to
the Whyborne fortune—acquired his next suit from you?”
    Greed flashed through Dryden’s eyes,
although he struggled to conceal it. “That would be a coup,” he
allowed, “but I can’t imagine how you would accomplish such a
thing.”
    At least everyone in Widdershins didn’t
instantly associate the two of us. “We belong to the same society,”
I lied, twisting my wedding ring to draw his attention to it. With
the protective runes and white pearl, it looked like the sort of
thing a secret society might bestow on its members. And in
Widdershins, no one would dare question which society, for fear of
drawing the wrong sort of attention.
    “I see.” Dryden looked torn for a moment,
then nodded. “Very well, Mr. Flaherty. So long as