The door of Fleece’s home wasn’t locked when St. Cyprian arrived. That alone would have been enough to set alarm bells to ringing in his head, but when no one responded to his call, he knew at once that something was amiss.
His hand found his coat pocket, where the blunt shape of his Webley Bulldog rested. He’d reluctantly retrieved the revolver from the glove compartment of the Crossley, where it normally rested. There was no telling what awaited him in his confrontation with Fleece, but...