A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis (5 page)

“Are you going to be shadowing me about and pestering me?”

Hands behind his back, Rafe straightened. “Yes.”

“I suppose that is what detectives do. Trail after people like . . . dogs.”

He held a grin in check. Fanny approached a man sporting a great deal of red facial hair and handed the gentleman his bowler. The man tapped the brim of his hat in his palm. “Pardon my intrusion, but might I have a word with you both? In private?”

Fanny darted a glance at Rafe as they retired to a shallow alcove nearby.

The odd, intrusive fellow pulled nervously at an auburn moustache. “Did I overhear Miss Greyville-Nugent call you a detective?”

Rafe edged closer to nudge Fanny.

“Arthur Douglas Poole, please meet Detective Inspector Rafe Lewis.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “It seems Scotland Yard has sent a man up to investigate Father’s accident. According to Detective Lewis, I could be in some jeopardy.”

“I’d like to keep that information quiet.” Rafe eyeballed Fanny, who in turn, rolled her eyes. “No sense worrying anyone unduly.”

The wary chap backed away, then hesitated. “Yes, well, I’d cooperate if I were you, miss—strange goings on lately.”

Rafe lifted a brow. “Is that so?”

Rather abruptly, Nigel Irvine elbowed into their circle. “See me out, Fanny?”

She accepted the offered arm. “If you’ll excuse me a moment?”

Mr. Poole nodded to Rafe and leaned in. “I did not wish to alarm the young lady, but . . .”

Rafe angled himself to better keep an eye on Fanny. She stood outside the door under the portico with Irvine. “But . . .?”

“There have been several men lurking about the laboratory. James Lazar, my research partner, shooed them off again yesterday. One never knows—a good
deal of industrial thievery about—crackpots everywhere.”

“Are your facilities hereabouts, Mr. Poole?”

“Why, I’m in research, Detective Lewis—at University, here in town.”

“Would you mind if Miss Greyville-Nugent and I pay a call tomorrow? Say, late afternoon?”

The man positively beamed—or was that a sign of relief? “Stay to your right, third building west of McEwan Hall.”

“Look forward to it.” Rafe accompanied Poole out the entry and took up a spot beside Fanny—and a visibly disgruntled Nigel. “Why is he still here? What am I to make of this, Fanny?” Nigel whined.

“Make nothing of it,” Fanny cajoled. “Now please, Nigel, say good night.”

Rafe nodded affably. “Yes, please do say good night.”

Nigel donned his hat, directing a warning glare at Rafe. “Contact me at once, should there be any trouble.”

“Pishposh, Nigel, I expect no difficulties.” Her scoff was gentle, though she firmly turned him toward his waiting carriage.

Rafe sidled closer. “Do you find that sneery, petulant look of his attractive?”

Fanny nodded to the last of her guests and exhaled a breath. “If you must know, I do not.”

He followed her back inside to a set of mullioned doors that opened onto a formal garden. The silver cast to the sky had deepened into evening. Fanny stood with her nose to the squares of glass. A new flush of
rose blooms was on dazzling display in the twilight. Rafe reached around her and pressed the latch of the door. Almost at once a myriad of spicy lemony scents drifted inside the house.

Rafe inhaled deeply. “Intoxicating, is it not?” He glimpsed a pretty upturn of lips before she caught herself and turned to him. “Am I to have a room made up for you?”

“I won’t require a room—perhaps just a place to wash up. I would like to have a look at your bedchamber.” He cleared his throat. “We are fairly certain the London victim was abducted in the middle of the night.”

A bit dazed, Fanny turned up the stairs and stopped. “And where, might I ask, will you be sleeping?”

Chapter Four

“W
ake up, sir.” A tentative prod to his shoulder nudged an eye open. His gaze traced the intricate designs of a Persian carpet and a curved leg of a gleaming side table, then settled on a lone Chinese vase.

Rafe sat up straight and blinked. He was in the Greyville-Nugent town house. Balancing a breakfast tray on her hip, the young maid viewed him curiously. “Miss Francine will be needing her chocolate, sir.”

Stiff from sleep, Rafe ordered his body out of the chair blocking the entrance to Fanny’s bedchamber. “Let me carry that.”

“Oh no, sir—” Rafe whisked the tray out of the maid’s hands as she protested, “Please, sir.” The girl trailed behind him into the bedchamber. He set the tray beside a pale yellow striped chaise and pulled back the drapes. From the amount of light streaming into the room, he wagered it was late morning.

Straightaway, he inspected every corner and headed for the carved four-poster in the center of the room.
Rafe had fought to stay awake last night and obviously lost. It appeared Fanny, as well, had slept in. Had she tossed and turned until sleep gave her welcome rest from her troubled memories? Rafe supplanted a guilty twinge with something chipper. “Good morning, Fanny.”

A shapely lump shifted under the bedcovers. “Get out of my room.” Muffled words grumbled from under the sheets. “I mean it, Rafe.”

Disinclined to back off, he stayed to see more. “Just making sure—it is Miss Greyville-Nugent I’m speaking with?”

“Rafe.” A flutter of bed linens erupted into the air and fell to one side. Fanny propped herself up on her elbows. “Get out!” A head of tousled brown curls framed rosy cheeks, fresh from sleep. Rafe grinned. Every bit as lovely as he remembered, and angry to boot. He’d quite forgotten how stimulating she could be. These past five years, he had neatly tucked her into a corner of his mind and marked the pretty box
out of reach.

Those drowsy brown eyes of hers narrowed as he backed away. “We have quite a day ahead of us, Fan. A full debriefing, a field investigation or two—”

He dodged a pillow as he checked his pocket watch. “Good God, nearly noon. It appears we’ve slept the morning away. We’ll reconnoiter downstairs within the half hour.”

The little maid ushered him out the door. “I’ll do what I can, sir.”

The carriage was waiting by the time Fanny arrived in the dining room. Pocketing a hard-boiled egg, a slice of
ham, and a buttered bun, he took Miss Greyville-Nugent by the arm. “Sorry about the rush. We’re a good bit behind schedule today.” Once they were settled in the carriage, he unwrapped the napkin he’d placed on her lap.

Her gaze stabbed at Rafe, then the breakfast below. With brows furrowed and her mouth in a pout, she lifted off the top of the lopsided sandwich. “What is it?”

“Egg and ham on a bun.” Rafe took out a penknife and arranged slices of egg on the ham, then replaced the top half of the bun. “I have one most every morning on my way into Whitehall.”

Gingerly, Fanny picked up the lot and bit into the warm bread. After several bites, she made eye contact again. “Would you mind telling me what the schedule is, and why it is so important I come along?”

“If you can think of another way to guard a person while simultaneously conducting a homicide investigation, please do share. In fact, Scotland Yard would be most interested in any advice you might wish to—”

“I take your point, Rafe.” She chewed and glared.

“Cheer up, Fan. The sooner we get to the bottom of all this, one way or the other, the sooner I’ll be gone—out of your life.”

The remark appeared to perk up her appetite. “This is actually quite good.” And he was content to watch her devour the food in silence.

As for their itinerary, he wasn’t about to discuss their first stop. They made excellent time to East Lothian while she broke her fast. He mentioned neither the mill nor the granary until they reached Preston.

Fanny quickly realized where they were headed. “Scene of the crime, isn’t that what you blokes call it?” Folding up the cloth square, she looked a bit pale. Rafe suddenly felt awful for her.

“I take it you are familiar with your father’s demonstration methods?”

Her gaze roamed out the window and back. “Father so loved to show off his new thresher.”

The carriage slowed as they approached the mill operation. A jumble of stone towers and wooden sheds surrounded a brick-paved yard. Rafe reached for her hand to help her down from the carriage. He caught a glimpse of white fingers through the crochet-work of her gloves.

“You don’t have to go inside, Fanny.”

“You said it yourself: the sooner we set aside the notion that Father was murdered, the sooner you’ll be gone. Isn’t that right?”

They intercepted a mill foreman crossing the yard who did not seem much inclined to show them anything until Rafe handed over his card. “Scotland Yard now, is it?”

The wiry gent walked off toward a barn-sized building. “Name’s Jack Gordon. Ye coming or no?” Gordon rolled back one of the large doors. “Local police took several looks about—after the machine ground him up. What makes—”

“Watch your tongue, Mr. Gordon. This is Miss Greyville-Nugent.”

The foreman removed his cap. Rafe counted ten or twelve hairs on the top of the bowed head. “Beggin’ your forgiveness, miss.”

Fanny stepped around both men, a determined set to her jaw. “Apology accepted, Mr. Gordon.”

Rafe caught her by the arm. “Let me have a look.”

“Don’t mollycoddle me, Rafe.” She pulled away.

He held on tighter. “Let me go first. Please, Fan?”

She stared for a long moment. “Have it your way, Detective.”

Gordon led Rafe into the shadows of the oversized shed. The ceiling was high pitched with a loft that ran the length of building. “Just as well the little lady stays behind. Bloodstains are stubborn. You’ll see them about—like that one there on the floor.”

Rafe stared at the large rust-colored blotch. “This is where”—he lowered onto his haunches—“the apparatus was?”

“Threshing machine sat right about there, sir.”

“Mr. Greyville-Nugent was up above, with a good-sized haystack behind him, pitching the sheaves into the machine. He turns back for another fork, swings himself about, and straight into the thresher below.”

“He lost his balance.”

Jack Gordon shrugged bony shoulders. “No one else up there with him. Hardly a breeze blowin’ through the shed. Can’t think of another reason, can you, sir?”

“Mr. Gordon, would you mind telling me why these crates are up here?” The familiar voice came from the second floor.

He craned his neck. “Fanny, I thought we agreed—”

“We agreed you could go first.” Her grin sobered. “Join me in the hayloft, gentlemen?”

He and Gordon scrambled up a steep set of stairs and found her sitting upon a medium-sized wooden box beside a very large crate. “Is it possible the wheat was piled here, Mr. Gordon? Exactly where I’m sitting?”

The man leaned sideways to have a look below. “Seems about right, miss.”

Fanny stood up and moved to the end of the very large crate and tugged. The end of the crate swung open.

Rafe stepped closer. “Blimey, Fan.” He crouched down to fit inside the empty crate. A whiff of urine and cigarette butts and something else. He spied a long oarlike pole, the length of the enclosure. He ran his finger along a thin horizontal window at the end of the crate. Smooth. Cut to look as though a slat was missing.

Fanny poked her head inside. “What do think, Detective Lewis?”

Rafe crawled out from the crate, clapping bits of chaff off his hands and clothes. “I’d much rather hear you speculate on the matter.”

“It looks to me as if someone hid inside this shipping box.” Fanny paced a small circle, her eyes alive and glistening. “Whoever it was could have paid a crew of workers to cover the crate with sheaves.”

Rafe turned to Gordon. “Do you recall how and when the wheat was brought in?”

“Why, that very morning, sir—let the workers in myself. Said they was from the factory—had no reason to doubt them.”

Rafe returned his gaze to Fanny. “Proceed, Miss Investigator.”

She frowned. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Most certainly not.”

Fanny slanted her eyes but continued. “Someone sitting inside this box could have maneuvered that long stick—sweeping the pole back and forth, clearing a small patch, enough to see . . . Father.” When the words caught in her throat, Rafe jumped in.

“To prove the young lady’s point, all that remains to be seen is whether the bloody poker might reach someone standing near the edge of the loft.” He dove back inside the box and slid the oarlike instrument through the slim opening. He pictured Ambrose forking the grain over the side. Each sheaf lifted from the stack would have made it easier to slide the pole through the heavy bundles of stalks.

He poked his head out the crate. “Mr. Gordon, might you take up Mr. Greyville-Nugent’s position?”

Somewhat warily the foreman moved to the edge of the platform. Rafe peered out the slit in the crate and extended the pole until it brushed against Gordon’s pant leg. He rested the end of the stick on the edge of the opening and joined Gordon and Fanny at the loft edge.

Rafe lifted the pole to the back of the foreman’s knee, while he narrated the reenactment. “Ambrose forks up a load, swings around, someone pokes him on his weight-bearing leg—right there at the back of the knee—Hold on to him, Fanny.” He pressed the pole sharply to the back of Gordon’s knee, which immediately gave way. “Over he goes.” Rafe choked on his own words, harsh from chaff dust.