Laura Lee Guhrke (6 page)

He frowned, thinking of what his friends had laughingly said to him. They were dead wrong, of course. All his life he’d wanted a family of his own. He’d love to have sons he could take to Lincoln’s Inn Fields for football, daughters he could spoil and protect. He’d love to come home to the scent of dinner cooking and one woman’s welcoming arms. He’d love to be tied down and fenced in—to the right woman, his kind of woman.

She didn’t have to be beautiful, but he had to feel something twist his guts when he looked at her, a feeling that made him want to ravish her even if they were in a room full of people. He wanted a woman who didn’t nag if he forgot her birthday, didn’t fuss if he had a pint or two with the lads, and didn’t hate the smell of cigars. He wanted a woman who loved children and loved making them. He wanted a woman who was quiet, elegant, and self-contained, except in bed. Most important, he wanted a woman who didn’t try to turn him inside out to find out everything he’d
ever said or done or felt or thought. Even a wife didn’t get that privilege.

Yes, Mick knew exactly what kind of woman was perfect for him. He just couldn’t seem to find her.

Annie came up beside his chair, breaking into his thoughts as she set a plate in front of him that contained his steak and chips. Beside it, she set down a fresh pint of ale.

“Now that,” he said, “is what I like.”

“You might be liking this better.” She slid onto his lap with a flirtatious smile. “Happy birthday, Mick.”

She slid her arms around his neck and pulled him close, then gave him the longest, most passionate kiss the White Horse Pub had ever seen. At the touch of her lips, Mick forgot about what kind of wife he wanted, how quickly life was passing him by, and how lousy it felt to turn thirty-six.

Mick’s flat was in Maiden Lane, an easy walk from the White Horse if he cut across Victoria Embankment. Sophie Haversham’s warning notwithstanding, Mick had no intention of taking a longer route. He passed Cleopatra’s Needle, made his way through a shrubbery, and started down the path through the moonlit gardens with a smile that widened as he approached the statue of Robert Burns. If thugs were going to jump out and murder him, they’d better do it soon.

He turned his head to give the poet a mock salute as he passed, and in that instant, he caught a glimpse of a small, dark figure stepping out from behind the statue. He saw the quicksilver flash of gunmetal in the moonlight.

Mick dove toward the ground just as the shot was fired, sending the gravel of the path spraying in all directions. He rolled into the herbaceous border that lined the walkway, flattening most of the flowers in the process, and ducked into a thicket of rhododendrons.

But his efforts to avoid getting shot at again proved unnecessary. He heard no more bullets fire. When he chanced a look between the shrubs, he saw no one. There was no dark, cloaked figure peeping at him from behind the statue waiting for another opportunity. His assailant had fled.

Mick’s gaze scanned the gardens, but he had no indication of which direction the fellow had gone. Though the moon was bright enough that he might discern that information from footprints in the grass, he didn’t want to give the man another opportunity to take a shot at him from the thick groves of trees and shrubs all around.

If it had been a man. Mick took several deep breaths, reliving the past few moments, focusing on the brief glimpse he’d had of his assailant. Small for a man, swathed in a long, hooded black cloak like some unearthly apparition from a Dickens story. It could have been a man or a woman. There was no way to know.

The gun had been a small-caliber weapon. Mick knew that from the sound of the shot, a popping sound like a champagne cork, the sound that came from the sort of gun a woman might use, one of those pretty little pearl-handled pistols jewelers sold to society women for twice the price of an ordinary gun. A gun that looked like a toy but was not a toy.

Mick combed his fingers through his hair, took another deep breath, and started home. One thing was certain. Sophie Haversham’s visit to the Yard no longer seemed like a joke. She’d known about tonight’s events. Perhaps she had overheard something, or perhaps she knew the killer. Despite her soft, dithery manner and big brown eyes, Sophie Haversham was not so innocent as she seemed.

He was going to find out what she knew, how she knew it, and why she had chosen to warn him. He was going to turn her inside out and find out everything about her. Including whether or not she owned a little pearl-handled pistol.

Three
 

Sophie paid little attention to the conversation around her at dinner that evening. Unable to eat, she toyed with the food on her plate, her worry growing with every tick of the clock.

It wasn’t as if she could go to Victoria Embankment Gardens now; a London park at night was too dangerous. The murder might not happen tonight, in any case. It might be tomorrow, or the day after or next week. There was no way to know, and she couldn’t very well camp out in the Embankment like a gypsy.

He was a policeman, after all, she reminded herself. Big and strong and well able to protect himself, now that she had warned him. But his laughing face came before her eyes again, reminding her that her warning had done no good. He thought it a joke.

A joke. God in heaven.

Sophie tossed aside her dinner napkin and stood up. Her abrupt movement brought an immediate halt to the conversation, and the other five people at the table stared at her in surprise.

“Sophie?” Violet frowned with concern. “You’re looking peaked again, as if you’re going to faint. You always look that way when you’re seeing things. Have you had another premonition about that policeman?”

“I can’t stand it, Auntie. I must do something.”

“But darling, you’ve warned the man. What else can you possibly do?”

An idea came to her in a flash of inspiration. “I think I’ll pay a call on him, just to make certain that he got safely home.”

“Now?” Miss Peabody glanced at the darkened window of the dining room. “Is that wise?”

“No, it is not,” Miss Atwood answered for her. “Sophie, you don’t even know where the man lives.”

“I’ll go to Scotland Yard and find out where he lives. I just need to satisfy myself that he’s all right.”

“Well, you can’t go alone.” Colonel Abercrombie stood up. “I’ll go with you.”

Sophie appreciated his gallantry, but she knew that wouldn’t do. The colonel was seventy-six, and though he might have faced down wild tigers and rebel outbreaks in India many years ago, he wasn’t up to adventures now. She smiled at him and shook her head. “And have you miss your game of dominoes with Mr. Shelton? It’s Friday and you always go to Mr. Shelton’s on Friday nights while the ladies have their meeting. I couldn’t let you miss it.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Dawes
move to stand up. Unable to tolerate the thought of being trapped in a carriage with him and analyzed as if her psychic ability were some sort of fascinating disease, Sophie spoke quickly to forestall his impending offer to accompany her. “I’ll take Grimstock.”

She turned to the butler, who was standing by with a tray, ready to take away the dinner plates. “You’ll come, won’t you?”

The butler hesitated, and Sophie immediately understood the reason why. Though he no longer had anything to fear from the law, the mention of police was still enough to make him uneasy.

“Don’t know why you’re going to all this trouble for a copper,” he mumbled. “They’re ones can watch out for themselves.”

Sophie didn’t answer; she simply waited. Grimstock sighed and gave in to the inevitable. “Of course I’ll go with you, Miss Sophie.” He set the tray on the plum-colored mahogany sideboard. “You’ll be wanting a hansom.”

“Yes, we’ll need a cab. And speak with Hannah, would you? Auntie’s friends from the society are coming in half an hour for their meeting. Hannah will have to serve dessert on her own, since you’re coming with me.”

These necessities accomplished, Sophie and the butler set out. Their first call was at Scotland Yard. While Grimstock waited in the carriage outside, Sophie obtained Inspector Dunbar’s address from a night constable, and soon they were at the detective’s lodgings, a somewhat dingy house near Covent Garden.

She turned to the butler. “I’ll just make certain he’s
come in.” She paused, giving him a dubious look. “I think perhaps it would be best if you waited here.”

Grimstock was obviously relieved. “Thank you, Miss Sophie. I think so, too.”

Sophie stepped down from the carriage and walked up to the house. Praying she would find the police inspector home safe and sound, she tapped the brass knocker. Inside the house a dog began to bark, and after several moments, the door was opened by a stout woman in black crepe who carried an oil lamp in her hand.

Peering at Sophie from behind the shelter of the woman’s skirts was a Pekingese that now growled at her with a ferocity that was almost comical, given the animal’s small size. It was not, Sophie knew, a nice dog. She suspected it had the tendency to bite any ankle within close proximity.

“Nanki Poo,” the woman admonished in a cooing voice, bending to lift her pet with one hand. After tucking the Pekingese into the crook of her arm, she held the lamp higher and gazed at Sophie in some surprise. “Yes, miss? You be wanting a room?”

“No, thank you. I’m looking for someone.” Sophie gave the woman her most charming smile. “Detective Inspector Dunbar.”

The mention of his name caused the woman to scowl quite belligerently, and the dog gave another low growl.

“What you be wanting ’im for?” The woman looked her up and down with an appraising eye. “’e’s one for the gels, but you don’t look ’is sort, dearie.”

Realizing what she meant, what she must be thinking,
Sophie was mortified. She hastily invented an explanation. “He promised a subscription for our dear missionaries in Africa. Half a crown, and I’ve come to see if I might collect it.”

“Did ’e now? Fancy that. Willing to give to church charities, but not to find a poor, kidnaped dog for ’is own landlady. There I was, worrying all the day over Nanki Poo’s disappearance, and ’e wouldn’t do a thing to ’elp.”

Sophie studied the Pekingese for a moment. She could have told the landlady her dog had not been kidnaped but had simply wanted to romp with the pretty little terrier around the corner, but she refrained. “How dreadful for you, but you must have felt so relieved when he was returned unharmed. You must tell me all about it.” Before the woman could do that very thing, Sophie went on, “Could I possibly see Inspector Dunbar? I have so many houses left to visit, and it’s getting quite late.”

“Well, miss, ’e’s not in yet. Off in some pub, I’m sure.”

She might be sure, but Sophie wasn’t. He could very well be dead. “Oh dear. I was hoping to find him in this evening. I—”

“Looks as if you’ll be getting your wish, dearie,” the landlady interrupted her. “That’s ’im coming up the street.”

Sophie turned, watching as a man came along the sidewalk toward them. The tall form of Inspector Dunbar was unmistakable, and Sophie grasped the doorjamb, weak with relief. He was alive, and he appeared to be unharmed. Furthermore, she could see
the aura of soft golden light that surrounded him. Somehow, the danger had passed.

He caught sight of her standing on the front steps of his lodging house and paused for a moment beneath the streetlamp, looking at her. The lamplight caught on the glints of silver in his dark hair and showed the lines of anger in his lean face. Sophie felt the heat of that anger directed at her like the blast of a coal furnace, though she could not sense the reason for it.

Her relief that he was alive disintegrated, and she glanced at the hansom, but it was too late to make a hasty departure. He was already between her and the cab, and only a few more steps brought him to her side. “Just the woman I wish to see.” He curled his hand beneath her elbow in a viselike grip, demonstrating to her quite clearly the strength he possessed. “Come with me.”

He started pulling Sophie through the doorway, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Grimstock jump out of the carriage with his fists clenched, ready to come to her aid.

“It’s all right,” she called to him as the detective pulled her through the doorway of the lodging house. The last thing she needed was for Grimstock to get arrested for assaulting a policeman. “Stay here,” she ordered. “I’ll be right back.”

Inspector Dunbar dragged her through the doorway and kicked the door shut behind him. He gave his landlady a brief nod as he started for the stairs with Sophie in tow. “Mrs. Tribble, I see that Nanki Poo is home safe and sound.”

“Aye, and no thanks to you,” she called after him as
he pulled Sophie up the stairs, “And I run a respectable ’ouse, Mr. Dunbar. Missionaries, indeed!”

The meaning of the landlady’s words was not lost on Sophie. She tried to jerk free of the inspector’s hold, but it was useless. When he reached the top of the stairs, he pulled her down a dark hallway. Still keeping a firm grip on her, he stopped before a door about halfway down the passage and reached into his pocket for his latchkey. He unlocked the door, hauled her inside the room, and shut the door behind them. She heard the slide and click of a bolt locking into place. Only then did he let her go.