by Robyn DeHart
“Let me ask you a question, Miss Watersfield,” he said.
A guilty twinge pinched at her gut. Some investigator she was—she should be paying attention to the details of the case, not Inspector Brindley’s fascinating legs.
“Yes,” she managed to say.
“Are there any people on this list you do believe I should regard as a suspect?”
She thought for a moment before answering. “No, I don’t believe there are.”
“I see. So none of the servants are capable of stealing from your father? Nor are any of the guests who frequently view the antiquities? Is that what you’re telling me?”
Ah, good! He understood. Relief washed over her. They would have a splendid working relationship. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
“Who, then, do you believe to be the culprit? Do you believe a stranger wandered into your home undetected, then sneaked out with the antiquity, again undetected?”
She pointed at him. “That is an astute assessment. I do believe you might be on to something, Inspector.”
“Yes.” He stood and walked to the door. “I appreciate your assistance with the list. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have any news.”
He was dismissing her. Again. She knew she was no beauty, but generally men enjoyed her company. Never had she had such a difficult time assessing someone. Just when it seemed she might understand him, she realized she had no grasp of him at all.
She stood, but did not take a step. “Inspector Brindley, I had hoped to assist you in this investigation. I assure you I have experience and would prove quite useful to you.”
“Experience?” Both eyebrows rose. “Might I inquire as to where you gained such experience?”
She should have guessed he’d ask such a question, and now he’d think her a complete ninny. Taking a deep breath, she raised her chin a notch and looked him straight in the eye. “I have yet to read a Sherlock Holmes tale where I did not decipher the mystery right along with the hero. You could say I have a knack for sleuthing.”
“Sleuthing, you say?” She thought she detected a smile, but it was gone as fast at it had appeared. “Yes, well, I’m certain you are quite gifted in the art of solving a fictional mystery; however, this is not fiction. There was a real crime that took place and a real criminal is on the loose. That takes more skillful sleuthing than perhaps you’re accustomed to.”
He was amused, and not with her, but rather at her. She fully realized that most people did not take her seriously. Primarily because most people did not take her father seriously, but this situation was different. She really was skilled in this area, yet the arrogant inspector would not even entertain the possibility.
She could prove him wrong. Solving this case would be simple. She had all the information and contacts she needed. That was all it would take. Once she nabbed the first solid clue, he would change his mind, see that she was a worthy ally, and welcome her assistance.
She finally joined him at the door, then smiled sweetly at him. “I see. Well, I thank you for your forthrightness, Inspector.”
He swallowed visibly. “I shall let you and your father know as soon as I have any information.”
“Good day, sir,” she said, then walked to the hackney.
Rather than return home as she’d planned, Amelia instructed the driver to take her to the London Museum. Monsieur Pitre, the curator, was always a useful source of information.
She wanted to help the inspector with this case, because she longed to solve an authentic mystery. She hoped that working with him would provide her with valuable information for her writing.
But, more than any other reason, she needed to help him solve this case because she would do everything possible to return Nefertiti to her father.
Chapter Three
“This may be some trifling intrigue and I cannot break my other important research for the sake of it.” ~The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist
“What do you think is keeping them?” Amelia asked.
Willow shrugged. “You know those two. They are always getting into trouble. I suspect they’ll be here directly. Tell me about your meeting with the inspector.”
Amelia took a thoughtful sip of tea before continuing. “It was eerie how much his office resembled Sherlock’s. It was so organized. And the books. Oh, Willow, you would have loved all the books. Shelves lined the walls, and the volumes were simply beautiful. He said they weren’t all his, that his father had been an avid reader, but they must mean something to him for him to retain them in his private offices. It is rare to find a man who enjoys reading. They all seem far more interested in hunting and politics.” Willow winced.
Amelia held one hand up. “I know what you’re going to say, Willow, and there’s no need. I do realize that Sherlock is a fictional character, but were he a real man, Inspector Brindley is the perfect resemblance. He even moves like him—controlled yet graceful.” She sighed heavily and sank deeper into the sofa cushions. “He’s mesmerizing.”
Willow placed a hand on Amelia’s knee. “Oh, Amelia, please don’t.”
“Please don’t what?”
“Don’t fancy yourself in love with the inspector. I knew Meg’s suggestion to help with the investigation was a risky one.” Willow clicked her tongue, then shook her head. “She and Charlotte simply don’t realize how much danger your heart is in. Don’t you remember how you felt when Ralph Lyncroft did not return your romantic interest?”
Amelia bristled. She wasn’t a silly schoolgirl. “I was fourteen, Willow. It was a foolish fancy, and yes, I was hurt, but it didn’t take me all that long to forget him.”
And she didn’t fancy Inspector Brindley. Well, perhaps she did a little, but that did not mean her heart was at risk. She could certainly keep things under control.
“You need not worry about my heart. This is a business situation and nothing more.”
“Perhaps you can fool yourself with those words, but I am not as easily persuaded. You’ve fancied yourself in love with Sherlock Holmes since the very first story. Meeting what appears to be your literary hero come to life is quite dangerous to your heart.” She squeezed Amelia’s hand and gave her a gentle smile. “I only want you to be careful.”
And that was the honest truth. As critical as she sounded, her concerns were based completely on love. Amelia squeezed her hand in return to assure her all was well.
“I appreciate your concern, but it is unnecessary,” Amelia said. “First of all, the kindly inspector is not interested in my assistance, just as I suspected. And second, I have outgrown my silly infatuation with Sherlock, so it is unlikely that any such feelings will develop for Inspector Brindley.”
Willow shook her head.
“Do you believe I am over my infatuation with Sherlock?”
Willow smiled. “No. But I am encouraged to hear you are working on it. I simply don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I know that. And I appreciate your concern. And none of this might even be an issue. As I mentioned before, I might not be working with him at all.”
“Why are you so certain he is not interested in your assistance?”
“He said as much. He doesn’t seem to agree that my skill in solving, as he put it, ‘fictional cases’ prepares me for actual crimes.”
“That is an interesting point, though I’m not certain I agree. However, I still don’t think you working with him is a good idea. I realize that your reputation has never been much of a concern for you, but you should still consider it to some degree.”
“I simply don’t see the point in being all that careful with my reputation. Let us face the truth, Willow, I am on the shelf. No decent man wants to marry a woman of my age. Besides, everyone believes my father is nutty, and despite our small fortune, men seem uninterested in me.”
It was certainly not the life she’d imagined, but fate had determined she would not marry, and therefore she would accept that. There was no sense in feeling sorry for herself.
Surely life could be as fulfilling without a husband and children.
“I should embrace spinsterhood and become as eccentric as Lady McWilliams,” she said.
“As long as you don’t start wearing live birds in your bonnets, I believe you’ll be fine,” Willow added with a smile.
Amelia giggled. “Do you believe that rumor is true?”
“Charlotte swears she heard it directly from the milliner’s mouth.” Willow shrugged. “But we both know that Charlotte is skilled at exaggerating situations.”
“Perhaps she should be the writer.” Amelia picked at an uneven fingernail, then ventured, “Am I fooling myself? Should I simply forget this silliness and take up gardening?”
“You loathe gardening, so no. Besides, you’re not any good at it. But you are a good writer. You simply need to work on your confidence. Surely Mr. Doyle did not rush right into the world of publishing. He probably has a drawer full of unfinished works that will never see the light of day.”
“You really think so?”
“Absolutely. Write your stories—they’re all up in your head. You can worry about the intricacies of detecting later. Perhaps if you cannot assist Inspector Brindley, you can at least ask him some vital questions at the conclusion of this case.”
Amelia nodded in agreement. The truth was, she wanted to help him. Wanted to live out one actual adventure before she could only experience them through her fictional ones.
The trick now was to discover how to convince the independent inspector that he needed her help. Perhaps the information she’d gathered would help persuade him.
Surely that would convince him. Yes, she would go see him again this afternoon.
Then the door burst open and Charlotte and Meg practically fell inside, all the while giggling. Meg straightened her skirts and tried to look serious.
“It’s her fault we’re late,” she said, pointing at Charlotte.
At which point they both started laughing again. They made their way to their seats and collapsed.
“What happened to you two?” Amelia asked.
Meg put on a serious face before she spoke. “It was nothing, really, simply a mild encounter with some of the men working at my father’s confectionery.”
“Mild encounter?” Amelia asked.
Charlotte released a low giggle. “There is a new factory worker—”
“Not another one,” Willow said before Charlotte could finish.
“Yes another one,” Charlotte confirmed.
“Honestly, Meg, how many of your father’s workers are you going to pine for?” Amelia asked. For the time being she was glad to have the focus elsewhere rather than on her and her slight interest in Inspector Brindley. Poor Meg had a history of fancying the men in her father’s employment. Men that were not precisely in the social status where Meg should look for a husband.
“So,” Charlotte continued, “Meg was flirting outrageously with the new one and got her skirts all tangled and fell right against him—knocking him straight to the ground. Then she simply lay there.” Charlotte threw her arms up. “On top of him, as if she had no good sense.”
Amelia glanced at Meg to see how she was faring with Charlotte’s tale of the afternoon’s events. Instead of blushing with embarrassment, she grinned unabashedly.
“I snatched her up, though, pulled her right off of him. He seemed rather annoyed, if truth be told.”
Meg frowned. “Yes, he’s a different sort. Quiet and peevish.” She shrugged. “I simply cannot figure him out.” She held one finger up. “But I shall.”
“You really ought to be more careful,” Willow warned. “Not all men are such gentlemen.”
“Duly noted, Willow. I shall endeavor to be more careful,” Meg said, then turned her attention to Amelia. “Before we begin, how is the investigation progressing?”
“I am still working on persuading the good inspector that he needs an assistant,” Amelia said.
“He is reluctant?” Charlotte asked.
“Fiercely independent,” Amelia said. “But I have spoken to two people who have offered to give me information should they discover any. I’m hoping that will change his mind. I’ll visit his offices this afternoon.”
“Best of luck, then,” Charlotte said. “I’m certain he will realize your value in due time.”
Amelia certainly hoped her friend was right. Her information was ambiguous at best. But hopefully it was enough to persuade Inspector Brindley that he could use her help. If not, she would simply make herself a nuisance until he agreed.
“Have any of you discovered anything new with regard to the Jack of Hearts?” Amelia asked.
“I spoke with Millicent,” Willow said. “I decided I would be the safest ally, considering her feelings towards Charlotte. She didn’t have anything of substance to provide. Merely offered her own speculations about the thief.”
“Which were?” Charlotte asked.
Willow rolled her eyes. “She suspects her cousin George.”
“Didn’t she once accuse him of stealing her hairpins?” Meg asked.
“Precisely. Clearly, Millicent has some sort of vendetta against her cousin. Needless to say, it wasn’t helpful, but she assured me she’d let me know if she heard anything.”
“I’ve been watching the papers,” Charlotte said. “They haven’t printed anything about him in over a week.
“Perhaps he was caught,” Meg said.
“That would be a shame,” Charlotte said.
Willow tossed her arms up. “Oh, honestly.”
“Keep your eyes and ears open and write down anything that might be of interest regarding this case,” Amelia said. “If nothing else is printed, we shall assume he has been caught. But something tells me he’s only just begun.”
After Amelia’s friends had left, she went upstairs to check on her father. He still had not left his bedchamber and Amelia was at a loss for what to do.
She knocked on the door and heard him say something softly, but it was too quiet to decipher, so she simply let herself in.
“Papa? How are you feeling today?” she asked.
He turned from the window to face her, but did not respond.
It pained her to see him this way. She felt so helpless. “Would you like me to bring you anything? Or I could have your favorite meal prepared tonight. Would you like that?”
“I’m not hungry,” he said.
“Oh, but you must be. You hardly touched your breakfast.” She went over to him and draped her arm across his shoulders. “You must eat something. Promise me.” She tilted his head so she could look him in the eye.
He blinked, then nodded. “I promise.”
“Excellent. Would you like to join me in the dining room this evening?”
“No, I prefer to stay in here.”
“Very well.” She would not allow him to stay up here much longer. He would waste away to nothing. She’d almost lost him that way after her mother died, and she would not risk it again.
“I am going out in a bit, to meet with Inspector Brindley. We’ve had a few new advancements in the case.”
“That’s good, my dear,” he said.
She squeezed him to her. “I shall find her, Papa, and I shall bring her back to you.” It was a promise she fully intended to keep.
The doorbell sounded, and Colin nearly spilled ink all over himself. He was not ordinarily so jumpy, but ever since meeting Miss Watersfield, he’d felt on edge—as if his skin had actually grown thinner, which he knew could not be true.
His research was vastly more important than whoever beckoned. He would ignore them.
Bloody bell.
Clearly whomever it was had no intention of leaving. He wiped his hands on a nearby rag and stomped toward the door, muttering to himself. He’d have to keep that in check lest people think he’d gone mad. Then again, aside from the current pest, there were rarely people around to hear his muttering.
“I’m coming,” he said loudly enough for them to hear. He
was about to say something foul when he opened the door and saw who was there. He cleared his throat. “Miss Watersfield.”
“I’m sorry to have bothered you, Inspector, but I discovered a bit of information I thought might interest you.”
Her voice was intoxicating. He tried to determine precisely what made it so. The way her mouth rounded on the vowels? Or was it the soft lilt of her consonants? It was hard to deduce.
“Inspector? Might I come in?”
“Yes, of course.” He stood to the side and allowed her entrance, then watched her blue-ruffled bustle saunter right past him. She wasn’t particularly graceful, but she seemed at ease with herself and those around her. She possessed a subtle confidence, a trait most people did not acquire until late in life. It was an attractive quality. Perhaps the very thing about her, above all others, that piqued his interest the most.
“So how is the investigation progressing, Inspector?”
That sounded as if it might have been a question. But he’d been so engrossed in his thoughts—about her, no less—that he hadn’t been paying attention. Rather than answer her, he merely met her gaze and nodded. It was a tactic that generally worked with people. He’d discovered long ago that most people talked to enjoy their own words, having so little interest in what others had to say, so they rarely required verbal answers to their questions.
She smiled sweetly. “You’re a man of few words. It is certainly something I will have to accustom myself to, as my father and I both are incessant chatterers. It drove my mother absolutely batty.” Her brow furrowed slightly. “My friends are rather chatty, too, now that I think about it. Are you the quiet one in your group of friends?” she inquired.
She was too distracting. Not even ten minutes here and he was already sucked into her colorful presence. “I don’t have friends. And I don’t mean to be rude, but I am rather busy.”
“Oh, I see.”
Well, at least she had some intelligence to her and knew when it was time to cease bothering him and get on her way. He took a step back toward the door.
