by L G Rollins
“You didn’t . . .” Tressa’s pace slowed. “I always thought you just didn’t want to spend that much time in the same space as me.”
He laughed and looped his arm over her shoulders. “Are you kidding me? I’ve missed you.” He gave her a gentle squeeze.
Tressa didn’t know how to respond. He’d always been more apt to speak of feelings and such. Still, this was cavalier, even for him.
“That was good of you to give that boy so much.” It was all she could think to say.
Jasper’s smile grew sad. “You’re not the only one who remembers those days.” Then the solemnity was gone, and with a grin, he skipped ahead and held the door to the police station open. “Ladies first.” With an overt swish of his hand, he gave her an exaggerated bow.
She twisted her lips to the side and shook her head as she walked by him. Though Jasper was quite grown up, he was still flighty and prone to fancy as ever before. Still, she’d come home to find he had also developed a sound business mind and a generous heart. He was making good money with his art—excepting his photographs. Even after their long discussion the night before, she wasn’t any closer to convincing him to sell those.
“Miss Wimple?”
Tressa paused just inside the door—no one had called her Miss for decades. The speaker jogged up to her—a short man with far-too-long chops growing down the sides of his face. Tressa would never understand that hair style choice. He held a pad of paper in one hand and a mechanical pen in the other.
“That’s Seawoman Wimple,” her brother corrected. Though Tressa wasn’t currently employed aboard a submarine, Jasper was eminently proud of her previous title and still insisted on using it. “You don’t stop calling a man doctor just because he’s moved and hasn’t set up a practice yet,” Jasper had explained to her a couple of days previous. He called her “Seawoman” and made sure everyone else did as well.
The man barely spared Jasper the smallest of glances before he hurried on. “I’m with the The Courier, ma’am. Is it true you plan to bequeath Westwood Orphanage with a lifetime’s worth of money?”
Well, that was a bit of an exaggeration. It was enough that she could live comfortably for a while, but she would hate to make it stretch an entire lifetime. More importantly, who leaked her plans? It was probably Mr. Clark, the large-bellied fool.
“No comment at this time,” she said and stepped further into the station.
The reported made as though to follow, but Jasper put a hand to the short man’s chest. “No comment. Is that clear?”
The short man glanced up at Jasper—scowling, and suddenly menacing—then nodded and moved back outside.
“I see you haven’t forgotten how to be intimidating,” Tressa whispered to her brother.
He gave her a wink. “It’s like an old, favorite paint brush—you might not need it much, but it’s certainly worth keeping around just in case.”
She could appreciate the analogy, even if she’d never owned a paintbrush in her life. Knowing how to intimidate was a crucial skill when living on the street, or in a place like Westwood. It had certainly aided her in her career as well.
The police station was spartan in its decor. A few chairs for those waiting, a desk, and a solitary sour-faced officer behind it. No plants, no drapery over the single window. No nonsense. Tressa rested her hands against her hips. It was an act meant to prevent them from clenching tight; she still felt they ought to bequeath her funds to Westwood immediately. The influx of money might allow the orphanage to better secure its property, staying off further vandalism. But, after decades at sea, she also knew how to follow orders, even those she didn’t agree with.
“Mr. and Seawoman Wimple to see Constable Michaels,” Jasper said to the officer.
He glared, first at Jasper and then at Tressa. “Fine.” Without another word, he stood and disappeared into a back room.
Yes, Tressa hated that those orders now came from Mr. Clark. Nonetheless, he was the one running Westwood now. It took her a while after leaving the orphanage, but Tressa had eventually learned that if you wanted anyone to respect your title, you had to respect theirs.
That being said, her orders from Mr. Clark said nothing about sitting around on her hands all day long. Hence, this trip to the station.
Jasper folded his arms and leaned in closer to Tressa. “I should paint him into my next portrait. I can just see that expression on the face of a wrinkled donkey.”
Tressa pressed her lips tighter together to stop the chortle that wanted to burst from her. It wasn’t at all what she had been thinking, but now that Jasper mentioned it, the officer did look remarkably like a stubborn, gray-haired donkey.
“What’s got you two so diverted?”
Tressa turned around. Brox stood smiling in yet another bespoke suit, this one a light brown that set off his the dark blue of his eyes.
Her stomach did that wonderful, flipping thing again. Why was it, now that she was free to pursue a relationship and now that she’d met a fascinating, handsome man, said man only saw her as a good ‘ol pal?
She scowled and looked back toward the empty desk. Once, when Tressa had traveled to India, an old woman had regaled her with stories of destiny and miracles wrought by the gears above which governed all their lives. Well, it seemed the gears above had only one destiny in mind for Tressa, and that was for her to be shoved, quite irrevocably, into the category of a man.
Jasper wasn’t watching her, but she could tell by the tone of his voice that he hadn’t missed her scowl. “We were just comparing certain human faces to animal ones.”
“Oh?” Brox glanced between them both. “Anyone I know?”
“Sorry, old man, you just missed him.” Jasper laughed and placed his elbow against Brox’s shoulder, fake-leaning against Brox with his other hand in his pocket and one leg crossing the other at the ankle. It was a humorous sight since Brox was nearly a head taller than her brother. “You here to demand the Constable do more, too? ’Fraid my sister beat you to it.”
“Actually,” Brox said, “the Constable asked to speak with me.” He faced Tressa. “Have you heard the good news? Tom was sent back to Westwood this morning.”
Tressa tried to smile, but the sudden weight against her chest prevented her lips from turning upward. She ought to feel relief at the news; Tom being well enough to return to the orphanage was the best possible outcome.
And yet, the thought of anyone returning to live there only made her stomach twist.
Brox watched her, his brow slowly dropping. Apparently, her lack of enthusiasm had not gone unnoticed. Brox didn’t speak. Instead he raised an eyebrow in an unspoken question. He seemed to be asking if she was all right.
No one ever asked Tressa if she was all right. She was the older sister, the head engineer, the one in charge of keeping others safe. That he would worry for her was sweet and unexpected.
“Mr. Broxholme.” The sour-faced officer was back and smiling. Though, on him, the usually pleasant expression was almost disturbing. “The Constable can see you now.” He didn’t even acknowledge Tressa or Jasper.
Perhaps she should have worn her seawoman uniform; it wasn’t often someone ignored the sharp, dark blue, copper, and white of her engineering vesture. Tressa pressed past the officer and headed in the direction he’d indicated Brox should go. If the Constable was available to see Brox, then he was available to see her, too.
“Ma’am,” the officer called after her in a far less friendly tone. “You aren’t allowed.”
“Don’t worry,” she heard Brox say. “The Constable will want someone like her focused on this problem.”
Tressa slowed at the compliment. Was that how he truly felt? Normally people were uncomfortable with a woman charging ahead and solving problems.
Brox gave the officer a tip of his hat and hurried up beside her. Then he turned back toward Jasper. “You coming?”
Jasper had the most idiotic grin on his face. “No. I think you two can handle this better
alone.”
Tressa raised an eyebrow. Something about the way he dragged out the word ‘alone’ made her think he wasn’t speaking of them meeting with the Constable.
Jasper threw a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll just go see that Tom has settled in.” Lifting the rolled-up broadsheet to his forehead, Jasper gave them a cockeyed salute, and then sauntered out the door.
CHAPTER SIX
“I want to reassure you both,” the Constable said. “We are committed to apprehending the culprit soon, so that Westwood can continue to care for homeless children.”
Tressa and Brox sat across a wooden desk from him in a small, unadorned room. At least the Constable wasn’t adamantly ignoring Tressa. He seemed to take it for granted that she was to be a useful ally.
“Thank you, sir,” Tressa said. “We are eager to resolve this as well.”
“Indubitably,” he agreed, his white mustache puffing out slightly whenever he spoke. “Which is why I wanted to bring this to your attention.” He pulled out a small envelope and slid it across the table.
Brox reached for it and flipped it over. Nothing was written across the front. Brox opened the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of slightly crumpled paper, which he unfolded.
Words, cut from a broadsheet then pasted together, spelled out the short message:
You need to know Westwood’s secret.
Meet me outside Rayden’s.
Today. Four o’clock.
Tressa leaned back in her chair and wrapped her arms tightly across her chest. Rayden’s was still open? It was hard to believe, but thinking about the old hatter’s shop did little to distract her mind from the other line: Westwood’s secret.
She’d spent over a decade in those halls; Tressa knew all the secrets. She knew that the cook liked to steal scraps from supper and take them home for her own children. She knew that many of the older girls kept the nice ribbons and lace they’d stolen from visiting benefactors in a small box, underneath the floorboard in the attic.
But none of those types of secrets were noteworthy enough to bring to the Constable’s attention. No, there was only one thing the writer could have meant.
The door.
The one that Tressa was trying her hardest not to re-see.
Tressa’s throat felt closed off and she coughed softly a couple of times trying to clear it. Of course, it wasn’t the door itself that created the terror, it was everything the door led to. When Tressa shut her eyes at night, it was often the door and the hallway wall beyond that she saw.
Was the hall still littered with ghostly drawings? In her mind’s eye, she could see so many of them clearly, as though they were before her, even now. The strange shapes drawn by children hoping to distract themselves from the inevitable.
“I assume you’re going.” Brox’s deep timbre brought Tressa back to the present.
She was in the Constable’s office, not in that dark hallway. She would be heading home soon, or at the very least into the daylight, and not marched down the hall.
“Of course.” The Constable rocked back, resting his hands over his amble stomach. “Though I wanted to ask you,” he nodded toward Tressa, “and you, miss. Do you have any idea what the note might be referring to?”
Brox shook his head. “I haven’t the foggiest.”
The Constable turned and looked at Tressa. She should speak up. She should tell him, both of them, where that cursed hallway led.
Tressa tried to open her mouth, but it felt riveted shut.
“I will be better able to cope with this problem if I know all the details,” the Constable said, his tone gentle, but also firm.
This was ridiculous. It was only a hallway. True, it led to hard times, but . . .
But this was childish. She needed to speak up. The Constable was right—he needed all the details.
Before she could speak, her hands began to shake. It felt as though a darkness pressed up and around her. Panic from her childhood welled around Tressa, clawing at her chest and smothering any words which tried to break through.
Tressa met the Constable’s gaze, but only shook her head.
The Constable lifted both hands, palms up. “Well then. I guess I’ll find out soon enough.”
“Excuse me, sir. Would you be opposed to me coming with you?” Tressa blurted out. Now she could speak? Why was it one particular topic had rendered her dumb twice now in as many days? It seemed years away from Westwood had beguiled her into thinking she had come to terms with her childhood experiences. Clearly, she had not. Years of not speaking of her past had only rendered the topic all the harder to speak of.
It didn’t matter, though. The door was closed now—locked up for good. Children were no longer forced to endure what she had.
Tressa needed to know who was behind this most recent claim; she could not let her own struggles interfere with her plan to help the children.
***
Tressa kept her back pressed against the outer wall of the store across the street from Rayden’s. The street was not so popular as it once had been. Where there had once been patrons with coins to spend and not a worry in their heads strolling shoulder to shoulder, now there were but few who walked by. Most of them hurried along with hats pulled low and hands deep in their pockets.
“Our culprit should be here any minute,” Brox whispered from beside her.
Tressa nodded her understanding, fully aware, yet again, of how close he was to her.
After their discussion with the Constable that morning, Brox had agreed to spend the day with her, picking out the best attire to help them blend in as well as find the best hiding location from which to spy on the meeting.
It had been one of the most enjoyable days she’d had in who knew how long.
Tressa had worked alongside many a good-looking man over the years; none of them had brought her the tingling awareness Brox did. There was something about the way he held himself and spoke, something about watching him care for Tom and how they talked over the best ways to guide Westwood in the future. Then there was the way she felt when he offered her his arm or placed his hand against the small of her back.
There was simply no other way to put it. Tressa Wimple was quite taken with Brox.
One of the best things about being in her forties was that Tressa was comfortable with herself in a way she never had been while young. She knew who she was and she didn’t feel the need to prove herself to anyone. In that, Brox was in lock step with her.
She didn’t need Brox in the same way many young ladies proclaimed they needed their beaus. But being around him, she felt happier, more complete. Tressa felt all that, plus the growing desire to press herself up close to him and explore the idea of becoming more than friends.
“Is that Mr. Clark?” Brox whispered in her ear.
Tressa blinked. She’d been staring out at the passersby, yet she’d stopped seeing anything. Sure enough, Mr. Clark strode down the street, glanced once over his shoulder, then ducked inside Rayden’s.
He was the one? Tressa felt her face warming. “That lying, two-faced, jack-a-napes.”
Brox chuckled. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”
The Constable strode out from where he was discreetly standing just around the corner and followed Mr. Clark in.
“And now we wait,” Brox whispered.
Tressa placed her hands on her hips, her lips twisting to the side. She hated waiting. “I’ll give the Constable five minutes, then I’m going in to speak with that idiot myself.”
Brox took hold of her hand, the touch heating her down to her toes. He said something—she heard the words ‘pompous’ and ‘Mr. Clark’ and understood he was jesting with her—but she couldn’t seem to focus on the individual words, only that he was holding her hand, and that it felt incredible.
Mr. Clark burst out of the hat shop doors and stormed down the street. Tressa’s head snapped up and she watched him stalk away. Even from where she stood, Tressa could make out his mutte
red curses.
“Huh,” Brox said. “Doesn’t look like the meeting went as planned.”
It most certainly didn’t. They waited for a moment longer, but still the Constable didn’t emerge.
“I don’t like this,” Brox mumbled.
Tressa nodded. “Let’s go see what actually happened inside.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tressa reached for the doorknob at Rayden’s. She twisted it and gave it a firm tug.
Icy water poured over the top of her head.
Hitting, chilling, splashing, it coursed over her cheeks and down her spine. Tressa froze, stunned. The cold trailed along her arms, her sleeves instantly sticking to her. She sucked in a deep breath, both from the surprise and the cold. Droplets pelted her boots and the ground around her.
Tressa clenched her jaw and looked up. Two large buckets hung suspended from the roof with a fat rope, rigged to spill when the door opened.
She glanced over at Brox. He, too, was dripping from head to toe.
“What in the blazes?” she said, shaking a hand. The gesture only made more water rain onto the ground.
The door flung open and the Constable almost barreled into them, but pulled up short at the last moment.
“Oh, huh.” He glanced first at Brox, then at Tressa, then at Brox again.
“Hello, Constable,” Brox said, his teeth chattering as he tried to shake off some of the water.
Behind them, Tressa could hear the snickering laughter of onlookers. She glanced over her shoulder and glared at them. The street wasn’t crowded, but there were enough people around to make her quite conscious of the fact that she had been made to look a fool. Devil take it, one of them even looked like that reporter from this morning.
Brox ran a hand down his face, scraping off the water there. “You’ll have to excuse us, sir. It seems we’ve been made the brunt of a joke.”
