The Matchmaker's Lonely Heart

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  “I am not surprised. The doctor presumes you were hit with something akin to a police truncheon.” He touched her arm splint. “Both here and on the side of your head. Do you remember it?”

  She frowned and then closed her eyes. “The last thing I remember was picking up the envelopes on the floor.”

  Michael stilled. “What envelopes on the floor? There were none last night.”

  She opened her eyes. “Probably delivered by the morning post just before I arrived. Slid under the door is my assumption.” Aside from the obvious trauma, she looked exhausted.

  For the moment, he set aside the matter of the envelopes. “Have you had any decent sleep?”

  “A few hours. I suspect I’ll be right as rain after a quick rest.”

  “Just a quick rest?” He smiled. “The doctor will likely insist you remain abed for at least a week.”

  She managed an eye roll before closing them altogether with a grunt of pain. “I have no time for such laziness. I am due back at the Gazette the day after tomorrow.”

  “I am certain your aunt will allow you time away from the office. She should be here any minute, in fact.”

  Miss Hampton’s eyes flew open, and she gasped, whether in pain or dismay, he was unsure. “For goodness sake, we needn’t bother Sally! She is much, much too busy, and I have no need of mollycoddling.” She tried to sit up straight but made pitiful work of it. “Detective, perhaps you might be of assistance—if I could find my way out of here, I will rent a cab to take me home. I still have some coins in my reticule. Where is my reticule?”

  “Miss Hampton, you are not leaving this bed until a doctor declares you fit to do so. Be still, or you’ll only make things worse.” He knew Miss Hampton was stubborn, but not to the point of ignoring an injury. “I will not be of assistance, other than to assure the nurse that you will remain in this bed.” He paused. “Why are you so concerned about bothering your aunt?”

  She sighed, and for the first time since meeting her, he saw her eyes glisten with tears. “She is . . . my aunt is . . .” She muttered something and turned her head, wiping her eye against her shoulder because he still held her free hand. He released it, and she brushed a fingertip across her cheek.

  She sniffled and continued, “My aunt is the most important person in the world to me, aside from Charlotte and Eva. I love my sisters and brother, but Sally is the only one in my life who ever encouraged me to do brave things, extraordinary things. She has never tried to put a muzzle on me, so to speak. Well”—she flushed—“except as it concerns my written responses to some of the Gazette’s subscribers. But that was for the good of the business, not because she felt I was somehow lacking. I believe she feels a responsibility to steer my cousins and me in a traditional direction, and I wish I dared tell her that we only wish to emulate her free spirit.”

  “She must be an amazing woman.”

  “She is.” Miss Hampton nodded. “She is strong and has worked so hard. She took a small inheritance and, with what my father called ‘a gentleman’s business sense,’ doubled her money more than once. I want to be like she is, and I do not imagine she has ever been so foolish as to get herself conked on the head and tied up in a hospital.”

  “Come now, you are hardly tied up.” He smiled.

  She looked at him, tears drying, and her eyes lingered on his face. After a moment, she bit her lip and put her good hand to her hair, looking down at the long strands as though just realizing it was no longer pinned up. He wondered what she was thinking and figured if he waited long enough, she’d blurt it out. It was her usual mode of communication with him, so he was surprised when the nature of her thoughts came through in a cryptic comment.

  “I am feeling unwell.” She glanced at the teacup on the bedside table and grimaced.

  He took in her sudden state of self-consciousness, flushed cheeks, and refusal to meet his eyes. He’d seen such behavior from her before—she grew ill when overcome by nerves in the company of a gentleman she fancied. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling, feeling ridiculously and unexpectedly happy.

  “The nurse spoke of bringing some dry biscuits to settle your stomach, should that happen.” He watched her carefully, feeling like a cad but curious enough to try to confirm his suspicions.

  She puffed air into her cheeks and shook her head infinitesimally. He held her gaze for a long moment before she dropped her eyes and blushed.

  “It is only natural that you would feel ill following a head injury.”

  She bit her lip. “I do not believe that to be the source of my discomfort.” She cleared her throat and scratched a spot behind her ear.

  He forced himself not to grin at her, instead nodding in sympathy. “Of course. I’ll tell the nurse you are not hungry at the moment.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured. “I shall be fine, I’m certain.” Her gaze flicked up at him again and back down to her hands. She picked at a thread on the blanket.

  Absurdly pleased, he took pity on her and tried to direct her attention elsewhere. “You mentioned finding envelopes on the floor in Mr. Stern’s room. Do you know what became of them?”

  She looked at him again, this time her eyes widening. “Oh, yes! I tucked them into my waistcoat.” She looked in confusion around the small room. “Do you know where they have placed my belongings?”

  He gestured to a corner where a bag containing her clothing and possessions had been placed. “Shall I get them for you?”

  “Please.”

  He retrieved the bag and placed it next to her on the bed. She peered inside, and with her one good hand, rummaged for a moment before producing two missives. She handed them to him and tapped the one on top with her fingertip. “See the return address? Why is he corresponding with a boys’ home in Wickelston?”

  “Why, indeed.” Michael looked at the postmark, which was two days old. The other letter bore a return address from a theatre on Drury Lane. “Perhaps he is a patron of the boys’ home? Sends money to support a just cause?”

  “Or perhaps he was raised there.”

  Michael agreed and thought back to the man’s odd conversation with Radcliffe the evening before. “What did he say when he was ‘prognosticating’ for Mr. Radcliffe?”

  “Something about being orphaned, about judgment from small-minded villagers. Mr. Radcliffe claimed to be unfamiliar with such circumstances, and then Mr. Stern claimed to be speaking for himself.”

  Michael placed his fingertip under the seal and unfolded the letter. He scanned the contents, wondering if several puzzle pieces were already falling into place. Miss Hampton watched him intently, and as she’d already become part of the case’s details, he figured there was no harm in sharing the contents of the letter with her. After all, if not for her, they would not have known about the letter at all, let alone be in possession of it. As justifications went, it was as good as any.

  “Reverend Flannery, the headmaster of the boys’ home, wishes Mr. Stern well, is glad to hear from him after such an extended amount of time, says he was not aware Mr. Stern had returned to the country. He says that he has not spoken with Harold Smith in over a year and cannot verify that it was Harold Smith that Mr. Stern saw in a London coffee shop.” Michael scanned the letter, adding, “He concludes by stating he is unable to be of assistance with Mr. Stern’s request, but does wish him well, etcetera, etcetera.”

  “Hmm.” Miss Hampton’s eyes remained on the paper, but unfocused. “Who is this ‘Harold Smith’?”

  “I do not know, but it is interesting that Mr. Radcliffe’s first name is Harold.”

  She blinked. “So it is! Was he raised in a boys’ home after his parents were killed? The impression he gave me was that he’d been older when they died. Could he have adopted a pseudonym upon leaving? Why would he have done so?”

  He nodded. “All questions needing answers. Or it could be that Mr.
Radcliffe is not Mr. Smith at all. Harold is a common name.”

  She nodded. “Which means it could be that Mr. Radcliffe is nothing more than what he appears to be—a man grieving the loss of a young wife.” She paused. “A man in search of another wife with whom to share his life.”

  He watched her, fairly certain he knew where her opinions of Harold Radcliffe now lay, but there remained the smallest doubt. Why it should concern him, other than a general regard for her safety, he couldn’t imagine. What did it matter to him how Miss Amelie Hampton felt about another man? As her eyes met his, he found himself perversely wishing she was again feeling nauseated.

  “Are you ill?” He heard the hopeful note in his voice and almost clapped his palm to his forehead.

  She frowned. “I’m not certain.”

  “Amelie!” A cry at the door filled the room, and they both turned to see Miss Sally Hampton, looking flushed and formidable. “Amelie Hampton, what on earth has happened?”

  Witnesses in an investigation should be questioned objectively, and the officer conducting such is advised to maintain a professional distance to avoid becoming unduly sympathetic to said witness.

  —Detective Handbook for Investigative Procedure

  Michael stood as the elder Miss Hampton entered, struck at the similarity between herself and her niece. He imagined he was seeing Miss Amelie a handful of years into the future. He offered his hand to Miss Sally, who took it in a surprisingly strong grip. She looked from her niece to him and breathed deliberately out of her nose.

  “Amelie, why is the nurse telling me you are in the company of a detective?” She looked at Michael as she asked the question.

  He glanced at Amelie, who opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

  “If I may, Miss Hampton?” He indicated the chair he’d vacated, and as she sat, he retrieved the spare one from the corner. “I am Detective Baker,” he said, opening his jacket to show the badge pinned to his waistcoat. “Your niece has been assisting me in an investigation and, I fear, met with an accident this morning.”

  The woman’s hazel eyes studied him unflinchingly from beneath dark hair that had been cut and styled most fashionably. “Fringe,” his sister called it, and only the boldest of women were brave enough to sport the look. The rest of her hair was styled in a sleek twist that Winston, with his artistic eye, would say showcased her lean cheekbones. That Michael even knew such phrases these days was a testament to life’s strange twists and turns.

  “Detective Baker, I am confused as to the Yard’s sudden need to employ young women to assist with investigations.”

  My, but the woman was direct. He opened his mouth to respond, but Amelie held up her hand.

  “Detective, many thanks to you for attempting to shield me from the consequences of my own folly. Sally, this is a tale with a wide variety of details, many of which I am certain would bore you to tears. Suffice it to say, I embarked on my own this morning in an attempt to gain information about a murder last evening that Eva, Charlotte, and I were witness to.”

  Miss Hampton’s eyes narrowed. “I can guarantee you, dearest, that I am highly unlikely to be bored by any details you clearly wish to avoid. And how is it that you and your cousins were witness to a murder and I am only now hearing of it?”

  Amelie lifted her chin, a gesture Michael was coming to recognize as an infusion of steel. “You are an extraordinarily busy woman, Sally, and we hardly thought it necessary to burden you with trifles.”

  Miss Hampton looked at Michael, her expression flat. “At what point is murder a trifle?” She shook her head. “Never mind. Explain, if you please. Immediately.” As brusque as Miss Hampton’s tone was, it covered a softening in her expression. She placed her hand over Amelie’s restless fingers that were toying with a stray loose thread in the blanket.

  “I am not angry, dearest. I was terrified. What has happened to you? Are you in pain?”

  Amelie took a breath and rubbed her temple with the hand hampered by the splint. She gave her aunt the barest of details about the unfortunate demise of Prospero the Great the night before. She briefly mentioned Eva taking photographs and the fact that she and Charlotte were likely photographing an autopsy at that very moment at St. Vincent’s morgue. At the end, she tacked on a quick, “I do believe Charlotte has developed an interest in anatomy and dissection.”

  Sally Hampton closed her eyes. “Ironic, considering her father is going to have me drawn and quartered.”

  “I hardly think so, Sally. After all, we are becoming Women of—”

  “Independent means, yes, I know.” Miss Hampton sighed. “I know you are not children, and I am aware any one of you could have been married with babies by now. I promised your parents that I would shepherd you in that direction to the best of my abilities, yet it is clear that I am doing a poor job as shepherdess.”

  Amelie lowered her voice. “You would have us avoid the very sorts of things that have shaped you into the person you are?”

  “I have never witnessed a murder.”

  “We didn’t actually witness the act itself,” Amelie admitted. “That was partly what led me to White—well, the part of town I was in.”

  Miss Hampton looked at Michael, who forced himself to meet her direct gaze. “She was in Whitechapel?”

  He cleared his throat. “She was, but I should like to firmly reiterate that she was not there at my directive.” He glanced at Amelie. “Her involvement in the beginning of our association was at my behest, I admit, but it was in a limited capacity. I asked only for an introduction to her book group as a former friend of the family.”

  “When I absolved you of all responsibility, Detective, I did not intend for you to abandon my cause entirely.” Amelie’s eyes narrowed as she spoke, and he felt a surge of guilt he immediately resented.

  Miss Hampton looked at him. “Detective, I shall be certain my niece is sufficiently occupied for the near future. Perhaps you will then be allowed to conduct your investigation in peace.”

  He scratched his neck. “I do not mean to suggest she has not proven her worth immeasurably.”

  “Truly?” Amelie’s eyebrows raised sky high. “Truly.” She nodded. “I provided administrative support after the murder. I had hoped it would prove beneficial to the Yard.”

  “From my preliminary review, I should say it is the most comprehensive analysis I’ve seen produced so quickly after a series of interviews.”

  Amelie gave a small exclamation of delight, quickly followed by a wince and another temple massage.

  Miss Hampton studied him quietly for a moment. “I am certain it’s unnecessary for me to explain that my desire for my nieces’ safety is paramount. That said, however, I have no wish to stifle any opportunities they may have for education and enrichment. I expect that Amelie would be safely protected in the company of a police detective. I would ask that any further ‘help’ you may require of her be something she can do at home, or at least in your presence.”

  “I give you my word, I shall do everything in my power to assure that your nieces are kept safe. It was never my intention to place them in harm’s way. As it happens, I do not anticipate requiring further assistance from them.” He was strangely disappointed, even as he said it.

  “I thought you said Amelie’s administrative help was among the best you’ve seen,” Miss Hampton said. She held her niece’s hand, and the two regarded him as though they were fighting for a cause he had unceremoniously quashed.

  “Miss Hampton, I am confused. I presumed you wished your niece’s activity with the Yard to come to an end.”

  “Well, I would classify ‘to an end’ to be an extreme, Detective. I only want her kept safe.” Miss Hampton gave him an almost-smile. “If Amelie can be of assistance to your efforts, or that of the Yard’s in general, she has my full support.” She looked at her niece. “I simply insist she not go about investiga
ting potentially dangerous situations on her own.”

  Amelie nodded. “You needn’t worry. After this morning, I am quite cured of the urge.”

  The point was irrelevant, anyway. Though she had been useful in documenting Michael’s interviews, Director Ellis was unlikely to approve of her presence with him at crime scenes and while questioning witnesses.

  “Miss Sally Hampton, Miss Amelie Hampton, I must take my leave now. You both have my humblest apologies for any part in today’s misadventures that I may have inadvertently caused.” He looked at Amelie. “I am relieved that you are on the road to recovery. I was quite . . . I was concerned.”

  She smiled, a small one, but it reached her tired eyes. “I am grateful for your timely arrival, Detective. I suspect I owe you my life.”

  Miss Sally Hampton also smiled, and it seemed genuine. “My thanks to you also, Detective Baker.” She rose, and when he stood, she shook his hand. “If there is ever anything I can do to show my gratitude, please do not hesitate to call. I do not reside at Hampton House, but I can usually be reached at the Marriage Gazette.”

  He touched his fingertips to his hat and looked one final time at Amelie, who was watching his exit with large eyes and her lip caught between her teeth. She lifted her fingers in a small wave, and he caught himself just before walking into the doorframe.

  Wondering when he’d become as affected as a schoolboy by the attention of a pretty girl, he quickened his stride and headed for the hospital lobby. Winston was entering the front door as Michael jogged down the stairs, and Michael wasn’t sure if the urgency in Winston’s face was a good omen or bad.

  “Congratulations, partner,” Winston said as Michael joined him at the door. “We’re needed in Marseilles. The local officials have decided to disinter a body.”

  Many a matron throughout the centuries has advised her charges to be vigilant of the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing. Such advice is certainly welcome, of course, but this writer cannot imagine being so easily deceived. Surely a pretender could never truly be mistaken for a gentleman.