A Love For All Time

by Chloe Douglas

  “G’day to you both,” the shop owner said with an ingratiating smile. From the double row of rotted teeth, it was a sure bet he didn’t floss. “ ’ow may I help you?”

  Mick nodded toward the paned window box. “I’d like to take a look at the gold locket in the window.”

  “Ah, yes. For your lovely wife, I presume?”

  “Um, yeah,” Mick mumbled, belatedly realizing that he was referring to Lettitia.

  No sooner did the shopkeeper hand him the gold locket than Lettitia snatched it from his grasp.

  “Just as I thought. It is Emmaline’s locket. Where did you get this?” she demanded in her most imperious tone of voice.

  “I don’t recollect,” the shop owner equivocated, his beady blue eyes narrowing.

  Before Mick could stop her, Lettitia pulled a small framed photograph from her purse and shoved it under the shopkeeper’s nose. “Have you seen this woman?”

  The man didn’t so much as glance at the photograph. “I ain’t laid eyes on ’er.”

  “Are you absolutely certain about that?”

  “I ain’t daft. Of course I’m certain.”

  “But you haven’t even looked at the photograph,” Lettitia pointed out. “The least you can do is—”

  “Who’s in charge of this investigation?” Mick quietly interjected.

  Craning her head in his direction, Lettitia scowled at him.

  Mick gave as good as he got. Maybe even better.

  A few seconds into the standoff, Lettitia’s chest heaved. “You’re in charge,” she said grudgingly, surrendering the field.

  “Then how about stepping outside so I can have a word in private with the shop owner?”

  Although there was a circumspect expression plastered on her face, Lettitia complied with the request. The instant she exited the pawnshop, Mick grabbed the shopkeeper by his vest collar and yanked him toward the countertop.

  “Listen, scumbag. I think you’re lying. I think you know exactly who pawned that locket.”

  Surprisingly strong for a sunken-chested weasel, the little bastard tried to break free of his grasp. Mick tightened his hold, letting him know who the top dog was.

  “Sod off!”

  “Wrong answer,” Mick growled, shoving the man’s head against the counter top. “Now, I’m gonna ask one more time. Who pawned the locket?”

  Getting no response, Mick grabbed the upper portion of the shopkeeper’s ear and twisted. Hard.

  “A copper from the Whitechapel station,” the shopkeeper blurted between bleating yelps.

  “Name of…?”

  “Bertie Tinsdale.”

  Mick didn’t want to question the policeman at the precinct so he said, “I need a home address.”

  “Emmett Lane. Number 4.”

  Mick released his newly minted informant just as Lettitia strode back into the shop.

  “Detective Giovanni, what in Heaven’s name have you done to this man?” she shouted at him, a stormy-eyed avenging angel.

  “Nothing,” he said, nonchalantly lifting a shoulder. “We were just talking.”

  “Talk, my arse! ’e damned near—”

  Mick raised a warning brow.

  “—talked my ear off,” the weasel muttered lamely.

  Lettitia glared, first at one man, then the other, clearly not buying what either of them was selling.

  Pleased with his investigation results, Mick crooked an elbow in her direction. “Come, Miss Merryweather. ‘The game is afoot.’ ”

  Chapter 5

  “I refuse to believe that a constable pawned Emmaline’s locket,” Lettitia reiterated the next morning as she and Detective Giovanni sat across from one another in the landau.

  Her companion, his lips turned down at the corners, shrugged. “It could be that Constable Tinsdale is a dirty cop. Why’s that so hard to accept?”

  “Because, as a police officer, he has a duty to uphold the law,” she affirmed, not about to slander a man she’d never met. “And how, pray tell, did Constable Tinsdale acquire Emmaline’s locket?”

  Her question elicited another shrug. “Beats me. But I intend to find out.”

  “The same way that you discovered the constable’s identity from the pawnbroker?” Although Lettitia didn’t know what exactly had transpired at the pawn shop, she had reason to suspect that the detective had acted in a manner unbecoming to a gentleman.

  “Trust me, there’s a method to my madness. Speaking of which, I want to question Emmaline’s ex-fiancé, Lord Whats-his-name.”

  “I assume that you’re referring to Lord Wortham.” When he nodded, she affected a nonchalant tone and said, “Why would you need to speak to him?”

  “Who’s in charge of this investigation?”

  “You are,” she snapped, the question beginning to grate on her nerves.

  “That’s right. And that means that you don’t get to second-guess my every move.”

  “Be that as it may, it would be improper for you to—” On the verge of allowing social convention to dictate the scope of their investigation, Lettitia had a sudden change of heart, relenting with a terse nod. “It just so happens that Lord Wortham is hosting a soiree this evening. If you like, you may accompany me.”

  Grinning mischievously, he said, “As long as the booze is free and the women are plentiful, I’m in.”

  “But you must promise to be on your best behavior. My parents will be in attendance and—”

  “Hey, that’s great. I also need to speak to your father. Two birds, one stone.”

  “And what possible reason could you have for questioning my father? He had absolutely nothing to do with—” Catching herself second-guessing him yet again, Lettitia turned her head and peered out the carriage window.

  The thick fog that hovered over the city had turned the rows of dun-colored houses into shapeless blurs. The dreary morning was one more suited to a cheery fire and a good book. Unfortunately, such pleasant pursuits were not to be had; they only had six days left to uncover Emmaline’s whereabouts. And they were no nearer the goal than they’d been at the onset. Though it was not for lack of trying.

  Yesterday, after leaving the pawnshop, she and Detective Giovanni had questioned the neighbors, layabouts, and frails who inhabited the Miller’s Court residence where her sister had rented rooms. All of them relayed the same story–Emmaline departed from her lodging early on the evening of August the seventh, never to be seen again. One unkind soul claimed that Emmaline had left the flat in order “to sell her wares to any bloke with a spare coin in his pocket.”

  “When Emmaline first disappeared, I went to the Whitechapel police station and filed a report with Inspector Abberline,” Lettitia remarked conversationally. “He gave little credence to my concerns, certain as he was that Emmaline ran off with a lover.”

  Detective Giovanni glanced up from his notebook. “It’s as good a theory as any, given your sister’s history.”

  Lettitia conceded with a reluctant nod. Then, refusing to completely surrender the point, she said, “But Emmaline and I met for tea on the afternoon of the seventh. If she was plotting that sort of escapade, why didn’t she apprise me of her plans?”

  With a flip of the wrist, Detective Giovanni closed the notebook and slid it inside his frock coat.

  A noticeable pause ensued.

  “Maybe she was afraid to tell you,” he said at last, uncharacteristically subdued.

  “ ‘Afraid?’ What possible reason could Emmaline have for being afraid?”

  Leaning toward her, Detective Giovanni held her gaze. He gave every appearance of being a man about to take a woman into his confidence. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Lettitia, but you are, without a doubt, the most judgmental person I’ve ever met.” Anticipating her denial, he raised a hand to forestall the protest. “You set the bar awfully high. Too high, I’m thinking. Emmaline might have been afraid that she couldn’t meet your expectations. So maybe, rather than disappoint you, she chose to keep her plans to h
erself.”

  Lettitia placed a gloved hand against her throat, staggered.

  No, she refused to believe it. Detective Giovanni was utterly mistaken. On more counts than one.

  While everyone else in the family had shunned Emmaline, Lettitia had violated their father’s express wishes, secretly meeting with her sister on the days that she volunteered at St. Ursula’s Hospital. Moreover, she’d done all that she could to not only give sage advice, but to elevate Emmaline’s sense of self. In fact, during their last visit, she’d insisted that Emmaline read Wollstonecraft’s Vindication of the Rights of Women, forcibly pressing the book into her sister’s hands even though Emmaline claimed that she wasn’t interested in—

  God help me. Detective Giovanni was right. From the outset, she’d expected things of Emmaline that were ill-suited to her sister’s passionate, free-spirited nature. Worse still, she’d tried to mold her sister in her own image. “I meant well. Truly, I did,” Lettitia murmured, overcome with remorse.

  “I suspect your sister knows that.”

  “Until this moment, I had not realized that I was so—” the word stuck in her throat— “judgmental. I only wanted what was best for Emmaline.”

  Detective Giovanni stared at his clasped hands. “Sometimes you need to focus on what’s right, instead of what’s wrong.”

  “Words of wisdom,” she murmured. In his brash, matter-of-fact manner, Detective Giovanni had seen what she’d been blind to. Although heavy-hearted, Lettitia’s lips curved into a shy smile. “How is it that you know me so well? Better than I know myself, it would seem.”

  Leaning back against the tufted velvet seat, he said, “Comes with the turf. Being a detective, you learn a lot about human nature.”

  “Rest assured, I shall ponder long on this.”

  “Well, don’t ponder too much. Your snooty airs are starting to grow on me.”

  “Really, sir!”

  No sooner had she chided him than the carriage wheels struck a massive rut. With an unladylike shriek, Lettitia was abruptly propelled toward the opposite seat. Detective Giovanni caught her by the shoulders as she crashed into him, landing on his lap in a graceless heap.

  “Babu needs a stint at remedial driving school,” Detective Giovanni growled in her ear.

  Alarmed at finding herself pressed so intimately against his person, Lettitia immediately tried to squirm free. To no avail.

  “We’re stuck.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Lettitia turned her head, accidentally brushing her lips against his jaw. The unexpected contact caused her heart to thump against her breastbone.

  “I said ‘we’re stuck.’ That watch thingy that you wear pinned to your boob is caught on one of my shirt buttons.”

  Her boob? Whatever was he talking about?

  “Sir, I do not know the meaning of the word ‘boob.’ ”

  “Your boobs are those two rounded—Never mind,” he said gruffly, his lips now smashed against her neck. “Just reach over and unhook us, will you?”

  Although eager to comply, both of her arms were pinned between their respective torsos.

  Determined to extricate herself, Lettitia inched her fingers across his shirt placket. Unable to locate the timepiece, she twisted her head slightly, attempting to catch a glimpse of her brooch. The only thing she caught was a heady whiff of the bergamot soap that clung to Detective Giovanni’s neck.

  To her utter bewilderment, Detective Giovanni began to vigorously blow into her ear. Even more bewildering, his warm breath caused that most private of places between her legs to convulsively clench.

  Lettitia whimpered, taken aback by the strange, involuntary reaction.

  “Move your head to the left,” Detective Giovanni muttered. “That damned feather on the top of your hat keeps getting in my face.”

  Lettitia obliged him, the adjustment putting their two mouths in nearly perfect alignment.

  At that close range, she realized that she’d seen lips like his, stern yet decadent, at the British Museum affixed to the likeness of Greek gods and Roman emperors.

  Finally locating her brooch, she frantically tried to unhook it from his shirt button.

  “What are you doing?” she croaked when his hands tightly encircled her waist.

  “Trying to hold you steady. Otherwise we’re both gonna end up on the floor.”

  Unbidden, an image of the two of them flailing about on the carriage floor, a heap of tangled limbs and rumpled fabric, flashed across her mind’s eye.

  Hoping to avert that catastrophe, she heaved upward, securing purchase on his muscled thigh.

  “What are you doing?” he groaned, a rough edge to his voice.

  Quite frankly, she had no idea.

  As Lettitia tried to maneuver to a less compromising position, the carriage suddenly careened to the left, and the two of them lurched together in that direction. Distressingly, Lettitia now found herself straddling Detective Giovanni’s leg. He grunted, the sound not unlike that made by a wounded animal.

  When, a few moments later, she unhooked her watch from his shirt button, she nearly collapsed with relief.

  Scrambling back to her seat, she said triumphantly, “It is a fait accompli.”

  “Don’t I wish,” Detective Giovanni muttered in a strangled voice. The glazed look in his eyes made her think that he was even more flustered by the unfortunate incident than she.

  “Sir, are you all right? You seem discomposed.”

  “ ‘Discomposed’?” He yanked her uncle’s Ulster over his lap. “Yeah, that’s one way of putting it.”

  “If you’re chilled, why don’t you don the coat?”

  “If I were you, Lettitia, I’d change the subject. Because where this conversation is headed, you don’t want to go.” Muttering something nonsensical about blue-colored balls, he began to studiously examine his notebook.

  Finally arriving at their destination, Detective Giovanni wasted no time opening the door and leaping to the pavement.

  “You sit tight,” he said. “It’s probably best that I question this Constable Tinsdale mano e mano, if you know what I mean.”

  Truth be told, she had no idea what he meant, something that of late occurred with annoying frequency.

  * * *

  Closing the carriage door, Mick put a hand to his crotch and rearranged his equipment; his balls ached to high heaven. Babu, seated on the carriage box, had the nerve to snicker.

  Blaming his condition on the coachman’s piss-poor driving skills, Mick shot Babu a narrow-eyed glare. “When I’m finished here, remind me to give you a piece of my mind.”

  “Yes, mensab,” Babu replied with a bob of his top hat. From the waist up, the Indian was resplendently attired in a scarlet livery jacket and white ruffled shirt. From the waist down, he looked like Gunga Din.

  Flipping open his notebook, Mick double-checked the address—No. 4 Emmett Lane. At this hour of the morning, he hoped to catch Constable Bertie Tinsdale at home.

  At a glance, Mick could see that “home” was a run-down, two-story residence set in a row of equally dilapidated abodes. As he approached number 4, a mustachioed gent wearing a bowler hat and a yellow and brown checked Ulster emerged.

  Whistling a jaunty tune, the man hooked a silver-tipped cane over his arm as he closed the front door. Given the fancy duds, Mick pegged him for a cop on the take.

  “Constable Tinsdale?”

  “ ’oo’s asking?”

  “I’m a private investigator.” During the previous day’s canvass at Miller’s Court, Mick had discovered that, while the residents of London’s East End had an inbred distrust of policemen, the P.I. profession held a certain mystique for them.

  “Like that bloke in them magazine stories? What’s ’is name, Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Yeah, just like Sherlock Holmes.” Feigning politeness, Mick said, “Do you mind, sir, if I ask you a few questions?”

  “I ain’t got time for a chin wag,” Tinsdale grumbled, brusquely shoving him aside
.

  Since politeness had gotten him nowhere, Mick grabbed Tinsdale by the scruff of the neck, stopping him in mid-stride. Towering over the constable, he put his height advantage to good use. He then reached into his pocket and removed the small framed photograph of Emmaline Merryweather.

  “Have you ever seen this woman?”

  Tinsdale ogled the photograph as he smoothed a hand over his mustache. “My, oh my. ’oo’s the lovely?”

  Unless Bertie Tinsdale was the world’s greatest actor, Mick ascertained that this was the first time the constable had ever set eyes on Emmaline Merryweather.

  “I was hoping you could tell me. She was last seen in the vicinity of Miller’s Court.”

  “Only pinch-pricks and bully boys are last seen in Miller’s Court,” the other man retorted. “Of course, if the beauty in the picture is a Whitechapel tart, I may just take a stroll over there. I wouldn’t mind stuffing me stiff pego into that delectable piece of meat.”

  Getting nowhere fast, Mick shoved the photograph into the pocket of his frock coat. Ready to turn up the heat, he nailed the constable with a badass glare. “If, as you claim, you’ve never seen the woman in the photograph, how did you come to be in possession of a gold locket belonging to the lady in question?”

  Tinsdale nervously licked his lips. “I, um, can’t say that I know anything about a gold locket.”

  “Funny, that’s not what the pawnbroker over on Commercial Street told me. Now, I’m gonna ask you one more time: How did Emmaline Merryweather’s gold locket end up in your possession?”

  “Are you deaf? I don’t know anything about—”

  “Wrong answer,” Mick snarled as he jammed his right hand between Tinsdale’s legs. Grabbing hold of the other man’s testicles, he squeezed and jerked. When Tinsdale hollered in pain, Mick squeezed and jerked that much harder. The way he saw it, he was doing the women of the world a big favor.

  “Now, where did you get the locket?” he again asked, lessening the pressure ever so slightly.

  “From a dead whore,” the constable grunted, starting to turn blue in the face.

  “Name of…?”

  “Martha Tabrum.”

  Mick released the vise grip. Figuring he’d offered sufficient inducement, he said, “I want all of the particulars. As in who, what, and where. And I want ’em now!”