Tinsdale rubbed a hand over his battered body parts. “I told you, the whore’s name was Martha Tabrum. Some bully boy over at the George Yard Buildings in Whitechapel worked ’er over good, ’e did. Either that or she come out on the losing end of a domestic squabble.” Tinsdale cackled, obviously amused by the thought.
“Let me guess: You discovered the dead body and helped yourself to the locket, tipping yourself generously at the crime scene.”
The constable gave an unconcerned shrug. “It’s not like she’d have any more use for it, eh?”
“When was this Martha Tabrum killed?”
“You expect me to remember that far back?”
Mick shot Constable Tinsdale a warning glare. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do.”
Tinsdale scratched his jaw. After a moment’s pause, he said, “As I recollect, it was a Tuesday evening… the first Tuesday of August, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Does August the seventh sound about right?”
The constable nodded.
Stymied, Mick shook his head, none of the puzzle pieces fitting together. How the hell did a dead prostitute named Martha Tabrum come to be in possession of Emmaline’s locket?
“And you’re absolutely certain that the woman in the photograph isn’t the same woman who was killed on August the seventh?”
Cocking his head to one side, Tinsdale contemplatively tapped his chin. “Difficult to say for certain, what with the whore’s face being butchered beyond all recognition.”
“If that’s the case, who verified the identity of the dead woman?”
“Why, it was the police commissioner ’imself, Sir Charles Warren,” the constable boasted proudly. “Them swells at Scotland Yard were all over the case, like a tom-tit on a horse turd.”
“By any chance was this Martha Tabrum one of Jack the Ripper’s victims?” Mick asked, wondering why the big guns would have been involved in a back alley murder.
Tinsdale looked at him as though he’d just beamed down from Planet X. “Where ’ave you been? The Ripper took ’is first victim, Polly Nichols, on the last day of August.”
“Okay. Thanks for your time,” Mick muttered disagreeably. Shit. Another dead end.
Turning on his heel, he headed back toward the carriage. He’d taken no more than three steps when he suddenly felt an excruciating burst of pain in the back of his skull.
“Fuck,” he roared, belatedly realizing that Constable Bertie Tinsdale just beaned him with his silver-tipped walking stick.
A split-second later, Tinsdale struck him again, this time hitting him in the kidneys.
Disoriented, Mick staggered from side to side, struggling to stay upright. Losing the battle, he fell to his knees. As he braced himself for the third strike, Mick heard Lettitia loudly scream, “Halt, fiend!”
Hearing that strident command, the constable took off like a bat out of hell. Amazingly, Lettitia Merryweather had managed to single-handedly stop Tinsdale from beating him to a pulp.
Quickly losing his bearings, Mick toppled to the pavement. Although his vision was rapidly diminishing, he perceived that Lettitia was hovering over him.
My angel. It was Mick’s last thought, then everything faded to black.
* * *
My head hurts like a son of a bitch.
That was Mick’s first thought as he slowly opened his eyes. To his surprise, he was stretched out on a hospital bed, his body covered with a starched white sheet. At least he assumed that he was in a hospital since the room contained a row of identical iron beds—all empty—with a porcelain chamber pot standing sentry beneath each one.
Easing himself off of the lumpy mattress, Mick groaned as a bolt of pain ricocheted in the vicinity of his kidneys. Knowing that it was useless to look for a bathroom, he grabbed the bed pan, unbuttoned his trousers, and relieved himself, grateful not to see any blood in his urine.
How could I have let a little bowler-hatted twit like Tinsdale sucker-punch me?
If the guys back at the Nine-four ever found out, they’d roast him for sure. Cop Rule Number 1: Never turn your back on a perp.
Noticing that someone had unbuttoned his shirt, Mick wondered if that someone had been Lettitia. That thought—hope, really—caused him to entertain a lusty vision of her caressing his chest, admiring his pecs, and kissing his boo-boo as she wantonly made the pain go bye-bye.
A few moments later, determined to find out where the hell he was, Mick slipped his feet into his ankle boots and fastened his shirt, not bothering to tuck in the shirttails. Having made himself decent, he headed for the door. On the other side of the threshold, there was an empty hallway. He turned to the left and headed toward the set of double doors at the end of the hall.
Maybe it was the fact that there wasn’t a soul in sight; or maybe it was because he was wandering down a dimly lit corridor. Whatever the reason, Mick felt as if he was trapped in an episode of The Twilight Zone.
Jeez, what kind of hospital is this anyway?
Starting to get a bad case of the creeps, Mick approached the double doors. Curious, he peered through the oval glass insert.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, I do not believe what I’m seeing.
The room on the other side of the door contained approximately twenty beds. On each bed, there was a hideously disfigured patient. Their bodies and faces were covered with pus-filled boils. The man lying closest to the door was violently thrashing against the straps that secured him to the metal bed frame. His face was so badly disfigured that it was difficult to even recognize him as belonging to the human race.
Mick blinked several times to make certain that he wasn’t caught in the throes of a five-alarm nightmare.
“Please come away from the door, sir.”
At hearing that softly spoken order, Mick spun on his heel. Standing behind him was a plain-faced woman garbed in a spotless apron and a white headdress. Her calm countenance was at odds with the gruesome sight on the other side of the door.
“What the hell is wrong with those people?”
“That is the syphilis ward. You need not worry about them,” she intoned matter-of-factly. “They suffer God’s punishment for having led a pestiferous life of vile pursuits.”
“All the same, can’t you administer a shot of penicillin and put them out of their misery?”
Noticing the baffled look on her face, Mick belatedly recalled that the discovery of penicillin was still a few decades away.
“We administer potassium iodide. And God’s word,” she added as she took Mick by the arm and pulled him away from the doors. “You should not be up and about, Mister Giovanni. Sir Willoughby will be greatly displeased.”
“Who’s Sir Willoughby?” Mick demanded, not altogether certain that he wasn’t in the throes of a deeply disturbing nightmare. “And for that matter, who are you?”
“I am Sister Gillian.” Still clasping his elbow, she ushered Mick down the hall. “Sir Willoughby DeWitt is the administrator of St. Ursula’s Hospital.”
“Where’s Lettitia?” he next inquired, surmising that she was the one who’d brought him to this house of horrors.
As if on cue, Lettitia came charging down the hallway. A gray-eyed angel.
“Detective Giovanni!” Catching him completely off guard, Lettitia flung herself at him.
The nightmare turned into a dream, and Mick quickly caught up to speed. Wrapping his arms around Lettitia’s backside, he held her tight. Eyes closed, he savored the pure joy of having her breasts smashed against his chest. Earlier, when her brooch had become hooked on his shirt button and they were grinding body parts, he’d come very close to kissing her. The only reason he didn’t was because he figured she’d go ballistic on him. Lettitia Merryweather just didn’t strike him as the type to go in for a little nookie behind closed carriage doors.
“I feared the worst, sir. Are you all right?”
Mick blew at the feather protruding from her hat, the damn thing tickling his nostrils again. “I feel great,” h
e lied, perversely pleased that she had been so worried about him. When, in the next instant, she peered up at him, he saw that there were unshed tears glimmering in her stormy gray eyes.
Pulling free of his embrace—her Victorian sensibilities having evidently just kicked back into high gear—Lettitia blushed furiously. “I was terrified, certain that odious little man had done grievous harm. Not knowing the extent of your injuries, I thought it best to bring you to St. Ursula’s.”
“Other than a headache and some sore kidneys, I’m doing all right,” he assured her, reaching over to gently squeeze her upper arm.
“Ah, I see that our patient is on the road to recovery.” a jovial voice bellowed.
Turning around, Mick came face to face with a tall, florid-faced man whose facial features were framed by a pair of oversized, gray Dundreary whiskers.
“As I understand it, sir, you had an unfortunate run-in with a couple of London toughs.”
“Um, something like that,” Mick mumbled. While it was only the one “tough,” and because his pride had taken as much of a beating as his body, he didn’t bother rectifying the count.
“Sir Willoughby, may I present Detective Giovanni. The detective has graciously agreed to help me find my sister.” Lettitia next gestured to the woman who’d escorted him down the hall. “And, of course, you’ve already met Sir Willoughby’s wife, Sister Gillian.”
Mick turned to the plain-faced woman in the starched headdress. “Okay, now I’m really confused. I thought you were a Catholic nun.”
“ ‘Sister’ is a term of address reserved for those in the nursing profession,” Lettitia clarified. “In fact, Sister Gillian received her training under Florence Nightingale.”
“No kidding? Now that is an awfully impressive credential.”
Deflecting his compliment with a shake of her head, the middle-aged woman demurely cast her gaze to the floor, clearly embarrassed.
“My wife has many sterling qualities,” Sir Willoughby said expansively. “And had I time enough, I would enumerate upon each and every one. But I suspect that you two young people are impatient to be on your way.”
Mick glanced at his wrist watch. 6:30. He’d been out cold for more than eight hours. Damn. That’s eight fewer hours that we have to find Emmaline.
“It’s not your fault,” Lettitia said quietly, having correctly gauged the direction of his thoughts. “No one could have foreseen the calamity that earlier transpired.”
“I know. It’s just that…” Mick’s voice trailed into silence. He blamed himself for the nasty run-in with Constable Tinsdale. His badass, bad cop tactics had finally blown up in his face. And he was damned lucky that he’d lived to tell the tale. Hoping to make up for lost time, he said, “We’re still going to that shindig tonight, right?”
Lettitia’s dark brows drew together in a worried pucker. “Detective Giovanni, I do not think that that you are in any condition to—”
“Like I said, I feel fine.” While it wasn’t exactly the truth, he wasn’t about to let another day slip past with nothing to show for it. “There’s not a thing wrong with me. Isn’t that right?” Mick directed his query to Sister Gillian.
“The preliminary examination did not find any broken bones. However—”
“There, you see? Fit as the proverbial fiddle.” Plastering a chipper expression onto his face, Mick quickly switched gears. “Where’s Babu? I’m ready to hit the road.”
“I shall summon him.”
As she stiffly turned and walked away, Lettitia’s ramrod straight posture spoke volumes: she was mad as hell that he’d just discharged himself from the hospital.
Chapter 6
“The man is impossible!”
“Aye, miss, that he is,” Molly concurred with a bob of her red head. “Mister Porter tried to tell him that a proper gentleman always wore a cape and top hat when going out for the evening. And the detective, he told Mister Porter that—” A crimson blush stole over the maid’s face. “I’m afraid, miss, that it would not be proper for me to repeat what the detective said.”
“Where is Detective Giovanni now?” Lettitia inquired, not the least bit surprised to learn that he had single-handedly managed to upset the entire household.
“He’s in his room, miss, a rantin’ and a ravin’ about his necktie.”
“I shall see to the matter,” she announced as she gathered the demi-train of her Worth evening gown in her gloved hand and swept out of the room.
“Better you than me,” she heard Molly mutter under her breath. “He’s got a bear of temper on him.”
Having dealt with Detective Giovanni’s temper on more than one occasion, Lettitia strode down the hallway, ready to do battle. Certain that she would emerge the victor in this particular bout, she rapped on the detective’s bed chamber door.
“What do you want?” She heard him growl in a voice that would send a weaker individual running.
Refusing to yell through a closed door, Lettitia turned the knob and entered.
“Where is Porter?” she demanded to know, purposefully leaving the door wide open in her wake. “I thought that he was to attend to you this evening.”
One side of Detective Giovanni’s mouth curved upward in a mocking half-smile. “News flash: I’ve been dressing myself since I was three years old.”
“That is not the point. A gentleman’s valet is supposed to—Oh, never mind,” she huffed, exasperated. “No matter what I say, it will merely be an excuse for you to assert your authority over me.”
The detective’s head visibly jerked. “Whoa. Where did that come from?”
“From John Stuart Mill’s The Subjection of Women, if you must know. In it, he eloquently postulates that the subordination of women by men is akin to slavery.”
“Do you know what I think? I think you do way too much reading.”
“And I happen to think that your dictatorial behavior is tiresome.”
Surprisingly, the detective yielded with a nod. “You’re right. Sometimes I come on too strong. I’ll work on it, okay?”
His ready surrender caught her off guard, leaving Lettitia astounded that he’d capitulated without argument. “I would be most grateful if you did.”
“Friends?” The detective extended his right hand in her direction, a winsome smile on his face.
Lettitia stared at him, confounded. He wishes to shake my hand?
Several seconds passed before Lettitia warily raised a gloved hand in his direction.
“Friends,” she murmured, having never before considered a man as such. Much to her astonishment, rather than shake her hand, Detective Giovanni brought her gloved fingers to his lips, causing her heart to skip a beat.
“That’s a killer dress,” he said, his lips hovering over her evening glove.
Hearing a ragged catch in his voice, Lettitia deduced that he’d just paid her an extravagant compliment. When she noticed the direction of his gaze, the blood rushed to her face. The plunging V of her red brocade bodice showcased more of her assets than she customarily displayed.
A stranger to such ardent attention, Lettitia smiled shyly. As she did, she suddenly noticed a cut-glass tumbler sitting in plain view on top of the bureau. Unless she was greatly mistaken, the glass was half-full with her uncle’s Irish whiskey.
“You’ve been drinking again,” she accused shrilly, yanking her hand free.
Somewhat guiltily he glanced at the incriminating glass. “Just to refresh your memory, earlier today I came into close, personal contact with a wooden walking stick. You can’t blame me for trying to take a bite out of the pain.”
She could. And she would.
“That, sir, is no excuse for losing one’s self-control.”
“My self-control? Just how do you figure?”
“A state of inebriation is by definition a lack of control.”
“Hey, I had one drink which, I might point out, I haven’t even finished yet,” he groused somewhat irritably. “At this juncture, maybe I s
hould remind Your Highness that I caught you red-handed yesterday puffing away on a cigarette. So where do you get off lecturing me about self-control?”
Why, of all the conceit!
“Stand your ground,” she commanded him, suddenly remembering the reason for her visit. Reaching toward his neck, she grasped the two ends of the black evening tie that hung loosely on either side of his winged collar.
“Do with me as you will, Miss Merryweather. I’m yours for the taking.”
“Really, sir!”
Certain his flirtatious nattering was nothing more than a ploy to rattle her nerves, Lettitia commenced to her task, her fingers unaccountably clumsy as they worked the length of black fabric. At that close distance, she was acutely aware of Detective Giovanni’s classically handsome features, his black evening attire accentuating his manly physique. Although considered a tall woman, she was overshadowed by his superior height. The marked difference in their two statures incited a rush of wanton imaginings—Lettitia wondered at all the other ways they might be differently construed.
“That will do nicely.” Finished with her task, she unthinkingly patted his chest.
Instantly mortified that she’d taken such an impropriety, Lettitia grasped her demi-train in her hand and strode toward the doorway, anxious to make her escape.
“Oh, Miss Merryweather.”
Lettitia stopped in her tracks and glanced over her shoulder. “Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“What are friends for?” she said timorously. Then, in a more forceful tone, she said, “Babu has brought the carriage around. We shall depart five minutes hence.”
“You do know, don’t you, that hearing the words ‘Babu’ and ‘carriage’ in the same sentence is enough to make any man quake in his boots.”
Biting her lower lip, Lettitia suppressed an unladylike giggle.
“Really, sir!”
* * *
“You have yet to apprise me of the outcome of your tête-à-tête with Constable Tinsdale,” Lettitia said as she arranged the voluminous folds of her skirt on the carriage seat.
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