“Probably not anything that would interest Your Ladyship, huh?”
“No, probably not,” she murmured breathlessly.
“So, tell me. Do you love him?”
“Lord Wortham and I are—” Lettitia paused, uncertain how best to reply. “We are well-suited to one another,” she said at last, choosing her words with care.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I believe that I did. In case it has escaped your notice, being nine-and-twenty, I am on the shelf, and have been for some time. I could hope for no better match.”
“Hell, Tisha, you could hope to be happy. Or doesn’t that figure into your neat, little equation?”
Having learned the words by rote, Lettitia said woodenly, “The esteem I will bring to my family shall be reward enough.”
“And it doesn’t bother you that you’re taking your sister’s leftovers?”
Lettitia recoiled, the snide remark akin to a verbal slap in the face. She and Mick Giovanni hailed from different worlds. He spoke of love and marriage as if the two were inseparable, when they were in fact mutually exclusive. No matter what explanation she gave, he would never be able to comprehend the reason why she accepted Lord Wortham’s suit.
Refusing to answer the question put to her, Lettitia said, “The fog is thick this evening. Do you think it will hamper our escapade?”
“You make it sound like we’re gonna TP the joint. In case you didn’t hear me the first time around, I’m going to break into Scotland Yard and steal an official document. If I get caught, you better come to the rescue with that time device.”
“The time device can only be activated at the time portal,” she informed him. “Besides, if anything should go wrong, we shall both need rescuing, as I fully intend to accompany you.”
“Nothing doing. You’re staying in the carriage. And that’s that.”
“Unless I am greatly mistaken, you will need an extra pair of hands.”
Wearing a dubious expression, Mick cocked his head to one side and said, “Enlighten me. Please.”
Lettitia gestured to the lantern that he’d pilfered from Lord Wortham’s footman. “While you are a man of many talents, even you can not break locks, open windows, and peruse through files while holding a lit lantern.”
Mick peered at the lantern in question. “All right. You can come with me,” he said, giving his grudging consent.
“Earlier, when you spoke to Sir Charles, did he shed any light on the circumstances of Martha Tabrum’s death?” she inquired, changing the subject.
“Sir Charles told me diddly squat, which is why we’re on our way to Scotland Yard. My gut feeling is that he’s hiding something. Although whether that something has anything to do with Emmaline’s disappearance remains to be seen.”
As the carriage rattled to a stop, Lettitia glanced out the window. “Why did Babu stop here? Scotland Yard is on the next block.”
Mick opened the carriage door. “While I know it would be more convenient for Your Ladyship if Babu pulled right up to the front door, I thought it might be a good idea if we arrived with a little less fanfare and a bit more subterfuge.”
Wondering what sort of subterfuge he had in mind, Lettitia disembarked. Given the lateness of the hour, only the occasional carriage traversed the boulevard, pedestrian traffic having long since ceased for the day.
“Here, hold this,” Mick said, handing her the lantern. When Babu tossed down a case of matches a few seconds later, he handed those to her as well. “Now turn around and face the side of the carriage.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. Turn around. We’re not going anywhere until I make a few modifications to your outfit.”
Somewhat hesitantly, Lettitia obliged the request. “Whatever are you—” The sound of rent fabric stopped her in mid-sentence. “Are you mad?” she fairly shrieked, outraged that he’d just ripped the demi-train off the back of her dress. “This is a Worth evening gown!”
“Ain’t worth a damn anymore,” Mick quipped, tossing the length of torn satin into the carriage. “And rather than yell at me, you ought to be thanking me. As near as I could tell, that trailing piece of fabric was nothing but a nuisance. You’re lucky that you didn’t break your neck this evening.”
He was right. The demi-train had been a nuisance, hindering her movements considerably. “Your point is well taken,” she conceded. Given the magnitude of what they were about to do, one ruined gown was of little consequence. Particularly if they discovered a clue that would shed light on Emmaline’s disappearance.
Setting out on foot, they arrived a few minutes later at the north side of the massive stone building known as Scotland Yard.
“I want you to wait here while I do a little reconnaissance,” Mick whispered.
Lettitia nodded. While she did not wish to be left alone, she feared that Mick would banish her to the carriage if she raised an objection. Clutching the lantern to her chest, she took up a position behind a brick fence post and watched as Mick dashed toward the front of the building, his jacket tails flapping jauntily behind him.
Although she was without a timepiece, she calculated that Mick was gone nearly fifteen minutes. When he returned, he had an air of heightened excitement about him. Making Lettitia think that the fiend was actually enjoying himself.
“We’re in luck,” he said in a lowered voice. “The guard at the front desk is fast asleep. We should be able to sneak past him without a problem.”
“Good heavens! You don’t mean to say that we’re going to walk right through the front door?”
“You got a better plan?”
Lettitia glanced at the imposing building. “I just assumed that we’d climb through a back window.”
Mick cast a disparaging glance at both their outfits. “In these clothes?”
“Once again, your point is well taken,” she said with a nod. Indeed, it was ludicrous to think that she could climb through anything garbed in such restrictive attire.
“Don’t worry. This is gonna be a piece of cake.”
Fearful that his assurances might prove false, Lettitia nonetheless followed Mick to the entrance portico. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she watched as he slowly opened the massive front door. In a strangely gallant gesture, he motioned for her to precede him into the dimly lit foyer.
A few feet away, slumped over a desk, the guard was fast asleep. Given his extremely loud snores, Lettitia had reason to hope that he wouldn’t be waking any time soon.
Holding the unlit lantern in her right hand and her skirt in her left, she followed Mick to the central staircase. She took care to walk on the balls of her feet so as to make as little noise as possible. As they ascended the marble staircase, she released a pent-up sigh of relief, certain the danger was now behind them.
A few moments later, she was proved wrong. No sooner did they reach the second floor landing than they came face to face with a startled charwoman.
Several seconds passed, no one uttering a word during the taut stand-off.
Perhaps it was desperation. Perhaps it was instinct. Whatever the reason, Lettitia handed Mick the unlit lantern. Not certain how she would explain the loss to Lord Wortham, she unfastened one of her pearl-drop earrings and handed it to the startled woman. Hefting the unexpected boon in the palm of her hand, the cleaning woman brusquely nodded her head, her silence bought.
“Would you be so kind as to tell us where the file room is located?” Lettitia inquired politely.
“Two floors up an’ to the left.” Turning on her heel, the charwoman continued down the hall.
“Damn, but I’m impressed,” Mick muttered. “You handled that like a pro.”
“I trust I have proven myself a worthy accomplice.”
Taking her by the arm, he gave her a conspiratorial wink. “Keep it up and I’ll have to make you my honorary partner.”
When they arrived on the fourth floor landing, Mick struck a match and lit the lantern. Fol
lowing the charwoman’s instructions, they headed to the left, with the lantern casting eerie shadows onto the corridor walls. At the end of the hall, they came upon a door marked FILE ROOM.
Mick opened the unlocked door. “Like I said, piece of cake.”
On the other side of the door, there was a cavernous room that housed row upon row of tall bookcases stacked with police files. Because the files were neatly labeled with date and location, she and Mick were able to quickly peruse the rows.
It took several minutes of rummaging before they located the files for the current year.
Running her index finger over the boxes, Lettitia hurriedly searched for the files marked AUGUST 1888—WHITECHAPEL.
“I found it!” she exclaimed, the lantern swinging wildly as she pointed to the file box.
“Okay, okay. Take it easy,” Mick cautioned as he removed the box from the shelf. “Just hold the lamp steady so I can search through the files.”
“Yes, of course,” she murmured, tamping down her excitement.
Opening the box, Mick flipped through the stack of papers, each sheet of buff-colored foolscap engraved with the words METROPOLITAN POLICE, CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION DEPARTMENT, SCOTLAND YARD. Those intimidating words gave Lettitia a moment’s pause, the significance of their felonious actions impossible to ignore.
Mick extracted several sheets of paper from the file and held them up to the light. Beneath the engraved heading, scrawled in a bold penmanship, were the handwritten words Martha Tabrum Murder Case.
Lettitia’s heart beat a rapid tattoo.
“We’ll read these after we return to your uncle’s townhouse,” he told her. “Right now, we need to make good our escape.”
As Mick started to stuff the case notes into his breast pocket, Lettitia grabbed his wrist. “Wait, there’s a photograph attached.”
“It’s probably just a crime scene photo. Because it was shot with an old-fashioned camera, I doubt that it’s a very good image.”
“Nonetheless, I wish to see it,” she said, holding out her hand. “I believe that I have amply paid for the right.”
With a resigned mutter, he plucked the photograph from the case notes and handed it to her. As she held the lantern aloft, Lettitia steeled herself.
In the next instant, gulping back a mouthful of stomach bile, she examined the gruesome photograph of a blood-drenched woman sprawled on a public walkway, her skirts hiked around her hips. Because the villain had viciously hacked off her nose and left ear, the poor woman’s face was unrecognizable.
“She died from multiple stab wounds. Although how many times she was stabbed is anyone’s guess,” Mick said grimly. With his index finger, he pointed to the area around the dead woman’s neck. “I’m guessing that the cause of death was due to a severed carotid artery. Have you seen enough?”
Lettitia wordlessly nodded.
About to return the photograph to him, something in the picture suddenly caught her attention. As she stared at the dead woman’s exposed legs, the pale limbs twisted at unnatural angles, her breath caught in her throat.
Disbelieving what she was seeing, Lettitia squinted as she held the photograph closer to her face. An instant later, her heart slammed against her breastbone as she recognized a large distinctive scar that was the size of a handprint, clearly visible on the woman’s inner thigh, the result of an accident involving scalding bath water.
No! It can’t be.
Hurled into a state of stunned disbelief, Lettitia began to sway unsteadily on her feet, the lantern slipping from her fingers.
“Dear God,” she said on a ragged breath. “It’s Emmaline!”
* * *
Mick had barely enough time to catch Lettitia before she hit the deck. Wrapping his left arm around her waist, he grabbed the lantern with his right hand and set it on the edge of the bookcase.
“Ah, Tisha. Christ. I’m sorry,” he murmured, well aware that she’d just had her heart battered to pieces.
Because she was as limp as a rag doll, Mick figured she was down for the count. That meant there was only one way to get Lettitia out of Scotland Yard—he’d have to carry her. Holding her against his chest, he quickly stuffed the case notes into his breast pocket. In a slightly tricky maneuver, he managed to retrieve the crime scene photo from the floor.
Ready to roll, Mick hefted Lettitia over his left shoulder, securing an arm under her bustled rear end. Picking up the lantern, he made his way to the exit.
Because he carried precious cargo, he exercised extreme caution as he opened the door that led to the main corridor. Verifying that the coast was clear, he headed for the staircase. While he didn’t think the charwoman would sound the alarm—she had, after all, made out like a bandit—he still needed to play it safe.
By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, Mick was damned glad that he’d given up the cigarettes. His heart was beating a little faster than normal, although not so fast that it hindered his speed. No longer having need of the lantern, he set it on a marble step. Then, bracing himself for the last leg of the trip, he set his course for the front door.
As he tiptoed past the sleeping guard, Mick hoped—prayed, actually—that Lettitia didn’t rouse from her faint any time soon.
This being his lucky night, he made it across the foyer without incident.
Piece of cake.
Wrapping his free hand around the front doorknob, he very slowly turned it clockwise. The door noiselessly slid open, a testament to a well-oiled—
Shit.
Mick froze, as the door hinge suddenly made a loud, grating screech.
“What the bloody ’ell is going on?” a groggy voice hollered. The rude sound had awakened the security guard.
Refusing to answer the guard’s question, Mick flung open the door and took off running.
As he charged across the front driveway, he heard a shrill, ear-piercing whistle. Fuck. The guard had just sounded the alarm.
No sooner had he cleared the main gate than he caught sight of two uniformed constables charging in his direction. I hope to God it’s true that English bobbies don’t carry guns. Not only was the carriage parked a block away, but with Lettitia slung over his shoulder, the odds of getting there before the whistle-blowing bobbies caught up to him were slim to nil.
“Mensab!”
At hearing that familiar voice, Mick spun on his heel.
God Almighty, it’s Babu. Come to the rescue.
The Indian coachman, cracking the reins over the horses’ backsides, was driving the carriage like one of the charioteers in Ben Hur. As he neared, Babu pulled on the reins, slowing the horses so that Mick was able to toss Lettitia into the open coach door. He then leapt onto the metal footstep and grasped the door frame just as Babu whipped the horses into a gallop.
Holding on for dear life, Mick craned his head and watched as half a dozen bobbies gave chase on foot.
Mick waited until they’d traversed a good half-mile before he ordered Babu to halt the carriage.
“Hey, buddy, you saved the day,” he told the coachman, reaching up to shake his hand. “I owe you big time.”
The coachman, clearly embarrassed, asked about Missy Mary Wetter.
Mick jumped off the footstep and peered into the carriage. Lettitia was still out cold.
Damn, this is not good.
“Get us home as fast you can,” he told Babu before scrambling into the carriage.
As gently as possible, Mick lifted Lettitia off the carriage floor and pulled her onto the cushioned seat. Concerned that she was having difficulty breathing, he ripped open the back of her dress, his hands trembling as he undid the bows and ribbons on her undergarments. When he felt the soft whoosh of liberated flesh, he leaned against the velvet seat, cradling Lettitia to his chest.
Her sister’s death had hit her out of nowhere, and as Mick knew all too well, that kind of pain never went away. In his mind’s eye, he recalled the tortured expression that had marred her features just before she fainted.
He would have given anything to have spared her that pain.
Although a year had come and gone since the horrific day at Kingsborough Community College, he remembered all too well the gut-wrenching shock he’d experienced when he’d learned that Tommy had been gunned down. He’d loved Tommy O’Fallon like a brother, much like Lettitia loved her sister Emmaline. Close bonds like that ran deep. So deep that a part of you went with them to the grave.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so very, very sorry.”
Chapter 8
The next morning, as the hall clock chimed half past eight, Mick made his way to the dining room. He was in desperate need of a hot cup of coffee.
Having stayed up half the night poring over the stolen police file, Mick had no doubt in his mind that Emmaline’s murder involved a police cover-up. Someone didn’t want her death made public, and she’d been incorrectly ID’d as Martha Tabrum. While it was patently obvious to Mick that the police commissioner, Sir Charles Warren, was in on the cover-up—his name was plastered all over the official report—Mick had no idea why Emmaline’s murder had been hushed up by the higher-ups at Scotland Yard.
Entering the dining room, he wasn’t all that surprised not to see Lettitia at the table. She’d remained unconscious for the entire carriage ride home. After carrying her up to her room, he’d reluctantly bowed out, letting her maid Molly tend to her.
“Good morning, sir.” Lettitia’s uncle boisterously greeted Mick, the jovial welcome indicating that he’d not yet been apprised of Emmaline’s death.
Mick nodded at the older man, resigned to the fact that he would soon be the bearer of some very bad news.
“What’s this I hear about you having to carry Lettitia to her room last night? Is the gel all right?”
“Lettitia is fine, physically speaking. At least, I think she’s fine,” Mick amended a split-second later. Walking over to the sideboard, he lifted the lids on various chafing dishes before helping himself to a plateful of fried eggs, muffins, and a mutton chop. Breakfast was a real production number at the Darhypple residence.
A Love For All Time Page 10