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“Pardon me, Madam,” a deep, smooth voice said as I was jostled from behind. I turned with the decisive swiftness that usually prevented a second assault, but the man had already moved past me, intent on some urgent destination. He was lean and had broad shoulders, which, in the crowded marketplace, explained the contact. His dark hair was too long to be fashionable, and his suit was plain and serviceable but had been tailored to fit him. I couldn’t see his face, but his voice so near my ear had elicited such an unexpected shiver that it was only with effort that I was able to return my focus to the bundle of herbs I’d just purchased from the greengrocer.
“Don’t pay ‘im no mind, Mrs. Mac. The inspector’s not the gropin’ kind,” said Lettice, whose East End accent spoke to a life spent in London very near the streets.
“What kind is he then?” I said before I could censor myself. I had no interest in him nor in any person I encountered in a busy marketplace, and yet that voice had unsettled me enough to loosen my tongue, and with the greengrocer, no less.
“’E’s a gentleman, for all ‘e’s one of us,” Lettice said with genuine fondness. One of us being a member of the working class, as housekeepers, greengrocers, and inspectors were. But as I had long ago learned not to indulge in fondness for anyone, gentleman or otherwise, I accepted my change and moved on to the butcher.
Mr. Cleaver greeted me with his customary effusive praise for my appearance, the style of my hair, the weather, the politics of Gladstone, Disraeli, and Salisbury – all of which I found incomprehensible. I wore an unremarkable, but impeccably tailored gray wool day dress, my hair was admittedly my best feature, but it was tightly braided into a chignon, it would rain in the next hour, and the best that could be said about the politics of those three this long into the reign of Queen Victoria was that they invariably cancelled each other out. I would not remark on any of those facts to Mr. Cleaver, however, as I was neither bored nor lonely enough to debate just for the sake of having something to say.
“Mrs. Mac!” A voice shouted at me across the market, and I looked up from my contemplation of a portion of lamb to see my employers’ young ward, Jess, dodging shoppers and darting between carts to reach me.
A man appeared to be in pursuit of the child, and I scowled at Mr. Cleaver. “I’ll take the lamb, but don’t you wrap that until I’ve had a chance to inspect it properly.” Then I stepped out into the path of the man, intercepted Jess, and tucked her behind me.
The man, broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed, and nearly my height, seemed to think better of bowling me over in his attempt to get at my charge, and instead, attempted to convince me with words. “Get out of the way, Madam. That child is a material witness to a crime, and I need an interview with it.”
“With it?” I scoffed, despite the shiver his voice induced. It was that man with that voice, and I placed a firm, disdainful boot heel on my response to him. “That is not an appropriate pronoun for any homo sapiens, and if you can’t differentiate this one from an object, I sincerely doubt your ability to determine a witness from a piece of fruit.”
I scowled with all the ferocity of the angry Scot I was, and the man took a step back and inhaled deeply as though attempting to gather patience from the very air itself. His black hair was indeed too long, his suit unimpressive except in its tailoring, and his shoulders were too broad for his lean frame.
“Madam,” he began, his eyes widening fractionally as he seemed to actually look at me for the first time, “it is clear the child is known to you. Perhaps you would be good enough to accompany…” he darted a glance down at the ten-year-old with short hair and the preferred costume of a delivery boy “…the child to the station so I may take a statement in the company of a trusted adult.” The abruptness of his tone had been deliberately attenuated, and I refused to be affected by his voice a third time.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I do not know you, and I do not have time to make your acquaintance at present. You may call at the back door of Grayson House at seven of the evening when I will hear your story and determine whether the child will speak to you in person, or whether I will relay any information there is to tell.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but I cut him off with a glare. “You will excuse us now, sir, and mind that you bring proof of your identity with you when you come.” And with that I turned back to the butcher, who, despite his effusive verbosity, knew better than to gawk at the exchange.
After a moment, and with a gusty sigh, the inspector departed. My opinion of his gentlemanly manners rose just slightly with his silent retreat, and I returned my attention to the task at hand. “Please wrap the leg tightly in two layers of paper, Mr. Cleaver,” I said to the butcher, “and if you’d be so good as to add a sprinkle of salt, a few slices of bacon, and this rosemary.” I handed him several sprigs from the bundle of herbs I’d purchased from Lettice “It’ll flavor the meat quite nicely as we walk home.”
With two bags full of fresh meat and produce, Jess and I left the street altogether in favor of a stroll through the Regent’s Park.
“Thank you, Mrs. Mac.”
“You are unhurt?” I said, giving Jess an assessing glance. She’d grown a bit in the last few months, but early nutrition deficit meant she would likely never be excessively tall, and certainly nothing close to my six feet. Her quick wit, speed, and sheer nerve were unparalleled, yet I had the sense that despite self-possession to rival that of the queen, something had unsettled her.
“I’m fine,” she said, clearly not fine at all, but putting a brave face on it.
I considered her for a moment, then finally said, “The bread dough has been rising for several hours, and I often find the repetitive motion of kneading useful for working out whatever vexes me. Would you do it for me while I ready the lamb for roasting?”
She nodded in silence, so I added casually, “I’m sure Mrs. Devereux could be prevailed upon to join us in the kitchen.” That suggestion garnered a sharp shake of her head, but not, I thought, because she didn’t trust her guardian. My employers were quite remarkable, really, and I knew how deeply their wards cared for them.
“There’s no call troublin’ ‘er. She’s got enough on ‘er plate without me addin’ to it.”
I tipped my head. “As you like.”
We arrived at Grayson House and were greeted at the kitchen door by a flurry of dog flesh in the form of two enormous hounds of indeterminate parentage and excellent appetite, and after giving them both the attention they demanded, Jess washed her hands, rolled up her shirt sleeves, and tied a cloth around her waist.
“Point me to the bread dough, Mrs. Mac,” Jess said with a sigh of resignation. She would talk to me, but she needed the distraction of work to do it.
She floured the worktable, and I upended the large proofing bowl of plain white bread dough onto it. A few minutes of silent kneading passed before Jess finally spoke.
“I’ve been takin’ lessons,” she said to the table. There was an edge of defiance to her voice that was at odds with her lack of eye contact. “Fightin’ lessons from a couple of the lads in Covent Garden.”
There were so many things to ask, but none of the answers mattered yet, so I stayed silent and let her find her words.
“We’re not friends, the lads and me, and I don’t owe ‘em anythin’ more than a black eye or two for cheap shots. But one of ‘em looks a bit like me—”
“Slender? Short? South Asian?” I prompted.
She shrugged. “Same brown skin, same age, I guess. Anyway, ‘e’s not as mean as the others, but we’re not friends, like I said, except… well…,” she paused to take a breath, “I think I saw ‘im get snatched.”
