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Jess looked toward the fountain. “I’ll come when the nannies ‘ave gone.”
I snapped for the dogs, and they came bounding to join me. “Mrs. Mac?” Jess said quietly.
I met her gaze. “Yes?”
“Thank ye for comin’ to find me.”
My heart gave a small lurch at the tentative smile on her face, and I nodded. “You always know where to find me,” I said. “It’s only fair I do the same.”
Supper had been a quiet affair, with Mr. Devereux away and Mrs. Devereux engaging each of the four children they’d taken in while they mimicked her every movement, thereby teaching polite table manners in a way that they hardly noticed. She was masterful in her subtlety, and I admired her elegance and envied her dainty femininity. I could never be accused of daintiness, and in English society, where even sturdy Queen Victoria was diminutive, the appearance of fragility was a highly valued feminine trait.
Ah well, at least my size helped mitigate a few of my safety concerns.
I was just putting the last of the food away when there was a soft tap on the kitchen door. The dogs were upstairs with the children, supervising their bath time no doubt, so there was no ruckus raised at the sound.
I checked the mantle clock over the kitchen fireplace; seven o’clock on the dot. The inspector was punctual and considerate enough not to pound on the door, which were both points in his favor. I wiped my hands on my apron as I hung it on a peg, then smoothed down the wool of my day dress before I opened the door.
The inspector stood outside, his woolen coat shimmering with the fog. He held his hat in his hands, and his dark hair was beginning to curl with the damp.
“Good evening, Mrs. Mac,” he said in the smooth tone that had so affected me earlier, as though it were completely natural for him to know my name. I supposed he’d heard Jess call for me in the market, but it was unnerving nonetheless. He handed me a card and continued, “My name is Dhruv Lestrade, inspector with Scotland Yard.”
I heard the faintest hint of more than one accent behind the polished public school diction, and I noted the spelling of his first name on the card. “Dhruv,” I echoed. “I imagine most people hear ‘Drew’ when you say it,” I said, stepping aside to allow him to come in.
“People hear what they expect to hear,” he said with a smile. “And see what they expect to see.”
I searched his gaze for a knowing look. After all these years, despite my careful grooming and impeccably feminine dress, close contact with strangers still unnerved me. I’d grown complacent during my time with the Devereux family as my presentation was of no matter to them, though I did still count on distance or dim light among people I didn’t know. But in the inspector’s expression I found only open interest and polite friendliness.
“Lestrade is a French name, is it not?” I said, covering my relief with idle chatter. “What a curious blend of cultures you seem to be, Inspector Lestrade.”
I poured him a mug of tea and set it across the table from my own. “If you’d like sugar, you may help yourself,” I said, indicating the sugar bowl on the spice shelves.
The Inspector hung his coat and hat on a peg behind the door, then sat down across from me and wrapped his hands around his mug. His fingers were long and graceful, which gave his hands an elegance that contradicted the callouses and scars.
“I thank you for agreeing to see me,” he said, “and for the kindness of tea.”
“You may skip the niceties and get straight to the point, Inspector.”
He studied the mug in his hands for a moment and seemed to gather his thoughts before finally meeting my eyes. “I fear I allowed my haste and concern to override courtesy in the market, and I would like to make up for it with you, and with the child, if I may?”
I frowned at him. “Why?”
“I believe everyone deserves civility and respect unless they prove otherwise, yet I did not afford either of you that courtesy today. For that I apologize.”
Well, that was unexpected. I peered more closely at him.
“Why did you chase Jess through the market?”
“Because a boy named Ajay Patel is missing, and Cherry Jamison saw Jess yell at a hansom as it drove away with him in it.”
“Who is Ajay Patel?” But I already knew the answer. He was the boy Jess had told me about.
“He runs with a group of boys from Islington. I’ve been keeping an eye on him while his father is at sea.”
Jess’s own father had been a lascar, a term which described any South Asian or Southeast Asian sailor. Her father had not returned from sea, and I wondered if she’d known that Ajay’s father was also a sailor.
“How do you know that Ajay is actually missing? How do you know he isn’t just running free and happy as a spring lamb somewhere in the city?”
He regarded me for a long moment. “There are eyes everywhere in London, Mrs. Mac. And the eyes who report to me say Ajay Patel has not been seen since he was pushed into a hansom cab by a tall, beefy, blond Englishman who rode the back of the cab as it pulled away down the street, followed by young Jess, who seemed to take umbrage at the abduction. I am merely,” he said with exquisite politeness, “attempting to gain perspective from another set of eyes.”
