“You’re right, I should have told you...” I had no chance to get the rest out.
He kissed me, fiercely, passionately, with a taste of whisky, heat, and Brodie.
I had never been kissed like that before, not even by him, as if he might take the breath from me, his hands in my hair, his beard scraping my cheek, refusing to let me go.
I fully expected him to pick me up, carry me into the adjoining bedroom, and have his way with me as he had once promised. He did not.
Instead, his hands were gentle now, his forehead against mine, his fingers tender on my face, and somehow that undid me more than if he had carried me off.
Well, if I couldn’t persuade him into the bedroom…
“More please,” I whispered, wanting very much for him to kiss me again.
He cursed softly. “Ye try a man’s soul, Mikaela Forsythe.”
“I do try…”
* * *
Brodie had contacted Sir Avery as soon as he read that article in the late edition of the daily. Sir Avery had in turn contacted Sir William Strachan, the young woman’s father, and made an appointment for first thing in the morning. Apparently there had also been a conversation about Abberline.
The delay was frustrating, however there was nothing to be done about it. The young woman’s mother was at their country estate and Sir William had set out to meet her and bring her back to London.
Eleanor Strachan was last seen at another All Hallows party where she had departed with a friend just after midnight. After leaving the friend at the girl’s residence, Eleanor never arrived home.
The two families lived only a few residences apart at Portman Square near St. James Park. Sir Strachan had also been out for the evening. Upon his return the servants had informed that his daughter had not yet returned.
He had thought that she might have decided to stay over and so had not learned of her disappearance until the morning, and then learned of her death in the afternoon daily with that horrible photograph.
Horrible. That was the only word for it.
In the photograph, Eleanor was still in the costume she had worn the evening prior, that appeared to be that of a witch. She had obviously been murdered then positioned at the curb of the street, head slightly bent at an awkward angle that spoke to the method of her death. And the same as the other two young women. Her hands were folded before her in that same pose for the photograph.
Three young women, three deaths. The only reason that all of London wasn’t in a complete terror as they had been and still were with the Whitechapel murders, was that the murders of Amelia Mainwaring and Catherine Thorpe had not as yet appeared in the dailies. That brought me back to Abberline.
The chief inspector had used the article about the latest murder as a political statement, though he’d refused to reveal the other murders as he openly campaigned for the criminal reform that he was determined to achieve. He had also mentioned that Brodie had once been part of the MP, but had since departed.
He then went on to extol the accomplishments of the MP, including his investigation into the matter of Lady Lenore Litton’s disappearance the year before.
“Despicable.”
I detested the man and his aggravatingly inept methods of investigating a crime, motivated by his own self-interest. He had been a plague upon our inquiries from the beginning.
“It was bound to happen,” Brodie commented, seemingly not bothered by the man’s arrogance.
“He has certainly boasted of his part.” Which was no part at all as it had turned out. I did wonder how the man lived with himself.
I had to admit that my opinion of Abberline had nothing to do with Brodie’s history with the man when he was a member of the MP. Brodie could take care of himself.
It had everything to do with Abberline’s bungled investigation into my sister’s disappearance that might well have ended in her death. Not that I carried a grudge against the man, however…
A favorite saying of my housekeeper, Mrs. Ryan, came to mind:
“May those who love us, love us. And those that don’t love us,
May God turn their hearts, and if He doesn’t turn their hearts,
May He turn their ankles, so we’ll know them by their limping.”
