It would have been if I’d had any say in the matter.Biting back the retort, she crossed to the window. Beyond the glass, life bustled about. Across the street a pickle seller stood behind a large barrel, hawking green whoppers. A broken-springed hack lumbered down the lane at a rakish angle. Pedestrians of all sorts scuttled by: a ragman, two washerwomen, and a frizzle-haired fellow with an orange neckcloth clutching a messenger bag to his chest. Not one of them so much as glanced at the agency’s door. Where were all the poor souls in need of excellent sleuthhounds?
She paced the outside track of the braided rug. “I bet if I went trolling down at the docks I’d find someone who could use our services. There’s always some sort of crime in want of investigating around there.”
Her father arched a brow over the top of his paper. “I will not have you traipsing amongst stevedores and sailors.”
“Pish. I’ve done worse.”
“Don’t I know it. Sit down.” Once again he disappeared behind the newspaper. “Let the work come to us.”
She stifled a snort. That didn’t sound like a viable business practice.
Heaving a long sigh, she strolled to the picture hanging on the wall and straightened it—though it didn’t need it. A sepia-toned print of her and her father stared back, his bushy beard the focal point. She’d asked him to go clean shaven, suggested that average citizens would find his bear-like appearance intimidating. After all, they wanted to attract clients, not frighten them off. But he’d simply chuckled, saying, “Many a case has been solved by the simple act of the stroke of a beard or the twist of a moustache.”
And yet, whiskers or not, they still didn’t have a case!
Kit reached for her hat. “Maybe I’ll just poke about the backstreets of Whitechapel. No doubt I can scare up a victim or two who’ll pay to see justice done on their behalf.”
“Jackson would not thank me if you were to become a victim yourself.” At last her father folded up his paper. “So, the answer is no.”
No?She popped her fists onto her hips. “You cannot tell your business partner what to do or what not to do.”
“I just did.” He folded his arms, the gleam in his dark eyes a gauntlet thrown to the ground.
“We have to do something to drum up business.” It was churlish of her, but she couldn’t resist flailing her hands. “At the very least I could shake out a swindler or two on Threadneedle Street. The businesses over there would be happy to rid themselves of the vermin preying on their customers.”
“Have you not yet learned to trust in God’s timing instead of your own?”
Oof.That was a low blow. She rehung her hat and set about making a pot of tea on the small hearth. While it steeped, she returned to her desk, and for a long while she sat tapping one finger against her lower lip. She had learned to trust in God’s timing…but even so, weren’t idle hands the devil’s playground? She ought to at least—yes! That was just the thing. She grabbed her pen and started writing.
“What on earth are you doing?” her father asked.
“Jotting down a few notes,” she murmured as she redipped her pen.
“Notes?” Footsteps thudded on the floorboards, her father’s shadow soon looming over her page. “About what?”
She glanced up. “How to increase our business.”
“Kit, what did I just say about trusting—”
The bell over the door jingled. In walked a bird-framed lady in a deep blue day dress with an accompanying peacock feather in her hat. She clutched her reticule in front of her as if it were a shield. There was something familiar about her cat-like eyes, but when she spoke, so silky was her voice that Kit had surely never before heard such a mesmerizing tone.
“Pardon me, but I am in need of a private enquiry agent. I hope I have come to the right place.”
“See, Daughter?” Kit’s father muttered under his breath. “Sometimes all it takes is a little faith.”
Sure, faith could move mountains, but it would take more than that to sort through this mess of paperwork. Many hours would be required, not to mention a fair number of paper cuts. Yet there was nothing to be done but to dig in. Jackson Forge grabbed a handful of files and whumped them onto his desk. No wonder the former chief inspector had been so cross all the time.
But that didn’t mean he had to be. No, indeed. He would face this challenge with a smile and be glad for the honour of serving in his new position. Becoming chief inspector was nothing to sneeze at, and he would make his sponsor—the Earl of March—proud he’d recommended him. He owed him that much and more for all his kindnesses in showering Bella with gifts when she was born and for becoming an ongoing patron for the soup kitchen.
Cracking his knuckles, Jackson geared up for the job. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he’d get back to serving justice on London’s streets. He flipped open the cover of the first file just as a knock rapped on his door.
And there went his brilliant beginning.
He shoved the stack aside and folded his hands on the desktop, striking a quintessential chief inspector pose…at least he hoped it was. “Enter.”
A round ball of a man rolled in, his spectacles so thick the eyes behind them popped like an owl’s. “Inspector Ira Harvey reporting for duty, sir.” He yanked out a handkerchief and swiped it across his sweaty brow—which did nothing to relieve the darkened circles of perspiration spreading out from his armpits. The man didn’t look capable of finding a child’s stolen lollipop, let alone hauling in a ruthless criminal. Why the deuce had former Chief Inspector Ridley hired this soft fellow?
Then again, perhaps there was more to the man than first glance credited. Jackson gave him a crisp nod. “Excellent, Harvey. I understand this is your first day of service as an inspector.”
