“I understand, Mr. Mortis. If you discover anything more, please send word to Chief Inspector Jackson Forge. Thank you, and good day.” She picked her way to the basin of water near the door and quickly washed her hands, then once again collected her skirt hem and left behind the chill of the morgue for the front office. All the while she thought on what she’d seen and heard. That mark on Mr. Blade’s neck had to have happened before the mugging, for there was no sense in doing so afterwards. If he had been injected with some sort of poison, that may have accounted for his lack of discretion in allowing a mugger to lure him into an alley, but why take the trouble of attacking someone who was about to die anyway? Unless the assailants hadn’t known.
She stopped in her tracks, conspiracies galore whirling in her head. What if the assault had been a cover-up, a great puff of smoke to hide the true cause of death? To conceal who the real killer was? And if—if—that were true, such skulduggery and level of craft hinted at one thing.
An assassin.
She stepped out into the grey afternoon, mulling over that possibility. Mr. Blade may not have been killed by a bash to the head but by a trained killer who’d bumped against him with a poison-laced needle at the ready. It would be easy enough for someone to feign a tipsy step in a pub. Or perhaps someone had employed a blow dart as Mr. Mortis mentioned. Granted, this could be a leap of logic, but nonetheless something that ought to be considered.
Her heart raced with the thought. After all, were an assassin involved, that could very well be why her missing Mr. Coleman went into hiding. He just may fear for his life and the life of his child. But if that were true, then why didn’t he care about his wife as well? It didn’t add up unless Mrs. Coleman had left out some important facts about her husband…or herself.
Kit flattened her lips. Perhaps instead of only digging into the missing man, she ought to scour Mrs. Coleman’s past.
Chapter Nine
The chaos of London’s streets paled in comparison to the bedlam of an average morning inside Jackson’s own kitchen. Bella whaled a wooden spoon against her high-chair tray, ear-piercing laughter burbling out at a pitch that ought not to be heard by the human ear. Kit fanned away a cloud of black smoke from a plate of toast while calling down oaths that would make a sailor blush. The dairyman banged his fist at the back door with a bellowed “Fresh milk!” All of it combined to quite the swell, and it took every bit of Jackson’s willpower not to stop up his ears as he poured a cup of coffee. Such a cacophony wasn’t exactly how he’d imagined family life.
“That cannot be the time!” Kit flew from the sideboard to the high chair, scrubbing Bella’s cheeks with a cloth. “I’m going to be late again in getting you to Martha’s, little one.”
Bella threw the spoon, nearly taking out the armadillo snuffling in the corner. Her whole face reddened with what promised to be a screeching howl.
Stifling a smile, he saluted Kit with his cup. “Oh, for a lazy morning, eh?”
“What I wouldn’t give.” She swung Bella up in her arms, making a game of the flight to thwart the child’s cries.
“I’d pay a queen’s ransom,” he muttered, then took a swig of coffee and immediately spat it into a bucket. Foul brew. Had Kit forgotten to use fresh grounds again?
“Are you so unhappy with our life?” Kit frowned. “I realize it’s a bit hectic at the moment, but it’s only the first week at the enquiry agency. Things are sure to simmer down once I get the hang of balancing it all.”
He set down the cup then closed in on his girls, wrapping them both in a bear hug. “I could never be unhappy with you two.”
“Ba-ba!” Bella smacked her little palm against his face repeatedly.
“Papa,” he urged as he grabbed her chubby little hand and planted a kiss on it. “Now off with you, tiny beast. Your mama has work to accomplish, as do I.”
“Ba-ba!” she cried again and nuzzled her face against Kit’s neck.
Kit’s frown merely grew. Odd, that. Usually she tried to coax ama-mafrom the girl.
“Hey,” Jackson said softly as he brushed loose hair from his wife’s brow. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“Sometimes…” A huge sigh deflated her chest, taking Bella along for the ride. “Well, I can’t help but wonder if I’m doing the right thing in leaving our precious girl every day.” This time she did nuzzle the top of Bella’s head—and quite forcefully at that. Almost as if she were trying to imprint the memory in her mind. Clearly something troubled her.
“Kit?” He nudged her chin with the crook of his finger, forcing her gaze to his. “Do you want to quit your job?”
“No. I love what I do, but I also love our sweet little dear. Oh, Jackson.AmI doing the right thing?” Conflict obliterated the silver flecks in her blue eyes, turning them into murky pools.
His chest tightened. He’d do anything to erase that confusion and remove that angst…anything but tell her what to do. Such a move would be worse than handing a gun to an assailant.
“Tell you what.” Leaning over Bella, he kissed the tip of his wife’s nose. “How about when you wrap up this missing-man case—for I know you will not rest until you find him—you reevaluate then if you should continue working with your father or not.”
“That could take a very long time. My case is a muddy mess. It was far easier to sort through the one my father is working on.” She pulled the bib off Bella’s neck and laid it over the back of the high chair. “I thought I had a brilliant lead from the coroner’s yesterday, but now I’m not so sure, and I have exhausted all my resources.”
“Well, at least you know one place he is not.” Jackson winked as he strode from the room to retrieve his hat. He’d have to grab coffee from a street seller on the way to work, so there wasn’t a moment to waste.
“Yes, but I don’t know where heis.” Kit followed close behind. “If you wanted to hide where no one could find you, where would you hole up?”
“That’s easy.” He pulled his hat from the coat-tree then faced her. “Somewhere no one could find me.”
“Such as?” Shifting Bella to one hip, she straightened his collar with her free hand, her rosewater scent slightly smoky from the burnt-toast affair. She really did try to be the quintessential wife—God love her—even though deep down he knew she still keened to bring justice to the streets.
