“This is all a moot point if this building crashes down around our ears!” Sergeant Doyle roared.
And at that very moment, the worst possible time for a long-legged, flint-faced superior to enter, Superintendent Hammerhead elbowed his way into the room.
“What sort of three-ring circus is this, Forge?”
Chapter Two
“You have come to the right place.” Kit ushered the agency’s very first client to one of the overstuffed chairs in front of the desks. The woman was a strange mix of rosewater and steel—an odd impression that Kit couldn’t quite shake, nor could she account for it. Clearly there was nothing strong about the lady. In her fashionable blue gown, feathered hat, and silk gloves, she was likely more adept at attending dinner parties than besting some ruffian in a dark alley.
“I am Mrs. Forge, and this is Mr. Graybone.” Kit swept her hand towards her father. “And at the risk of sounding pretentious, allow me to put your mind at ease that between us, we have years of experience investigating crime.”
“Oh, I am so happy to hear it, for you see I…” The lady’s lower lip quivered, and she pulled a lacy handkerchief from her reticule. “I need the best. Theverybest.” A few delicate sniffles escaped, and she dabbed the corners of her eyes, the tail of lace bobbing just above a distinct mole near her mouth.
Oh dear. Whatever she’d come here about was clearly a heart-breaker. Kit rose. “Can I get you a cup of tea, Miss—?”
“Mrs., actually. Mrs. Charlotte Coleman. And yes, please. A spot of tea might help calm my nerves.” She drew in a shaky breath.
Kit flew to the kettle while her father took over.
“Well then, Mrs. Coleman, how can we be of service?”
“She is gone. Oh, she is gone!” The last words came out on a wail.
Kit rushed back to the woman with a stout cup of Assam. “Here, now. Steady on.”
“Thank you.” Gratitude shone in Mrs. Coleman’s eyes as she took a sip.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning, Mrs. Coleman.” Kit’s father pulled out his pad of paper and a lead pencil. “If we are to help you, we must know all the details, such as who exactly is gone and what the circumstances are.”
“Yes, yes. Of course. Forgive me.” She set down her cup on the small table between the chairs, then squared her shoulders. “It is my husband, you see.”
Hmm. Kit frowned. That didn’t add up. “Yet you saidsheis gone.”
“Indeed.” The lady nodded. “So she is. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Everything started last year when Mr. Coleman began working late hours. I did not think much of it as I was in confinement and admittedly did not provide very good companionship. Yet his odd hours did not change even after our sweet little Lillibeth arrived. My husband became more snappish. Furtive. And these last few months”—she shuddered—“even violent.” She pressed a hand to her cheek, a giveaway she’d been struck in the face at some time in the past.
What a cad! Anger flared in Kit’s belly. “And you say this is unusual behaviour?”
“Yes. Mr. Coleman was ever the gentleman up to this point, but now…” The lady leaned forward in her seat, veins straining on her swanlike neck. “I fear for Lillibeth. You must get her back!”
“Aha.” Kit’s father tapped his pencil on the paper. “So, it is your child who is missing?”
“My childandmy husband. He took her out of her crib and fled in the night.”
“How awful!” Kit huffed. Good thing she wasn’t holding a pencil or it would’ve been snapped in half.
“Please.” Tears glimmered in Mrs. Coleman’s green eyes. “You must find Mr. Coleman and get my child back.”
“Without doubt! A babe should be in its mother’s arms.” Kit gripped the chair to keep from barreling out of the office this very minute and hunting down the bully with her boot knife.
“Yet,” her father drawled, “the girl is with her father, who has every right to take the child, for she is his.”
Kit’s jaw dropped. “What about Mrs. Coleman’s rights?”
Mrs. Coleman shifted uneasily on her seat. “You will take my case, will you not?”
What a question. She might not even charge the woman, so egregious was Mr. Coleman’s act. It would be a pleasure to see him brought to heel. Kit lifted her chin. “Of course we—”
“A word, Mrs. Forge.” Her father stood.
