Kit rolled her eyes. Jackson hadn’t even allowed her to question the man, let alone a lady of standing. What did the woman think this place was? Some frilly-nilly tea shop where one indulged in cucumber dainties and miniature cakes with the inmates? Pish! She darted ahead, catching up to the woman and guiding her over to the front desk. Hopefully Jackson was in his office, already finished with the task of pulling words out of Gruver—which would satisfy her and hopefully Mrs. Coleman as well.
“Morning, Smitty.” She rap-tap-tapped on the counter.
The big clerk turned away from a spindle of receipts he’d been wrestling with, a grin appearing when his gaze landed on her. “Mornin’, Mrs. Forge. Didn’t know you were stopping by today. The chief didn’t say.”
“My husband has a lot on his mind, I’m afraid. Is he in his office?”
Beside her Mrs. Coleman quit her incessant gawking about and spoke before Smitty could answer. “Are the holding cells upstairs or down?”
Smitty pursed his lips, glancing between them, clearly unsure who to answer first.
Kit frowned at Mrs. Coleman. “The holding cells are below stairs, but there is no need to trouble ourselves with a visit to that dank hole if my husband is in his office.” She glanced back at Smitty. “Is he?”
“Aye.” He nodded. “But he’s—”
“Thanks!” Kit waved her hand in the air as she linked arms with Mrs. Coleman. “This way.”
She led the woman up the stairway, at one point having to release her hold of Mrs. Coleman to go single file when two big officers trotted down. At the top, Jackson’s office door was shut, so she gave a cursory knock before twisting the handle and poking in her head. “Jackson, I hope you don’t mind, but…”
What in the world?
A broomstick of a man in a brilliant red coat whirled on tiptoe in front of Jackson’s desk, arms sweeping wide. Had he been engaged in a wild round of charades or performing a dance? For clearly he must be an entertainer. He could be nothing but, with that garish black-and-gold masquerade mask covering most of his face.
Jackson sprang from his chair, cornering his desk with the utmost look of relief on his face. He motioned for the strange man to follow him. “I must bid you good day now, Mr. Catchpole. It appears my wife has some business with me.”
The man’s dark button eyes widened behind his mask. He pranced over to her and Mrs. Coleman and dipped a magnificent bow. “Good morning, fair ladies. And which of you, may I ask, is the other half of this gallant gentleman to whom I owe every breath in my lungs? Nay, the very beat of my heart?”
Kit studied him from the tip of the ostrich feather in his green felt hat, along a red woolen frock coat clearly tailored to his form, and on down to the point of his Italian leather shoes—which appeared to be new. Expensive garments for one who could use a good scrubbing, especially those strings of greasy hair dangling to his shoulders. The man was a contradiction, one that instantly put her on alert. What sort of swindle was this “gentleman of four outs” trying to run on her husband?
She lifted her chin. “I am Mrs. Forge.”
“Oh!” He squeaked, then snatched her hand and planted a delicate kiss atop it. “I count myself blessed, dear woman, to have made your acquaintance.”
Jackson pulled him away. “And with that, Mr. Catchpole, I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”
“Naturally you must!” Slipping from Jackson’s hold, he slapped his hand against his chest. “Far be it from me not to know when to depart. Besides, I trust you will think on all I have related to you this morn, and I look forward to your most astute counsel as to how you think I should proceed. So, I say a very, very good day to you, sir.” He tipped his feathered hat at Kit and Mrs. Coleman. “And a particularly merry day to you as well, dear ladies.”
As his skinny legs waltzed out the open door, Kit arched a brow at Jackson. He merely shrugged. A deflection—for now. She’d ask about Mr. Catchpole later.
Mrs. Coleman took a step towards Jackson. “Pardon our intrusion, Chief Inspector, but your wife has taken on my case, and it is of the utmost importance to know if you have found out anything from the vile man in your custody. I should like a word with him myself.”
“I’m sorry I cannot comply. Any intelligence I receive is privileged information.” Though he spoke to Mrs. Coleman, he frowned at Kit. “Which my wife here ought to have told you.”
Did he seriously think she hadn’t? She’d pulled every trick from her swindler bag to persuade the woman to simply go home. She turned to Mrs. Coleman. “Why don’t you give my husband and I a moment alone. There is a chair down by the receiving desk where we first came in. Smitty the clerk will see to any need you may have.”
“That is not necessary. I—”
“Jackson!” In dashed Charles Baggett, breathing hard, smelling of sawdust and sweat. He’d been running, that much was evident, but through what? A carpentry shop? A zoo? “You’ll never believe it. We’ve got to pull a squad together right away. Guess who’s holed up at the Gilliam Royal Circus. Oh, I beg your pardon, ladies!” He gasped as his gaze landed on her and Mrs. Coleman. Pulling off his hat, he tipped his head.
Jackson huffed an annoyed sigh. “That’s right, just barge right in, Baggett. In fact, let all of God’s great creation plow through my door. What have I to do other than host every blessed man and woman who is dying to have a word with me. It’s not like I have a prisoner to interrogate and a load of paperwork to shovel through.”
“Jackson”—Kit pinched his arm—“don’t be pettish. Clearly Mr. Baggett has something important to say.” She angled her head towards Charles. “Who did you find?”
“Spaddy.” Though he said it nonchalantly, his chest puffed out a full inch.
“Bootblade?” Jackson whistled. “That is a find.”
“And that’s not all.” He faced Kit. “I’m reasonably certain I found your man there as well.”
