“Even so, my friend, it was a woman and her daughters that you brought to a men’s boardinghouse. A bold move. Why did you not come to my—no. Scrap that.” He doffed his hat and set it on the tea table. “So, what happened? I’m guessing there was some sort of danger for you to risk a nighttime crossing of the city with a gaggle of young ones in tow.”
“Imminent danger, more like, and you’re not going to like it.” Charles blew out a long breath, shaking his head. “There was a bomb in Mrs. Jones’ flat. Only by God’s sheer grace did I discover it in time.”
A bomb?!The very thought of innocent little Bella being near an explosive ignited a fire in his gut. “What the blazes? How did that get past your nose?”
“I’ve been asking myself that same question ever since I first laid eyes on the thing.” Charles plowed his fingers through his hair, standing parts of it on end. “Could have been a bribed delivery boy who snuck up the back stairs. Or maybe one of the many hungry slipped in the rear door during the bustle of serving soup and planted it—though the pay would’ve had to have been good to destroy a meal source. But who knows? Might have even been Carky herself, scaled the wall, crawled through a window. I can’t say for sure.”
“Impossible.” And it was. Charles was the best on the force. “You would have noticed such breaches.”
“Normally, yes, but…” Baggett’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I admit I was a bit distracted yesterday trying to get a private word in with Martha. I—em—I asked her to marry me.”
A flush rose up his friend’s neck. This man, this rock of a lawman, had seriously fallen victim to the whims of love when he should have been looking after those in his care—particularly Bella? Sympathy, empathy, and not just a little bit of fury ran laps in Jackson’s belly. “While I am glad you took my advice, the timing of it couldn’t have been worse. You should have stayed focused.”
“That’s what I was trying to do. I went to Martha’s flat to propose, and that’s when I discovered the bomb.”
Jackson pressed his fingers to his temple. Yes, his friend’s distraction might’ve made it easier for an assassin to strike—and yet this was Carky. She got into a police station manned with officers and killed a prisoner. So truly, even had Charles not been preoccupied, it may have made no difference. He blew out a long breath. In the end, God had actually used that very distraction to save them all, for if Charles hadn’t been compelled to speak to Martha in hopes of clearing his mind, the bomb would not have been found in time.
Jackson scrubbed his hand over his face, releasing what remained of his pent-up anger, then met Charles’ gaze head-on. “I assume Martha said yes?”
Charles nodded. “She did.”
“Then congratulations, my friend. And though I can see you’re still blaming yourself, the fact remains that you did keep her and the children all safe, and for that I am grateful. Thank God you—and everyone else—are unharmed, and that Carky is no longer a threat.”
“You finally got her in custody, then?”
“In a sense, I suppose…” He swallowed, throat tight. Even now he shuddered to think of Carky’s ignoble end. “She chose death over capture, saying she preferred to die on her own terms—though Kit suspects her suicide had less to do with honour and more to do with fear of failing whoever hired her.”
“That’s awful. I mean, I’m glad Coleman is safe, but”—he slowly shook his head—“such a price.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence ushering in quiet contemplation and the landlady’s cat. The patch-coloured feline—black, white, and even some ginger—pranced into the room as if it owned the place, tail flicking to and fro like a conductor’s baton. Captain Clawsworthy, if Jackson remembered correctly. The animal twined around Charles’ legs, and he bent to scratch the creature between the ears.
“So,” Charles murmured, “Martha and her children can return home, but I suspect this isn’t over?”
Would that it were! “Not until we put a stop to whoever it was who hired Carky.”
“And Coleman?” Charles straightened.
“Safely ensconced inside Barrister Muddlethorpe’s compound.”
The front door slammed shut and footsteps raced down the corridor. A breath later, Frankie bounded in, arm still wrapped in a bandage, albeit filthy now. His entrance startled the cat so that it leapt onto the sofa next to Jackson.
Charles clamped a hand on the boy’s shoulder before he crashed into the tea table. “Slow down, young man. This isn’t a racetrack and you’re not a horse.”
“Thought ye’d wanna know, Mr. Baggett, Mr. Jackson.” He panted. “Whew. Nearly got snagged, but it were worth it.”
“By whom?” Jackson nudged the curious cat off his lap before the thing clawed his trousers. “And for what?”
“I were snufflin’ about the glassworks, just like ye asked me to.” The boy’s words traveled on great puffs of air.
Charles circled over to a side table and retrieved a glass of water for Frankie. “Here, have a drink. Then tell us what you learned.”
The lad gulped the entire glass, liquid dripping down his chin as he did so. “I were slinkin’ around Bellow’s office”—he swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, holding out the glass for a refill—“and propped open one o’ the panes o’ glass facing the work floor. Got out o’ there just in time, too, a’fore he returned. Saw the tails o’ him and another man. Small fellow who tried to make up for it with a top hat. Wore a tan carrick coat too, which were odd fer this time o’ year.”
Jackson snatched his hat from the tea table before the cat destroyed it with its claws. “Did you see his face?”
“No, but I caught the end o’ their conversation soon as I shimmied up to the rafters and perched outside the office window.”
Charles frowned at the lad as he handed him another drink. “If you reinjured your arm, there’ll be the devil to pay with your mum.”
