“Very good, Mrs. Worth. Now that we have that out of the way, let me start with instructions on what I expect from you.”
Pencil in hand, I began to write as he spoke. He had a very soothing voice, a rich baritone with a hint of a brogue. Could he be Scottish by birth? Ashton had to be of Scottish descent, or so his name would imply. Why I was thinking of the inspector and Mr. Moran in the same line was questionable. Both men made an impression on me.
“Do you have any questions for me?” Mr. Moran was leaning forward, his palms flat on the desk. The spicy scent of soap drifted between us, a mixture of wood and cinnamon, a very pleasant combination.
I had a million questions for him, but I didn’t want to ask any that would jeopardize my position. Eloise had speculated that he might be printing books that were of a political nature. I would wait to find out for sure and then decide. Until then, I would keep my own counsel. “I noticed you have many manuscriptssitting around your office in a rather, well, to put a delicately, an unorganized way.”
“They are organized to me.” By the mulish twist to his lips, he wasn’t thrilled with my observation.
“I can understand that. However you have tasked me with organizing you and putting your office in order.” I had a job to do, and I would do it well. “Also, I daresay all these stacks of paper could be a fire hazard.”
“Now you sound like Ash.” He mumbled under his breath and shifted in his seat. The chair issued a creek, and his fingers flexed to keep him upright.
At the sound of the man’s name, I stiffened my spine, the fear back. “Are you speaking about Inspector Ashton, who was here yesterday?
“Yes, he is an old friend of mine. He comes by quite often to talk, thus you’ll see him around a lot.” Mr. Moran glanced down, a lock of hair falling across his forehead. With the back of his hand, he pushed it away.
“I see. As to the filing, I would like to get started right away if I could.” Relief shot through me, and I tried to stop my leg from shaking. Ashton, or Ash as Mr. Moran referred to him, was a friend. Mr. Moran wasnotunder investigation. However, I needed to be careful regardless. If the inspector decided to look into my past, he might see things I didn’t want exposed. I had no reason to believe he ever would, but I had to be cautious for the sake of my family.
He stared at me for a long moment, determination in his regard. “You may start with the manuscripts by the window. However, you must never touch anything on my desk unless I explicitly ask you to, do you understand?”
My earlier suspicion returned to the forefront. Was he hiding something? “I understand. I would never overstep my bounds.”
His bark of laughter sounded loud in the quiet room. “You have been in my office for less than fifteen minutes, and you have already overstepped your bounds.”
A reluctant smile tugged at my lips, and I didn’t want to notice how his eyes lit up when he was amused. “In my defense, you asked me to keep you in line. I will undoubtedly tread on your toes more often than not.”
“I suspect you will.” He relaxed back in his chair and pulled a manuscript before him. “You may go about your business. I have some work I need to do.”
“I will try to be quiet.” I stood and turned my back to him, eyeing the stacks of manuscripts, each one a story unto itself. As an avid reader, I could hardly wait to discover what was in those pages. And perhaps a bit more about the man who had helped those authors realize their dreams.
Because of Mr. Moran, I had a chance to provide for my family. He might be difficult—no, different from other gentlemen I was used to. Mrs. Paul had spoken glowingly about him. Perhaps she might be able to provide further insight.
Or maybe I should simply mind my own affair. What you don’t know can’t hurt you.
Chapter Seven
Inspector Liam Ashton
I stared down at the report on my desk at the Met station, rubbing at my tired eyes. The elongated space contained six more plain wooden desks in an open room with little privacy. My fellow officers were in deep conversation over a new murder case. Another victim of someone else’s anger.
With a sigh, I skimmed my summary without really seeing it. Filling out countless documents added to my growing frustration over my lack of progress on the fatal stabbing of a local grocer, putting me in a rough mood. Instead of solving real-life mysteries, the writer in me wanted to lose myself in the fictional world I was building with my latest novel. Every day I was tempted to shed the cloak of responsibility and walk out that door, free of the burdens of real life. Sadly, that wasn’t the road fate had mapped out for me.
I glanced at the clock on the whitewashed plaster wall and laid the report on a stack of others I would send to the file clerk. While the grocer’s case was no closer to being solved, I had a new lead on the Anderson murder. Instead of lightening my mood, it added to my unrest. I had met Suzette six months before while in the first stages of my investigation into the death of Fanny Anderson. I pushed the oncoming sadness to the back of my mind. Dwelling on the past solved nothing. Once I finishedinterviewing a new witness, I would swing by Moran’s office and see how he was faring with his new secretary.
