Sir Hugo’s junior at Special Branch, Mornaday had been, upon occasion, both adversary and ally. We had encountered Mornaday during our first adventure in detection, and while I liked him—he boasted a pair of merry dark eyes and an endearing charm that could coax birds from the trees—Stoker found him decidedly less amiable. The pair of them raised one another’s hackles and they usually spent most of their time circling one another like feral cats. They tallied their grudges against one another with maddening accuracy and held them close, nurturing them with care.
“Well, if you are not a sight for the sorest of eyes,” Mornaday said, stepping neatly over Nut to kiss my hand. “Far too long, it’s been.” His gaze held the faintest touch of reproach. “Do I have to marry you myself to prevent you from haring off for parts unknown?” he demanded.
“I sent you picture postcards,” I reminded him.
“You did?” Stoker raised a brow and Mornaday beamed at him, settling comfortably onto a camel saddle with the air of a man well pleased with himself.
“She did indeed. What’s the matter, Templeton-Vane? No letters from across the azure sea?” he teased.
Stoker stuffed the last piece of toast into his mouth and rose. “I am going to polish my eyeballs,” he informed me. He strode off to his workbench, where he retrieved a tray of glass eyes, each of them glittering balefully in the light.
Mornaday shuddered. “He is a cold-blooded one, he is.”
“You are terribly squeamish for a policeman,” I observed mildly.
He made no apologies. “I have a gentle heart,” he said, laying a solemn hand upon that organ. “But jesting aside, I am glad to see you again.”
I grinned. “Likewise.” I poured myself a second cup of tea and one for Mornaday. He took it, cradling the china in his palm. I pointed to the newspaper. “I was just reading the latest piece from the pen of J. J. Butterworth,” I said blandly.
His rosy complexion blazed to life, reddening to the tips of his ears. “Have you, then?”
“I have. She is most eloquent upon the subject of the Ripper victims. Very moving.”
“Well, she is a talented writer,” he said.
“Only a man head over heels in love would affect a tone so casual,” I told him.
He blushed further. “I have no idea what you are talking about.” He took a long sip of his tea, evading my gaze.
“Yes, you do. Or have you forgot the evening you drank too much of my very effective aguardiente and confessed your unrequited passion for Miss Butterworth?”
“I remember,” he replied, a trifle sullenly.
“What is the matter? Does she still hold you at arm’s length?”
His small smile was mirthless. “Arm’s length, leg’s length, and half a mile beyond. She is so committed to making a name for herself as a journalist, she cannot be bothered with matters of the heart.”
“Have you seen her?”
He shrugged. “She spends a good deal of time scuttling about the Yard, sniffing for clues about the Ripper.”
“I meant in a social capacity.”
“I invited her to accompany me tonight to the Savoy. The new Gilbert and Sullivan is to debut—The Yeoman of the Guard.” He drew a pair of tickets from his waistcoat pocket and thrust them at me. I studied the squares of coral pasteboard and admired the tiny butterfly embellishment above the legend,FIRST CIRCLE.
“A promising choice,” I said by way of encouragement. I tried to pass them back, but he waved me off.
“She says she is otherwise engaged,” he told me sourly. “You may as well use them yourself.”
“But surely you could invite someone else,” I began.
He rose, putting his cup down abruptly. “I haven’t the heart. Besides, it is probably for the best she refused me. I bought the tickets some weeks back and circumstances have changed. It is all hands to the tiller until the Ripper is apprehended. Sir Hugo would have my guts for garters if I left the Yard for more than half an hour. If he learns I’ve come here, I’ll be in the blackest of books,” he added with a pleading look.
“He shall never learn it from me,” I promised. “Is there no fresh new line of inquiry that might lead to this monster’s apprehension?”
He spread his hands. “I wish there were. He is a fiend, the likes of which I have never seen. You can read in the newspapers what he has done to them, but I will never speak of it.”
“You needn’t fear my sensibilities,” I assured him. “I am of strong mettle.”
