Clark sat at his littered desk, reading a letter. His scowling bulldog’s face made him look more combative than usual. When he dropped the note, O’Malley spotted the commissioner’s heading.
“Sit.”
The sergeant lowered his bulk onto the battered wooden chair and winced when it creaked. The squat, bald Clark leaned back and hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets.
“I’ve got just the job for you, O’Malley,” he said, stressing the “O” in his surname. “Some Irish servant girl has gone missing. For some reason, Marlborough House cares, so—” The chief looked over the sergeant’s shoulder. “Well, well … Look what the cat’s dragged in.”
O’Malley twisted around in his seat. Tennant stood in the doorway.
“Thank you, sir,” the inspector said. “It’s a pleasure to be back.” Tennant turned to O’Malley and smiled. “Good to see you, Sergeant.”
O’Malley got to his feet, the grin underneath his bushy mustache splitting his face. He reached to shake the inspector’s hand and stopped when he saw the bandage.
“Nothing much, Paddy. A flesh wound. I’ll tell you about it over a pint.”
“You’ll put off the bloody reunion for now,” Clark said. “This message from Sir Richard …” He snatched it up. “The commissioner wants to—let me read it—‘reinstate a winning team’ and put you on a case.” The chief tossed it aside. “Princess Alexandra’s lady-in-waiting filed a missing person’s report about a servant girl.”
“Indeed, sir,” Tennant said, his expression impassive.
“Yes, ‘indeed,’ so let’s not make a pig’s ear out of this one.” Clark handed O’Malley the file. “We’ll have MarlboroughHouse, the palace, and half the bleeding Home Office looking over our shoulder.”
“I see.”
Clark waved them out of the room. “Hop it.”
When they were out of earshot, O’Malley said, “You’ll be noticing the chief hasn’t changed.”
“Charming as ever,” Tennant said, opening the door to the office he’d exited nearly six months earlier.
He stood a moment with his hands on his hips. “Well, it hasn’t gotten any larger since I left.” He walked to the window and put his hand on the sill. “The window is just as drafty. All the same …” Tennant dropped Clark’s report on his desk, swiveled the creaky chair, and sat.
“All the same, I’m glad you’re back. And that maggot, Romilly, or whatever he’s after calling himself. Good riddance.”
“I’ll tell you the whole story later, but Romilly was up to his neck in gunrunning. Sold weapons to the Irish Republican Brotherhood.”
“Have you told the commissioner that?”
“Yes. French military intelligence asked me to convey some documents to Sir Richard about IRB activities.” Tennant looked at his sergeant. “So, tell me … how are things at the Yard?”
“Morale’s been better, and if you happen to have a name that starts with ‘O’ or ‘Mc’ ’tis a bit like having a dose of leprosy.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“The fella sitting at your desk for the last six months has joined a special division looking into the brotherhood threat. I wasn’t invited to the party.”
“I’m sorry, Paddy.”
O’Malley shrugged. “Like the old music hall song says, ‘No Irish Need Apply.’”
“Well, I’m glad you’ve held down the fort. The Yard seems under siege.”
“That it is. And there was some trouble over at the doctor’sclinic on the day of the bombing.” O’Malley explained what happened to Kate Connelly. “’Twill all blow over soon enough, I’m thinking.”
Unless Colonel Chabert is right, and it’s just begun,Tennant thought. “Damned unpleasant for poor Kate.”
“Have you seen the doctor?”
“Not yet, but she knows I planned to be back today. So, this missing girl. What’s our first order of business?”
