She harrumphed, and he thought that was possibly his cue to depart, so he did.
“This is a very odd place,” Gray muttered.
It was to number 11 Crabbett Close that he was heading. Reaching it, he climbed the three steps, then back down one and up again. He then knocked on the door twice.
Someone opened it minutes later.
“Detective Grayson Fletcher from Scotland Yard,” Gray said, handing over his card to the huge Scotsman standing in the doorway. They’d met briefly four nights ago, and the man Ellen Nightingale called Mungo hadn’t been impressed with him then either. In fact, no one in this street appeared to be.
“And what is it you’ll be wanting?” The man’s brows were like hedgerows and drawn together over bright blue eyes.
“To question Miss Nightingale,” Gray said calmly. You didn’t get to where he had in his career and life without being able to handle difficult people. His strength had always been the ability to remain calm in all situations. The residents he’d spoken to in Crabbett Close had admittedly challenged that.
“About?” the Scot thundered.
“The body she found. What she first saw upon entering Mr. Nicholson’s establishment, and a few other questions that I would rather direct to her than you.”
The man glared. Dressed in black trousers and a navy jacket, he wore a white shirt and necktie. He had the appearance of a gentleman, but that thick neck and those beefy hands suggested he could behave otherwise, if required. Which didn’t bother Gray. He wasn’t a gentleman either, no matter that he’d been born one.
“If you don’t let me in, you are obstructing a murder investigation, sir.”
“Mungo,” the man snapped.
“God bless you,” Gray said.
“It’s my name,” the Scot snarled.
He’d known that, of course, but it wasn’t his nature to go easy on people if they didn’t go easy on him.
“Well, Mungo, may I please speak to Miss Nightingale?”
The woman who had shown no fear over the fact she’d just found a dead body or that she was alone on a foggy night. He’d gotten close enough to her to see her face clearly. Gray had thought her beauty would be intimidating to some but not him. The woman had come to his nose, but her courage had been a great deal bigger.
Gray was sure Ellen Nightingale wouldn’t be anything like the intriguing woman he’d believed her to be that night, but still. He wanted to see her.
“You’ll wait here, and I’ll see if Miss Ellen can speak with you.”
“It would be in her best interest to do just that,” Gray said pleasantly. Yet another door was slammed in his face, and he was left to cool his heels on the doorstep.
He’d heard stories about the Nightingale siblings since he’d started his enquiries. Ellen Nightingale had, after all, been the one to find the body, so he couldn’t discount the possibility that she was the murderer.
He’d spoken to one man who manned the flower cart not far from the bookshop where Mr. Nicholson had been found dead. He had called them the Notorious Nightingales. Gray asked why. The answer had been “You’d need to speak to those who live in Crabbett Close to understand.” Intrigued, Gray had done just that.
Each door he knocked on was opened with a smile, and then when he’d mentioned he was looking for information about the Nightingales and Mr. Nicholson, the smiles fell. Doors were then politely yet firmly shut in his face. One Mr. Peeky who lived at 2 Crabbett Close had told him to mind his business. He’d added that the Nightingales were good folk and he should go in search of real criminals, and not waste his time on folk who weren’t.
It had been extremely odd. Few were willing to shut a door in the face of a detective from Scotland Yard, but they had. One man simply said, “The Nightingales are the very best of people,” before slamming his door.
He’d only knocked on five, as the response was always the same. No information was forthcoming.
Looking up at the walls of the Nightingales’ red brick home, he thought it appeared a pleasant enough abode. If he leaned to the right, he could see in a large bay window. He didn’t, of course. Gray didn’t behave in a manner that might draw attention.
The gardens were weeded and yet planted haphazard with very little structure. He’d entered through a black iron gate and a brick fence that matched the house and bordered the property.
Leaning back slightly, he studied the top windows. Which room was hers? Miss Ellen Nightingale? The door handle rattled, and he straightened.
“Very well. Come this way, but I’ll not stand for you upsetting her,” Mungo said.
“The woman I met four nights ago did not appear someone who could be overly upset.”
