Mungo grunted and walked away, which Gray guessed was his cue to follow. He looked about him, which he always did, taking in his surroundings. Searching for clues as to the personalities of those that lived within the walls of number 11 Crabbett Close. A murderer could reside here, after all.
Deep, rich colors lined the walls. His booted feet sank into thick rugs. He saw a large mirror and a few paintings, plus a cabinet.
“A very nice interior,” he said.
Mungo ignored him. He then opened a door and waved Gray inside.
“Miss Ellen will join you shortly.”
“Excellent, it’s my hope she does,” he said with a smile that did not reach his eyes and his colleagues would interpret to mean he would not tolerate anyone obstructing his investigation.
Mungo left without further comment, and Gray wandered around the room. Wide windows drew him to look down upon a small garden. He found two older children he guessed were Matilda and Theodore. Gray had done his research, of course. He’d be a fool not to know exactly who he was about to meet.
What surprised him were the facts he’d uncovered.
Miss Ellen Nightingale. Eldest daughter of the late Viscount Seddon, who took a gun and shot himself when his debts had reached a point where he was to lose everything. He left behind a wife who now lived in the country at the only estate entailed. The family were left without funds as every penny had gone to paying the late Viscount’s gambling debts.
Ellen had also been engaged to Lord Lester, a man old enough to be her grandfather, but he’d gotten cold feet once the state of the Nightingale finances was exposed. As far as Gray was concerned, this revealed the man to be a weak-kneed fool. To have walked away from a woman like Ellen Nightingale was cowardly, if everything he’d heard about her was accurate.
Then there was the aunt and uncle. Bramstone and Ivy Nightingale. He’d learned from a source they had taken in their nieces and nephews and were still living together as a family.
Moving around the room, he came to a small side table. Farm animal figurines were scattered about on it in a random fashion.
Gray didn’t like things scattered random or otherwise. Picking them up, he lined the horses facing the cows and the ducks facing the pigs. There was an odd number of cows, so he brought a horse over to join its bovine friends. Satisfied when everything was symmetrical in even rows, he walked on to a painting, which was hanging crooked. He straightened it.
“Detective Fletcher.”
Gray looked to the doorway. Framed in it was Ellen Nightingale and a large white dog with black circles around his eyes at her side.
Something inside him tightened as he looked at her and then eased. Indigestion perhaps? He had eaten two slices of apple cake before coming here.
“Miss Nightingale.” He bowed as she walked into the room.
She wore a deep blue and black checked dress. The bodice formed to a vee with the fitted top accentuating her small waist. The skirts were full to the floor. He could see why she was once considered a darling of the ton. Golden blond hair was pulled into a bun at the back of her head like most women wore and the front was pinned to the side. Deep blue, almost indigo, eyes were framed with long curling lashes and delicate arched brows. Her mouth was a cupid’s bow.
His first impression of four nights ago had been accurate. She was exceptionally beautiful.
“Detective Fletcher, please take a seat. This is our dog, Chester.”
He looked around them. “Is anyone joining you, Miss Nightingale?”
“The door is open, and my dog will attack if I command him to do so. If you are waiting for a chaperone, you’ll have a long wait. Sit, Detective.”
Gray looked at the dog. His mouth was open and tongue hanging out. He clicked his fingers, and it trotted over to him and sat on his foot.
“Appearances are not always what they seem,” Ellen Nightingale said. “He is, of course, a dog that loves people, but he is always protective.” This time she flicked her fingers, and the dog got off his foot, and blood started to circulate once more.
He waited for her to take the seat across from him and then sat too. Shedid not fuss with her skirts, simply placed her ungloved hands together in her lap. The dog collapsed, his legs seeming to give way at her feet.
There was little doubting to anyone looking at her she was the daughter of a nobleman, even one who had fallen on hard times. It was there in the elevated chin and erect posture. Her back did not touch the chair, and her ankles were neatly placed beside each other.
“I had expected a visit from Scotland Yard earlier than this, Detective Fletcher.” Her tone held censure.
Grayson had a feeling Scotland Yard did not rank high in this woman’s favor.
“I was investigating the case before I came to see you, Miss Nightingale, as you can imagine. It is a complex matter.”
“Really? I am not sure how it could be too complex. After all, George was murdered. Yes, we don’t know who did it but surely someone bent on nefarious intentions. As I found him, I concluded that I should be one of the people interviewed?”
