“I had an aunt who used to slip into a trancelike state as you just did, Miss Nightingale. She called them her moments,” Gray said. “It wasn’t until later in life I understood them.”
“Moments?” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“My aunt was eccentric,” Gray said. “She—”
“Ah, of course,” she interrupted him. “A lady is always thought eccentric when they exhibit signs that are in any way different from what society dictates or sees as normal.”
She had a point. Gray had never understood his aunt, and it was only when he was older that he’d talked to her about her moments and begun to understand perhaps she saw things others didn’t.
Aunt Tilda’s family kept her away from society due to her “moments,” and to his shame, he’d not stood up for her even when he was old enough to do so.
“Your face changed, Miss Nightingale,” he persisted.
“I assure you, I was just thinking about the bodies of Mr. Nicholson and my father. The memories are fresh, but I’m sure they will fade.”
He looked at her brother, whose brows were drawn together and large fists clenched on his thighs. Gray backed off for now.
“Give yourself time, Miss Nightingale. The images will ease but never completely.”
“You sound knowledgeable on the matter, Detective Fletcher,” she said.
“It is the nature of my job that I have seen murder victims before, Miss Nightingale.”
“Of course.”
“Is your uncle home?”
Both siblings subjected him to a hard stare, and the temperature in the room dropped several degrees. Had he been anyone else, like that bumbling fool Plummy, he might be intimidated. Gray was not. He simply stared back.
“He is traveling with our aunt, his wife, and their daughter,” Leopold said.
“And when do you expect their return?”
“Soon,” Ellen Nightingale said. “Why do you need to speak with him?”
“How well did you know the deceased George Nicholson, Miss Nightingale?” Gray asked instead of answering their question.
“Very well. He and I talked regularly about literature or the latest book of Captain Broadbent and Lady Nauticus.”
Gray didn’t pinch the bridge of his nose, but the need was there. He’d never understood the craze that swept London about those books. Plenty of his colleagues read and loved them.
“Did you meet his family?”
“Only his sister once. She was in the bookshop when I called one day,” Miss Nightingale said.
“Did you know much about Mr. Nicholson?”
“I’m not sure why we would,” Lord Seddon said.
“This is a murder investigation, my lord. I am attempting to investigate by asking questions,” he said.
Gray had excellent instincts, and something was off here. He just couldn’t put his finger on what.
“Well, I think you are finished with your inquisition here, Detective Fletcher?” Lord Seddon regained his feet, every inch the aristocrat he should be. He then held out a hand for his sister to join him. It was clear they were close and protective of each other. Gray experienced a tug of something that horrified him when he realized it was longing.
He had no one that made him feel this strength of emotion. His work was his life, and he’d always believed that was enough.
“Chester, let the detective rise,” Lord Seddon said.
