After a bath, he ate his breakfast while reading the morning papers. His staff were quiet and kept out of his way, which he liked.
After ensuring Barney Forge would no longer be a danger to Penny Tompkins, he’d wanted to storm around to 11 Crabbett Close and demand to know what they were about. He hadn’t, and instead he’d gone home to calm down.
What the hell had her brothers been thinking to allow Ellen Nightingale out at such an hour and near a place like the Hope and Anchor? Yes, clearly she knew how to look after herself, but still, she was a lady and should not have been there.
What was their story, these Notorious Nightingales? Their neighbors were fiercely loyal to them, but why? Were they actually some kind of vigilante group? His blood boiled at the thought of a bunch of spoiled noblemen taking to the streets to seek justice.
“Yes, what is it, Albert?” he said when his butler appeared in the doorway.
“A Mrs. Nicholson has called to speak with you, sir.”
His butler was tall, rail thin, and bald. Unlike many who liked their butlers to look elegant and stately, Albert was anything but and the best of men. He’d served Gray’s aunt and uncle.
“Where did you put her?” Gray got out of his chair.
“The parlor nearest the front door, sir.”
“Thank you.” What the hell was she doing calling at his house? George had no wife, so it was his mother downstairs in his parlor. Taking the stairs, he nodded to his aunt and uncle’s portraits. Entering the room, he found the short, round figure of Mrs. Nicholson looking out the front window.
“Mrs. Nicholson.”
She turned, and her face was pale, eyes red-rimmed. She wore the dark colors of mourning.
“What has you at my private address?” Gray was not a man to mince words.
“Forgive me for the intrusion, Detective Fletcher. But I-I need to know what is happening with the investigation into my George’s murder.”
“How did you get my address?”
She studied him through tired, sad blue eyes that made his anger dissipate. This was a grieving mother. He needed to remember grief made people do what they normally wouldn’t.
“I spoke with Constable Plummy, who was stationed outside my son’s bookshop. He was kind enough to give me your address.”
He was going to kill that fool.
“You should have called at Scotland Yard, Mrs. Nicholson, not my personal address.” He kept his words gentle.
“I was standing at the window when you came to tell my husband of George’s death, Detective Fletcher. I remember watching his face pale as you talked to him.”
Gray also remembered the moment he’d told the man about his son. Devastation had him staggering, as if his knees could no longer hold him. He’d told him that his son was a great man and those who knew him spoke highly of him. The words had straightened the man’s shoulders.
“I remember thinking that was a good man standing on my doorstep,” Mrs. Nicholson continued. “Even as I knew the news you’d delivered to my husband was going to devastate me too.”
“Mrs. Nicholson—”
“I couldn’t go to Scotland Yard,” she said quickly. “I’m not very brave for all I work in our sweet shop.”
Nicholson’s Sweets, Gray remembered.
“My husband is the strong one.”
Gray doubted that. She’d birthed and raised two children as well as kept a home for her family. She also worked. It sounded to him like she was the strong one.
“So I came here to ask if you have any idea who killed my boy. Our house is in mourning, you see, and we can’t find anything to change that and won’t for many years. But to know that wh-whoever murdered my boy is caught would help.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, but I have no news of your son’s killer yet, Mrs. Nicholson. I will come to you when I do.”
Her shoulders hunched forward in defeat.
