“I’m sorry I do not have more for you,” he added, feeling totally out of his depth. Gray was not used to comforting victims. He left that to his colleagues who actually had empathy.
“Have you ever lost someone, Detective Fletcher? Not just lost them but had their life brutally ended in such a way?” She pressed a handkerchief to her mouth. “Someone you cared for deeply?”
“I have buried relatives, but their deaths were not brutal.” He’d lost his grandfather. Two aunts and an uncle. All he’d cared for in his own way. But he couldn’t imagine that even came close to being the same as losing a child to murder.
“You should never have to bury your child,” he said, remembering someone saying that to him once, when they’d been called in to investigate the murder of a young boy.
“It is the worst kind of hell,” she said in a shaky voice.
“Would you like tea?” Gray was never good at feminine distress. Tea was the best he could come up with before sending her away.
“I met your mother once.”
“I beg your pardon?” Gray hid his shock behind the harsh demand.
“You look identical to her. She came into our sweet store. She has a weakness for the toffee we make. It’s the best in London, you see. Her smile was small and sad. We used to talk, her and I. Two women from completely different lives who, for a brief moment in time, chatted as if there were no barriers between us.”
He couldn’t speak. There weren’t many things Gray was irrational about. His family was one of them. But to know this woman and his mother had spoken about him was almost unbelievable.
“We talked one day about sons. She was sad as she said she no longer sees her youngest boy. That Grayson Fletcher, her son, was a detective at Scotland Yard. She’d said the words with pride.”
He wanted to scoff at that. No one in his family was proud of him… were they?
“She said her husband and other sons could not condone that, so they didn’t see him, you,” she added gently.
He saw his mother once a year, if that. He’d receive a note stating a date, time, and place, and they would meet and take tea. It was stilted, uncomfortable, and he was pleased when it was done. Not once had she talked about what he did.
“It was June 19th, the day she came in to pick up her standing order of toffee.”
His mother had a standing order that she collected herself? Gray was sure no one but her knew about this.
“I remember saying to her I hoped she had a lovely day. She looked sad and told me it was her youngest son’s birthday, so she didn’t think she would, as she wouldn’t be seeing you.”
He didn’t move, not a facial muscle or finger twitch. But inside was another matter.His mother had talked about him.
Why had she done that with a complete stranger? She didn’t care… did she? Gray knew his father had complete control of her life. She made no move without asking his permission. It would take a strong woman to break away from that. His mother had never been strong.
“I had the feeling she loved you.”
If she loved me, she would have fought harder to show it.
“I have nothing to tell you, Mrs. Nicholson. Please return home, and I will call when I have information.”
“Very well, and from a mother who has lost a child she loved, you need to visit your mother more and forgive her for the grudge you hold against her.”
He didn’t answer that. She kissed his cheek and then left.
Gray fell into a chair. His mother had spoken to a complete stranger about him. What did that mean?
Thirty minutes later he was still sitting in the same position when his butler appeared.
“Mr. Bramstone Nightingale and Miss Nightingale have called, sir,” Albert said from the doorway with an excited gleam in his eyes. “I tried to usher them inside, but they said they would rather wait for you to invite them.”
“What? Why?” Gray demanded.
“As I have just stated, they wish to speak with you before entering your house, sir.”
Ellen was here.Gray never had visitors, so this would be his butler’s idea of heaven. Why had his heartbeat suddenly increased at the thought of seeing Ellen Nightingale again?
