She huffed out a breath.
“Do you have the knife on you?” Detective Fletcher asked.
Uncle Bram rose and took it out of his pocket. He then laid it on the desk between them.
“Tell me what you did that night in the shop when you saw this, Miss Nightingale.”
She went through everything she could remember.
“You realize, of course, that what you did was wrong and could have jeopardized the case.”
“My niece was protecting me, Detective Fletcher. I will not have her censured for her loyalty.” Uncle Bram rarely used that voice, but when he did, people listened.
“I understand, and her loyalty to you was admirable, but in taking this evidence, she stopped us from investigating another avenue. That of who had this knife in their possession the night George Nicholson was murdered.”
“We understand what she did is wrong, but the reasons were pure as I have explained,” Uncle Bram said. “Surely if I was guilty, we would not have come forward but kept the knife hidden and my name out of anything to do with George’s death.”
“Your wife can vouch for where you were on the night Mr. Nicholson died, I presume?”
“Now, just a minute!” Ellen got to her feet, panic flaring to life inside her. “You know he was out of town, because we told you.”
“Ellen, sit down. The detective is simply doing his job.”
“I don’t care. He will not insult you with the notion that you could have done this. You are not capable, nor would you. George was your friend, as he was ours.”
“I have to ask the question, Miss Nightingale. It is my job.”
Ellen braced her hands on his desk, ignoring the sigh from her uncle. “My uncle is the best man I know, and he would never do such a nefarious deed. Had I my way, I would never have given you this information, but he insisted.”
She and the detective stared at each other. His eyes cool, hers shooting fire.
“Sit, Ellen.” A hand on her shoulder had her pushing off the desk. “Heartwarming though your words were, this will get us nowhere, love.”
“I won’t have him insulting you,” she muttered, retaking her seat.
“I don’t believe I insulted anyone. I am doing my job, Miss Nightingale.” The words had a snap to them now.
“I have several people you can approach to vouch for my whereabouts on the night George Nicholson was murdered, Detective Fletcher. I can give you their names. We were with the Fairweathers. We stayed there two nights on our return to London.”
Detective Fletcher took out a piece of paper and wrote in silence for several minutes while Ellen fumed. She’d learned control early in life. It deserted her when someone she loved was threatened. Especially this someone. Bramstone and Ivy Nightingale had believed in the Nightingale children. Believed and loved them and helped them to become the people they were today.
“It’s all right, love.” Uncle Bram leaned across and kissed her cheek. “Thank you for your ferocious defense.”
She managed a nod.
“If you would give me those names, please, Mr. Nightingale,” Detective Fletcher said in his cold voice.
She sat in silence and fumed some more that he had not taken her uncle’s word at where he and Aunt Ivy had been.
He’s doing his job.
She was fiercely protective of her family since her father’s death and perhaps a bit irrational when someone challenged them too, if she was being honest.
“Can I ask you something, Miss Nightingale?” Detective Fletcher said suddenly. He’d lowered his pen and was studying her.
Ellen nodded.
“I questioned you that day in my house, when you were panicking, if you saw visions. You did not answer me. Will you do so now?”
