“No.” Her uncle said the word in a hard voice. “Come, Ellen. Let’s go. I believe you have everything you need from us. If you are not arresting me, then we are leaving.”
“I mean your niece no harm, Mr. Nightingale. I had an aunt who had visions. None of her family, including me, took her seriously. It is only later, after she passed and with age, that I’ve begun to wonder about her and what she saw. More so since I met Miss Nightingale.”
“I will not have my niece ridiculed or—”
“No. I would never do that. I merely wish for her help.”
“What? How could I help you?” Ellen asked him.
“In truth, I don’t know, but perhaps you could help find a lead. Anything to point us in the right direction of the man who killed Mr. Nicholson.”
“You believe I do see things?” For so long, Ellen had hidden who she was, and now her family and some of the Crabbett Close residents knew. But did she want Detective Fletcher to have that information too?
“The rational part of my mind tells me I shouldn’t, but I can’t discount it without more research.”
“You think I can assist?” That shocked her. The man was someone who did things by the book. A rule follower. Not that she knew him, but she knew his type. Was sure he was a man who ate the same breakfast at the same time each day and liked routine. He had that look about him, even if it was a handsome look.
Not handsome! She had to stop thinking of him that way. The problem was, a spark of attraction had broken through the numbness and cold inside her that she feared would never let her feel anything for another person, other than those that carried her blood, again.
“In truth, I’m not sure, but I wish for you to walk through the bookshop with me. See if anything comes to you. I can find no clue as to why Nicholson was murdered. If, as I know will happen, your uncle was away from London and his alibi turns out to be solid, then I have no suspects.”
“No,” her uncle said.
“You said you saw me in my garden,” the detective continued, ignoring Uncle Bram. “I used to walk about there when I was gripped by panic. The day when I came to speak with you after the murder, you had another vision, didn’t you?”
Ellen nodded.
“What was it?”
“I-ah, I’ve had a few, actually.”
“Ellen—”
“It’s all right, Uncle Bram. If he tells anyone, we will put it about that he’s mad. I’m sure, even tarnished, we have a few friends in high places who could destroy him. Plus, let us not forget the residents of Crabbett Close, who can make his life hell.”
“You could try,” Detective Fletcher said slowly.
“Before she tells you what she saw, let me make something very clear to you, Fletcher. I would be your worst nightmare as an enemy. Never forget that. I will do whatever it takes to keep my family safe. Anything,” Uncle Bram said in a hard tone.
The man simply nodded, not appearing overly worried about the threat to his safety, even here in his offices, but he didn’t speak. His eyes stayed on Ellen.
“I saw a hand holding a knife after I found George lying on the floor dead that night when he was murdered in his bookshop.”
Detective Fletcher wrote more notes.
“I had a vision of you as a young boy standing over a grave in a black jacket. You looked alone and were crying.”
His head shot up at her words. “I wore a black jacket to my grandfather’s funeral but then so did many.”
“I saw a gold bird.”
Color drained from his face.
“I’m sorry if my memory hurt you,” Ellen whispered.
He shook his head slowly, as if to clear it. “My grandfather was buried with a set of golden wings that were his father’s.”
“Wings,” Ellen whispered. “Not a bird.”
