It was dark, so she couldn’t see the constable’s face clearly, but there was little doubting his cheeks would now be pale.
“Yes, I did. Now surely you wish to find out what has happened?” She pulled the key from her pocket and waved it before him. “I took the liberty of locking the bookshop.”
He blustered.
“There was a large amount of blood on his chest—”
“Blood you say!” Constable Plummy gasped.
“Plummy.” Detective Fletcher took the key from her hand. “There is a dead body that needs our attention.” Their gloved hands brushed briefly, and she had a vision of a boy standing over a grave wearing black, crying, a gold bird, and then it was gone.
Had it been him as a child?
“Two boys were in the bookshop rifling through Mr. Nicholson’s belongings when I arrived. One wonders why you did not notice the disturbance on your walk, as surely it carries you past the bookshop, Constable Plummy?”
“Ah yes… well, as to that, I was otherwise occupied in my line of duty, you understand, Miss Nightingale?”
In Mrs. Pettigrew’s Pie Shop no doubt.
“You will find Mr. Nicholson through the door at the rear of his shop,” Ellen said.
“I will have more questions for you, Miss Nightingale,” Detective Fletcher said. “But now Plummy will walk you home, and I will go to the bookshop and check on this body.”
“Do you believe I am lying, sir?” Ellen felt the weight of the knife in her sleeve. They must not see it.
“I believe you are upset and likely saw something,” he said in a tone that had her wanting to slap him.
“I know what I saw. Just as I know those two young boys were about to steal from Mr. Nicholson’s st-store!” She heard the quiver in her voice and cursed it. This was not the time to mourn her friend. This was the time for action.
“There now.” Constable Plummy patted her arm. “No need to be upset. We are here.”
“I don’t need you to be here for me,” she gritted out. “I need you to do your job. Mr. Nicholson had blood all over his chest,” Ellen snapped. “Go and see to him at once. Good evening, Constable Plummy.” She then turned to walk away, but a hand stopped her.
“You are not going anywhere alone, especially if there is a murderer on the loose.”
She shook off the detective’s hand.
“I have been walking these streets for two years.”
“Miss Ellen?”
“Here, Mungo,” she said, relieved to hear his voice and thud of his feet to her right.
“I told you to stay until I reached the bookshop!” He appeared. “Who the hell are you?” He glared at the detective. They were the same height. Both large and intimidating.
“I-I couldn’t.”
“What’s wrong, Miss Nightingale?”
Ellen clutched his arm, and his large fingers settled over her hand.
“Are you well?”
“I fear something terrible has happened, Mungo.”
“What?”
“May I have your name, sir?” the detective asked.
