“But surely to achieve what you want, if they are comfortable around you, you would have more success. The family we are about to meet are grieving. Surely that allows them some of your small supply of sympathy, Detective Fletcher? Being polite and kind does not mean you are making lifelong friends.”
His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. She had a smart mouth, this woman. He couldn’t help but enjoy talking to her, even if she was attacking him.
“Let me ask you this, Detective Fletcher.”
“If you must.”
She flashed a white-toothed smile at him, and he knew she’d used it as a powerful weapon in the London ballrooms in her time. It certainly had an effect on him.
“Do you believe that to achieve the results you want, you must intimidate people with your dour face and cold words?”
He stared at her. No one spoke to him like this.
“You weren’t exactly the friendliest when first I met you, Miss Nightingale, may I remind you.” When Gray was cornered, he went on the attack.
“Because you were interviewing me about the murder of my friend, whose body I’d found. Plus, as you know, I’d taken my uncle’s knife from the scene, unknowing that, in fact, it had been stolen from him a few months before.”
“Which was breaking the law,” Gray added.
He’d never doubted Bramstone Nightingale’s story, even after he’d investigated his alibi. The man’s knife had been stolen from him. Gray knew people. He’d not been lying. However, he hadn’t known his niece had been when he’d interviewed her. But he admired her loyalty for all that she tampered with evidence and broke the law.
“Don’t change the subject. You are trying to deflect, Detective Fletcher.”
“I’m very good at my job,” Gray said. He felt alive sitting here, verbally sparring with Ellen Nightingale. Which said what about him? “I get results, Miss Nightingale.”
“I bet all the women you interview are terrified or in love with you.”
“I am not terrifying. I am professional. Please note the difference.” He ignored the “in love” part of her statement.
When was the last time someone had spoken to him like this? Gray couldn’t recall, if ever, anyone had. Then he remembered Ramsey. His cousin had always challenged Gray. He was happy his old friend was back in London.
“We are here,” he said as the carriage rolled down a street filled with large town houses.
“You are my assistant and write up my notes,” Gray said.
“Is that actually something you would do? Or anyone, for that matter?”
“Not me personally, but I doubt the Nicholsons would be aware of that.”
“Well then, have no fear. I shall not blow our cover. After all, I was a superb actor for years.”
With those cryptic words, she threw open the door and stepped from the carriage before he could assist her.
Gray had a sense of foreboding but swallowed it down and followed.
The first thing they saw was a wreath of laurel tied with black crape, hanging on the front doorto alert passersby that a death had occurred.
He took Ellen’s arm and walked up the steps to knock on the door, suddenly glad he didn’t have to face the mourning Nicholson family alone.
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
The pall of death hung over the Nicholsons’ home as they stepped inside. Ellen knew George had been buried two days ago, but there was no doubt the house was in deep mourning. Dark and silence was everywhere.
They were ushered by a butler into a parlor lit by lamps. The Nicholson family were gathered in the room.
Ellen took the seat beside Detective Fletcher. Across from him were George’s mother and father, with their daughter, Olivia, between them. The girl had red eyes and a pale face, and after a small weary smile for them, she had kept her head down. Clearly, she was distraught over her brother’s death.
Also in the room was Mrs. Nicholson’s sister, Miss Denton. Olivia and her mother had their hair in a severe bun but not the other woman.
