“She’s told you, Mungo,” he snapped.
“It’s Mr. Nicholson. I found him dead… murdered,” Ellen said.
His curse was muttered under his breath. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you go in there without me at such an hour.”
“Take her home, and I will call soon,” the detective said. “This is no place for a lady to be out walking alone.” His tone suggested it was Mungo’s fault. Ellen bristled.
Mungo tugged her with him as he walked away without saying another word.
“You found the body?” Mungo asked her.
“Yes.”
“And you saw other things?”
“I did, yes.” He knew what the Nightingales were. He’d lived with them long enough now to understand.
He must have known she was shaking, as he started singing in his lovely brogue, and she listened all the way home.
“Is that you, Mr. Mungo?” A voice said to their left.
“Aye, it is Mr. Greedy,” Mungo called back. “Are you well?”
“Just sitting outside enjoying the fog.”
“I’ll leave you to that, then.”
Mr. Greedy resided in Crabbett Close like the Nightingales did.
“Here we are.” He led her up the three steps to the front door of her uncle’s house. Large, three stories. It had several windows facing the street, and two were blazing with light. The Nightingales did not like to live in the dark.
“Come along, in you go.” Mungo placed a hand on her spine and propelled her forward. He opened the front door, and Ellen stepped into the light.
Home, she thought. Not in the best street in London as her last house had been, but it was a great deal more comfortable and filled with love.
“I’m all right now, Mungo. ’Tis just the shock.”
How had Uncle Bram’s knife found its way to being under George’s body? Who had used it to kill him?
CHAPTERTHREE
“Ellen, finally you are home.” One of her sisters, Frederica, came tumbling down the stairs as Mungo and Ellen stopped in the front entrance to remove their outer clothing. With her was Chester, their large dog, who let out a loud woof when he saw her.
“You have been gone for hours.”
At age thirteen, Frederica was full of youthful enthusiasm and not tainted by what had occurred to change their lives completely. She’d declared at a young age that her name was far too long, and she wanted to be called Fred. Her siblings had obliged, her parents had not.
“Surely not hours. I simply went to drop off some food to Miss Marron as she has been unwell and now have returned. Is it not story time?”
“Of course it is,” Fred said. “But I thought to wait here for you as it was so foggy out there, and I was worried.”
Taller than Ellen, who was the most vertically challenged, Fred had an abundance of brown hair that curled in several directions at once and sparkling brown eyes.
“Thank you for waiting, and I am well.”
“No, you’re not.” Fred looked at the hand she had clutched around Mungo’s arm. “What has happened? Why are you holding onto Mungo?”
“I am so sorry to tell you this, Fred, but Mr. Nicholson passed away, and the news has upset me. As you know, he was our friend.”
