Mungo tamped down his anger. “If I had wanted you to be part of the conversation I was having with myself, I would have spoken directly to you. As I did not, it does not concern you.”
Ram smiled that slow, easy one that told Mungo he had him exactly where he wanted him. They were always playing some kind of invisible game of one-upmanship.
“I’m pleased you are home, Mungo, and sorry you suffered in any way,” Ram said suddenly, his face now somber. “You are very important to all of us.”
“Shut up,” Mungo muttered, color heating his cheeks as he brushed past Ram, the man’s laughter following him.
He headed to the kitchen where Bud and Mr. Dumple were preparing a tea tray for the family—two trays, he amended silently—laden with food and a pot big enough to provide tea for a battalion.
“Well now, it lightens my heart to see you again, Mr. Mungo,” Mr. Dumple said as if he’d been gone for seventeen hours instead of a few. “Horrid business, but I’m mighty pleased Miss Downing arrived when she did to help secure your release.”
“I suppose the entire close knows?” Mungo bit back the need to growl like a rabid dog.
“Of course,” Bud said. “Eliza seems nice,” she added, buttering scones furiously, like she did everything. The woman was always busy and seemed to have boundless energy. “After all the chaos of your arrest and her being theone you saved that night—which you didn’t tell us about—she’s clearly of a steady nature if she didn’t run screaming from the house.”
“You’ve only spoken a handful of words to her, so you can’t know anything about her. I don’t want to discuss what happened to her or me again, and you can tell the rest of them outside the door that too.”
She lowered the knife and looked at him. “The residents of Crabbett Close care for you, and unlike you, I’m not untrusting on first sight and could tell Eliza was a lovely lady. But even if I didn’t know her, I know what she did for you, and that’s enough for me.”
Mungo stomped down the guilt those words made him feel over how he’d spoken to Eliza Downing.
“I’m looking forward to meeting her,” Mr. Dumple said.
He was short and round, with a shock of gray hair, and the minute he’d entered the Nightingale house for his interview, he had fit right in.
This family were in no way traditional society people. They were loud, messy, never took direction, and did whatever pleased them. Mungo knew this hadn’t always been the case. In fact, they’d been one of society’s favorite families before Bram’s brother had ruined their reputation and then taken his life.
“I’m making Yorkshire pudding with beef this evening, Mungo,” Mr. Dumple said.
“Beef on the platter, brown as a boot,
Juices a-drippin’, gravy to suit!
Yorkshire’s puffed like a lord’s new hat?—
Golden and proud, just look at that!”
As far as he could see, the man’s only fault was that he liked to make up songs for everything. The others in this household loved it, Mungo constantly had to fight the urge to stuff something into his mouth.
He grunted, then went to open the back door, as a knock had sounded on it.
And this is just what I needed, he thought.
Plummy was the local constable who patrolled their streets, but he was often found in Crabbett Close and at their back door because he was in love with Bud, who in no way returned his devotion. Neat as a pin, the man was dressed in his blue tailcoat, white armlets, and gloves, just as the men who had arrested him had been, which was a memory Mungo didn’t need or want.
Just looking at the fool made Mungo’s teeth grind, but then patience wasn’t something he was known for, and it was in even shorter supply today.
“Oh, you’re back, Mr. Mungo. I just ran into Mr. Peeky, who told me everything. I was heading to the watchhouse to offer my insights into your character and ensure your release.”
“Of course you were,” Mungo said even as he doubted the man’s words because he’d actually never seen him lift a finger to stop a crime. “We’re busy, so make it quick, Plummy.”
“Well now, I know some visiting this household have had dealings with the Baddon Boys, and Detective Fletcher will likely tell you all, but there’re bad things happening with them.”
“What bad things?” Mungo folded his arms and glared, which usually intimidated the man enough to have him leaving.
“Rumors is all.”
“Which means what?” Mungo demanded.
