Gabriella deliberately held his gaze while fighting a rush of discomfort, until her cheeks grew so hot she was forced to look away. She cleared her throat. “Isn’t the name derived from Old English?”
“It is,” Kendrick confirmed, his voice soft and pensive. “It comes from scilling, which means cutting or slice.”
“Perhaps a metaphor then for the way in which the murder was carried out?”
“Or…”
When Kendrick said nothing more, Gabriella raised her gaze to his. His brow was furrowed as he stared straight past her, a distant look in his eyes that actually caused her to send a glance over her shoulder.
Finding nothing unusual there, she returned her attention to the chief constable. “What is it?”
He slid his gaze to hers and something inside her shifted, like a misaligned piece falling into place, informing her that whatever revelation he’d had just now would set them on the right course.
“I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner,” he said. “It seems so obvious now.”
She straightened her spine, edged forward in her seat. “What does?”
He huffed a breath. “Ever heard of taking the King’s Shilling?”
It was her turn to blink. “As in agreeing to serve in the Royal Navy or British Army?”
“Exactly.” Excitement lit Kendrick’s face. “If the shilling is symbolic, as you suggested, then there’s a chance it represents who Mr. Warren was.”
Her lips parted in surprise as the words settled. If his reasoning was correct, it could help them discover additional clues. No wonder Kendrick’s eyes gleamed like waves of sun-kissed blue.
Indeed, he was already pushing out of his chair and pocketing his notebook.
“Coming?” he asked as he grabbed the silver case that held his cheroots.
Gabriella leapt to her feet and snatched her pelisse from a hook on the wall. She stuffed her arms into the sleeves and retrieved her discarded bonnet next, following Kendrick into the hallway while setting it on her head. She began tying the ribbon. “Where are we going?”
“To the Royal Artillery Barracks in Woolwich,” he replied. “They’ll have records of soldiers who were stationed in London.”
And since they knew the victim’s name, finding Mr. Warren’s record ought to be simple enough. More importantly, it would give them information about his next of kin and men he’d served with. All of which would hopefully help them figure out why he’d been murdered. An answer that would make it easier for them the catch his killer.
One thing Peter had not considered when he’d set off with Miss Hastings alone was the duration of their journey. The barracks at Woolwich were roughly eighteen miles away, which meant it would take an estimated two hours to get there. Without contemplating traffic.
The carriage continued onto Upper Thames Street and slowed. At this unfortunate hour — the social hour — ladies and gentlemen alike would be making calls or going for strolls or finding some other means by which to congest London streets. Especially after the previous day’s rain and the sunshine now spilling from a cloudless sky.
Yes, the air was cold, but it was also invigorating.
The silence he and Miss Hastings had settled into since departing Bow Street was starting to grow uncomfortable. A problem that made him all the more aware of her presence.
Bringing a book along might have been wise. At least then he’d have had an excuse not to interact. Instead, he’d been sitting on the bench across from her for a good twenty minutes or more without being able to come up with anything even remotely interesting to say. Reiterating his thoughts on the case seemed foolish.
No more so than your attraction toward her.
An inconvenience he could not seem to control. What he could do, however, was try to discover the answers to all the questions he had about her. Perhaps then he could at least find some peace in knowing the finer details about her past, her interests, and all the things that made her the woman who sent his pulse racing.
Squashing the discomfort that started to rise at the prospect of making his interest known, he removed his attention from the view so he could face her more fully. And was startled to find her watching him.
A prickly sensation assaulted his skin as it heated beneath her studious gaze. Only the slightest flinch of her body made him believe she’d considered turning away and pretending he’d not been her subject of interest. It seemed she’d changed her mind though, for their gazes were now locked while the silence between them grew fiercer.
Until…
“Have you any family here in London?” She spoke the question with the same kind of stiffness an upper-class lady might use to address a chimneysweep blocking her path.
Nevertheless, Peter breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed against the squabs with a nod. “I’ve a cousin, Mark, who lives on the southside with his family. He works for Schroders.” When Miss Hastings responded with a blank stare he explained, “It’s an investment bank.”
