“Would you like some coffee before you go?” he asked Anderson, the Runner who’d been on night duty with Jackson when news of Orwell’s death had arrived.
Anderson yawned. “I had a cup not long ago so I think I’ll just add some more wood to the fire and be on my way.”
Peter thanked him, then strode through the empty front office where desks would soon be filled by Runners and clerks. He entered the room at the back — a modest space used for storing cups, saucers, and utensils. A small wood-burning stove provided the means by which to boil water.
The task took time, during which Peter reflected on that night’s events. What he required was some peace and quiet in which to sort through his notes. He’d need to prepare more detailed lists of the people with whom he’d spoken. The crime scene itself should be described in full detail while it was fresh in his mind.
Lewis’s sketches would help.
Peter added the coffee grounds to the water and allowed it to boil for a while before removing it from the stove. He poured the coffee into a serving pot, collected a cup, and took all the items with him.
Lewis and Gordon, who’d made sure Mr. Orwell’s body was sent to the morgue, had arrived while Peter was making coffee. He greeted the pair and suggested they go get some sleep as well.
Hesitation creased Lewis’s brow and Peter followed his gaze toward the back of a chair across which a white scarf now hung. Lewis cleared his throat. “You should know that Miss Hastings arrived while you were back there.”
“And where is she now?” Peter asked, the coffee pot and cup growing heavier by the second.
“In your office.”
Peter shifted his gaze toward the hallway that led to his private domain, before returning his attention to Lewis and Gordon. “Did you mention the murder to her?”
“She arrived with her father, who asked if there was anything he ought to know about. Telling him what happened seemed like the right thing to do since he holds the highest rank here.”
“Of course.” Peter considered whom to brief first. The chief magistrate or his daughter. Deciding the former was more important in this instance, on account of his authority, Peter set aside the coffee pot and his cup, and went to address his superior.
The briefing, which took roughly ten minutes, supplied Hastings with the most pertinent facts. A more detailed account would be provided later in the day, once Peter had managed to write his report.
“Exceptional work, Kendrick.” Hastings held Peter’s gaze. “Let’s make sure we use the information we’ve gathered to catch the guilty party.”
Hastings’s message was clear. Mr. Keith Orwell came from wealth and that made him a prominent figure. Much more so than poor Mr. Stewart Warren, whose father Peter had managed to locate thanks to details provided in Stewart Warren’s military record. While the Warrens weren’t exactly poor, when compared to those who truly struggled to make ends meet, they belonged to the lower middle class.
Peter didn’t think this ought to matter, yet it did. The Orwells would be connected. If the case didn’t reach a swift conclusion, Bow Street would once again come under scrutiny and pressure.
“My men and I will do what we can to provide results,” Peter promised.
“Have my daughter help,” Hastings said as he opened a ledger and picked up his quill. “She may just find a connection you’re missing.”
“Of course,” Peter murmured, and retreated through the door. He closed it and drew a deep breath. It was time for him to face the woman who took up more space in his brain than was prudent.
She was sitting behind his desk when he arrived in his office, her attention on some papers that lay before her. Peter paused in the doorway and took her in, a powerful sense of male satisfaction curling around him as he watched. There was something intoxicating about how relaxed she appeared while occupying his chair.
When her gaze rose to meet his, the coffee pot and cup he’d collected turned cumbersome in his hands. Feeling the need to set them aside, he made his approach.
“Good morning.” He placed the items on a vacant part of his desk. “What a pleasant surprise, finding you here this early.”
Polite, welcoming, non-confrontational. He prayed it would set the tone for an easy talk.
“I can’t believe you went to inspect a murder scene without me,” she said, dashing all hope of avoiding an argument.
On the other hand, it might be nice to butt heads with her for a change. It would certainly be more interesting than the tepid exchanges they’d been enjoying since visiting the barracks in Woolwich.
He filled his cup with coffee while she kept her sharp gaze on his every move. Heat swept the nape of his neck. His heart beat a fraction harder.
“It was a grim experience,” he said, recalling Keith Orwell’s vacant gaze, his slit throat, the cravat shoved into his mouth. Despite all he’d seen during his time at Bow Street, certain sights continued to plague him.
Lady Eleanor’s corpse, riddled with stab wounds, the eye sockets empty, was one. Stewart Warren and Keith Orwell were now another.
“Are you suggesting you wished to protect my sensibilities?” Her voice was curious more than anything else.
