Wrapped in her favorite cloak to help ward off the cold and the rain, Gabriella alighted from the carriage that had brought her and the two Runners to Number 17 Shoe Lane. The street was dimly lit with the gaslights distributed at each end and no other light in between. It wasn’t nearly as populated as Gabriella had thought it would be. In fact, there were no other people about.
“I recommend you stay behind us,” Lewis told her.
Anderson seconded his opinion and Gabriella agreed. While the pistol she carried added extra weight to her cloak’s right pocket, it was a welcome relief, having it on her.
“Ready?” Lewis asked her.
“Yes.” This was where Mr. Proctor Kipling was supposed to be living. If he’d caught the killer’s attention, it was crucial they warn him. A sign hanging above another doorway farther along creaked on its hinges. An indication the wind was picking up.
Gabriella’s shoulders curled against the biting cold. It would be so nice to finish this errand so she could get home to the fire that burned in her parents’ parlor. Mama would have tea waiting, as had become a habit since Gabriella had started working at Bow Street. Papa would enjoy a glass of port instead. Supper would follow, and since it was Thursday, there was baked salmon in parsley sauce to look forward to.
Lewis stepped up to the front door and knocked.
It took a while before it opened. The woman who greeted them was unexpectedly young. Curiosity filled her gaze. “Yes? How may I help you?”
“We’re here on behalf of Chief Constable Kendrick,” Lewis said. “We’ve been informed that there’s a lodger here by the name of Mr. Kipling. It’s important we speak with him right away.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Kipling has yet to return for the evening,” said the woman.
“Do you have any idea where we might find him at this hour?” Anderson asked.
“No. Sorry.” The woman looked at them each in turn, then said, “You’re welcome to leave him a message, if you like.”
Lewis glanced at Anderson and Gabriella, then said, “The matter that needs discussing is rather urgent, I’m afraid. Do you mind if we come in and wait?”
The woman frowned. “It’s a bit inconvenient, to be honest. I was in the middle of cooking supper.”
“I’m happy to help,” Gabriella spontaneously offered. Even though they could wait in the carriage, it was probably warmer and much more comfortable inside the house, no matter how modest it might prove to be.
The woman bit her lip, uncertainty showing in her expression.
And then Anderson told her, “The law allows us the right to enter any premises in order to ensure the safety of those present. Since we believe Mr. Kipling may be in danger and that your connection to him could put you at risk too, we must insist that you let us inside.”
“Wha…what sort of danger?” the woman asked, her eyes now wide with alarm.
“The sort that’s best avoided,” Lewis told her.
She swallowed. Increased wariness made her retreat a little. “I’ll need to see some credentials first.”
Wise woman, Gabriella decided. Some would have taken three strangers’ word for it that they were who they claimed to be. She offered a reassuring smile, which seemed to ease the tension in the woman’s strained features.
Lewis reached inside his coat and withdrew a folded piece of paper which he handed to her. “Please forgive us for not introducing ourselves. I’m Mr. Lewis, this here is Mr. Anderson, and the lady is Chief Magistrate Hastings’s daughter, Miss Gabriella Hastings.
“I see. Well… I suppose you’d best come in then, though I cannot say when Mr. Kipling will be back.” She pulled the door wider. “I’m Mrs. Rivers, by the way.”
“Is your husband here too then?” Anderson asked as Gabriella followed him and Lewis into the small foyer.
“No. Unfortunately he died last year.”
“I’m so sorry,” Gabriella told her. At least the woman had been left with the house, so she could make ends meet by renting out rooms. “How many tenants do you have besides Mr. Kipling?”
They filed into a sparsely furnished parlor while Mrs. Rivers told them, “Two. It’s only Mr. Kipling who’s here at the moment, however. My other tenant is travelling for a few days.” When no one commented, she said, “I ought to check on the meat before it burns.”
“As I said, I’m happy to help,” Gabriella told her.
The woman responded with a weak smile. “Thank you, but there’s really no need. Do make yourselves comfortable though. It could be a while before Mr. Kipling puts in an appearance.”
She hastened from the parlor, shutting the door on her way.
