Page 31 of The Locked Room

It was the longest speech she’d ever heard him make, and for a brief moment, she contemplated how impressive he must be in court. But the undisguised admiration in his voice made her blush, and she was very glad for the darkness that meant he could not see it. She managed a guarded nod. ‘As my lawyer and my friend.’

‘Well, yes, of course. But I actually meant as more than that,’ he said. ‘If… if that’s what you want.’

The uncertainty that laced his last sentence made her breath catch. This was Oliver – cool, logical, lawyerly Oliver, who she had never known to be unsure about anything until now. She’d always believed he had been oblivious to her teenage adoration and, until she had approached him for help last year, had shown only polite interest towards her when they had encountered one another. Which made this sudden declaration all the more disconcerting.

‘I…’ she said, and trailed off because the way he was looking at her made it hard to think.

Stepping nearer, Oliver gently tilted her chin upwards and searched her face. ‘Is that what you want, Harry?’

His eyes glistened blacker than midnight as they fixed on hers. He was going to kiss her, she thought, and the realisation caused her doubts to scatter, replaced by a thrill of anticipation that threatened to collapse her knees. After all this time, Oliver Fortescue was going to kiss her and, once he did, nothing would ever be the same again. All she had to do was say yes.

‘Here! What’s going on down there?’ A brusque voice caused Harry and Oliver to spring apart in alarm, their faces whipping towards the end of the alley where the shadow of a man loomed. ‘Don’t you know there’s laws against that? Disgusting, unnatural behaviour!’

The accusation made no sense until, with a jolt, Harry recalled how they were dressed. A surge of indignation rose inside her. Love was love, no matter who it touched. ‘Then the law is an ass!’ she called back defiantly.

‘Is it now?’ the man roared, and she saw two more bodies appear to block out the rest of the light. ‘We’ll just see about that.’

Oliver gripped her arm. ‘Time to go,’ he urged, drawing her towards the other end of the alley. ‘Now, Harry!’

He was right, of course, but that didn’t mean Harry enjoyed conceding the battle. Reluctantly, she turned on her heel and ran, her booted footsteps echoing like machine-gun fire on the stone slab pavement. Behind her, she heard Oliver breathing hard, and heavier footsteps thundering behind him. She flew out of the alley, spun to her left and raced across the road to Cork Street, ignoring the frantic beep of a horn and the gasps of those hardy revellers who were still out and about. Drawing in a frantic breath, she took a right, then a left along Old Burlington Street. Another right took her onto Boyle Street; she could sense Oliver at her shoulder but the thud of their pursuers seemed to have faded. With a burst of speed, she dashed across Savile Row and up towards Mill Street.

‘Harry!’ Oliver puffed at last. ‘Harry, it’s okay. They’ve given up. We’re safe.’

She slowed, glancing over her shoulder and beyond him to the empty pavement behind. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I don’t think they made it past Boyle Street.’

Panting, she straightened her hat and dabbed at the sweat beading on her upper lip, willing the burn in her lungs to dissipate. ‘Fine. But we shouldn’t stay here. They might turn up at any moment.’

Oliver studied her for a moment, then nodded. ‘Agreed.’

She found she couldn’t quite meet his gaze, all too aware of what had almost happened in the alley, before the men had seen them and the need to escape had eclipsed everything. ‘Oliver, I⁠—’

He held up a hand. ‘Don’t say anything. I know how much you value your independence and I’d never ask you to give that up. But I take nothing back. I do care for you, Harry. If you decide that can only be as your friend and your lawyer, then that will have to be enough.’

She closed her eyes. How many times had she wished he would say such things to her? Yet now that he had, it was all too much. Perhaps it was simply the timing; the day had been overwhelming, with the discovery of Polly’s body, the realisation that the two investigations she had been pursuing were bound by a deadly silken thread, and unexpectedly culminating in a panicked chase through the streets. Or perhaps it was simply that everything was different now. She was different now, and romance – any romance – came with a price, one that would inevitably clip her wings. There would be positives, of course; at some point she might grow tired of life on her own, especially if she loved and was loved in return. But there was no denying that, for a woman, love and all that followed was a gilded cage. And Harry did not want to be caged. Not even by Oliver.

A sudden wave of exhaustion hit her with the strength of a storm surge, and she found she didn’t have the fortitude to examine her own heart. All she wanted was to fall into the soft oblivion of her bed. ‘I’m going to go home. Please don’t argue, it’s only a few streets away.’

To his credit, he did not insist on accompanying her. ‘Will you call me once you’re there?’

In spite of her weariness, Harry smiled. He really couldn’t help himself. Never mind that she would be home long before he was and that it would mean delaying her own rest to reassure him. But she supposed she still had to remove her disguise, and the whiskers would take time. ‘Of course.’

He smiled back. ‘Speak soon, then.’

She dipped her head, and wished for one contrary moment that he would walk her home. ‘Speak soon.’

10

If Harry had been able to get a message to Beth in time, she might have postponed the visit to Petticoat Lane on Saturday morning. Despite the exhaustion she felt when she had finally reached her bed at almost one o’clock, she hadn’t slept well. Remorse over Polly Spender’s untimely death, combined with the irrational guilt that she had somehow contributed to it, had kept her restless and staring at the ceiling. When she had slept, her dreams were plagued by a shadowy figure chasing her along endless streets, with Oliver and Beth begging her to run faster, and it did not take the brilliance of Sigmund Freud to determine that her nightmares were born of the very real fear that Moriarty was on her tail, and might target one of her associates if he caught wind of who they were. Oliver was already in danger, having publicly represented Mildred Longstaff, and Beth’s visits to the Spender family might mean she was at risk too. It meant Harry had eventually risen with a dry mouth and a dull ache in her temples that aspirin did nothing to alleviate. Her fingers were clumsy and slow as she dressed herself as Sarah Smith, dulling her blonde curls with boot polish and adopting some of John Archer’s stage make-up techniques to give herself subtly sunken cheeks and a wan complexion. The drabness of her appearance matched her spirits as she took the Underground to Liverpool Street station.

Beth was waiting for her on the corner of Frying Pan Alley. The other woman surveyed Harry with a narrowed gaze as she approached. ‘You look how I feel,’ she said with a sniff of disapproval. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been burning the midnight oil again.’

Harry hesitated. She had spent most of the journey from Bond Street wondering how to tell her about Polly. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

Beth studied her shrewdly. ‘I take it that means yes. Still, at least them bags under your eyes help you look the part. Did you bring something to show?’

Nodding, Harry reached into her pocket and pulled out a silver charm bracelet laden with intricate charms. ‘Very nice,’ Beth said, brushing a tiny carriage with the tip of a gloved finger. ‘Not too flashy but worth a fair bit. It should keep them busy at the counter while you get a feel for the place.’