He didn’t wait for her to debate. Fellows pulled Louisa out of the passage and to the street, April wind rushing at them as they emerged into the wider avenue. Louisa could have protested, jerked away, run back to the safety of the assembly rooms. But she didn’t. She let Fellows hold her, Louisa following her Highlander into the dark.
Fellows gave a sharp whistle through his teeth. A hansom cab a little way away jerked forward, the horse’s hooves clopping as the carriage came toward them. Fellows had obviously already planned his escape.
He opened the door and all but shoved Louisa into the cab. She didn’t have her wrap, but she had no desire to rush back inside to fetch it. The night was warm enough, Fellows might change his mind if he had to wait, and Louisa wanted very much to run off with him, wherever he was taking her.
Fellows gave the driver a direction she didn’t hear then climbed in beside her.
Louisa knew she had to be mad, leaving with him without a word, but with Lloyd warm beside her, his animation exciting her, she wanted to go. Whatever damage Louisa did by her flight, she’d repair it in the morning. No looking back.
Fellows took hold of her wrist again, as though he feared she might climb out the other side of the hansom and run if he didn’t. As the horse started, Fellows slid his clasp down to her hand, and their fingers twined. The pulse of it raced from hands to Louisa’s heart.
The cab listed abruptly. Louisa let out a squeak in alarm as another man wrenched open the carriage door and heaved himself in, landing next to Louisa in the one-seated cab. He was another Highland warrior, this one exuberant and young. He settled himself in the small space, forcing Louisa closer to Fellows, and told the startled driver to keep going.
“Saw you leave,” Daniel said, flashing his grin at both of them. “Couldn’t let you rush off without a chaperone, now could I?”
Chapter Eleven
The offices of Scotland Yard were quiet and echoing at night, though not deserted. Constables went in and out from the ground floor on their duties. Detectives used the calm of night to work on cases or for writing up the paperwork that went with them. Talk had been ongoing about moving the cramped police offices to a larger building to be erected near the Victoria Embankment, where a new opera house had been started then abandoned years ago. Fellows had been hearing about this theoretical move for a long time—he wondered if he’d still be alive when it happened.
The few men on the ground floor glanced at Fellows in curiosity when he walked inside in his formal kilt and suit, escorting a young lady in a fancy ball gown and a younger man in kilt and coat. That is, the constables stared until Fellows gave them a look that made them scramble back to their duties.
Fellows had shown Daniel Scotland Yard before. Being a curious lad, he’d turned up not long after Fellows’ identity had been revealed to the Mackenzies and demanded a tour. He’d wanted to know everything about the workings of the Metropolitan Police, thinking to perhaps become a detective himself. After the tour, Daniel told Fellows he’d changed his mind—he’d rather be an inventor. But maybe Scotland Yard would be purchasing some of his inventions in time, he’d said.
Daniel gazed about him in as much curiosity tonight, and Louisa looked interested as well. She was completely out of place here in her cream and green bustle gown, diamonds in her red hair, but she looked about without fear.
They had to walk up the two flights of stairs to Fellows’ office. Louisa shivered—it was always either too cold or too hot in this blasted building. Before Fellows could turn back and offer her his coat, Daniel had slid his from his shoulders and wrapped it around Louisa. Daniel threw Fellows an apologetic look, but Fellows didn’t comment.
He led them into his office. The small room held two desks, one for himself and one for Sergeant Pierce, with a cubbyhole for Constable Dobbs. The constable dealt with the bulk of the menial work, such as sending telegrams and messages, typing up handwriting notes, pigeonholing papers or fetching them, and keeping his chief inspector and sergeant supplied with coffee and tea, and in the case of Sergeant Pierce, thin cigarettes. The smell of stale smoke clung to the rooms, though the charwoman had cleared out the bowls of ash and spent butts hours ago.
The top of Fellows’ desk was bare. Every night before he left, Fellows shoved all the files and papers he was currently working with into the deep drawers. The drawers looked like a jumbled mess, but Fellows knew precisely where each item was.
He fished up the bulkiest stack, gestured for Louisa to sit at his desk, and dropped the papers onto the desk’s flat surface.
Louisa took the seat and looked at the tall file in front of her. “My.”
Fellows started fanning out the stacks of papers. “My notes on the suspect interviews,” he said, touching a pile covered with his painstaking handwriting. “These are Pierce’s notes. This is the pathology report on Hargate, and the reports on the tea, the cups, the pot, the plates, the pastries. Photographs of the tent, inside and out. This is the second set of witness interviews; this, notes of my search of Hargate’s flat and my interview with his parents. Every single detail typed up here.” Fellows put a blunt finger on sheets of paper crowded with typewritten characters.
Louisa stared at it all uncomprehendingly. Dobbs’ typing left something to be desired—there were overstrikes, bad erasure marks, and penciled-in words everywhere. Hardly surprising that Louisa gazed at the report in perplexity.
“You can see why I couldn’t make a detailed account of my progress,” Fellows said. “Mostly because I don’t know what my progress is. The truth is somewhere in that mess. If I go over it another fifty times or so, I might find some clear thread to pull.”
Fellows had expected Daniel to give him suggestions, if he didn’t just start reading the entire report right there, but when Fellows turned to look for Daniel, he found that the young man had gone. Where, Fellows couldn’t imagine. He might have smelled the smoke and longed for a cheroot, he might have spied someone he knew—Daniel seemed to know everyone in London, upper-, middle-, or working– class—or he might have decided that Fellows needed a discreet chat with Louisa. No matter what his motive, Fellows and Louisa were now alone.
Louisa touched one of the pages. “You’ll find it. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Look at a jumble no one else understands and discover a clear pattern?”
That was exactly what he did, but this time, Fellows was finding the way murky. “You have much faith in me.”