Page 22 of Return Ticket

“Thank you for your help, Constable.” James gave a polite nod and he and Hartridge made for the door.

As soon as they were outside, he blew out a breath.

“What a tosser,” Hartridge said as they walked away.

James chuckled. “A tosser who eventually gave us what we wanted.”

“Are you joking?” Hartridge asked. “He was happy as Larry to hand it over. It was eating into his tea time.”

Hartridge sounded a little more like himself.

It made something tight and worried inside James unclench a little.

“Let’s get to the Royal Masonic,” he said. “But let’s have some breakfast, first.”

chapterten

It felt somehowdecadent to be out and about on a weekday morning, not at work.

Gabriella took the bus to Victoria Embankment and eyed the people traveling with her. Mostly young women with small children or retirees, with their wicker shopping baskets and umbrellas.

She had a half day off because she’d worked last Saturday morning, and fortunately the half day she’d been allocated on the schedule happened to land on a Friday. Her friend Ben had told her once it was his slow day. He was a junior in the Inner Temple Chambers, and the solicitor he worked for took long pre-weekend lunches and sometimes didn’t appear at all, unless he was due in court.

The bus rumbled past Westminster Bridge, and she watched New Scotland Yard pass by on her left. She hadn’t seen James for the last two nights, and wondered how he was going with his investigation.

Just the thought of him caused a little lift to her spirits. She didn’t know what to make of her feelings and where they were leading. They were definitely going somewhere, though. And not to a place her mother would approve of.

She wouldn’t approve of anything about their relationship, including the dinners Gabriella served James in her flat, and including the fact that he wasn’t Catholic. Or Italian.

The only other country she would take as acceptable for her daughter was an Irishman, because the Catholic bishop of Melbourne was Irish, and her mother was a devotee to the man.

She probably didn’t even know where Wales was.

But her mother wasn’t here, and Gabriella didn’t have even the slightest care about things that seemed to weigh her mother down.

New Scotland Yard disappeared behind her, and the bus stopped a few more times until it rumbled to a halt near Blackfriars Bridge and Gabriella disembarked.

She headed down a street and had to wander around for a bit until she found the right building.

She stepped into the gloomy cool and quiet of Inner Temple and found it deserted, or, nearly.

Someone was typing behind a door somewhere—she could just make out the clack, clack, ping—and there was a low murmur of voices further down the passage. Ben had told her he was on the first floor, so she headed up the stairs and when she reached the landing she stopped to study the plaques on the wall, looking for a clue as to where to go next.

A young man in drainpipe pants and a jacket and tie came running down the stairs from the floor above, hand out to swing around the balustrade and take the next flight down, when he caught sight of her.

He nearly pitched down the stairs in his effort to stop his forward momentum.

“Hello,” he said, trying to straighten up.

“Hello.” Gabriella could see the bright interest in his eyes. “I’m looking for Ben Cohen. Can you tell me where to find him?”

“Ben?” The man blinked. “Sure, I can.” He walked past her, down the passage she was standing in. “Just down here.”

“Thank you, you can just tell me which door, I don’t want to keep you.”

She followed behind him, but he turned back with a smile. “No trouble. Happy to help.” He began to walk backwards so he could face her. “You sound Australian, like Ben.”

“We’re friends from Melbourne,” she said, and he gave a nod, stopped, and knocked on a door.

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