Page 28 of A Vocation of Violence
“Perhaps not,” he murmured, his voice low and thoughtful, “but at least we have more pieces to the puzzle. It’s up to us to fit them together.”
My eyes narrowed as we exited the grand residence and descended the elegant steps onto the cobblestone street. The somber sky above mirrored my brooding thoughts, casting shadows that seemed to reflect the darkness of the secrets surrounding Vivienne’s murder.
“I sense you have pieces I do not,” I told him honestly.
To my astonishment, he nodded. “The baron and Herr Drumft are each other’s alibis for the time of the murder,” he said. “She could be covering for her husband, who seems to have slipped out of the country.”
I tossed my head with what I feared was an equine snort. “Baron Morton and Oswald J. Drumft? That duo reeks of contrivance.”
“Agreed,” Night Horse replied, his eyes narrowing as he glanced over my shoulder a second before yanking me into the shadows and covering my yelp of surprise with his palm.
With his free arm around my waist, he crushed me against his body, and I froze, paralyzed like a rabbit caught in a snare.
A warm snare made of lengthy, lithe sinew and hard male muscle.
“Look.” Night Horse pointed me in the direction of the baroness’s gate.
There, approaching the Morton residence with the assured stride of a man who owned the pavement beneath his feet, was Oswald J. Drumft. His top hat sat at a rakish angle, and there was an arrogance to his posture that suggested a life unaccustomed to being contradicted.
“If we’d lingered any longer, we’d have had to talk to the blighter,” I whispered, watching the butler open the door with a bow that bordered on obsequious. “Look at the lout. Carries himself as if he’s above the law.”
“Or believes he can bend it to his will,” Night Horse murmured back.
“Perhaps we should—” My suggestion was cut short by the sight of the butler whispering something into Drumft’s ear. Whatever the words exchanged, they elicited a sharp nod from the Prussian before he disappeared within the house, like a wolf slinking into his den.
“Wait to see how long he visits the baroness and where he’s headed after?” Night Horse asked.
“You took the words right out of my mouth,” I said. “Now, if you’ll unhand me…”
Surprisingly, he did.
Ensconced in the dense shadows of a London evening, Night Horse and I remained statuesque, our breaths mingling with the mist that rose from the cobblestones. The gas lamps cast an ethereal glow on the street, their flickering light throwing elongated silhouettes against the walls of the baroness’s residence.
“Patience is a virtue, but it’s not one of mine,” I murmured, my voice barely more than a wisp in the cool air. I had my eyes trained on the heavy oak door of the house, willing it to open and reveal its secrets.
“Yet here you are, a study in perseverance,” Night Horse replied, his proximity a tangible thing in the dark—comforting and unsettling all at once.
His nearness was indeed pleasant, a fact I allowed myself to acknowledge only in the privacy of my own mind. The warmth of him seeped into me, chasing away the chill that clung to my bones. It was an unexpected solace in the midst of our grim vigil.
“Drumft’s been in there too long for a simple courtesy call,” I noted, the detective within me growing anxious.
“Or just long enough for a conspiratorial one,” he countered softly, his keen gaze never leaving the door.
We stood in silence, the minutes stretching taut between us. Then, as if summoned by our collective will, the door to the baroness’s house swung open. Drumft emerged, his posture stiff, his head swiveling this way and that with furtive glances that spoke of inner turmoil.
I observed the Prussian man exiting the residence, his gait unnaturally brisk, betraying the confident façade he had exudedearlier. He paused at the top of the steps, pulling out a pocket watch, and its metallic surface glinted beneath the moonlight. His fingers drummed impatiently upon its engraved casing, as if time itself were conspiring against him.
“Look at his hands,” I whispered, my breath catching in my throat as I noted the way they tremored ever so slightly. Guilt? Fear? Or simply the weight of whatever secrets he carried? “Something isn’t right.”
Night Horse inclined his head, analyzing Drumft’s every movement with the precision of a predator stalking its prey. “He is not satisfied with the outcome of whatever happened in there.”
As Drumft strode down the walkway, he unconsciously patted his coat pocket, ensuring whatever he’d placed was still there.
“Did you see that? What could it be?” I whispered, my pulse quickening with the implication of concealed evidence.
“Could be nothing,” Night Horse replied, his voice a low rumble next to my ear. “Could be everything,”
I tugged against his grip to almost no avail. “Let’s follow. We cannot let him slip away.”
