Page 12 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
“Constable!” As Gray had intended, the single word, imbued with the authority only centuries of forebears accustomed to absolute rule could confer, hauled Perkins back to earth.
He blinked at Gray.
Gray caught the man’s piggy-eyed gaze. “That is enough. I suggest we wait for the inspector from Scotland Yard before you attempt to further prosecute such a fanciful fiction.”
Izzy drew breath and, with a valiant effort, reined in her temper. “Such anonsensicalfiction. I most definitely did not murder Mr. Quimby.” She shut her lips and glared haughtily at Perkins.
A fraught silence descended, and she felt as if, finally, her mind had cleared enough to think. Perkins was the sort who would be only too happy to arrest her for Quimby’s murder, even in the teeth of contradictory evidence. He patently felt that her owningThe Crierwas an indication of malfeasance, and was predisposed to concoct and pursue the wildest suggestions implicating her.
Eyeing Perkins irefully, she hoped the inspector from Scotland Yard proved to be more rational.
Perkins didn’t know what to do with himself. He drifted closer to the door, then the framed front pages on the wall behind the desk caught his eye.
Izzy relaxed a touch, and her awareness of Gray, seated beside her, rose in her mind. Whether intentionally or otherwise, he was exuding a comforting aura of calmness and power.
She glanced his way and discovered him waiting to catch her eyes. She searched his amber gaze, drawing strength from the warmth therein, and fractionally inclined her head in thanks. He’d known she’d been about to lose her temper, which was the last thing she needed to do.
Indeed, the more her thoughts settled, the clearer it became that she would need to be exceedingly careful over what she revealed during the next hours. She couldn’t afford to have her true identity exposed, especially not in relation to murder.
Not five minutes later, the bell above the door tinkled, heralding the arrival of a burly man of average height, followed by a tall, lanky, rail-thin individual. The pair entered, and the thin man closed the door, then both men stood stock-still and, with a professional air, surveyed the scene.
Perkins came alert. He shot a glance at Izzy and Gray, then with a muttered “Stay here, if you please,” went to stand in the office doorway.
When the newcomers’ gazes reached him, Perkins snapped to attention. “Sir! Senior Constable Perkins from Guildford Street, sir. I’ve taken charge of the scene pending your arrival, sir.”
Looking past Perkins, Izzy saw the burly man, who possessed a jowly, well-worn face reminiscent of a comfortable bulldog’s, nod equably. “Perkins. I’m Inspector Baines, and this”—he indicated the lanky man—“is Sergeant Littlejohn.” Baines looked deeper into the workshop. “So what have we here?”
“A photographer, sir, stabbed in his darkroom.” Perkins jerked his head toward Izzy and Gray. “Found by this pair here.”
“Oh?” Baines glanced past Perkins at Izzy and Gray and offered a polite nod, then returned his sharp gaze to Perkins. “Right, then. Let’s see the body. The surgeon will be along shortly—best we get a look in now, before he lays claim.”
Perkins waved down the workshop. “Along here, sir.” He led the way.
Izzy listened to the heavy footsteps head toward the darkroom.
Gray murmured, “One can only hope Baines has more sense than Perkins.”
She grimaced. “Indeed.”
They waited in strangely companionable silence.
About five minutes later, the three policemen returned to the foyer and paused there, conferring in low tones, Baines with his hands in his pockets and Littlejohn with a notebook in his hand, judiciously jotting while Baines questioned Perkins, who had his own notebook out and was flicking through the pages as he answered.
The bell over the door tinkled again, and a dapper-looking man carrying a medical bag walked in.
“What-ho, Baines!” The surgeon grinned. “What have you got for me?”
Baines nodded in greeting. “Cromer. A stabbing victim, not long dead.” He tipped his head down the workshop. “In a darkroom back there.” Baines looked at Perkins. “Senior Constable, you’d best conduct Dr. Cromer to the body and remain with him to render whatever assistance he requires.”
Perkins’s shoulders sank. He glanced longingly at the office, but obediently murmured, “Yes, sir,” and proceeded to usher Cromer to the darkroom.
Baines and Littlejohn watched the pair go, then exchanged a glance—a wordless communication that suggested they’d worked together for years—and turned toward the office.
Baines tapped on the door frame—a meaningless formality, perhaps, but nevertheless, he did—and after meeting both Izzy’s and Gray’s gazes, walked in.
He halted in the middle of the office, glanced swiftly around, then looked at Izzy and nodded politely before focusing on Gray. “Lord Child?”
Gray inclined his head.
