Chapter 6
Peter Kendrick removed his hat, placed his gloves inside, and handed it to Mr. Croft’s butler.
Meanwhile, Miss Hastings untied the bow holding her bonnet in place and eased the item off her head.
As usual, Peter’s stomach tightened at the sight of her lustrous dark hair.
Though it was pulled into the customary tight knot at the nape of her neck, there was every indication that it would be thick and long when unbound.
The desire to know what it looked like falling over her shoulders was as ridiculous as it was distracting.
He tore his attention away from her and offered the butler his thanks on both their behalves before following him to the parlor.
The interior of Croft House never ceased to impress him.
Not because it was overly opulent but rather because it wasn’t.
The décor was simple, elegant, and spoke of better taste than what he’d found in most aristocratic homes.
Nothing in the Croft House foyer boasted of great wealth.
There were only two tall vases, white with blue flowers painted on them.
Each held a fresh bouquet in soft creamy tones.
Beyond this there were four paintings. One on either side of the heavy front door and one on each adjacent wall.
All were landscapes — fields of green set beneath blue summer skies.
Colors that were echoed in the plush doormat and runner.
The butler opened the door to the parlor, and Peter set the palm of his hand against Miss Hastings’s lower back, encouraging her to precede him inside.
Before he had time to reflect on how perfect she felt beneath his touch they were being greeted by Mr. Croft and his wife.
A tray with fresh tea things was requested to replace the one that presently sat on a table.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” said Peter, “I would prefer a cup of coffee.”
Mr. Croft sent him a sharp look, the edge of his lips curving just enough to put Peter on edge, only for him to relax his shoulders as Mr. Croft said, “I’ll have the same.”
The butler departed and Miss Hastings took a seat on the sofa facing the Crofts. Sensing a need to stay close to her, Peter sat beside her. She shifted slightly, as though surprised by his choice — as though she’d expected him to claim one of the armchairs and hadn’t made quite enough room.
To avoid pressing against her was an effort in futility, given the narrow space. A miscalculation on his part. Perhaps he ought to move? But that would only draw more attention and—
“How are you faring?” Miss Hastings asked.
Peter’s lips parted. He prepared to respond, only to realize the question wasn’t directed at him.
“Better than at the beginning of the pregnancy,” Mrs. Croft answered. “I no longer struggle with dizzy spells or nausea. On the contrary, my appetite has improved a great deal since Christmas.”
“How long until you’re due?”
“Another four months.” She covered her mouth with one hand while producing a yawn.
“She has travelled the entire day to get here,” Croft said. He sent her an adoring look before redirecting his attention to Peter and Miss Hastings. “As I’m sure you can imagine, she’s exhausted and would like to retire early.”
The pointed look that followed required no explanation, so Peter launched into their reason for coming. “There was a murder a couple of weeks ago. A man identified as Mr. Stewart Warren was brutally killed in one of the city’s hackneys.”
“Do you have any suspects?” Mrs. Croft asked.
“If they did, they’d not have come here,” Croft murmured, his dark gaze fixed on Peter.
Peter cleared his throat and straightened his spine.
“A woman who’d initially hailed the hackney asked the driver to stop and offer Mr. Warren a ride.
She disembarked about ten minutes later and the carriage continued onward to Mr. Warren’s destination.
When he failed to exit the cabin, the driver went to check on him and was naturally distressed by the sight with which he was greeted.
Mr. Warren’s throat had been slit, his cravat stuffed into his mouth. ”
Croft made a guttural sound. “I read of the incident in the paper.”
“As did I,” Mrs. Croft said, exchanging an unintelligible look with her husband.
“Do you at least have some solid leads?” Croft asked.
Despite feeling as though he were grasping at straws, Peter laid out the information he’d found thus far. When he was done, he reluctantly added, “Unfortunately, it seems we’ve hit a dead end.”
“So you’re here because…”
Peter took a deep breath. Maybe coming here had been a mistake. He certainly hated admitting to Croft that he needed assistance. For the sake of public safety, however, he’d shove aside his pride and do what was needed.
So he edged forward in his seat, hands clasped between his thighs, and said, “I’ve come to request your help with finding this villain so she can be brought to justice.”
The door opened, admitting a maid who brought the requested tea things and coffee. Croft beckoned for her to serve everyone, her efforts accompanied by the sounds of clinking porcelain and cups being filled.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Croft said after the maid had departed, “but I am unable to help you with this.”
Surprise speared Peter with disappointment. “Why?”
Croft picked up his cup of coffee, then reclined against the sofa, his legs crossed with a frustrating air of casualness. “You said this murder took place two weeks ago.”
“Yes.”
“And you have no solid leads?”
“We’ve discerned the victim’s identity,” Peter grumbled. “I was hoping you would help us find something more. A connection of some sort we might have missed — some indication of why he was killed or who would have done it.”
“I trust you’ve already spoken to his family and friends?”
“Unfortunately, our only source so far is his landlady, but she didn’t have much to offer. According to her, Mr. Warren never brought people to his lodgings.”
“Have you posted a notice in the paper, requesting information from anyone who may have known him?” Mrs. Croft asked.
Peter nodded. “No one has stepped forward yet.”
“Then there’s nothing to do but wait and hope someone does.” Croft sipped his coffee. “I’m not a magician, Kendrick. I cannot produce information from nothing.”
“For someone who was willing to tear London apart to find the last few killers tormenting the city, you seem incredibly blasé.” The comment was quietly spoken by Miss Hastings.
Both impressed and horrified by her daring, Peter held his breath in anticipation of Croft’s response.
He tilted his head as if in contemplation, his gaze honing in on Miss Hastings with sharp focus.
Beside him, his wife appeared ready to comment — to counterbalance the tension presently simmering in the room.
But then Croft spoke, his voice smooth and without any hint of him having taken offense. “Is the crime scene still intact?”
Peter shook his head. “We have sketches but the carriage has since been cleaned and returned to its driver.”
“What about the body?”
Again Peter was forced to reveal that nothing more could be learned from Mr. Warren himself. “He was returned to his family for burial last week.”
“I thought as much,” Croft murmured. “Keeping a corpse on ice for more than a few days would be problematic. Even at this time of year. Which means there’s no longer any crime scene or victim for me to study.”
“We have extensive notes,” Miss Hastings supplied.
“Notes are not as useful,” Mrs. Croft said when her husband remained silent. “They won’t contain what you may have missed.”
“Of course not, but—”
“Unfortunately,” Croft said, “I have other matters to tend to at present. This case will only take up valuable time I cannot afford to lose.”
Peter stared at his untouched coffee as tension gripped his shoulders. “We have an agreement, you and I.”
All hints of pleasantry vanished from Croft’s face.
He leaned forward, his predatory gaze fixed on Peter until he was forced to fight the urge to loosen his cravat.
“Attempting to blackmail me will not have the favorable outcome you seek, Kendrick. I am not refusing you on a whim but rather because I’d be wasting my time on a futile endeavor. ”
Peter’s muscles tensed, frustration and anger colliding until he was shaking with carefully leashed emotion. “What if the killer strikes again?”
“Should that occur,” Croft replied with brutal severity, “you come to me directly so I can evaluate the evidence before it’s destroyed.”
Not doing so had been foolish, Peter realized, but he’d believed he’d solve the case himself after figuring out who the victim was. He’d been sure interviewing the people who’d known Mr. Warren would lead to additional answers.
Instead, Peter had wasted whatever chance he’d had of acquiring Croft’s assistance. But the fact that he wouldn’t even agree to read the report in an effort to find something Bow Street had missed struck Peter as odd.
It was a notion that wouldn’t let up as Peter and Miss Hastings took their leave moments later.
He hailed a hackney more out of instinct than because his mind was focused upon the task.
Only when he felt Miss Hastings’s hand against his own while handing her up into the carriage that answered his summons did he register his surroundings.
He blinked as she climbed into the cabin and managed to give the driver directions to the townhouse where Miss Hastings lived with her parents.
“We can stop by Bow Street first,” Miss Hastings said once he’d claimed the seat across from her. “I can easily continue onward from there.”
“It’s late.” He knocked on the ceiling and the carriage took off. “The least I can do is escort you home.”
“But—”
“We’re not disputing this, Miss Hastings. Your father would have my head if anything were to happen to you.”
She huffed a breath. “Is that your only concern?”
While he could not see her expression in the darkness, the sound of her voice — laced with accusation – told him she was put out by his comment. Which didn’t make sense unless…
Don’t be a fool. She’s probably just annoyed that your main concern would be her father’s response.
So he considered telling her he’d be devastated if any harm ever befell her, that it would wreck him beyond compare, yet every combination of words he came up with seemed too strong.
He feared it might reveal what he truly felt for her — the yearning he hid so deep in his heart she probably thought him indifferent.
Nothing could be more false.
Which was why he was glad the case kept him busy. It prevented him from falling prey to quiet moments where pointless imaginings rushed in and made him crave more than what was right. Better to occupy his brain with doing his job than with dreams that left him frustrated and dissatisfied.
“Did I make a mistake by pushing Mr. Croft?”
Her question made Peter realize he’d waited too long to answer her previous question. A relief, in a way, that she offered a different topic for them to discuss.
“No. I’m proud of you for daring to go toe to toe with him as you did.”
“Thank you.”
He could hear her smile in the way she spoke.
Two simple words he’d heard more than a thousand times before, though never in a way that filled his heart with such warmth.
An answering smile pulled at his lips and for a second, he allowed himself to savor the ensuing silence they shared as the carriage rolled onward.
They had almost reached their destination when she spoke again, her gentle voice curling around him like tendrils of smoke. “I was so sure Croft would help you. I’m sorry he turned you down.”
“Whatever his reason, it’s more important to him than chasing after a killer.”
“Any idea what it might be?”
“No, but I intend to find out.”