Pru nodded eagerly. “We sorted out why my knitting needles were bent.”
They had, at that. They’d been all of twelve or thirteen and had followed the clues until they’d discovered that their brothers, as good of friends as the two of them were, had been using Pru’s needles as swords in their reenactment of famous battles, all of which were staged in the back garden. It was, in fact, all the mud they’d found on the needles that had raised their suspicions that the boys had absconded into the garden with the needles.
“We could solve mysteries.” Posie sat up straighter at the idea. “People could come to us with their puzzles, and we could discover the answers.”
“We would be like the Bow Street Runners used to be: solving mysteries, being very dashing in their red waistcoats.” Pru’s eyes suddenly pulled wide. “Oh, I could—”
“Please do not offer to knit us red waistcoats.”
“They don’t have to be red.”
Solvers of mysteries. Sorters of puzzles. There was nothing boring about any of that. “How do we let people know that we are now detectives?”
“We could tell them,” Pru said over the continued needle clicking.
“If we are to be true detectives, then we need something more impressive than starting rumors about our availability.”
“What if we made trade cards, like the tradesmen use in London?” Pru offered one of her rare but much appreciated useful suggestions.
Trade cards. Posie liked that idea very much, indeed. The town hadn’t a printer, but they could obtain heavy paper and create their own cards by hand. That might prove a very elegant and personal touch.
In the end, it proved intriguing, at least. All around the village, cards began appearing with hand-drawn floral borders and the words Posie and Pru: Detectives for Hire.
The bit of advertising paid almost immediate dividends. A mere three days later, the newly minted detectives were visited by someone in great distress.
Mary O’Reilly was employed as a housekeeper in the home of Mr. Flanagan, a local man of not insignificant wealth, who had long been known to be rather dreadful and had for two days now been quite inarguably dead.
Mrs. O’Reilly was given a cup of tea and a shortbread biscuit, both of which Pru had decided were absolutely necessary to the running of their newly opened detective service. The three women chatted about little nothings—from dogs to knitting to the weather—and once they’d reached the amount of inconsequential chatting all conversations in England were, by unspoken agreement, required to include, Posie introduced the true topic at hand.
“What is the mystery we can help you sort?” she asked.
With a deep sigh and a look of worried confusion, Mrs. O’Reilly said, “I cannot be certain, but I think Mr. Flanagan was murdered.”
“Murdered?” Posie was careful not to sound excited, though she was. Her excitement was not on account of a murder having been committed but as a result of being in a position to solve a murder. “Have you any idea who might have committed this heinous crime?”
Mrs. O’Reilly nodded, her cap nearly sliding off her gray curls. “It might have been . . . me.”
Chapter 4
Fitz hadn’t expected to spend his first day in the Detective Department asking a favor of his superiors. He’d found it best in his previous reassignments to keep his head low for a time, to not kick up dust as it were. But he knew Móirín Donnelly too well to also know that coming to him for help was a significant thing.
He knew she didn’t actually dislike him; he didn’t actually dislike her. They enjoyed needling each other and engaging in the banter of pretended animosity. But he also knew she didn’t truly trust him. She’d not said as much, but he suspected she’d had difficult experiences with police constables in the past. She wasn’t the only one.
It was one of the more difficult parts of his job—trying to help the people who most needed him when others of his profession had given them reason not to trust him. He’d entered this line of work to make a difference in the world, and, despite his efforts, he didn’t feel he’d really managed it. Not yet.
But he had been at the bottom of the ladder, and that limited a person. The last few years had seen him climb the ranks a little, gain some influence and some leeway in where and how he spent his time. Joining the Detective Department would, in time, afford him even more of that. And he needed it. He told himself it was because he wanted to help more and do more and save more people. But he knew, even if he didn’t admit it, that he needed a position of access and authority if he were to have any hope of finding out the fate of his family after nearly twenty years.
Gaining himself a reputation for being demanding was certainly not the best beginning.
“And what reason have we to believe that the one calling herself the Tempest was, indeed, the one who’d killed the Mastiff?” Sergeant Wheatley asked, clearly doubting.
Fitz couldn’t simply say, “Because Móirín Donnelly told me so, and she knows what she’s talking about.” Neither could he say, “Because Fletcher Walker told her so, and Fletcher Walker also knows what he’s talking about.” He needed to take a more careful approach.
“We have heard all over London whispers about the Tempest, that a reign of terror was coming. When I arrested Claud Kincaid for the attempted murder of a member of Lord Chelmsford’s staff and he was warned that the Mastiff wouldn’t be very pleased with Kincaid’s capture, it wasn’t the Mastiff’s displeasure that worried him. He said, ‘The Tempest is coming.’ And he said it with absolute terror.”
“How is it you know the Tempest is a woman?”
“I have ears on the street, Sergeant Wheatley. They tell me things. They tell me what they’re seeing and what they’re hearing.”
“You’ll find, here in the Detective Department, that we take what we hear from the criminal element with a hefty grain of salt. Most of ’em are just trying to save their necks.”
“And you’ll find I don’t take the word of those who aren’t trustworthy as gospel. But I’ve heard the same thing from many places. From reliable sources. From people who have nothing to gain by misleading me. The Tempest has used the name Serena as well as Clare. She has the ability to blend in with all corners of this city. And she, apparently, is wrapping her noose around a great many necks.”
While the sergeant looked a bit less doubtful than he had a moment before, he did not seem to entirely believe him. Fitz set aside his frustration, reminding himself that the inspector hardly knew him and didn’t yet have reason to trust his judgment. It’d take time to build a reputation in the Detective Department. Problem was, Fitz weren’t at all certain he had time.