CHAPTER 12

When I arrive at home, I find Hugh, Mick, and Fitzmorris at the dining room table, eating a supper of bangers and mash. Mick listens, rapt, as Hugh says, “Then I punched him in the mouth. He went down on his knees, spitting out blood and teeth.”

“Aw, and I had to miss it!” Mick says.

“It was quite a victory.” Hugh preens.

I frown. He’s making the attack at Newgate sound like fun and games. Mick says, “Can I go with you and Sarah tomorrow?”

“No,” I say from the doorway.

“Sarah. Welcome home,” Hugh says with a smile.

“You have school tomorrow,” I tell Mick.

“It wouldn’t hurt to skip just this once,” Mick says.

“You’ve already skipped weeks. Besides, we’re not going anywhere interesting tomorrow.” I signal Hugh with a glance. “You might as well go to school.”

Hugh doesn’t take the hint. “We’ve one more suspect to interview—the Sheriff of London.”

“Criminy!” Mick says. “Don’t make me miss that.”

“We could go to Old Bailey in the morning,” Hugh says. “If you promise to go to school in the afternoon, maybe Sarah will change her mind.” He’s a pushover for Mick, whose company he loves. He always undermines my efforts to act as a parent to Mick.

“If we don’t solve the murder and Sir Gerald fires us, Mick needs an education to fall back on,” I say.

“Have a little faith, Sarah. We’ll solve it.” Hugh is forever the optimist despite his own misfortunes. “Mick will be a big help.” The two exchange grins.

“It’s dangerous,” I say. “Look what happened today.”

“If I’d been with you, it wouldn’t’ve been so bad,” Mick says. “They’d have had a harder time takin’ all three of us.”

“Besides, Newgate is a perfect place for an attack in the dark,” Hugh says. “Old Bailey is more civilized. What could happen there?”

I drop into a chair. It’s been a long day, I’m hungry, and I haven’t the strength to keep arguing. “Oh, all right.”

Mick cheers, clapping his hands. “You won’t be sorry. We’ll solve the murder. And we’ll give whoever attacked you their comeuppance.”

“That’s the spirit.” Hugh switches the subject before I can change my mind. “Did you and Sally find any clues to your father’s whereabouts?”

I’m just finishing my supper and my description of our trip to the library when the doorbell rings. “Who could be calling so late?” I hope it’s not a summons to photograph a new crime scene.

“I’ll get it.” Fitzmorris goes downstairs and returns with Barrett.

Barrett is still in uniform, helmet in hand. His black hair is unruly, as though he’s been raking his fingers through it, his habit when he’s riled. A whiff of cold air, rain, and smoke accompanies him. I’m glad to see him, relieved that he’s not so fed up with me that he would stay away forever, but the gaze he turns on me is so reproachful that my heart sinks.

Barrett says, “Hello,” to Hugh and Mick but doesn’t speak to me. I try to smile at him and fail.

Fitzmorris says, “I’ll leave the washing-up for later.”

Mick says, “I better do my homework.”

“Bedtime for me,” Hugh says. “Good night, Barrett.” They all go upstairs.

Barrett drapes his overcoat on a chair and sits. I say, “Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?” I gesture toward the leftovers, delaying the inevitable. “A cup of tea?”

“No, thanks.” Barrett cuts to the chase. “Why didn’t you tell me about the contest?”

“I’m sorry. I wish I had.” My regret impassions my voice. “But I didn’t know about it when I saw you yesterday morning. I couldn’t have told you then. Sir Gerald thought of it later. Afterward, there wasn’t time.”

“The reporter from the Daily World had time.”

I cringe inside. If he knew that Hugh and I had been lurking near Mrs. Warbrick’s house, eavesdropping on him and Inspector Reid and Malcolm Cross, he would be angrier than ever.

“You could have found a minute to stop by the barracks and tell me last night,” Barrett says.

But last night I was at Harry Warbrick’s wake. “You’re right, I should have. But I was afraid you would be upset.”

“I’m not upset,” Barrett says in the stiff tone that people use when they don’t want to admit they’re upset. “I’m frustrated because here we go again—you’re keeping secrets from me.”

Our old issue has reared its ugly head. “I apologize.” Feeling wretched, aware that I’m in the wrong, I nonetheless have to say, “But I warned you that there will always be things I can’t tell you.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Barrett says. My warning, conveyed more than six months ago under happier circumstances, has ill prepared him for the present reality. “You must have known I would find out about your trip to Newgate. You could have told me before Reid made a fool of me.”

I hate that he was caught off guard, but I explain, “Sir Gerald made Hugh and me sign a confidentiality agreement when he hired us. And he ordered us to keep our findings under wraps until they’re published in the paper.”

“It was your decision to take the job.” Rancor permeates Barrett’s voice. “And now your whole life depends on staying on Sir Gerald’s good side.”

Here’s our other issue—whether I should do this work and what it means for our relationship. I’m exhausted and don’t want to have this argument now, but Barrett obviously isn’t ready to quit, and I mustn’t refuse to discuss something that’s important to him and to us. “It’s not just my life. There’s Hugh and Mick to consider.”

“They can work for Sir Gerald if they want. You don’t have to.”

Barrett is hinting that if I marry him, I won’t need to earn my own living. He proposed to me last spring, but problems arose, and we haven’t made any progress toward marriage since then. Although I’m glad it’s still a possibility, my feet are just as cold as they were then. After my father disappeared, my mother and I worked in the button factory and shifted for ourselves in a series of cheap lodgings. Even now all my imaginings about marriage end with my husband leaving me, and our children, to a similar fate. Barrett has always shown himself to be loyal and dependable, but I can’t help placing more faith in my own ability to eke out a living than in a man’s love.

These thoughts are too private and painful to confess. Instead, I say, “I can’t abandon Hugh and Mick.” After my father disappeared and my mother and I lost all our friends, it took me decades to open myself up to new friends, and now that I have them, I won’t forsake them. “They’re my family.” The weight of my guilt toward Barrett gets heavier because he doesn’t know they aren’t my only family. I avert my gaze from his as I think of Sally.

“Hugh and Mick would want you to be settled and secure. And happy,” Barrett says.

“I know.” They’ve hinted that they think I should marry Barrett. Hugh once said, “He’s a good chap. Don’t let him get away.” Mick said, “If you’re gonna be a copper’s wife, you could do a lot worse than him.” “But I’m worried about what will become of them if I leave.”

Barrett nods, reluctantly conceding my point. I’ve told him about the spells of black depression that Hugh has suffered since his family disowned him, although lately they’re infrequent, and Hugh hasn’t repeated his attempt to commit suicide. I think that’s because of his job at the Daily World as well as his relationship with Tristan Mariner. The job gives him purpose, a sense of accomplishment, and the money to support himself. Barrett also knows that Hugh and Mick are so impetuous that they make me seem sensible. If they run afoul of Sir Gerald, they could both end up on the streets.

“You should encourage them to find another line of work,” Barrett says. “Look what happened to you at Newgate.”

But our unconventional job suits my friends and me. No matter that I’m deeply in love with Barrett, I wouldn’t be content to keep house; nor can I picture Hugh working in an office. I can picture Mick returning to his old life as a street urchin and petty criminal. And our inclinations go deeper than an urge to solve murders. I’ve always had an affinity for danger. When I come across someone or something that frightens me, I feel an urge to draw nearer, as if it’s a sleeping wolf that I can’t resist poking and waking up. That’s one reason I keep searching for my father, no matter what I might discover. And I’ve learned that there’s no exhilaration like facing death and surviving. I think that our investigations have taught Hugh and Mick the same lesson. Our deal with Sir Gerald isn’t the only reason we’ll continue pursuing Harry Warbrick’s killer, and justice for the hangman isn’t the only reason we won’t stop. We tempt fate because it’s become a habit that’s hard to break. But that seems too perverse to admit to Barrett, and it’s not going to convince him that my friends and I should continue working for Sir Gerald.

“The attack at Newgate suggests that we’re getting closer to the truth about Harry Warbrick’s murder,” I say.

Barrett frowns, skeptical. “Reid questioned the governor, the matron, the surgeon, and the chaplain today. They kept mum about Amelia Carlisle’s execution and said they didn’t tell you and Hugh anything either. You got yourselves hurt for nothing.”

I shake my head. “I’m sure there is a connection.”

“As far as Reid and I could see, not one of the witnesses had any motive for murdering Harry Warbrick.”

Although I hate keeping Barrett in the dark, I can’t tell him about the affair between Dr. Davies and Mrs. Warbrick—or the Reverend Starling, his grievance against Harry Warbrick, and his visit to The Ropemaker’s Daughter on the night of the murder—until the information is published in the Daily World. Guilt, regret, and conflicting loyalties aggravate my temper.

“You’re ruling out my theory just because you’re angry with me,” I say.

“Yes, I am angry, but I’m not stupid enough to let my feelings dictate which theories to rule out or accept,” Barrett retorts. “Give me some credit, why don’t you?” Then the anger in his expression changes to sadness. “I don’t want this case to come between us, Sarah. I don’t want us to be on opposite sides of a contest.” He looks into my eyes. “I love you. I want us to be together—in everything, all the time.”

His sincerity disarms me. My heart brims with love for him, and I feel my gaze soften. Barrett cautiously reaches his hand toward my cheek. I lean into his touch. Then we’re kissing passionately, our lust as hot as the first time. Deprived for so long, too aroused to care about privacy, we stumble to the parlor. Barrett sits on the sofa, and I straddle his lap. His hands caress my breasts, grasp my hips. We’ve never completed the carnal act—I’m too afraid of getting with child—but we’ve found other ways to satisfy our need. Our kisses stifle our moans as we move in quickening rhythm.

The sound of footsteps descending the stairs freezes us. Then I scramble off Barrett and push my skirts down. He tugs the jacket of his uniform over his lap. We sit side by side, breathing hard. My heart is still pounding when Fitzmorris walks into the room seconds later.

“Oh. I’m sorry. Mr. Barrett, I didn’t know you were still here,” Fitzmorris says. I can tell that he knows what we were doing. He and Hugh and Mick probably know that we do it whenever we’re in the house and they’re not. I look at the floor, embarrassed.

Barrett clears his throat, stands, and says, “I’d better go.”

With our desire still unsatisfied, I don’t want him to leave, but I say, “I’ll see you out,” and accompany him downstairs to the studio, where we steal one last, long, fervent kiss. Our lovemaking has defused our tempers and postponed our quarrel about Sir Gerald, his contest, and the murder investigation for the moment.

“I’ll stop by for you at six o’clock tomorrow night,” Barrett says.

“Tomorrow night?” I don’t know what he’s talking about.

“We’re having dinner with my parents.” Barrett pauses. “Aren’t we?”

Trepidation is cold water dashed on my lust. I still don’t want to go, but I’ve already upset Barrett enough, and I can’t disappoint him and his parents again. “Yes,” I say.