He checked his watch again as he stood outside the theatre. Raising it to his ear, he shook it, but it still had the sure, honest sound of steady ticking.
Five minutes past. What was five minutes? It was nothing. She had simply been delayed. She’d be there any minute. ‘Any minute now,’ he muttered, searching down the length of wet pavement and the line of people crowding under the eaves as the dusk mist slowly rose. It surprised him how much he had been looking forward to this.
He glanced up to the banners swagged over the front of the four-story tower and read again, ‘The Royal Canterbury Theatre of Varieties.’ The façade glittered with lights, and the fancy costumes of the people going in for a night of songs, comedy and frivolity.
Unexpectedly, he was jabbed with a moment of guilt that he shouldn’t be taking the time off – and with some of Mister Holmes’s money – for such trivialities, but he justified it to himself that he was setting Miss Littleton to rights about a few things. She needed to be more partial to them, and he knew of no better way than to let her know who the real Tim Badger was.
A hansom cab pulled up before him, and when the door opened, out stepped the lady herself.
She was arrayed in a lavender evening gown of some sort of satiny material that shimmered in the gas lamps outside the theatre, and that conformed amiably to a delectable figure. On her head perched a petite headdress made of the same fabric as her gown, with a jaunty ostrich feather atop it that fluttered with the odd breeze. She wore a simple, fur-trimmed cape over her shoulders and, when Tim stepped forward to take her hand, she offered it in its long opera gloves. The scent of roses formed a delicate cloud about her.
She joined him on the pavement and looked him over. He did feel a little underdressed, for he had no evening clothes himself, but he hoped that he wouldn’t be out of place in the galleries. His collar was clean and white, and his coat fitted his trim form nicely.
‘I am sorry I’m late.’ She smiled and cocked her head just so. Her auburn hair gleamed red with the gaslight. She was an elegant woman when he thought about it, and he began to wonder about her and what made her want to be a reporter, and she from Mayfair, of all places. It wouldn’t be that she had to work … was it?
He supposed that could all be part of their chit-chat.
‘Think nothing of it,’ he said magnanimously. ‘Shall we?’ He offered his arm and she laid her hand gently upon it. Instead of entering by the front doors, Tim tugged her the other way up Westminster Bridge Road to Upper Marsh.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked, looking back at the well-lit entry, and all the people queuing up to go in.
He gestured ahead. ‘Oh, I thought I’d try something a bit different and sit in the gallery this time,’ he lied. ‘I hope that’s all right with you. The entrance is just there.’ He certainly couldn’t expend ₤2/2d each for the ground-floor seating. He reckoned 6d each for the gallery would be good enough for a start.
He paid for the tickets and led her up the stairs, where they had a wide view of the lower hall, the seats below, and the balconies and boxes. He paid for programs and handed one to her. He clutched his as he looked out over all the finery and décor in wonderment. He’d not had the opportunity to come to the Canterbury before and he understood now why they called such structures ‘palaces.’
Above, a large coved ceiling showed off the painters’ art in panels that looked like Indian gods, gardens, snakes and such. But there was also its famous sliding roof, painted in a deep blue and picked out in gold stars like a night sky. Plasterwork in foliates sprang from columns along a ground floor filled with fauteuil seating, row on row … those two-pound seats, and cushy they looked, too. Three panels over the proscenium were painted with more artistic Indian subjects on a gold background, representing music, comedy and tragedy. Ornamental columns on each side of the proscenium were painted on both sides with elephants and Nubian riders, and all seemed to glitter in gold leaf and gold tiles. It was a modern wonder, to Badger’s eyes.
He brought himself back to the business at hand and found their seats. From there, they could look out below to those seating themselves in the cushioned chairs on the ground floor, those across in the gallery, still more in the balcony, and the wealthiest folk in the ornamented boxes on either side of the proscenium. In between the balconies he could just make out the refreshment rooms on the first floor. Perhaps they could take their supper there.
He turned to her and smiled. ‘I hope this meets with your expectations.’
She couldn’t help but smile back at him excitedly. ‘It does indeed. We have an excellent view of the whole place, don’t you think?’
She took off her cape and set it on the back of her chair, revealing a décolletage of creamy skin and a long neck. Her shoulders, too, were bare in small sleeves; on the whole, she was completely enchanting.
He swallowed. Here he was expecting to dazzle her, and there she was … a woman, no longer just a stubborn reporter, dazzling him. He vowed to be wary.
Just then, the orchestra struck up their music and the gas dimmed. The enormous curtains on the stage were lit up with limelight and Tim soon forgot his guilt and troubles. He glanced at the program at last and it was filled to the brim with entertainments. And just as he read her name, Marie Lloyd strolled onto the stage with her famous parasol amid thunderous applause. She was just as shapely in life as she was in her photographs – particularly in her scandalously short skirt, cut just below her knees. She began singing ‘Oh, Mr Porter’ and winking and nodding to make the words that much cheekier. The audience enjoyed themselves singing along. Tim sang too, and he was pleased to see that Miss Littleton knew the words and tune as well.
Lloyd next sang one of her old ones, ‘The Boy I Love Is Up in the Gallery,’ and she paid special attention to those on that level of the theatre. Men whistled loudly and waved, everyone sang along to that one as well, and Tim could swear that she looked directly at him more than once.
When she’d finished that song, she asked if the audience wanted more, and the loud affirmation in stomping feet, applause and cheers gave her all the encouragement she needed. She nodded to the orchestra leader and sang several more favorites, and a few new songs, and by the time she left the stage at last, she blew a kiss to the audience to wild acclaim.
A lion comique came next, a jaunty parody of the upper classes that Tim particularly enjoyed. Next was a ballet in stunning costumes that entranced. Then there followed more singers, and then an elegantly dancing duo.
Tim glanced often at Miss Littleton, but she was so completely engaged at the sight before her, eyes shining behind her lorgnette, lips parted in expectation, that she didn’t notice his gaze. He quickly looked away back to the stage.
The time breezed by so that, when he looked at his watch at the intermission, he realized it was later than he thought. ‘Miss Littleton, shall we get ourselves some refreshment? It would be nice to take a stroll about the place, stretch our pins a bit.’
‘I do agree,’ she said. He helped her carry her cape, and she strolled on, the soft swish of the fabric moving with her.
They took the stairs to the refreshment level and were seated by a waiter more elegantly dressed than Tim was, who offered menus of wine, beer and other enticements.
Looking at the prices, Tim apologized in his head to Mister Holmes before he allowed her to order for them. It was cooked oysters, cold meats, pickles and beer. He appreciated her choices, as did his coin purse.
As their beers were served and the waiter moved away from their table, Tim could finally face her, and quite an appetizing sight it was … if only she weren’t so annoying most of the time.
He plunged in, hoping to keep her from her own prying questions. ‘Why a reporter, Miss Littleton? It’s not proper work for a woman, is it? And you from Mayfair and all.’
He could see her face go through a myriad of expressions. It seemed that her first instinct was to attack, but she thought better of it. She took a moment by sipping her beer and then setting it carefully down again. ‘I wanted to see something of humanity. I wanted to understand it, understand what made a city as big as London tick like a clock, with all its gears and springs. And why crime and poverty was rampant in such a modern place.’
He nodded. ‘I think you have the right of it there, miss. Those that grow up in poverty – like m’self – and I trust you won’t print what we say here in confidence …’ He gave her the eye. She demurred and nodded back. ‘Well. There’s little choice but for a life of crime. It’s not like one wakes up in the morning and decides to be a criminal. It’s that your kids have to eat. They’re in rags. And you’ve got to do something about it.’
‘Do you have any children, Mister Badger?’
He nearly spat out his beer. He choked instead, coughing. He held the serviette in his face and coughed into it until it subsided and he cleared his throat. ‘No. I’m, er, not a married man, Miss Littleton.’
She gave him a secret smirk, hiding it in the rim of her glass before she gestured for him to continue.
‘I just meant that no one sets out to be a criminal, as you say. There’s generations of the poor in the city. How can they ever better themselves? Because it ain’t just lack of education, but of opportunity. You can’t get a job in a fancy shop when you don’t have the money for better clothes. You can’t clerk for no one unless you have a good hand and good grammar. Most of us just learned to read and write and little more than that. I mean, where’s the opportunities? Where’s the chances?’
‘But you’ve bettered yourself, Mister Badger. Surely anyone can if they—’
‘Miss Littleton, I have a benefactor, someone who put me up in better lodgings and afforded me the chance to dress m’self proper. That means I eat proper too. The tools, Miss Littleton. I’ll wager you never had to worry about having a roof over your head when it rained or snowed. Never worried about enough coal to heat yourself, or enough food to eat. The basics just to keep you alive.’
‘But there are workhouses for the very poor—’
He hadn’t meant to, but he tossed down his serviette a little more harshly than intended, making the glassware clink together. ‘Have you ever been to one?’ He shook his head. ‘The problem with people like you is that you don’t understand poverty. There’s no such thing as “deserving” or “undeserving” poor. There’s just poor. Awright, I admit, there are bad people on the streets, too. Cutthroats and pickpockets and murderers. There’s no helping them. And there’s those who drink a lot. But can you blame them? Waking up every day to the sameness of trying to get enough to eat and never getting enough.’
Just then the waiter arrived with their food and laid out the abundant plates from his tray. Badger looked over the platter of steaming oysters, the carefully carved strips of beef and pork, the dish of cornichons. He suddenly felt ashamed and sat back, touching nothing.
‘Miss Littleton,’ he said, not looking up from the tablecloth, ‘I’ve had lots of jobs. And you can plainly see I’m no slow-witted man. But all of my guvs treated me as if I was a child, too stupid to do more than asked. Just because I was poor. Just because I was a servant. It’s galling. It unmans you.’ He sat a moment in silence before he mentally slapped himself. Meekly, he looked up. Surprisingly, she was gazing at him with concern, with eyes that seemed to have actually understood him. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fly off at you like that. It’s just that … well. Mister Holmes never treated me that way. He always talked to me proper, not down to me, if you get my meaning. He always seemed to have high hopes for me. That’s all a man needs, really. And a leg up.’
Her hand was on his in comfort and he stared at it.
Her fingers had probably never callused from labor. Her nails never torn from hard work. They were beautiful hands, in fact. Pale, with shiny, slightly pinkish nails, the skin smooth. He took a moment to admire them. They were not like Jenny Wilson’s or Katie Murphy’s, sometimes red and raw. It was useless being angry at the fact that they weren’t.
He slid his hand away out from under them. ‘I got away from my original question,’ he chuckled sheepishly. ‘That was, why you became a reporter. You seem … genteel. You probably don’t need to work, do you?’ Slowly, he retrieved his serviette, tucked it back into his collar, and speared some slices of beef to put on his plate.
‘That’s not entirely true, Mister Badger.’ She served herself oysters in their shells, some cornichons, and some slices of meat. She took up her fork and held it, but made no move to eat her fare. ‘Though I do have an endowment from my parents, it isn’t quite enough to live on.’ She shook her head once and started again. ‘Enough as I was used to, that is. Living where I live in their house, clothing myself as I do, attending the various functions necessary to keep myself in a class with my peers. I found I did need to supplement my income. I am no seamstress. I am inadequate to the task of being a shopgirl. Not a cook, nor a housekeeper. My options were few. So I decided to try my hand at journalism. It wasn’t easy as a woman, getting such a job. But The Daily Chronicle was amused at the prospect. They thought at first that I would write “women’s pieces” about fashion and household hints, but I quickly disabused them of that by writing uncompromising pieces about crime. Crime interests me, Mister Badger. Criminals interest me.’
‘And that’s what fascinates you about me, eh?’
She dabbed her lips with the serviette that she kept in her lap. ‘At first, yes. I imagined you were trying to cheat your clients, that it was all a farce to you, some sort of confidence game. I thought that your claiming to have been employed by Sherlock Holmes was a lie. I have since been proved wrong.’
She admitted it! He suddenly got his appetite back and dug in, taking a swig of his beer, impaling a few oysters onto his fork, and shoving them into his mouth. They were smoky and sweet. ‘Being a reporter has to be a bit like being a detective,’ he said, cheek bulging with food. He swallowed it. ‘You can’t just assume things. You have to back it all with facts and some deductive reasoning. For instance, you assumed I was a criminal because I might have a file with the police, have spent some time in gaol even. That was all in the past. But if you had looked at the facts available, you would have seen – well, more recently at least – that there was a scheme to it all that had nothin’ to do with acts of crime. It was me, looking for clues and evidence. As a matter of fact …’ He wiped his mouth with the serviette and plucked it from his collar. ‘Care to learn what it’s really like investigating a crime?’
‘You mean … now?’
‘No time like the present.’
Her smile came slowly but, with eyes shining, she appeared to be up for the adventure.
They hastily finished their meal, gathered their things, and left the theatre. The night was chilly and Badger shivered at the curb to hail a cab. ‘Pimlico Road,’ he said to the cabby when he arrived. Littleton stared at him.
‘Just where are you taking me, Mister Badger?’
He realized – through his penny-fiction reading – that she might have thought he was some kind of villain trying to sweep her away for cruel and salacious plans. He offered her a hand into the cab and scooted as far away from her as he could in the cramped space as it clattered along on the cobbled stones. Not that he wanted to be far away from her and her perfume. ‘Miss Littleton, my intentions are completely honorable. I swear. But if you’re game – and I suspect that you are such a woman – you will see tonight what a detective’s life is truly like.’
‘This is not the direction of your lodgings.’ She glanced out the window nervously.
‘No. I’m not taking you to my lodgings. That wouldn’t be proper.’
He said nothing more. He glanced at her in the dark of the cab occasionally as she continued to look out the window. He hadn’t realized he was humming one of Marie Lloyd’s tunes and he was suddenly amused by this adventure.
‘You can stop here, cabby,’ he said after they had arrived close to Chelsea Bridge. The streets fell quiet and, as the hansom left them, its clopping horse vanishing into the distance, their surroundings felt solitary and still.
‘Why have you brought me here, Mister Badger? I demand to know.’ She suddenly had a small pepperbox revolver in her hand and was aiming it at him.
‘Blimey,’ he said under his breath. He hadn’t considered that she might still be wary of him. He approached her slowly, hands carefully reaching forth, and even as he spoke, his mind was not on his words but on clapping his hands on that gun. ‘Please don’t fear me, Miss Littleton. The thing of it is, it’s a clue to the murder of Horace Quinn. And Watson and me were going to investigate it together, but I thought, since you’re here, you might wish to do it with me. But it does entail a little housebreaking.’
‘What?’ She desperately looked about for a cab, but none were in the offing. But while she was occupied with that, he darted forward and – with one hand on the gun and stepping aside out of its way just in case – he snatched it from her hand.
‘Mister Badger!’
‘Now miss, you wouldn’t want to be pointing a dangerous thing as that at a man what means you no harm. I’ll return it to you … when you’ve listened to what I have to say.’
Her indignation returned, but at least it seemed to have wiped the fear from her eyes.
‘Yes, you were talking about housebreaking. I should have known.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve done it before.’
‘And how often were you caught at it?’
He blinked, thinking. ‘Well … truth to tell … a fair few times …’ Her look was stern before she whirled on her heel and began walking back toward the heart of London. He scrambled to catch up with her. ‘But this will be easy. It’s one old man, and we won’t be encountering him at all. Trust me.’
She hadn’t slowed down. ‘I can’t believe you would bring me all the way out to Battersea and suggest I break the law. Is this some sort of retaliation for my story?’
‘No! Not at all. I just thought you’d have the nerve to give it a go. But I see …’ He caught up to her at last and kept his strides long. ‘But I see I misjudged the situation. I’m sorry. I’ll … find a cab for us … somewhere …’ He looked down at the small derringer in his hand and reluctantly returned it to her. She snatched it up. He winced, expecting the worse, but she no longer seemed inclined to aim it at him again. Instead, she weighed it in her hand for a moment before returning it to her small purse.
Tim looked up and down several streets and could find nothing. Only the sounds of the nearby rail lines, putting the trains to bed for the night.
She slowed to a stop and, under the light of a street lamp, looked him over. ‘You truly expected me to break into a house with you?’
‘I thought you would. You seem … I’m sorry.’
She bit down on the tip of one finger of her long gloves and pulled the material, stretching it. She looked back toward where they had got out of the cab. And then she squared on him. ‘You really thought I’d do that?’
‘It wasn’t no disparagement of your character, Miss Littleton. I just thought, blimey, here’s a woman not afraid of getting a story, writing about crime, of all things. She’d be a helluva – er, a right … daring … lass to have on hand. That’s all I thought.’
‘Housebreaking?’
‘Not a house, really. A shop. A jumble shop. We’d look around a bit, try to find out some information, and get out. Easy-breezy.’
‘You must think I’m mad.’
But she didn’t look mad. She didn’t even look angry, he decided. She looked like she was actually considering it. He sidled closer. ‘Wouldn’t that be something to write about?’
‘If I don’t get arrested.’ She didn’t look as worried as she had earlier.
‘You won’t. I’ll take the blame if the coppers show up. What do you say, eh?’
She only took a moment to nod her head with a smile. ‘But I am keeping a close eye on you, Tim Badger.’
‘See that you do,’ he muttered, pushing his homburg into a jaunty angle.
He motioned for her to keep close to him and stay out of the lamplight. Once they found the shop, they skirted the perimeter, looking for windows, transoms, unlocked back doors, but everything seemed to be tightly barred.
He went around to the back again and, checking to make certain there was no one to see, he took his skeleton keys and lock picks from a wallet in his pocket.
‘Are those what I think they are?’ she said quietly.
‘They are indeed.’
‘That’s fascinating.’
He turned to look back at her with her bright expression. Oh yes. She found criminals perhaps a little too interesting.
‘Mind the street and keep watch,’ he said. She did so, but as he bent over to work on the lock, her hand was pressed to his shoulder as a warm presence. It didn’t please him to think how much he liked the feel of it. He flicked a glance up at her, but she was merely using his shoulder to steady herself as she strained to lean over and look one way down the alley and then the other.
He gathered himself and studied the lock. It looked to be a single lever lock, less complicated. His small skeleton keys would not suffice this time. Those were for small locks in drawers and such anyway. This required his lock picks: a large L-wrench and a smaller one. He first inserted the smaller wrench’s L-shaped piece into the top of the keyhole, facing upward. With his finger giving it just a breath of tension, he could force the spring-loaded lever inside the lock to rise enough for the tab on the deadbolt to unlock from its slot on the lever, the part inside that was keeping the lock, well … locked. Maintaining the tension on the top wrench, all he had to do was insert the second, larger wrench in the bottom of the keyhole as if it were a key, L part facing downward. As he turned the bottom wrench slowly, he felt not only the lever rise further, but – acting as the key – it allowed the lever to do its job and pull back the bolt.
He sighed at the satisfying feel of the bolt sliding back out of the box and the striking plate in the doorframe as the door whispered open.
‘You did it,’ she hissed at his ear. ‘You have got to show me how to do that!’
‘I will. But now’s the time to be quiet.’ He put a finger to his lips and she nodded solemnly, the ostrich feather in her hat gently agreeing.
He returned his lock picks to his pocket, stuck his head in the door, and looked around. No sign of the old man. It was late enough that he would be in bed … wherever that was. He motioned for her to follow and she had the sense to close the door gently and quietly.
He moved around the shadowed items that loomed up in the darkness. He had thought it was bad enough with its close dustiness and murkiness in the daytime, but at night it was a cave of mysteries.
Suddenly, he smelled roses, and realized she was close beside him and whispering, ‘What are we looking for?’
A very good question, he mused. What were they looking for? Some fool notion from Watson … although Ben was no fool at all. If his colleague thought there was something to this ‘Atic’, then there very well could be. Because Watson was right. It couldn’t be a coincidence. What was it the medium – Josie Williams – had told to her séance audience around that table, pretending it was the dead Stephen Latimer talking? She had told him that whatever it is Quinn was looking for was in the A-T-I-C. And that’s where they were now, in Atic’s Jumble and Curiosities. What was so important to Quinn that needed to be found? And why here?
Something physical, then. Papers? It was logical to think so. That made more sense than an old chair or shepherdess figurine. But hadn’t Thomas Brent broke into Latimer’s house and brought back a strongbox? The papers in that hadn’t seem to satisfy Quinn.
Atic had come upon them the other day like some old wizard, popping in out of nowhere, but he had to have come from his office, and God-knew-where that was in all these piles of rubbish. He thought back on that day; Atic had appeared to the right of the front door.
Tim rose on his toes and peered toward the front window. Even with a curtain before the panes of glass, the streetlights filtered through. At least they were headed in the right direction.
Littleton stuck close to him, but her long skirts caught, scraping a chair which sent a rug thumping to the floor. She lost her balance and started to fall. He whirled, grabbed her, and found himself nose to nose with her, his head filling with the scent of roses … and woman.
They both stilled, listening. Then … they stared at each other’s eyes.
His arm wound round her, clutching the layers of dress, corset, woman. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t look away. Her large, luminous eyes filled his sight. He had known they were brown but, in the darkness, they seemed like velvet depths of a deep unknown. He became aware that one of her hands curled over his shoulder and the other was trapped between them, flattened against his chest. Surely she could feel his heart thumping. Surely she could hear it.
For a long moment they merely held each other, much closer than they would have if they had been dancing. So close that if he leaned in a mere few inches, he could be kissing her. The thought heated his cheeks and his heart seemed to double its tattoo, yet still he did not move away.
Her breath quickened and her gaze finally lowered, perhaps looking at his lips as he was looking at hers, considering … Until she stepped back, righting herself.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘My … my skirt got caught and …’
‘Oh. Yes. I just …’
His fingers reluctantly released from the satiny dress, that slim waist, and they stood apart from one another.
It took another long moment for Tim’s mushy brain to remember why they were there in the first place.
He cleared his throat, straightened his tie, though it didn’t need any attention. He turned around and gathered himself. After a deep breath, he led the way once again through the labyrinth of objects and stacked furniture. He was more aware than ever of her presence behind him. Steady, Badger, he admonished himself. Keep your head on the business at hand. Squeezing through some of the narrower openings, they reached the office at last. It lay behind a long wall of multi-paned windows with a door with similar multi-paned windows on its upper half.
When Tim tried the door, he was surprised to find it unlocked. The soft click made him wince, even though the building itself creaked … or was it the stacks of furnishings like a child’s toys, vulnerable to the slightest breeze that might knock it all over like rows of dominoes?
He stood for a moment in the doorway and peered through the gloom, wondering for the hundredth time what he could be looking for and where?
‘If you told me what you’re after, maybe I could help,’ she whispered.
‘The thing of it is,’ he said, equally as quiet. When he turned to her, her eyes were as enigmatic as before and glittering from the scant glow from a skylight. He saw excitement in them, for this sort of thing seemed like meat to her character. It made him wonder that much more about her and her situation. By her conversation, her parents were both gone, leaving her a small annuity that wouldn’t go as far as they had planned for their … only … child? He found that he wanted to know more about her.
Suddenly, he realized he’d said nothing. It was her eyes that had enchanted him. Again. He made a valiant effort not to look at her lips. ‘The … the thing of it is, Miss Littleton, during the séance in which Mister Quinn was killed, he had asked the medium to contact his dead business partner. And the dead man had told Quinn – through the medium—’
‘Josie Williams,’ she supplied.
How the bloody hellfire had she …? He took a breath. ‘Er … well. Awright, so you know. Through what Josie Williams said, the evidence was in the Atic. Not the attic of a house but specifically the “A-T-I-C.”’
‘Atic’s Jumble and Curiosities,’ she murmured.
‘So we think. So me and Watson was here the other day, looked about a bit, but there was nothing immediate to make sense to us. I thought it was just a coincidence, but even I had to admit later that it wasn’t. So I think I’m going to look for some papers, maybe something from Stephen Latimer, his dead partner, that might show why Quinn was so desperate to find this information.’ Even as he explained it to her, the idea of what it most likely was suddenly sprang to mind. But that, he would keep to himself.
He moved toward the wall where, out of the gloom, rose a walnut cabinet with eighteen drawers with tarnished brass cardholder handles. Each card was labeled with letters of the alphabet. Littleton quickly beat him there and grabbed the one with ‘K–L’ penned on it and pulled it out. She dug in and retrieved the stack of papers and looked about for a surface to put them upon.
‘Over here,’ he whispered, finding a desk and shoving the ledgers and books aside. He nearly shouted in fright when he encountered a stuffed squirrel, thinking it was a rat. Angrily, he pushed that aside as well.
She laid the papers down and started riffling through them. He read over her shoulder. ‘I wish I had my police lamp with me,’ he muttered. But perhaps her eyes were more acute and saw well enough in the dark.
She stopped when she got to the bottom of the pile. ‘There’s nothing here.’
‘Atic said he’d had no dealings with Stephen Latimer, but I thought that maybe he just forgot.’
She flipped through them again. ‘No,’ she said, shoulders sagging. ‘There’s nothing here that has the name Latimer.’
He looked back at the drawers and the cabinet below them. He slid in front of it and, on his knees, opened the cabinets. They were stuffed full of ledgers, papers, rolled-up maps, and other sundries. But nothing there that had the name Latimer or Quinn on them.
He sat back and stared at it with a sour face. ‘I was sure we’d find something.’
‘Perhaps “Q” for Quinn?’ she said.
This time Tim got to the ‘Q–S’ drawer first, rummaged through the stack, and sighed in frustration.
A match was struck and he was about to admonish the woman, when he glanced toward the over-brightness of match touching lamp wick. The bright glow subsided and left only the faint flickering in the glass globe.
But it wasn’t Ellsie Littleton.
‘And what is this?’ asked an angry Randolph Atic, in dressing gown and night cap.