Chapter Text
All it takes for William Wellington and Eliza Scarlet to finally confess their love to one another is one ill-timed house visit, a killer desperate not to be caught, and a knife held to Eliza’s throat. All stubborn people need a push, after all.
But, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. In order for the aforementioned love confession to make sense, the events leading up to it must be explained.
It all starts when a crying, desperate woman arrives at Eliza’s office one grey, rainy afternoon in mid-October, 1883.
“So, Mrs. Rutledge, how may I help you?”
The woman—there’s no other way to phrase it—is a wreck. Her body heaves with the force of her sobs, shoulders hunched, face red, and Eliza passes her a handkerchief, which Mrs. Rutledge gladly takes. “Thank you, my dear.” She blows her nose loudly and Eliza sits with her hands folded, patiently waiting for the woman to get ahold of herself.
She sizes up Bertha Rutledge silently, examining her from her feathered hat to her black boots. She’s an ordinary sort of woman: neither thin nor fat, neither short nor tall, aged about fifty. Her chestnut hair is threaded with silver, and her eyes—typically brown, but currently red-rimmed—are touched by crow’s feet. Her dress is a respectable yet plain one made out of moss green fabric, and save for the gold wedding band on her left hand, she has no ornament.
What brings an ordinary woman like this to a private detective’s office?
After several moments of loud sobbing, Mrs. Rutledge lifts her head, dabbing her eyes. She reaches into her bag, and Eliza is surprised to see her pull out a lump of grey wool and a pair of knitting needles. “Do you mind? It helps me calm down.”
Eliza voices her agreement, and Mrs. Rutledge’s needles fly, clicking together as they attempt to turn that lumpy fabric into something resembling a scarf. “It’s about my son,” she says, sniffling. “His name is Alfred. I’m afraid he’s missing.”
Eliza nods in encouragement, pulling out her pen and beginning to take notes. “How old is Alfred?”
“Twenty-six. He’s about five feet nine inches tall, slim of build, with brown hair and brown eyes. He usually wears a dark green coat—it was his late father’s, so it’s very important to him. He wouldn’t go anywhere without it, not this time of year.”
“And when did you see him last?”
“Two days ago.”
Eliza pauses, lifts her head. The woman is clearly distraught, and she doesn’t want to upset her further, but she has to ask. She treads carefully. “Surely, Mrs. Rutledge, it is not unusual for a man of twenty-six to go two days without seeing his mother from time to time?”
“But not Alfred.” Mrs. Rutledge is quite adamant about it. “He keeps a strict routine, and he doesn’t have a large income, so he’s not prone to trips out of town or anything like that. He’s my only son and entirely devoted to me, Miss Scarlet. We have tea together every Saturday afternoon—it’s his half-day at work, you see—and this week was the first time he’s missed it in four years. I went to his flat, but his roommate says he hasn’t seen Alfred since Friday evening. I’m worried. You’ll help, won’t you?”
Eliza nods. It’s understandable to be worried when a reliable person changes their routine, but, hopefully, there will be an innocent explanation. “Of course,” she says, not looking up from the notes she is scribbling. “And have you spoken to the police about Alfred?”
“I did. One man there spoke with me—an Inspector Wellington.”
Eliza stops her scribbling.
Mrs. Rutledge raises an eyebrow. “Do you know him?”
She forces a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “A little,” she lies.
Inside, she is thinking about how her longtime friend will not be happy to discover she is meddling in his affairs again. That is, of course, not enough to stop her from pursuing it.
She would call herself determined. William would probably call her obstinate.
“Inspector Wellington was very polite to me,” Mrs. Rutledge is saying, and Eliza forces herself to pay attention, hanging onto the woman’s every word. She can detect that Mrs. Rutledge has come here hoping for compassion, a listening ear, and that’s what she tries to give. “It was clear, though, that he thought I was overreacting. He told me to come back next week if Alfred did not turn up by then, but that’s not enough, Miss Scarlet. My son could be hurt, or”—she swallows, visibly distressed—“or killed. That’s why I need your help.”
The woman’s impassioned plea is enough to touch the hardest of hearts—but, well, not Scotland Yard’s, evidently. Eliza feels a spark of frustration, but it cools. She can’t speak for the rest of Scotland Yard, but she knows William. She believes he is doing the best he can. If he thought there was a chance Alfred Rutledge might be in danger, he would try to do something. Perhaps if she investigates this and finds a trail, she can talk to him about it, make him see reason. Perhaps he’ll help her.
Or he might be entirely, thoroughly annoyed and tell her to mind her own business. That’s also a possibility.
“Of course, I’ll help you,” she tells Mrs. Rutledge, and the woman smiles, visibly relieved. “Now, I’ll need to interview everyone close to Alfred to find out if any of them have heard from him. Who were his associates?”
“Alfred has never had many friends. He’s a very shy boy—always has been, ever since he was a child. I did speak with his colleagues. Alfred works for Mr. Barber—the chemist? I don’t know if you’ve heard of him. I can give you his address. I went there, and everyone said they have not seen Alfred since Friday, which is not usual. He never misses a day of work.”
“I will confirm that with Mr. Barber himself, if you don’t mind. Is there anyone else?”
Mrs. Rutledge pauses, clearly thinking. “There was a…a girl he mentioned. Quite frequently, in fact. Her name is Marie.”
“Marie what?”
“I’m not certain.”
Eliza nods, but Mrs. Rutledge doesn’t elaborate further. “And,” she asks, “where might I find this Marie? I’d like to speak with her.”
Mrs. Rutledge frowns, looks away, fingering the strap of her handbag. Her cheeks flush red, and she doesn’t look up at Eliza as she responds: “She works at Madam Delphine’s.”
“Oh.” Eliza works hard to maintain a neutral expression. She suddenly understands Mrs. Rutledge’s evasiveness. “So, she is a—?”
“A prostitute, yes.” Then, she adds quickly, as if justifying it: “But Alfred was fond of her, and she of him, from what he told me. Theirs was more than just a physical relationship. I know many sons would not tell their mothers about such a thing, but he really loves this girl, and he felt safe sharing his feelings with me. He said she was the one. If anyone knows where he’s gone, it would be Marie.”
“Of course.” She swallows, forces a smile to her face. “Well, then. I suppose I will be taking a trip to Madam Delphine’s.”
“Sir, are you busy?”
William lifts his head at the sound of Fitzroy’s quiet entreaty, the detective slipping into his office without waiting to be invited in. William pinches the bridge of his nose and replies with more irritation than he means to: “What is it, Detective?”
He doesn’t mean to snap at his protégé, not really, but he doesn’t need any more interruptions right now, and if the boy is coming to tell him about another case he needs to take on, he might as well turn around and walk out. William is so busy that if he gets any more assignments, he just might have to permanently move into his office to handle them all, and he’s had a crippling stress headache for going on three days, his case files seeming to haunt his sleep. He’s seriously starting to question his life choices.
Fitzroy gives him a sheepish look. “Sir, there’s something which I think requires your urgent attention—”
William inhales and shuts his eyes, not letting him finish his sentence. “Detective, I am already working on three murder investigations, covering for two inspectors that are out on leave, and slowly losing my sanity, so I highly suggest you ask someone else.”
“But sir—”
“—I’m serious, Detective.” Jesus bloody Christ, he’s only one man. If Munro tries to force something else upon him, he might march right into his office and finally tell the man to shove it.
(Well, he wouldn’t actually, because he’s quite attached to this job despite the headaches it gives him, but Christ, the idea is tempting.)
He opens his eyes to find Fitzroy looking at him with wide eyes and a pale face. “But sir,” he says slowly, “I really think you will want to take care of this. It’s Miss Scarlet.”
Fucking. Hell.
William’s last shred of patience leaves him in an instant. He doesn’t have time for this, especially not now, and when he gets his hands on Eliza, he is going to give her a piece of his mind. He told her about his troubles this week. Can’t she behave herself for once? Why must she insist on fraying his last good nerve?
He takes a deep breath. “What has she done now?”
Fitzroy hesitates before answering, then he gulps. “I’m afraid she’s gotten herself arrested, sir.”
Eliza has only twice gotten herself falsely arrested on suspicion of prostitution, but that’s twice too many for her liking. At least this time they didn’t inspect her for any signs of venereal disease.
And truthfully, the women she finds herself locked up with aren’t terrible company. She strikes up a conversation with two of the whores from Madam Delphine’s, who introduce themselves as Red Nell and Yellow Nell. When Eliza asks about the origin of the unusual monikers, Yellow Nell explains there are four whores called Nell at Madam Delphine’s, but since they all have different colored hair, their tresses are used to differentiate them.
Red Nell smiles and laughs. “I’m so glad the good Lord above made me a ginger,” she tells Eliza, “because if they told me I was to be Brown Nell, I think I’d rather change my name. It doesn’t sound very enticing, does it?”
The two Nells seem intrigued when she explains her profession, both of them leaning forward in their seats with wide eyes, and they are happy to talk with her, answering her questions about the mysterious Marie. (“I should’ve been a private detective,” Yellow Nell remarks with a smirk. “I can smell a man’s bullshit from a mile away.” “Yeah,” Red Nell replies, “but being a detective actually requires one to get off their arse.” Yellow Nell rolls her eyes and slugs her in the arm.)
By the time the jailer comes to release her, Eliza is almost upset the interview is at an end. The two prostitutes bid her farewell, and Eliza tells them to please look her up if she can ever offer them assistance, before she steps outside the cell to meet her fate.
When she comes face-to-face with William, he’s looking at her with a disgruntled brow, hands on his hips, and she weakly attempts to smile, but it fails to pierce his clear hostility. “Hello, William. How are you today?”
“Save it.” She closes her mouth, his voice rippling with suppressed anger, and when he bids her to follow him into his office, she sighs and does so.
Once the door shuts behind them, he doesn’t say anything for several moments, pouring himself a drink and settling into his desk chair. Eliza stands silently, nervously toying with the strap on her handbag, and once the silence proves suffocating, she asks: “Aren’t you going to yell at me?”
“Eliza, I don’t have time for this.”
He keeps his volume low, but the clear disappointment in his voice stings like a slap.
He looks up at her, and for the first time, she notices how tired he appears. “Eliza, I am working so hard, I have barely slept in three days, and if I place a single toe out of line, the Commissioner will find some reason to sack me, or even threaten to have me arrested again. I know obedience is not your virtue, but please, if you feel an ounce of compassion towards me, you will try not to get yourself arrested on suspicion of any illegal activities, at least for the time being.”
She shifts, glancing at her feet. “I do feel compassion towards you.”
He doesn’t respond, lifting the whisky to his lips, his posture sagging, and she quietly pulls out the chair across from him, inching closer to his desk. “William,” she says in the quietest, kindest voice she can summon, “I know you are very busy—”
He sighs audibly. “There’s a ‘but’ coming, isn’t there?”
She hesitates, searching for a synonym. “—nevertheless, I believe this is a matter of great importance.”
“It always is with you.”
“I mean it! It’s about Bertha Rutledge. I believe she came to see you this week?”
He laughs: a soft, frustrated sound with no joy behind it. “So, you are meddling in my cases again?”
“I am not meddling. I am investigating. Are you familiar with the concept?” As soon as she’s said it, she regrets it, knowing she’s gone too far. She knows it even before she sees the flash of offense cross his eyes, and she gulps, face growing pale.
“Did you,” he asks slowly, “come here intending to insult me, or does it just come naturally to you?”
“William—”
He gets up, walking towards the door. “I am very busy, so I must ask you to—”
“William, I’m sorry.”
He turns on his heel, tilting his head to examine her. “You apologizing to me? That’s a first.”
She frowns. “Please, sit back down. Let’s talk this through.”
He doesn’t say anything at first, and she looks at him with a pleading, soft-eyed expression. Finally, he sighs and strides back to his desk, and the sweet feeling of victory bubbles in her chest.
“No one has seen Alfred Rutledge since Friday night when he left to visit Madam Delphine’s. I went there because Mrs. Rutledge told me he was having a romantic relationship with one of the girls. Her name is Marie Daniels. Two of the women in that jail cell told me that Marie had a beau, and while they did not know his name, he matches Rutledge’s description.”
“So?”
“So, what I’ve found out is that no one has seen Marie since Friday either. She was supposed to work on Saturday but never showed.”
“Perhaps they’ve run off together. Young people who believe themselves in love often do. And you wouldn’t blame a man for wanting to escape his overbearing mother or a woman for wanting to escape the hazards of the sex industry, would you?”
“I understand that. However, Alfred’s roommate says he did not take any of his savings, and the other prostitutes say Marie did not take anything from her room at the whorehouse, nor say goodbye to any of them. Why not tell her friends she was leaving? And why would Alfred elope when his mother supported the relationship?”
William drains the last of his whisky, and Eliza is on the edge of her seat—literally and metaphorically—waiting for his response. “You say you have a description of Alfred Rutledge. What do you know about this Marie Daniels?”
She bites her lower lip to suppress her smile. “She is twenty-one years old, a petite girl about five feet tall, with long auburn hair, dark blue eyes, and a slightly crooked nose from having broken it as a child. She usually sleeps at the Lewis boarding house in Whitechapel, but not always. And she has a tattoo of a pink rose on her left shoulder blade—apparently, an old client of hers was in the Navy, and he did it for her. That could be important.”
William nods, taking note of her description, then abruptly shuts his notebook and rises to his feet. Off her look of surprise, he nods at her. “Well, come on. Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“To fetch a carriage. We’re going to find Madam Delphine.”
This time, her smile can’t be contained. “We?”
They lock eyes, and he gives her a little smile. “I know if I tell you not to go, you won’t bother listening to me anyway, so why waste my breath? Come on, before I have time to regret this.”
The woman who calls herself Madam Delphine is a busty blond in her late forties, her weathered face caked heavily with makeup, and when William and Eliza sit down in her front parlor—a ghastly looking thing, really, with orange wallpaper and old, sagging floral sofas that stink of cheap gin and even cheaper perfume—she comes out to meet them still wearing her white dressing gown, tied loosely around her curvaceous waist.
“Mind if I smoke?” she asks, dropping herself onto the chaise lounge across from them, not even waiting for a response before she lights the cigarillo clenched between her teeth. She blows a puff of smoke, and Eliza flinches, waving a hand in front of her face.
Madam Delphine’s shrewd eyes flick from Eliza’s face to William’s and back again. “So,” she purrs in her accent—sounding vaguely French, but not quite—“you needed to see me.” Her eyes focus on Eliza, and she does not bother to hide her staring, taking in her face, her waist, lingering on her breasts. Eliza crosses her arms over her chest in indignation.
“Hmm,” Madam Delphine says after a while, “you are a little old to get started, but you’re pretty—fine figure, nice face, a spark of cleverness in your eyes. A few of my regulars will find you very interesting.” Eliza opens her mouth to object, but Madam Delphine turns to William and keeps speaking before she can get a word in. “I’m assuming you’ll want your cut. We can split all her profits 25, 25, and 50—I’ll collect the lion’s share, of course, since I will be providing the location and the clientele.”
His hands clench into fists in his lap. “That’s not what we’re here for—”
“Oh.” She looks between them, a smile twisting her lips. “I should’ve known the two of you were a couple. You have that air about you. Some of my girls are willing to help spice up a marriage, but it will cost extra, naturally—”
He hears Eliza laugh in strained shock beside him, and he exhales, frustration rising. “Miss Scarlet and I are not here to solicit your services,” he says forcefully. “We are investigating the disappearance of one of your girls—Marie Daniels?”
Madam Delphine lowers her cigarillo. “Oh.”
Eliza raises an eyebrow at her. “Did you even know Miss Daniels was missing?”
“I resent that, Miss—Miss Scarlet, you say? I care about all my girls! They are like family to me. I would never want anything bad to happen to any of them.”
“So, you’ll answer our questions, then?”
The madam hesitates. “Marie is a private person. I don’t think she’d like to hear I’m spilling her personal business to two random people she doesn’t know. How do I know you’re even police, anyway? Who sends a woman on an investigation?”
William knows it without a doubt: he absolutely, positively despises Madam Delphine. Her critical eye, her blasé comments, her terrible-smelling sitting room—the sooner he can get away from her, the better. “Madam Delphine, I have seen your file and taken the time to read it myself—quite a considerable achievement, given how long it is. I know that you are not from France, and your name isn’t even really Madam Delphine. You were born in Fulham, and your real name is Doris Potter, but that doesn’t have the same foreign mystery, now does it? And I also know that your previous arrests are numerous, the charges ranging from disturbing the peace, to inciting prostitution, to distributing opiates without the proper registration. So, I suggest you answer our questions, or I will conduct a thorough search of your home and arrest you for procuring, as well as possession of any illegal substances I might find.”
By the time he’s finished, Madam Delphine is looking at him with a pinch-faced scowl, and she sighs, flicking ash onto the carpet. “What do you want to know?” she asks, the phony French voice gone as she addresses them in her decidedly less exotic West London accent.
Upon request, Madam Delphine retrieves her client book and flips through in search of Alfred Rutledge’s name. “I think I have seen the boy with Marie,” she says, her finger searching the pages before finally landing on its object. “Here. He’s been to see Marie and only Marie every Tuesday and Friday since May. Seems he’d already booked her for the next three weeks—paid ahead, too.”
William and Eliza exchange a look. Why would a man pay for three weeks if he didn’t intend to be around to receive the desired service?
He wouldn’t.
Eliza clears her throat. “Were you aware that Miss Daniels and Mr. Rutledge were having a romantic relationship? Beyond that of a mere client.”
“I was not aware of such a thing, but it doesn’t surprise me. Marie always harbored hopes a woman of her station shouldn’t. Always saying how someday she was going to find a suitable husband, and we’d all be jealous of her. Quite rude, really.” Madam Delphine thinks for a long moment, but then recognition lights up her eyes. “You know, she was flashing a diamond ring around recently—started wearing it around a week or two ago. Said her ‘dear Allie’ gave it to her and she was going to have a nice house with a nice husband. I told her to take it off, of course. The clients might be upset if they knew she was engaged. You don’t think she’s run off with this man, do you?”
William glances at Eliza, and one look tells him they’re both thinking the same thing. ‘Dear Allie’—short for Alfred, perhaps? If Marie and Alfred really were engaged, they will need to speak with Mrs. Rutledge. “We,” he says to the madam, “are not at liberty to share any details at present.”
With an audible sigh, Madam Delphine shuts her client book, then slaps it. “That little hussy! Leaves me high and dry without a word. And after all I’ve done for her, too…It’s a crime, really. A real crime.”
On the ride back to her office, Eliza can’t stop thinking about Alfred Rutledge and Marie Daniels.
If Marie was telling everyone they were engaged, then it couldn’t have been much of a secret. After all, if they really eloped to prevent Mrs. Rutledge or someone else from finding out, the whole thing would be rendered pointless if the news got back to her.
No, she has a feeling deep down in her gut that someone made Alfred Rutledge and Marie Daniels disappear.
“Are you sure we cannot go to Mrs. Rutledge’s today?”
William sighs, and for a moment she thinks he’s about to lecture her, but he refrains. “I must return to the office.” Off her hopeful look, he adds: “But I will send her a telegram asking if we may call upon her tomorrow.”
A little smile toys with her mouth, and she leans back in her seat, satisfied.
Of course, she can’t feel too pleased with herself. Not until Alfred and Marie are found.
Found alive…or otherwise.
She thinks of Mrs. Rutledge, that poor, sad woman with her red eyes and nervous knitting. She doesn’t want to deliver her bad news. She wants to bring her son home to her. To do anything less would feel like a failure.
And if he’s not alive…
Well, then she’ll have to get justice.
They arrive outside her office, and she drops her foot out of the carriage and onto the pavement, William promising to send her a telegram tomorrow with details for their meeting with Mrs. Rutledge. She steps out and he moves to shut the carriage door, but she turns back around to look at him one more time, hesitating as she wonders whether she should say what she wants to say out loud or not.
He gives her a quizzical look. “Is there something else?”
“William? Thank you.”
He stares at her for a moment, then smiles. “Huh. You apologized to me and thanked me in one day. Are you ill?”
She laughs and rolls her eyes playfully. “Don’t get used to it.”
The carriage pulls away from the curb and she walks up the stairs to her office, taking the steps one at a time, staring down at her shoes. A little smile threatens to overcome her face. Perhaps it inappropriate for her to say so—given that two people are still missing and all—but she enjoyed herself today. A laugh threatens to escape her as she thinks about Madam Delphine’s absurd interpretation of their intentions. And William—
No. She stops herself before she can go there. She needs to maintain her focus, because Mrs. Rutledge is counting on her. Now is not the time for such indulgent thoughts. Besides, just because he helped her out this once doesn’t change anything. He still thinks her career is wildly inappropriate.
A lump rises in her throat, and she takes a deep breath, redirecting her mind. No, these thoughts will not end well.
She swings open the office door, and before she can even drop her bag, she notices the note lying on the floor.
Frowning, she kneels, inspecting the plain white envelope. No address. It must’ve been hand-delivered. Slid under the door, perhaps? She breaks the seal with her thumb and unfolds the paper.
The note is no more than three sentences, the handwriting dark and cramped, but three sentences are all it needs.
Alfred Rutledge is somewhere you’ll never find him. Stop looking. You’ll be sorry if you don’t.
Eliza, of course, doesn’t heed the warning.
She is not easily cowed, and besides, she promised Mrs. Rutledge. All is not lost, however. As she gets ready for their appointment at the Rutledge townhouse, she folds the note into her pocket.
Presumably, whoever is behind the disappearances wrote the note. Perhaps Mrs. Rutledge recognizes the writing.
When she and William arrive, Mrs. Rutledge shows them into her sitting room, which is luckily a much neater, less alcohol-smelling one than Madam Delphine’s. She is quite surprised, however, when they step into the room and see someone else is already there.
“This,” Mrs. Rutledge says, “is my daughter, Georgina. She lives here with me.”
Eliza doesn’t let her surprise show on her face. Mrs. Rutledge didn’t mention having a daughter.
They settle down onto the sofa and Mrs. Rutledge excuses herself to fetch the tea. Eliza takes the opportunity to size up this new player. Georgina Rutledge appears to be in her late twenties, and perhaps the only remarkable thing about her appearance is how unremarkable it is. That’s not to say she’s ugly—quite the opposite. She has a handsome—though not beautiful—face with smooth skin and well-proportioned features, medium brown hair pulled into a simple bun at the back of her head. She is the type of woman who could easily belong anywhere in London, who could slip into almost any crowd without attracting any notice, just seeming to fit in.
“Miss Rutledge,” William begins, “we are sorry about your brother.”
It takes her a moment to recognize she’s being addressed. She lifts her head, the realization brightening her eyes. “Oh? Oh, yes. Thank you, Inspector.” Then, she looks down at her lap and lets the conversation drop.
Eliza shifts forward in her seat. She will try another tactic. “Are you and Alfred very close, Miss Rutledge?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“Any reason as to why?”
Miss Rutledge doesn’t answer at first, picking at one of her fingernails. “Alfred and my mother have always enjoyed a special relationship. There didn’t seem to be much room left for me.”
“Oh?” Eliza raises an eyebrow, her mind picking the sentence apart. “I’m sure that’s not true. Your mother must be grateful to have you living here with her, keeping her company.”
Miss Rutledge meets her eyes, and the look she finds there takes Eliza aback. There is a flash of such raw pain, such resentment, that it seems to rip all her questions from her throat.
“My mother,” Miss Rutledge says, “has been very lonely since my father died. She needed someone to be alone with her. It wasn’t going to be Alfred.”
“Surely if you wanted to move out, get married—”
“No, Miss Scarlet. You don’t understand. That was never an option for me. I received a few offers of marriage, but my mother always convinced me they were unsuitable for one reason or another. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Once I finally accepted that I would never marry, I thought I might become a schoolteacher, but when I told her, my mother all but threw herself at my feet, begging me not to leave. So, I didn’t.” She pauses, a shadow crossing her face. “When my father died, my mother couldn’t cope. So, Alfred became her beloved baby, her golden boy, the last piece she had of my late father. As for me? Well…let’s just say Alfred was her life, and she is mine. I’ve never had anything else. There was no room.”
For a moment, no one says anything, not sure how to respond. Though Miss Rutledge does not raise her voice, her outburst ripples with an undercurrent of anger. “Miss Rutledge,” William says, “forgive me, but I noticed you’ve spoken of your brother in the past tense.”
“Oh?” Immediately, that window into Miss Rutledge’s soul snaps shut, and the young woman retreats into herself, continuing to pick at her fingernail, her shoulders hunched. “I did not mean to, Inspector. It’s only”—she stops, inhales—“he must be dead. I know Mother won’t accept such a thing, but he must be. He would’ve come home otherwise, surely.”
So many questions spring to Eliza’s mind. There is something about this woman, lurking just beneath the surface…What has she had to endure? Before she can speak, however, Mrs. Rutledge re-enters the room, brandishing tea and biscuits, and Miss Rutledge looks away from them, focusing on some knitting.
“Mrs. Rutledge,” William tells her, “Miss Scarlet and I have followed up with the acquaintances of your son’s you provided us. Were you aware Marie Daniels has also not been seen since Friday night?”
“No, I had no idea.”
“And were you aware that your son asked Miss Daniels to marry him?”
“Marry him?” Mrs. Rutledge’s eyes go wide, and her face takes on an unhealthy pallor. “Oh, I”—a hand rushes to her throat, and she turns to her daughter—“Georgina, my salts. Please.”
Her daughter fetches them for her in silence, and Mrs. Rutledge waves the salts under her nose, recovering her senses before she speaks again. “Alfred did say he had something he wanted to tell me. He said he was going to share it on Saturday, but then he never showed. Oh, Inspector, you must bring them back—my son, and my future daughter-in-law. You’ll find them, won’t you?”
William doesn’t answer for a moment, averting his eyes. “We’ll try our best.”
It’s not the promise Mrs. Rutledge was hoping for, and she knows it. Her shoulders sink, and she lowers her head. Georgina weakly takes her hand.
Eliza sighs, reaching into her pocket. “We do have one lead.” All eyes turn in her direction—Mrs. Rutledge hopeful, Miss Rutledge subdued, William confused—and she hands the note to Mrs. Rutledge. “Do you recognize this handwriting?”
Mrs. Rutledge reads the letter once, twice, three times, her lips moving as she comprehends the meaning. “Alfred Rutledge is somewhere you’ll never find him. Stop looking. You’ll be sorry if you don’t.” She swallows, face turning white. “Where did you get this?”
“Someone left it for me at my office. I think the writer knows what happened to your son.”
Mrs. Rutledge stares at the note in silence for several moments, and Eliza feels William’s body tense beside hers on the sofa. She steals a glance at him out of the corner of her eye, but he won’t look at her.
Georgina reaches for the note, but before she can grab it, Mrs. Rutledge folds it up and hands it back to Eliza. “Thank you for all your help, Miss Scarlet, but I believe your services are no longer needed.”
Confusion rises within her. “Excuse me?”
“You will still receive your fee, of course.”
“But Mrs. Rutledge—”
She doesn’t let her finish. “Someone has hurt my son and this Miss Daniels. Now, this person is threatening you. I do not want to see another young person be hurt or—” her voice breaks, and she doesn’t finish the sentence.
Mrs. Rutledge rises from her chair, and she forces a tight smile to her face, but it doesn’t alleviate the silent fear in her eyes. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am very tired. Georgina will see you both out.”
William thought he finally got rid of that headache. He was wrong, of course.
When Georgina shuts the front door behind them, he shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets.
Eliza is really going to be the death of him one of these days. Her antics will cause him to have a heart attack if they don’t result in them both being murdered first.
“Did you notice,” she is asking him, either ignorant of his current frustration or pretending not to notice it, “that look on Miss Rutledge’s face when we asked about her brother?”
He starts walking down the front steps, and he inhales, trying to calm his temper. “Eliza—”
She follows him back towards the carriage, still talking as if he hadn’t interrupted. “There seems to be…I don’t know, jealousy. Resentment, maybe. Alfred was the favorite and she was the one who had to carry all the burdens—”
“Eliza—”
“—and I can’t prove it, William, but I think there’s something there—”
“Eliza!”
She cuts herself off mid-sentence, and when he turns to look at her, her eyes are wide, her cheeks white. “Why,” he asks, “did you not tell me that someone threatened you?”
She shrugs a single shoulder. “I didn’t think it was relevant.”
Under other circumstances, such an understatement might've made him laugh. “Didn’t think it was relevant?” He doesn’t mean to raise his voice, but he can’t help it, and she steps back from him, lowering her face. He sighs and starts again in a quieter, but still firm tone. “You need to stay out of this.”
“William! Mrs. Rutledge is my client.”
“Really? Because I thought she just fired you.”
Eliza opens her mouth, then closes it.
“Look,” he says, “I am reopening the case. Scotland Yard will figure out what has happened to Mr. Rutledge and Miss Daniels, but your work here is done. You’ve done well, but you shouldn’t risk your life out of stubbornness.”
“Stubbornness?” It was clearly the wrong thing to say. “You presume to talk to me about stubbornness?” She steps closer to him, arms crossed over her chest, lips forming a line. “If someone threatened you, would you give up? Or would you do your duty no matter the personal cost?”
William doesn’t answer.
“That’s what I thought.” She pauses, sighs, then says: “I understand and appreciate you don’t want me to get hurt, but I knew I was entering a dangerous line of work. I know what I’m doing, and I can take care of myself. I’ve done it for years. Do not let our friendship color your judgment. I want you to treat me as you would any other colleague.”
The words slip from his mouth before he has time to think about them. “Is that all you think you are to me?”
Surprise silences them both, and they stare at each other for a moment, saying nothing.
Finally, he shakes his head, turning away from her. What is the point in arguing? He knows she’ll just do what she wants anyway. She always does.
Besides, it is not his responsibility to take care of her. She can make her own choices and live with the consequences. He is not her father or her brother, and certainly not her husband. It’s her life, not their life.
Even if he wishes otherwise sometimes.
“William”—hesitation creeps into Eliza’s voice—“what did you mean by that?”
“By what?”
“What am I to you?”
It should be a simple question, but there is no simple answer.
God, his life would be so much easier if he didn’t care, if he could just let her do whatever she wanted without feeling guilty about it, if he could write her off as strong-willed and obstinate and go back to his daily life in peace. He could tell her to do what she wants and see if he cares, could wash his hands of her once and for all, but it would all be a lie.
The truth is—no matter what his head tells him—in his heart, he cares about what she does. Deeply.
He’s dealt with more than his fair share of loss. He lost his mother, his father, and he lost Henry, the man who was a better father to him than his biological one ever was. He lost a home and a country and his innocence far too young. You could say death has become an acquaintance of his. All his life, he’s had to learn how to survive the worst of circumstances, to summon some piece of inner strength, the will to stay alive.
But if she gets herself killed, he doesn’t know how he’ll ever be able to move on from that.
That’s what he’s thinking, but he doesn’t tell Eliza that. “The carriage will take you home. I think I’ll walk.”
Then he turns on his heel before she can reply, leaving her to stand there wondering as to his meaning, and what he might’ve said had he not thought better of it.