How do you prove you didn’t scare Lady Pemberton to death with a phantom?
When Kate closes the iron gate behind her and turns onto Settles Street, she all but barges into Constable Gibb.
“Miss Quill!” His feigned surprise would draw catcalls from a seasoned crowd.
Kate looks him up and down. His custodian helmet sits lopsided, his acne practically throbs, and his tawdry ’tache appears patchier than ever.
“Have you been here all night, Constable?”
Flushing, he plays with a brass button. “Why, no, miss, not at all. Constable Blake relieved me at… And then…” He has said too much, it occurs to him, and he clams up, transferring his attentions to his boots.
Kate cannot decide whether to be bemused or perplexed.
Passing him without another word, she strides self-consciously on, the theatre in her sights. Something tells her to stop. She does so without warning and turns.
Constable Gibb, ten paces behind, stops also, gazing up and around, whistling.
Kate blinks back her amazement. “Are you following me, Constable Gibb?”
He affects noticing her. “Not at all, Miss Quill. Not at all. Merely… strolling.”
“Then perhaps you could stroll,” she gestures back the way they came, “that way?”
He turns, strokes his chin, and after a moment’s hesitation shakes his head. “I think I’d prefer this way,” he says, pointing.
Shaking her head, she sets off apace. “Have it your way. It’s a free world, after all, Constable.”
“Well,” he returns, almost to himself. “I’m not sure about that, miss.”
Gibb is still following when she reaches Fieldgate Street, idly swinging his truncheon. She avoids the night-soil cart, pulled by a limping horse so glum it seems resigned to its purpose, and hurries to the stage door.
A light drizzle is falling, so fine it resembles a mist. It lends a kick to the air that might almost smell clean.
She knocks with no reply and turns anxiously. Gibb is chatting to the night-soil man.
She tries again, harder, and hears movement the other side of the door.
“Hurry up,” she urges through gritted teeth. She cannot have the police connecting Daisy with the case.
Charlie, the old stage-door keeper, blinks in the daylight. “Hmm?”
“Daisy Quill?”
“What of her?”
“I’m her sister. Remember? I was here…”
“Yes, I remember you. Daisy’s sister.”
She wants to punch him, but remembers her warning to Ned. “That’s right. Can I come in and see her?”
He gazes back into the womb of the theatre. “Can’t say as she’s here.”
“Can I check? Please. I know where she’ll be.”
He flicks something off his coat and stands aside. “Suit yerself.”
She motions behind. The cart has moved on and Gibb is barely a dozen yards distant, still affecting nonchalance. “See that copper?”
He peers through misted specs. “Just about.”
“Can you stop him following me?”
He sucks in a breath. “Don’t see how I can do that, miss. Officer of the law an’ all that.”
She pushes inside. “Tell him you saw a drunkard with a knife heading that way.”
He chuckles. “Can’t see ’im falling for that.”
“You don’t know him as well as I do.”
Ellis Blackwood writes very British historical mysteries: fiendish whodunits packed with singular characters, vivid period detail and plenty of wit. His completed nine-book Samuel Pepys Mysteries series is set in 17th century London. He is currently working on the Quill & Page Victorian Mysteries, featuring a found family of East End misfits investigating the crimes of the upper classes who cast them out.A former journalist, Ellis wrote features for the UK's most popular national newspapers and magazines before escaping to Cornwall with his wife, two daughters and Spike the dog. He holds an MA in Comedy Writing, which explains a lot.
He grew up on The Hardy Boys and Three Investigators, graduated to Sherlock Holmes, and has never quite recovered from Columbo. He prefers writing female sleuths, with the odd chap thrown in, and is firmly convinced that historical settings are simply more fascinating.
"Absolutely fabulous, reek of authenticity, full of intrigue and fun" – Amazon review of the Samuel Pepys Mysteries
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