Pardon?
King Street to Duke Street. It’s as close to royalty as either of us will ever get.
Speak for yourself. I’ve met King Henry the Eighth.
He blinked in astonishment. I’m surprised he didn’t take you to wife, or at least to bed. He was a lecherous old sod.
She waggled an eyebrow. He chatted me up, but I’m no fool. I know how that story ends.
His laughter rang out, momentarily warming the night.
Queen Jacynda. You would have been as good as Old Bess.
She beamed. Thank you. That’s quite a compliment.
He swept downward in a bow, getting drenched for his gallantry. Your Grace.
Your Lordship, she purred back, executing a tolerable curtsey. It is time we seek our beds, sir, and the respite of sleep, she said, taking his arm.
You’re sounding more like a native with each passing day, he observed.
I know. I know.
The boarding house was quiet, except for someone’s aggressive snoring. The doctor waited while Cynda fumbled with her key.
Once her door swung open, she swept inside, wet skirt dragging behind her.
Alastair spied a square of white on the floor. Something for you, he said, bending over and retrieving it. Cynda lit the candle and sank into a chair to study it.
It’s from a hotel called Morley’s, postmarked this afternoon, she said. Her name was written in a wide hand, the ink smeared after her damp passage across it. At first glance, she would have thought it to be from her companion, the penmanship was so similar. She ripped the letter open.
Miss Lassiter,
It has come to my attention that you are seeking my person. I suspect this is in regard to the matter of my future. I will meet you at Paul’s Head Public House (Crispin Street) tomorrow evening (Sunday) at eight sharp so that we may put this matter right.
Sincerely,
Samuelson, W.J. (Dr.) She dropped the letter into her lap with a sigh.
Alastair knelt by the chair, gazing upward at her. Is it your tourist?
Yes. He wants to meet tomorrow evening.
The doctor’s face fell. So soon. She handed him the letter and he scanned it. Then you’ll go home tomorrow, he said so softly she could barely hear him.
Yes. I’ll need to collect Chris first.
His eyes returned to the letter. I shall miss you.
Cynda could only nod, her emotions too tangled for conversation.
Alastair rose in silence. She heard the door to his room open and close, followed by the sound of water splashing in the washbasin and then the creak of his bed. She could imagine him staring at the ceiling.
Unlacing her boots, Cynda strained to pull them off. She arrayed the rest of her damp garments over the chair in the vain hope they’d be dry by morning. Sitting on the bed, she massaged her reddened feet. This would be her last night here. The thought saddened her. She would bring Chris home, but never solve his murder. That felt like a shard of glass to the heart—a wound that would never heal.