Mr. Powell woke me before six, suggesting we have a bite to eat before we committed the unthinkable. “There’s a lovely Italian restaurant just down the street,” he said, handing me my gloves. “I’m surprised you haven’t been.”
“I can’t afford it,” I grunted, shoving my hat onto my mussed hairdo. I was too tired to do anything but smooth a few stray curls back into place. “I don’t know why we’re going to all the trouble. It’ll probably be our last meal, anyway.”
“Are you always this pessimistic?”
“I’m afraid so.” I turned to face him, thinking he’d look younger without the mustache. “I assume you’re buying?”
“Of course.”
“Well,” I said, wielding the cane the hospital had given me. “I certainly hope we don’t live to regret it.”
“What? The spaghetti?”
“No. The broken window in our future.”
“I’ll take that as a warning not to order the meatballs.”
“What’s wrong with them?’
“Nothing. I just figure you’d rather eat light if we’re going to be incarcerated.”
“Most amusing, Mr. Powell.”
On our way out, we bumped into yours truly. Mr. Anderson had tracked us down. Again. I made a mental note to ask him how he did that. “Going somewhere?” he snickered, tipping his hat at me. “Shouldn’t you be in bed, Miss Gibson?”
“Mr. Powell wanted to stop by and visit Mr. Gadot,” I lied. “But the shop is closed.”
“What a pity.” He offered a knowing smirk to his counterpart. “And where are you two lovebirds heading this evening? It looks like rain.”
“How can you tell?”
“We were just on our way to dinner,” Mr. Powell replied, his voice tinged with the slightest hint of annoyance. “Would you care to—”
“I’d love to!”
* * *
I sat glowering at Mr. Powell throughout dinner, wondering what sort of game he was playing. Inviting Mr. Anderson was like asking the Devil to partake of a picnic in the Garden of Eden. I waited until our dinner companion left to wash his hands before delivering a kick to Mr. Powell’s shin.
“Bloody hell!” he yelled, forgetting we were in a restaurant. People craned their necks to see what happened as he lowered his voice. “What was that for?”
“For inviting Mr. Anderson to dine with us. Have you taken leave of your senses?” I shook out my napkin. “Why not invite him to the birth of your first child?”
He glared at me. “For your information, Miss Gibson, I only invited him because I knew he’d follow us. I didn’t want to leave a trail of breadcrumbs. However painful that might be.”
“Goodness knows he’s inhaled enough.” I gestured towards the empty basket of garlic bread and fished out a crumbled piece. I held it up. “He didn’t even ask if I wanted any.” I flung it back. “I don’t think we’re getting into that basement tonight.”
“I’m afraid I agree with you.” Mr. Powell eyed me distrustfully as he finished what was left on his plate. “At least the spaghetti was al dente,” he quipped. He glanced at my half-eaten plate. “Shall we ask to take it with us?”
“Can we do that?”
“They won’t mind.”
“Well, be certain to ask for another meatball.” I held up the pitiful remains of a meatball Mr. Anderson had gladly helped himself to. I set it back on my plate in disgust. “On second thought, maybe we should just ask for bread.”
Mr. Anderson made his way back to our table, chuckling at some joke only he would think amusing. “I say, Sergeant Powell,” he began, helping himself to another glass of wine. “Do all newly engaged Metropolitan Policemen invite women to dinner?”
I nearly spat out my wine. Mr. Powell’s ears were turning an unholy shade of red as his jaw clenched. “Where did you hear that?” he said quietly, barely glancing my way. His fingers toyed with his fork. “Have you been rifling through the dirty laundry again?”
“Most amusing, sergeant. But seriously. Does Miss Holden know?”
“Miss Holden and I are no longer speaking. If you had done your research—which I know you are too lazy to do—you would have discovered our engagement ended two years ago. She is now married to a Mr. Sutton, a respectable barrister.” Mr. Powell met his gaze head on. “Is there anything else you wish to know? Perhaps the color of my—”
“Jon!” I cried, clutching my ribs. “I am suddenly feeling unwell. Will you please escort me back to my apartment?”
“I can do that,” Mr. Anderson answered with a smirk. “Sergeant Powell is trying to locate his spine.”
“That’s it!” Mr. Powell was on his feet, throwing hurling his napkin in lieu of a gauntlet. “Apologize at once!”
“I will not,” Mr. Anderson sniffed, also rising to his feet. “You drag poor Miss Gibson into our investigation, knowing full well the consequences. You, sir, are no gentleman!”
He said it loud enough for everyone to hear.
I don’t know what possessed me. It was as though another person took control of my body as I grabbed Mr. Powell’s hand and dragged him through the restaurant. Once outside, I was so determined to get him away from Mr. Anderson, he finally had to plead with me to stop.
Before I could say anything, he bent and swept me into his arms.
“Mr. Powell!” I cried in alarm. “Put me down!”
“Can’t do that,” he panted, marching up the street. He refused to heed my pleas until we arrived at Mr. Gadot’s. He set me down gently, unlocked the door, and ushered me inside. “What in God’s name was that?” he demanded angrily. “Why didn’t you let me slap that smirk off his bloody face?”
“And be a party to assault and battery?” I looked around for my cane, letting out a cry of dismay when I realized I left it at the restaurant. “No thank you, sir.” I made my way toward the back of the shop and sat down on the bed. “What’s with you two, anyway?”
He did not answer, instead going to where he’d left a change of clothes. Handing over a shirt and a pair of trousers, I stared up at him in bemusement. “Sir, are you suggesting I exchange my skirt for these?”
“Just put them on,” he commanded gruffly. “Then I shall elucidate.”
“Oh, so this is serious?”
“More or less.”
Making my way to the storage room, I called out, “What if I need help with my lacings?”
“Do you need help with your lacings?”
“Er…” I struggled with a knot until my arms ached. “Yes,” I said, hanging my head. “But I am not decent, sir.”
“Oh, for—” I let out a startled gasp when the door flew open. He spun me about. “What the hell did you do?” he muttered in exasperation. “This is tighter than a Gordian Knot!”
“I’m afraid I was impatient, Mr. Powell. It happens to the best of us.” I let out a pained cry as he yanked, compressing my ribcage. “Careful!”
“Sorry.” He paused in his ministrations to undo my lacings. “How fond are you of this corset?” he queried at last.
“Not very. I’ve been meaning to replace it.”
“Good.”
“Oh, but—” He stepped out of the room and returned with a pair of scissors. “What are you going to do with—”
“Hold still, Miss Gibson.”
“Oh, dear…” I squeezed my eyes shut as a man I hardly knew sliced through my lacings, thinking it was rather scandalous for him to do so. “Please tell me you didn’t see anything.”
“See what?”
I mumbled something about vultures and was left to undress on my own. The shirt swallowed me whole and the trousers…
Mr. Powell let out an amused chuckle when I emerged. “Here,” he said, rolling up my sleeves. “You’re a little bit of a thing, aren’t you?”
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
His shoulders quaked, inviting a retaliatory smack on the arm. “Ouch!” He stepped back, holding up both hands. “Truce. It’s only so you can climb through the window. Can’t imagine getting you past it wearing all that frippery.”
“My dress was plain, Mr. Powell.”
“You know what I mean.” Removing his pocket watch, he noted the hour. “I don’t trust Mr. Anderson to sit idly with his tiramisu. So, it’s best to get in and get out. Is this acceptable, Miss Gibson?”
“Certainly. Now, about you two—”
“I’ll tell you on the way.” He flung a black scarf at my head. “Cover your hair.”
“What’s wrong with my hair?”
“Humor me, Miss Gibson,” he said, doffing his jacket and removing his vest. He loosened his collar before rolling up his own sleeves. “If anyone spies us, we must give the illusion of two men. I’d rather not have Mr. Anderson knowing a young woman was on the premises should anyone report a break-in.”
“That’s thoughtful of you.”
He gave me one of his stern looks. “I am doing this for your own good, Miss Gibson. Mr. Anderson may give the appearance as a layabout, but Anjuli’s brother was not amiss in selecting the man to do his bidding. He carries quite the reputation as determined and, quite frankly, is considered one of the best Pinkertons in the business.”
“You make him sound like a Rottweiler.”
“He is not to be trifled with, hence his attempts at provoking me.” We turned down the lanterns and exited the bookshop through a back door. In the alley, Mr. Powell explained the Pinkerton was trying to weaken our defenses. “It’s a form of warfare. I should know. I spent enough time in the military to learn how to use it.”
“You served?” I said, surprised by this new revelation. “Where?”
“Where do you think?”
“India?”
He nodded.
“So, that’s why—”
“Partly, Miss Gibson.” Making certain our path to Mr. Perez’s laundry was unobstructed, he continued to explain Mr. Anderson’s behavior was designed to whittle us down to frustrated shells of our former selves, whereby we would be more than happy to hand over the sari. “Makes you wonder how long he’s been at it.”
“Does he have military experience?”
“Most likely.”
“Then he considers you a worthy opponent.”
“Is that supposed to be flattering?”
I followed him towards a gathering of overflowing trash bins. It looked like Mr. Perez hadn’t notified the city to pick up the extra waste, only confirming my suspicions something untoward had occurred in my absence. “I think it means he considers you worthy of the effort, Mr. Powell.”
“Enough!” he hissed. “I think we should address each other by our first names from here on out.”
“If you say so… Jon.”
“Thank you, Anne.”
We glanced up at the darkened façade of Mr. Perez’s laundry, and I was beset by a horrible feeling of dread. “It looks… as if it’s peering back at us.”
“Maybe it is.” He set his tools on the ground near the window. “Once I break the glass, we’ll have little time. Locate the trunk and—” Our eyes met in the dark. “Did you bring the key?”
“It’s in my pocket.”
He turned to me. “Anne—”
I shook my head. “Best not to say it, Jon.”
“I was only going to say be careful down there.”
“That makes two of us.” I steeled myself. “Do it.”
Jon raised the crowbar, counted to three, and doomed me for eternity.
