The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

A door creaked open.

Mr Jameson squinted, listening for a sound to explain what was happening outside in the dark.

Oliver leant closer to the solicitor. “It appears Andrews has entered your office.” The striking of flint against metal could be clearly heard. “He’s lighting a candle and does not seem to be in a hurry.”

“Andrews would never enter my room without permission,” Jameson whispered.

“Then perhaps it’s not Andrews.” Nicole’s comment was followed by the scraping of a drawer on its runners.

“Unless I am mistaken,” Oliver said, “the person in your room is snooping in your cabinet.”

Mischief was afoot.

The question of whom to trust entered Oliver’s mind.

Mr Jameson’s excuse of having work to do was flimsy at best. Now someone else was rummaging through the files. With both incidents occurring on the same night they’d found Miss Murray and Mr Burrows in the coffeehouse, suggested something more than a coincidence.

Jameson stood slowly, although the action brought a frustrated sigh from his lips. “For the life of me, I don’t know why we’re creeping about. I have every right to be here.”

“And three people should have no problem tackling one.” Oliver had been itching to punch someone all evening. His body thrummed with the need to avenge those who’d wronged Miss Flint. And he had to do something to calm his raging blood.

“Come.” Carrying both files in his hand, Jameson crept towards the door. “Let us see what the blighter is doing in there.”

Despite their effort to surprise the intruder, Mr Wild’s office door groaned as soon as it eased away from the jamb. The rustling in Mr Jameson’s office ceased.

A floorboard creaked.

There was no time to wait.

Oliver seized the door knob of Jameson’s room, and all three of them burst inside.

“What the devil?” The gentleman searching the cabinet dropped the papers in his hand and swung around.

In the muted light, it took a moment for Oliver’s eyes to focus on the hunched figure before them. Doubt gave way to denial. Denial gave way to distrust.

“Mr Wild?” Nicole’s tone reflected their surprise. “What are you doing here? I thought you were ill.”

The man looked as though he'd risen from the grave. Grey hair sprung in tufts from beneath his hat. Short silver whiskers covered his chin. Red eyes and sallow skin confirmed he was not well enough to be out of bed let alone creeping about in a colleague’s office. Oliver noted the flimsy cravat and crumpled shirt. Wild had dressed in a hurry.

How interesting.

Wild gulped. “I … I am ill.” His frantic gaze passed back and forth. “But I had important work to finish and couldn’t rest until things were in order.”

“And it couldn’t wait until the morning?” Nicole’s voice was thick with suspicion.

“I thought to take the work home with me, to attend to it as I recover.”

“It seems everyone has urgent business tonight.” Oliver stared at him. “How odd that your work is in your colleague’s office. And you seem a little nervous, Mr Wild.” Indeed, the man shuffled left and right as if balancing on uneven ground. “Perhaps you’re surprised to find the premises occupied.”

“I … I must sit down for a moment. I fear I am too weak to stand for long periods.”

Oliver suppressed a sno

rt of contempt. Guilty men often attempted to incite pity in those they’d wronged.

“Well?” Jameson stepped forward as Wild flopped into the chair. “Are you going to explain what you’re doing in here?”

“It must be something important,” Nicole said, “to have dragged you from your sick bed.”