His Scottish Detective by Summer Devon

Author:Summer Devon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: opposites attract, criminal cop romance, victorian mystery, victorian romance, mm romance
Publisher: Summer Devon
Published: 2019-04-28T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

Munro stopped by the iron double gate and called out, “Hey there, open up.”

A little man came from the house next to it. “What do you think you want?”

“My name is Munro, and I’m here to speak to Mrs. Trout.”

“Got an appointment?” The old man wore a bulky black jacket, and Munro realized he wasn’t fat but wore several jumpers under the black wool.

“No, but I’ve come all the way from London. I wish to talk to her about her late friend, Mrs. Smith.”

“Another one,” said the man in disgust. “You’d be the second in two days.”

“Oh?” Munro blinked. “Can you tell me about the other man?”

“I could, but don’t see why I should.”

Munro stifled a sigh and pulled some coins from his pocket. “Will a shilling give me a description?”

The gatekeeper reached a gnarled hand between the iron bars. He took the coins, counted, and pocketed them before answering. “The one said he was a policeman. But he cut up rough when I said I wouldn’t let him in unless he talked to our Constable Weaver, and then he stormed off and didn’t come back. I had the boy fetch the constable to see if the so-called policeman had checked in with him.”

“He hadn’t,” Munro guessed.

The man touched the side of his nose. “Precisely.”

“If I have a word with the local law enforcement and he accompanied me, would you let me in?”

“Maybe.”

“First allow me to pass along a message.” Munro pulled a leather-bound pad from his inside pocket along with the stub of a pencil.

“You are a cop for certain,” Smith muttered. “Carrying the occurrence book everywhere you go.”

Munro ignored him as he scribbled a note to Mrs. Trout. He didn’t say who’d hired him, only that he was investigating on behalf of a party who’d sounded an alarm about Mrs. Smith, and now hoped to gather details of her death.

“Ask if we can visit Matilda’s grave,” Smith said, surprising him again.

He nodded and added that line. He also added his whole name, Sir Ross Eden Munro.

A sharp breeze swept past them as they walked up the drive and clouds began to crowd the blue sky.

“Just as changeable weather here as in London,” Smith said.

“We’re on the same continent, not even hundreds of miles away.”

Smith turned and looked behind them, down the hill to the copse of trees beyond the big iron gate. “Feels like a different world.”

A footman appeared at the front steps, dressed in livery that was years out of date—wig, breeches, stockings, and all. Smith gave a small snort. “Looks like the people who live here aren’t much like Londoners either.”

The footman led them toward a drawing room, where a young lady stood at the door, watching them walk down the corridor toward her. Hardly the habit of the wealthy young women Munro knew, but otherwise, she looked the part.

He didn’t know ladies’ fashion, but she appeared neat and respectable in a lavender gown with black lace at the neck and sleeves. Mourning, he supposed. Well-tailored and expensive cloth.

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