Chapter 3

Wattersfield Emporium. A store that specializes in women’s accessories: gloves, fans, hair combs, ribbons, parasols, and a number of other items for fashionable women. The proprietors of the emporium are three sisters: Ardella Wattersfield, Virginia Wattersfield, and Lucinda Wattersfield.

Will thumbed through the information he’d gathered concerning the Wattersfield family and continued to familiarize himself with what he’d discovered.

Edmund Wattersfield died years earlier from an undisclosed illness, and their mother was tragically killed a little more than a year ago when she tried to cross the street in front of a delivery wagon.

During his early morning visit to the graveyard he’d discovered that Marian Wattersfield was also buried at St. Dunstan’s. That was no doubt the primary reason one of the Wattersfield sisters frequented the graveyard. He had yet to determine which sister it was, but he knew he’d recognize her as soon as he called on them. Which he had every intention of doing as soon as he could leave the office.

He’d just finished meeting with his detectives to gather an update on the progress they were making on the cases they’d been assigned and was reaching for his hat and gloves when Brian Randolph entered.

 “I have some additional information on the Wattersfield ladies.”

Will stopped to listen to what his secretary had to say. The more he knew about the owners of the Wattersfield Emporium, the better his advantage would be.

“It seems any one—if not all—of them might have known your cousin.”

“How do you know this?”

“I went back through all of the notes the detectives made when investigating your cousin’s murder. Miss Elizabeth attended the same church as the Wattersfield sisters. Hence the reason their mother is buried in the same cemetery. And your sister was a frequent customer of the Wattersfield Emporium. We know this because your cousin’s sisters reported that they happened to visit the Emporium the day she was killed.”

Will filed away the information Randolph gave him, then put on his gloves. “You never cease to amaze me, Randolph.”

“That is my intent, Inspector.” Randolph opened the door for Will to leave.

“If I’m not careful, you’ll take my position before I’m ready to retire.” Will heard a chuckle as he headed outside.

He wasn’t worried about Randolph vying for his position. Randolph, more than anyone, knew the pressures that were associated with being an inspector with the Metropolitan Police. And he wanted none of that.

Will left Seething Lane Station and walked toward Cornhill Street. He could have ridden. There was a carriage at his disposal as well as a stable of horses, should he need one, but he wanted to walk. He needed to think. He needed to organize his thoughts and the questions he wanted to ask the three Wattersfield sisters. He needed to watch carefully when he introduced himself to study the reaction of the sister he’d spied upon in St. Dunstan’s Cemetery.

By the time he reached Wattersfield Emporium, he was prepared to conduct his interrogation. A strange warmth swirled inside his chest as he prepared to meet the lady he’d only seen from a distance the day before. Although there was no reason to feel such an urge, he couldn’t deny his eagerness to see her. He was anxious to see if she affected him the same way today. And he was impatient to find out the color of her hair, as well as determine if she was as pretty as he’d surmised she was when he’d first seen her.

Will opened the door to the Wattersfield Emporium and stepped inside. A small bell tinkled above him and the female behind the counter turned to look at him.

It was her.

. . .

Ginny looked up when the door opened and came face to face with a man whose heroic stature took her very breath away. The fact that he’d had to bend slightly to enter the shop was something she wasn’t accustomed to seeing. This fellow was far taller and immeasurably more handsome than the usual men who accompanied females to Wattersfield Emporium.

His features were strong and formidable. He stood before her with a confident set to his shoulders. The rugged line of his square jaw gave him an air of command that should have frightened her, but didn’t. His hazel eyes promised a warmth that set her at ease.

His gaze focused on her now, and the slight change of his expression almost suggested that he recognized her. But how could he? They’d never met before. She’d remember if they had.

Ginny quelled a momentary tremor and walked around the counter to approach him. “May I help you, sir?”

The man lowered his gaze to look at her and he seemed even taller than he had from the doorway.

“Yes,” he answered. “I’ve come to see you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, Miss Wattersfield. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Inspector William de Wolfe of the Metropolitan Police Department and I’ve come to ask you a few questions.”

Inspector! Why would he have questions for her? Ginny reached out to support herself against the nearest table. A display of lace handkerchiefs slid from their perfect arrangement to bunch into a crumpled pile. One handkerchief fell to the floor and Ginny bent down to retrieve it. Her hands trembled as she gathered up the delicate cloth. She could hope the inspector hadn’t noticed, but she knew he had.

“Is there someplace where we might speak privately, Miss Wattersfield?”

Ginny turned as Della came from the back room. She’d obviously overheard him and knew this was serious.

“Inspector de Wolfe. Allow me to present my sister, Miss Ardella Wattersfield.”

“Then you must be?” Will asked.

“Virginia Wattersfield. My family calls me Ginny.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Miss Wattersfield.” He turned to Della. “And you, Miss Wattersfield.”

“And you will shortly meet our youngest sister, Lucinda,” Ginny said.

Will nodded.

“Is there something in particular you’d like to speak to my sister concerning?”

“Yes, Miss Wattersfield, there is. But as I said, I’d like to speak to her in private. And I’m sure your sister would appreciate privacy as well.”

Della nodded, then moved her gaze to Ginny. “Why don’t you take the inspector up to the drawing room, Ginny? Send Lucy down to watch the shop. I’ll be up in a moment.”

 “If you’ll follow me,” Ginny said as she led him through a door that led to a small ante room, then up a flight of stairs. When they reached the top, Lucy exited from a room to the right. She wore a confused expression at seeing Ginny with a strange man.

“Lucy, allow me to introduce Inspector de Wolfe. He’s come to ask me some questions.”

“What about?”

“I’m not sure,” Ginny answered, although she suspected she might have a good idea. “I’ll have to wait to find out.”

“Is something wrong, Ginny?”

“No, love. Nothing’s wrong. Please, go down and watch the shop so Della can come up.”

Lucy gave the inspector a threatening look and Ginny almost laughed. Lucy was the least frightening of the three of them.

“Would you care for tea?” she asked when she’d shown the inspector into the drawing room. Thankfully, Lucy had a fresh pot of water boiling.

“That would be nice,” he answered.

Ginny took his hat and coat to hang near the fire and went into the kitchen of their living quarters. Within minutes she returned with a pot of tea and leftover cake from the night before.

“Contrary to your answer to your sister, Miss Wattersfield, you do know why I’m here. Don’t you?”

Ginny handed the inspector a cup of tea and set a piece of cake on the side table, then sat in the chair facing him. She should be frightened sitting here in the presence of so formidable a man, but she was not. Not of him personally, but of the questions he was about to ask her.

Somehow he’d discovered her interest in Elizabeth de Wolfe’s murder and wanted to know why she was so curious at this late date. It hadn’t escaped her notice that the inspector’s last name was de Wolfe, the same as Elizabeth’s, and she was interested to know his relationship to the murdered girl. But there was so much she couldn’t tell him.

The last thing she could tell anyone was that Elizabeth de Wolfe had spoken to her from the grave. Particularly if she didn’t want to find herself locked away in Bedlam.

“How were you related to Elizabeth de Wolfe?” Ginny asked in an attempt to appear calm.

“She was my cousin.”

“According to the reports in the paper, her murder was never solved.”

Inspector de Wolfe shook his head. The painful look in his hazel-gold eyes made it plain that the fact that he hadn’t brought the murderer to justice still ate at him.

“Then why are you looking into it now?”

“The better question would be to ask why you are showing an interest in it now?”

His counter attack took her by surprise. Ginny opened her mouth to speak but no words came out.

“Because my sister just recently discovered your cousin’s death,” Della answered from the doorway.

The inspector rose to his feet when Della entered the room. Ginny poured her a cup of tea, then the inspector sat after the two sisters were again seated.

“Would you care to explain, Miss Wattersfield?” he asked, but he didn’t direct the question to Della. Instead, he looked at Ginny when he spoke.

Ginny tried to appear as if she were considering his question. She didn’t want the inspector to realize how uncomfortable she was. The last thing she wanted to tell him was that she’d heard his dead cousin speak to her. Not only would he believe she was insane, but Della would think the same. She’d think her sister suffered from the same sickness that had stolen their mother’s mind.

Ginny gripped her hands so tightly her fingers ached. It was important that the inspector understood why she visited the cemetery so often. Important that he know what propelled her to spend time visiting her mother’s grave. She didn’t want him to think that she went there because of a connection to his cousin.

“As you undoubtedly know, our mother died a little over a year ago. What wasn’t common knowledge was how ill our mother was before her death.” Ginny wasn’t sure how much she should divulge about their mother. She looked at Della, and when she nodded, Ginny decided to be completely honest with the inspector.

“Mother’s illness wasn’t a sickness of the body. It was a sickness of the mind. She gradually became so ill that she didn’t recognize us. She insisted that we’d kidnapped her and taken her from her home. When we asked where she wanted to go, it was back with her mother and father. But they’d been dead for several years.” Ginny paused to gather her emotions. “Eventually she became so disoriented that she could not be left alone.”

A lump lodged in Ginny’s throat and she swallowed past it. She didn’t want to cry, but every time she thought about her mother, her emotions got the best of her.

Della continued for her. “Mother needed one of us with her at all times. As often happens in cases like hers, as she became more ill, she wouldn’t allow either Lucy or me to be alone with her. She accused us of intending to do her harm. She thought we wanted to lock her away. Ginny was the only one she’d allow to be near her.”

Della turned, and Ginny knew what her sister was going to say next. The same words she’d said ever so often. But Ginny didn’t want the inspector to know how bad things had become with their mother. She shook her head to stop her from revealing what it was like the last days of their mother’s life. But Della continued.

“Because Mother required constant care, and because Ginny was the only one of us Mother would allow in the same room with her, the demands on Ginny were enormous.”

“Della,” Ginny interrupted, but her sister refused to heed Ginny’s request.

“One afternoon a little more than a year ago, Mother asked Ginny to make her a cup of tea. While Ginny went to the kitchen to heat the water, Mother escaped her room and fled down the stairs. She’d run out into the street before any of us realized she was gone. She was struck by a delivery wagon and killed.”

“I’m sorry,” the inspector said, but Ginny couldn’t look at him. She’d left her chair and had gone to the window where she stood with her back to her sister and the inspector.

“And that is why you visit the cemetery,” he said as if understanding something he hadn’t understood before.

“Mother is buried in St. Dunstan’s,” Ginny answered without turning. “That’s how I discovered that your cousin was also buried there. I went past her grave on one of my visits and saw her name.”

“Was Elizabeth one of your customers?”

Ginny turned to find Inspector de Wolfe with a notebook and pencil in his hands. He was taking notes of what she and Della told him.

“Yes,” Ginny answered. “She would come in often with some, or all, of her sisters.”

“Did you ever have a chance to visit with her?”

Ginny looked at Della. “We always visited, Inspector. We visit with all of our customers.”

“What about at church on a Sunday morning? I assume you attended St. Dunstan’s Church, as did Lizzy.”

He’d called his cousin by a nickname, indicating he was close to Elizabeth de Wolfe. “We wished the de Wolfe sisters a good day when we met them, of course, but rarely said more. There was hardly a chance. Whether or not you know it, your cousin, as well as her sisters, always attracted the attention of several gentlemen who sought them out after church. Your cousin Elizabeth, especially, was a very beautiful young lady.”

“Do you remember any gentlemen in particular to whom Elizabeth might have been attracted?”

Ginny returned to her chair and looked at Della after she sat. Della shook her head to tell her she didn’t remember anyone in particular. Ginny thought a moment longer. “It’s been so long, Inspector. I can’t remember anyone in particular, except Mr. Rodney Baker. I recall that he came into the emporium once to inquire as to something special he could give Miss Elizabeth for her birthday. He said he was a neighbor to your cousins and wanted to give Miss Elizabeth a gift.”

“And did he buy something?”

“Yes,” she said remembering the purchase. “He decided upon a lace handkerchief. I assured him that was a perfect choice.”

“And do you know if Lizzy liked her gift?” he asked.

There was a thoughtful expression on his handsome face. A look that made him appear more threatening. A look that caused furrows to appear on his forehead, and his hazel eyes to turn darker.

“I don’t know, Inspector. I don’t recall having the opportunity to ask your cousin.”

“Can you recall anyone else Lizzy’s name was linked with?” he asked.

Ginny thought for a moment. “There was Reverend Fletcher’s son, Wesley. Everyone knew there was a connection between them.”

“Yes, Fletcher had made his intentions known,” the inspector added. “I’m not sure Elizabeth felt the same, however. The last I knew, she hadn’t given him an answer one way or the other.”

“Surely you don’t suspect Wesley Fletcher of your cousin’s murder?” Della said.

“There was no reason to connect Fletcher to Elizabeth’s murder at the time of her death,” the inspector answered. “Do you have any other information to offer?”

Della and Ginny shook their heads.

“If not, then I’ll take my leave.” The inspector rose to his feet as if his interview was at an end.

Ginny rose, too. She stood next to him and was surprised at how he towered over her in the confines of their small drawing room.

“I believe that is all for today, Miss Wattersfield. Thank you for your assistance.”

“Not at all. Please, allow me to show you out,” Ginny said, then walked him to the door.

Ginny preceded the inspector down the stairs with trembling knees. She bade him good day, then sagged against the shop door after he left. It was impossible not to pray that she’d answered his questions without giving herself away. Regret and relief vied over the hope that she’d seen the last of the good inspector, though something told her this was only the first of many meetings she’d have with him.

. . .

When Sunday arrived, the Wattersfield household was busy preparing dinner for Reverend Fletcher, as they did at least once a month. He was a welcome guest whose visits they all enjoyed.

Ginny took Reverend Fletcher’s greatcoat and watched him settle his bones in her father’s favorite chair. His presence alone was the balm she’d needed after the week’s turmoil.

“Lucy’s made her lamb stew for you, Reverend.”

He smiled and leaned his head back to rest on the antimacassar her mother had crocheted. Each week when Ginny cleaned and pressed the lovely doily and pinned it back in place on the overstuffed chair she could picture her mother in her last healthy days, sitting there crocheting and smiling over some bit of gossip she’d heard in the shop.

Reverend Fletcher had been a most gentle, reassuring presence in their home for several years now, and particularly once her mother’s wits had begun to slip away.

“Lamb stew, you say. Little Lucy’s secret recipe, no doubt.”

Ginny laughed. “No doubt. But if you call her Little Lucy within her hearing your portion of stew may be woefully small!”

The Reverend’s warm chuckle eased the last tension from her spine and she settled herself on the footstool near him.

“Reverend, I…I wonder what you think about spirits.”

“Spirits? Hm. In what way?”

Ginny tread carefully into her line of inquiry. “Well,” she said cautiously, “as far as their being able to communicate with us.”

“Ah. I see. Departed spirits communicating with the living.”

“Y-yes.”

“Well, I could give you the theological viewpoint of the Church of England…”

Ginny felt her smile slip. He must have seen it, because he reached a hand to her cheek and continued.

“…but in truth, I have my own personal feeling on the subject.”

Ginny looked up at his kind face.

“You’re hearing your mother speak to you, aren’t you, sweet girl.”

He’d jumped to a conclusion that was very satisfactory.

“Y-yes.”

“It’s not at all surprising, Ginny,” he said. His low, quiet words soothed her racing heartbeat. “Your mother was a brilliant merchant, a most charitable woman, and a charming, intelligent student of humankind. She loved people. She loved you girls. And when a spirit is as vibrant in a woman such as your mother, well, who’s to say it couldn’t communicate beyond the grave if it wanted to badly enough?”

He leaned down to rest his elbows on the armchair and leveled her a compassionate look. “If you’re hearing your mother speak to you, then you are very fortunate indeed, though I would guess you’re probably dredging her words up from some dear memory. Just take them into your heart and be glad of them.”

Now he leaned back, seeming ready to say more, but at that moment Lucy appeared in the doorway with a steaming tureen and Della called them to the table. After two weeks of worry and hearing Reverend Fletcher’s opinion that what she’d heard had merely been a memory, she found little reason to feel quiet of heart. If only it had been her mother speaking to her she might have found some joy in it.

. . .

On Monday, Ginny went to the cemetery the first chance she had to escape the shop. There hadn’t been a free moment at the emporium until late in the afternoon. Unfortunately, it was past four when she arrived, so Ginny didn’t stop at her mother’s grave but went directly to Elizabeth de Wolfe’s grave.

“Did you speak to me the other day?” she whispered.

Ginny waited.

No one answered, but Ginny didn’t really expect anyone to. The more time that passed since she thought she’d heard someone speak to her, the more convinced she was that it hadn’t happened. Dead people didn’t speak from the grave. Everyone knew that. The comfort she had taken from Reverend Fletcher had soon fled, once she’d thought about it. His charming notion of mothers speaking to daughters from across the void was one thing. A stranger’s cry from beyond the grave was quite another.

Ginny sat back on her heels. She stared at the tombstone with Elizabeth de Wolfe’s name engraved on it. She couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the young lady. How she’d died. Who had murdered her.

Ginny knelt there until the sun was low in the sky. Then, she rose and looked down one final time.

There was no fog today. Although the sunlight was waning, she could at least see yet. The rational part of her brain told her that the darkness and the fog had been instrumental in making her believe she’d heard voices.

“Good-by, Elizabeth de Wolfe,” she whispered. She would not return again. There was no reason to.

Ginny turned to leave, then took her first step away from the grave. A small gust of wind kicked up a swirl of leaves to dance around her feet. And in the wind a quiet voice froze her where she stood.

“Please. Tell my knight to find the man who killed me.”