The second time, I’d been walking the grounds of my residence in Paris. It had been exactly a month and a day since Patrick’s death and I suddenly got a whiff of Eau de Cologne—his favorite scent. The fragrant lemon, bergamot, lavender and neroli carried as if on a breeze from the afterlife, and when I turned, there he was, floating just in front of the fountain in the courtyard.

  The third time I saw Patrick’s ghost was during a violent storm upon my return to London, just a few weeks ago. While I considered myself a brave woman in most aspects, there was nothing I dreaded more than the violence and cacophony of thunder and lightning. This particular night, the wind, thunder, and rain were raging—as if competing over which could be the most frightening. I was curled up in my bed with my hands clamped firmly over my ears as I tried to calm myself—a job Patrick assumed whenever the frightful storms occurred. I heard the sound of tapping on the window and when I looked up, there he was—floating just before the window and wearing that consoling smile that always comforted me.

  All the times I’d witnessed Patrick’s spirit, he’d never spoken to me. He’d simply smiled as if he’d just wanted to let me know he was there and that I wasn’t alone. In each instance, he’d only revealed himself to me for perhaps a few seconds before he’d disappeared into the night.

  I’d never seen him again, not until now.

  He stepped into the cell and smiled at me. Strangely, he now appeared solid—as if I could touch him. But when I tried to throw my arms around him, they went right through him. He was nothing more than a silhouette, framed by the light from the corridor beyond.

  “Patrick, is it really you?”

  “Yes, Pippa.”

  “You... you can speak to me?”

  He nodded. “Your abilities grow stronger, my love, enough to enable me to cross the threshold of the veil.”

  I was confused by this. “My abilities?”

  “Remember when you were a child—what the shaman told your father?”

  I shook my head. “My father never told me anything about a shaman.”

  Patrick nodded as if he weren’t surprised to hear that. “You will understand in time, Pippa.” I was at a loss for words, because I had no idea what he was talking about. “But that is a conversation for another day,” he continued. “I have something important to tell you, my dear.” His voice didn’t waver like I assumed a spirit’s might. I half expected him to sound as if he were talking underwater or like the wind blowing through the trees—but no, his voice was the same alto it always was—hard and stern with others, but always gentle and soft with me.

  “I miss you so much,” I started, my voice catching on the words as tears began to blur my vision. I didn’t want to waste my time with Patrick by sobbing but now that I’d started, I couldn’t seem to stop myself.

  “I am always with you, my love,” he answered. I could tell by the expression in his eyes that there was something he desperately needed to tell me—an urgency in his gaze.

  “I was in the process of writing an addition to my will, Pippa. In it, I left the necklace to you, not to Andrew.”

  I smiled at that. “I knew you meant for me to have it.”

  He nodded. “It was my gift and a token of my love for you.” At that, the tears started all over again and he reached out to me, attempting to brush them away with the pad of his thumb. His fingers went right through me and only made me cry harder.

  “The will, my darling: I kept it in a secret compartment in my writing desk.”

  “You never gave it to the solicitor?” I dabbed my eyes with the sleeves of my dress, wishing I could regain control of my emotions. I knew I’d be angry with myself later, when I looked back on this miracle meeting and realized I flubbed it all up with my incessant bawling.

  Patrick shook his head. “No, because I never finished writing it.”

  “Then you knew you were sick?” My voice shook as the realization dawned on me. The tuberculosis, as far as I knew, came on suddenly. As soon as Doctor Nelson announced Patrick was infected, he had to be isolated in his bedroom to prevent the spread of the disease. From the time when the doctor pronounced his diagnosis to when Patrick was placed in the ground was only the span of three days. Three of the longest, most miserable days I’d ever experienced.

  “I knew something was wrong with me although I didn’t know just what...”

  “I’m sorry,” I said suddenly as I shook my head and my tears returned with a vengeance. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a good wife to you and I’m sorry I couldn’t attend your service.”

  Many times, I wondered if the reason Patrick kept appearing to me in his spirit form was owing to my failure to attend his funeral. After burying my own father only months prior, I simply couldn’t go through so much pain and loneliness again. The loss of my father was something I didn’t believe I could ever recover from and as soon as I started to feel strong again, I was hit by the death of my husband. Unable to remain in London without Patrick by my side, I immediately moved to Paris. The point was: I wasn’t in attendance when my husband was buried and I couldn’t help but wonder if that was causing his restlessness in the afterlife.

  It certainly had granted me my own restlessness and I resented my own weakness. My need to escape had also been the reason why I’d never met any of the men Patrick worked with, Inspector Stirling included. Laden down with a broken heart, I’d remained in Paris for over a year, until I felt strong enough to return to London—a month and a half ago.

  “My love, I understand the choices you had to make,” Patrick said and I was so overcome with emotion, I could only nod—unable to dislodge the frog in my throat. His words hung in the air between us, and it seemed like the world was spinning around me, but at the same time, I didn’t want this moment to end.

  “You must find the amendment to my will, Pippa. You must find it and clear your name,” Patrick continued, his voice strong and determined.

  “But how can I find it when I’m stuck in here?” I asked, suddenly realizing the impossible task.

  “Trust Stirling,” Patrick answered as he reached for me. Again, his hands went right through me. “He’s a good man.”

  Patrick smiled once more and then he was gone. Simply there one second and gone the next.

  As soon as he left, I collapsed into myself, holding onto the iron bars of my cell in order to keep upright. The room was quiet and dark, the only sounds my own sobbing and the occasional creak of the constable outside my cell. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to calm down, as I thought about what I should do next.

  The darkness of the cell beat down on me, enclosing me in its cold embrace, and I felt the tears returning. My mind was spinning with Patrick’s words.

  I closed my eyes, trying to focus my thoughts on a solution.

  Trust Stirling.

  The face of Grant Stirling came to my mind then and I wondered if Patrick were correct—if I could trust the inspector. Patrick always described Stirling as a true gentleman, a man of integrity and honor. And from what I could tell, Stirling was also a man of action, someone who could get things done. Maybe he could help me prove my innocence... But not until I could convince him to believe me and I doubted the inspector believed in ghosts.

  There was only one way to find out. I had to talk to him. I had to take a risk and hope for the best. With renewed determination, I brushed away all the horrors this place had deposited on my gown and stood up tall and proud as I approached the prison bars.

  “Constable!” I called out.

  Immediately, the man who had escorted me to my cell appeared before me. “Are you right, Mrs. Fairfax?”

  “Yes,” I managed although I was fairly sure he could tell I’d been crying by the catch in my voice. It was dark enough in the cell though that he might not have noticed my swollen eyes. “Can you please let the inspector know I need to speak with him? It’s very important.”

  “Dunno if the inspector’s still in his office,” the man responded.

  “Can you check please? It’s quite urgent.”

  The constable nodded and disappeared down the hallway. After a few minutes, he returned with Inspector Stirling behind him.

  “What is the matter, Mrs. Fairfax?” the inspector demanded, sounding perturbed—I was fairly sure I’d interrupted his work. “In case you aren’t aware, I do have other cases demanding my attention.”

  “I... just remembered something particular to my case,” I answered.

  “What did you remember?”

  “Patrick was writing an addendum to his will,” I said as I wrapped my fingers around the bars of my cell before thinking better of it and dropping my hands back down to my sides.

  “And you only now remembered such an important fact?” He frowned at me.

  “I was quite... overwhelmed after being arrested and I must admit, my wits weren’t fully restored to me.” I cleared my throat. “Until now.” There was no way I could tell him I knew about the addendum because my husband’s ghost had just appeared and described it to me.

  “Tell me about the addition to the will,” the inspector said rather begrudgingly.

  “Well, Patrick was writing it, but he never finished it. I believe it should still be sitting in a compartment in his writing desk.”

  “A compartment?”

  “Yes, a secret compartment,” I continued. “If you take me with you—”

  “You aren’t allowed to leave your cell, Mrs. Fairfax. You are currently under arrest and those who are under arrest are only permitted to leave in order to attend their own trials.”

  I frowned at that. “Then go to my home and tell Mrs. Fergus to show you Patrick’s office. She knows where the secret compartment in his desk is.”

  “Does Patrick’s solicitor know about this addendum?” the inspector asked, his voice serious and measured.

  I hesitated before answering. “I don’t know, but I don’t believe so.” I took a breath. “Like I said, it was a work in progress.”

  He just stood there for another long moment, studying me as if trying to decide if this would prove to be a waste of his time. “You do understand how busy I am?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And I won’t be pleased if you’re sending me on a fool’s errand.”

  “I’m not, I swear it.” I hoped.

  “If there is no amended will, Mrs. Fairfax, I shall be even more irritated than I already am.”

  “You will find it,” I insisted, hoping with all my heart that I was correct.

  The inspector gave me one raised eyebrow in response and grumbled something as he turned around and started back down the hallway. I could only hope I hadn’t just sent him on a fool’s errand.

  CHAPTER THREE:

  GRANT

  I stepped out of my carriage on Victoria Road in the fashionable and expensive neighborhood of Kensington.

  The elegant, well-maintained street was lined with plenty of grand, broadly terraced homes, which were clearly occupied by the wealthy upper and middle classes, who sought to live in one of London’s most desirable neighborhoods.

  The street was wide and lined with horse chestnuts and London planetrees, providing a sense of spaciousness and greenery in the heart of the city. Each home boasted ornate facades with intricate stonework, decorative moldings, and balconies on some, verandas on others. The windows were large and elegantly proportioned, with fine glazing and ornate ironwork.

  The front gardens were designed to complement the grandeur of the homes and featured carefully manicured foliage, with paths and walkways winding up to the front doors. Unlike the streets I was accustomed to near Scotland Yard, the streets here were relatively quiet, with limited horse and carriage traffic, although the sound of horseshoes on the cobblestones did echo through the air.

  I turned to approach Philippa Fairfax’s house, an impressive residence that reflected her obvious wealth and status among London’s elite (something quite ironic considering she was a Yank). The exterior design easily impressed visitors and conveyed a sense of grandeur and sophistication. Recessed from the street, the large garden and courtyard greeted onlookers and passersby with fountains, statues, and formal plantings. A singular walkway led to the double mahogany doors, which were flanked by elegant pilasters.

  The façade was adorned with intricate carvings and moldings, as well as decorative stonework and various sculptures and statuary set among the lush trees and bushes. The windows were floor to ceiling, with fine glazing and ornate ironwork detailing each one. Overall, the exterior was impressive, expressly designed to astound visitors if they were given to such things.

  I was not.

  As I approached the front door, a sense of trepidation washed over me. I had plenty of cases to work on and this certainly wasn’t as important as an unsolved murder or yet another body that washed up in the Thames. Yet, I felt a certain level of responsibility towards it all the same. Perhaps I owed it to my former boss and friend to at least try to clear the name of his wife. Not to mention something about Philippa intrigued me, and I wanted to believe she was telling the truth—that Patrick really had given her the necklace as a wedding present.

  The reality was, I didn’t expect to find an unfinished will or anything like it in Patrick’s desk. Nonetheless, I couldn’t help feeling that I needed to search for it, all the same. I also couldn’t deny that I was curious about what secrets lay hidden in Patrick’s life, and by extension, Philippa’s, if there were any secrets at all.

  The sun was starting to descend in the sky, casting a warm golden glow on the surroundings and I couldn’t help but recall Philippa’s comment about the ball that awaited her this evening. Her chances of being released were next to none, but a small voice in my head reminded me that I also needed to gain access to Lord Abbott’s ball. Maybe I could kill two birds with one stone...

  As I walked up to the house, I couldn’t help wondering why Patrick had never introduced me to his wife. Was he ashamed of the fact that he was almost fifteen years older than she was? According to Philippa’s booking sheet, she was thirty-eight—a number which surprised me, because I guessed she was closer to thirty. Furthermore, I never imagined she was older than my thirty-five years. What also surprised me was why she’d waited so long to marry. Most women married when they were in their early twenties. But no matter, with her lovely face, the paleness of her hair, the blue brightness of her eyes, and her comely figure, I doubted she’d remain a widow for long. And with the handsomeness of her fortune, she’d be very attractive to any man.

  Except to me.

  I wasn’t the marriageable type. Instead, I’d dedicated myself to a rough existence of upholding the law. Settling down wasn’t one of my life choices.

  But back to Patrick: it seemed more than likely that the age difference between Patrick and Philippa was the sole reason why Andrew, Patrick’s son, disliked her so much. Truly, Andrew wasn’t much younger than Philippa. As to Andrew and Patrick’s relationship—well, it had been strained. In fact, in the sixteen years I’d worked with Patrick, he’d mentioned Andrew only a handful of times, usually grumbling about the most recent mess Andrew had found himself in.

  During the last few months of Patrick’s life, I scarcely saw hide nor hair of him—owing, of course, to the frequent trips he’d been making abroad. By the time Patrick proposed to Philippa, he planned to retire from the force altogether (why work when he’d attained such a fortune?) Once they were married, I saw even less of him.

  And then he was dead.

  Yes, although the coroner determined Patrick’s death was caused by tuberculosis, I still couldn’t help but wonder if that was the full truth of the matter. There was something about Philippa that intrigued me, yes, but something that set me on edge, as well. No doubt that feeling first arose when she failed to attend her husband’s funeral. Mrs. Fergus said Philippa’s condition at the time was ‘fragile’ so I’d imagined the new Mrs. Fairfax to be a brittle, flighty, nervous type. And then she ran off to Paris. No one heard another thing about her until recently, when she moved back to London and was accused of grand theft. And yet the Philippa who insisted this necklace business was ludicrous turned out to be anything but a frightened, shrinking violet.

  So which woman was she? And, more importantly, what was she hiding? As soon as such thoughts entered my head, I had to battle them back down again. I was torn between playing the role of detective seeking justice while trying to honor the memory of my friend and mentor by ensuring the wellbeing of his wife, a woman he obviously loved. But was Philippa worthy of his love? That was the mystery I intended to figure out.

  Memories of Patrick began to flood my mind, and I couldn’t help my sadness. His death had been extremely difficult to accept, and not just because he was a good friend. Patrick had also been my mentor—taking me under his proverbial wing when most men would have thrown the book at me and kept me from ever seeing the outside of a prison cell again. I’d been living on the street and doing whatever I could to survive (whether legal or not), yet Patrick glimpsed something within me—something he believed in and felt he could shape. He taught me everything I knew about detective work, and it was because of him that I’d become the successful inspector I was today. Truly, I owed him everything and it was for that reason that I’d do my damnedest to make sure his widow saw justice, whether she was guilty or innocent.

  I knocked on the door and was greeted by Mrs. Fergus, a matronly, old woman I knew well. Mrs. Fergus was the Fairfax’s housekeeper, and she’d been with Patrick since his first marriage. She always had a smile and a kind word for me, no doubt feeling allegiance in the fact that we both were Scottish.

  “Inspector Stirling, it’s so good to see ye,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Did ye spot Mrs. Fairfax at Scotland Yard? It’s just terrible news, ‘tis! The constables came and they forced Mrs. Fairfax to go wif ‘em an’ said she was to be arrested!” Her mouth dropped open then, forming a perfect circle that was as round as the rest of her. “Her! A respectable lady! Oh, if Mr. Fairfax were here, Inspector Stirling, I’d tell ye what he’d do—why, he’d bop each one o’ them coppers right on the head, he would! An’ don’t ye believe a word o’ whatever is bein’ said aboot Mrs. Fairfax because ‘tis all a bunch of guff, ‘tis!” She took a long breath. “You know what I say aboot gossip: “Tell-tale tit, yer tongue shall be slit, an’ every dog throughout the land shall have a little bit.”

 

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