No, Farah’s brief and tragic brush with marriage was likely to be the only one in her lifetime. All to the good, in her opinion, for she had more pressing things to take up her time, not the least of which was the pursuit of justice.
Brushing a tightening of melancholy firmly into the past where it belonged, Farah bid Cartwright a good evening, and swept into Scotland Yard’s rapidly vacating reception hall.
Sergeant Crompton and the desk sergeant, Westridge, emitted low whistles as she emerged from her office. “Well! Look ’ews trussed for a presentation to ’Er Majesty?” Crompton bellowed, his face ruddy from a chilly afternoon of making his rounds by the river.
“Gentlemen.” She laughed and executed a deep and flawless curtsy.
“Don’t you curtsy to the likes o’ them, Missus Mackenzie!” Gemma Warlow, a streetwalker known to work the docks, called to her with a bawdy geniality. “They don’t deserve to spit-shine your shoes!”
“Stuff your gob, Warlow!” Crompton called, though his voice lacked any true antagonism.
“Stuff it yourself, Sergeant!” Gemma shot back with a toss of her dirty-brown locks. “If you’ve enough in your trousers to reach me throat.”
Farah turned to the holding square in the middle of the reception room and addressed Gemma. “Miss Warlow, what are you doing back here?” she asked gently. “Didn’t I set you up at the reforming home?”
“Druthers found me and dragged me back to the pier. I got picked up for boffing during trading hours.” Gemma shrugged as though it was of little consequence. “Was a bit o’ kindness you did for me, Mrs. Mackenzie, but I should have known better than to think ’e’d let me go so easy.”
Edmond Druthers was a pimp and a game maker who ruthlessly lorded over vice trade on the docks. His reputation for cruelty was only superseded by his greed.
“Oh, Gemma.” Farah went to her and reached for her hand. “What are we to do about this?”
The woman’s manacles rattled as she pulled her hands from Farah’s reach. “Don’t be soiling those lily-white gloves now,” she warned with a cheery smile splitting her apple cheeks. Gemma had to be about Farah’s age, but the years had been less kind, and she looked maybe a decade older. Deep grooves branched from her eyes and her weatherworn skin stretched tight over small bones. “Tell me where you’re off to dressed so fine.”
Farah tempered the sadness and worry for the woman out of her smile. “I’m turned out for a night at the theater.”
“Ain’t that grand?” Genuine pleasure sparkled in the woman’s eyes. “Who’s the lucky doffer wot’s escorting you?”
“That doffer would be me.” Carleton Morley appeared at Farah’s side, his blue eyes twinkling at her from beneath an evening hat.
“Well, now!” Gemma exclaimed loudly. “Ain’t that the ’andsomest couple in London?” she asked the handful of drunkards, thieves, and other doxies stashed in the box awaiting their turn for a cell.
They all readily agreed.
“Shall we?” Morley, resplendent in his evening coat, offered his arm to Farah, who took it with a delighted smile.
Turning back to Gemma before leaving, Farah said, “Please watch yourself. We’ll talk in the morning about your situation.”
“Don’t you spend a minute worrying about me, Mrs. Mackenzie!” the woman insisted, pulling a tattered red shawl around her scrawny shoulders. “I’ll be spending a night on me back sleeping for once!”
Officers and criminals, alike, erupted into laughter that spilled into the early evening as Farah followed Morley toward the Strand. They were both silent for a time, their legs disrupting a soupy mist swirling off the river and hiding their feet from view. Gaslights and lanterns kept the dreariness of the gloaming at bay and gave the gray mist a golden glow.
The night was alive with music and merriment, but to Farah it seemed that she and Morley were apart from all that. Instead of being dazzled by the vibrant colors and merry music, they watched the street urchins dart between the legs of the wealthy, and the beggars reach out to callous and disinterested revelers. The city was ever split by an excess of wealth and poverty, of civilized progression and criminal erosion, and that weighed heavily on Farah’s mind tonight in the form of Gemma Warlow.
“Sometimes on nights like this, I’d give anything for the sweet-smelling countryside,” she said, feeling guilty for being distracted.
Sir Morley made a soft affirmative sound, and she glanced up at him to note that his light brows were also drawn into a preoccupied frown as he stared into the throng of people along the Strand, but focused on no one. He was very handsome in his evening clothes and white cravat. The consummate English gentleman. Tall, but not too tall. Trim, but strong. Handsome in a classic, aristocratic way that was both pleasing and approachable. His teeth were well cared for and not very crooked, and though he was nigh to forty, his gold hair was still thick and resisted gray. He walked in such a way that people parted for him, and Farah couldn’t stop herself from thinking that added to his attraction.
Sir Carlton Morley was a man of distinction, if not blue blood, and was respected by most people on sight, not to mention by reputation, as one of the most celebrated chief inspectors in the history of the Metropolitan Police.
“I think I should like to drink two whole bottles of wine by myself tonight,” she said, testing him, as neither of them ever had more than a glass with dinner.