The Masters of Bow Street by John Creasey Page A

may have to wait months before you can even tolerate me!’ He actually laughed, and she had never liked him more. ‘But there was another reason for such haste. Speak frankly, Ruth, and fairly.’
    ‘There was,’ she admitted.
    ‘What was it, pray?’
    She told him, faltering at first, about her visit to the Hennessy brothers’ shop, and what had transpired there, and his laughter and the softness of his expression faded. He was silent when she finished, as if he expected more from her. So she said in a husky voice, ‘Life would be difficult enough on my own without Frederick Jackson’s friends conspiring against me. There are so many harmful things they could do. They might - they might try to turn James against me, sir, or lure him to drink or to crime. They might—’
    ‘That is enough,’ he interrupted. ‘I know all they might do and fully understand why you reached so quick a decision.’
    ‘And you are not angered, sir?’
    ‘Angered? By a woman who uses her head as well as her heart? No, Ruth, that way you’ll never anger me. Many things do. I need—’ He broke off abruptly. ‘Do you need time to con sider afresh?’
    ‘No, sir. I am firmly decided.’
    ‘Then the cottage will be ready for you on Monday,’ he promised. ‘As for James, he should give his master fair notice, a week or perhaps two, and then he can find out whether the school near Saint Paul’s can teach him as much as his grandfather taught you.’ He palmed the carved heads on the arms of the chair and asked, ‘Is this his carving?’
    ‘Yes, sir, it is.’
    ‘Whatever else you wish to bring to the cottage with this, tell my man Moffat, who will come to fetch you on Monday morning with a cart large enough to carry all you have.’ He stood up, placed his hands on her shoulders and pressed, and then smiled at her again. ‘Ruth,’ he said, ‘I think we shall become good friends. But we never will if I frighten you. Do I? Or does my reputation?’
    ‘No, sir,’ she replied thoughtfully. ‘I am apprehensive but not frightened - not even by your reputation!’
    She sensed that he was trying to make sure that she was telling the truth, and indeed she was. Suddenly he laughed and took his hands away, swept her a mock bow, arid turned towards the door.
    She was more lighthearted than she had been for at least six months, and she felt positive that she had reached the right decision. She was so preoccupied with his manner and her new lightness of heart that she did not move until she heard his horse on the cobbles, and by the time she reached the window, he was through the alley and gone.

 
5:  ‘ROBBERY’ IN FLEET STREET
    ‘Is it the truth?’ demanded Eve Milharvey, a week after the morning when she had fought the nausea and been frightened by its significance. She was walking in the warm sunlight in the piazza of Covent Garden with Peter Nicholson, one of Fred’s oldest friends, who had been present at the hanging. The grass in the squares divided by post and rails had been freshly scythed and boys were sweeping the cuttings into great piles; the scent of the new-cut grass was as overpowering as a French perfume. A few people, mostly couples of middle class, judging from their clothes, strolled on the gravel paths, and from the windows of the rows of fine houses on either side, old people and young were basking in the sunlight. A street seller of oranges was singing, voice touched with melody.
     
    ‘Sweet China oranges to sell, sweet China oranges.’
     
    ‘Aye, ‘tis the solemn truth,’ Peter assured Eve. ‘She has moved into the cottage, and the whole family is with her.’
    ‘And she spends much time in Furnival’s offices?’
    ‘She is the food provider for him and the court officials and mistress, of his offices and rooms,’ replied Peter, with a lopsided smile. He was a tall, silky-haired man in his late thirties, foppish after a fashion, wearing a pale-blue cloak over a striped green-and-dark-blue shirt