And that was something he would have to eradicate from his thinking in this job: Edwardian gallantry. There could be no place for the finer feelings in this ghastly modern world. Chivalry itself had fallen victim to bloody-handed assassins, if he read the situation aright.
Yes, this had to be the right girl. If he were minded to preachify, he might even say that Fate had delivered her into his hands that day at Paddington.
And the next day down in Devon, he had delivered her into the hands of three of the most ruthless men in the land.
‘Look no further, gentlemen,’ he’d said, after a second glass of port. ‘If this is really what you are prepared to do, I think I may I have the very girl for you.’ He’d even announced her name and number. Satisfyingly, eyebrows had been raised, grunts and nods of encouragement had broken out. Warmed by the general approval, he’d undertaken to haul her aboard.
Joe shuddered. He’d saved her from a knifing at Paddington but had probably exposed her to a worse fate.
He’d have to play his cards carefully. He could take nothing and no one for granted. This wasn’t the army where orders were given, received and blindly obeyed. The woman was perfectly free to reject his overtures and scoff at his suggestions. And foul up some well-laid plans.
Lily Wentworth followed Miss Jameson into the room and looked about her. Astutely anticipating a dismissal committee, he guessed. Her eyes rested briefly on him, widened in surprise, narrowed again in distaste and slid down to her boots. Well, if she’d been expecting to see the knight-errant from Paddington, all smiles and panache, she was going to be disappointed this morning; what she’d got was a Sandilands sore and seething with rage. He realized that in his dark-jowled state he presented an unappetizing sight. With not a minute to dash to his Chelsea flat and change, he’d resorted to a quick cold splash in the gents’ washbasins an hour ago. He’d stared back in dismay at his image in the mirror: black stubble, red eyes, and a dark tan looking unhealthily dirty in the morning light, as well as throwing sinister emphasis on the silver tracery of an old shrapnel wound across his forehead. If he’d encountered that face in Seven Dials, he’d have clapped the cuffs on and searched the owner’s pockets for a stiletto.
The cold wash hadn’t gone far towards dispelling the night’s build-up of fatigue and filth. He glanced down at his blood-stained tie and cuffs. His attempts to dab them clean had not been entirely successful. Whose blood? It could have been from any or all of the four victims. Ah, well … she’d probably seen worse down the Mile End Road at chucking-out time on a Saturday night. No need to draw attention to it. He rose to his feet and came round his desk to greet her.
‘That will be all, thank you, Miss Jameson,’ he said genially enough. ‘Go and get yourself a cup of tea or something. You look as though you could do with one. Oh, and while you’re at it, remind PC Jones I haven’t had mine yet. Tell him to bring a tray. Two cups. Milk and sugar. Biscuits too — gypsy creams would be good — not that dog kibble he brought me yesterday.’
The door closed and they were left staring at each other.