Twincy Quinn and the Eye of Horus Part One (21 page)

‘
Well God speed,’ she said through a tight breath.

‘
Thank you,’ I trailed off. I did not know what to add. For the
conversation had taken a turn. Though Miss Stanton's reaction to my
admission I was working on the kidnapping case was curious, it
could easily be explained away. It was a frightful affair. So many
children had been snatched away from their families, or snatched
away from the street. It didn't matter, the point was, they had
been taken, and so far, we had no clue who had done it.

I say no clue,
but if Lord Ridley were to be believed, then this Twincy Quinn
character had taken them. But I had no evidence of that, in fact, I
had evidence disputing it. If Jennifer Fairmont's story were to be
believed, then this Twincy Quinn, if she existed outside the
child's mind, had saved Jennifer, not kidnapped her.

Again my
confusion over the ongoing case threatened to pull me under.

Threatened,
because as soon as the confusion set in, Miss Stanton stepped on
something on the street, and rolled her ankle to the side. Before
she could fall, I quickly leant in and locked a hand protectively
over her elbow.

‘
Oh,’ she managed.

‘
Steady on your feet,’ I said, through a slight swallow. It
wasn't the strongest statement I had ever made, and my voice had
wavered momentarily through a gulp.

‘
Thank you so much,’ she assured me with a smile as she
straightened up, brushed down the sleeve of her jacket, and nodded
at me. Yet again, however, she always ensured her hair was directly
in front of her face.

Just as we
continued on, I watched in fascination as she kicked the stone that
had almost tripped her confidently to the side.

Very
confidently.

In fact, it
underscored how surefooted she was.

Which begged
the question, why had she almost fallen in the first place?

I was always
one for suspicion, I was a detective, after all, and I tried to
rule out the obvious, then hunted down the mysterious, the bizarre,
and the hidden. So all too easily the following thought sprang to
mind: had Miss Stanton deliberately almost fallen over? If she had,
then why? To perhaps convince me that she was overcome by her
recent traumatic event? Or, rather interestingly, to see what I
would do?

That last
thought left my cheeks a little hot.

‘
My house is very close now,’ she patted at her necklace
again.

‘
Let me walk you to your door,’ I said. And it was less of a
suggestion, and more of a subtle command. I was not going to leave
Miss Stanton alone until she was safely behind a door, and
hopefully a nice thick one. Though she did appear, as she had
suggested, capable of looking after herself, I doubted the rest of
London was capable of letting her walk freely by with that necklace
on her neck. Stroll down another less-friendly street, and no doubt
more criminals would come out of the woodwork to try their hand at
a bit of mid-morning robbery.

‘
Oh that is so kind of you,’ she said, and you didn't need to
be particularly perceptive to hear the note of frustration twirling
around her tone.

‘
It's the least I could do,’ I chose my following words
carefully, ‘after all, you did save me back there in that fight.
Has anyone told you, you are a masterful hand with a
parasol?’

Again I
managed to get her attention, and again she set her head rather
quickly to the side, blinking up at me from under that thick
fringe.

I caught a
glimpse of two blue eyes. Very pretty, they reminded me a little of
the necklace around her throat.

Yet as soon as
she looked my way, she looked past me again, then down to the
ground, her hair falling quickly in front of her face. ‘Oh no,
don't be silly, of course I didn't save you. Detective, if you had
not come along, I . . . . Oh my, I don't know
what would have happened,’ her voice wavered, and on any other day
I would have assumed she was very much overcome by emotion.

This didn't
feel right though. She had been bantering with me easily moments
before, now for her to quite conveniently slip into apparent
fear?

No, this
didn't fit. Of course I could not be certain, yet I chose to go
with my gut instinct, and my gut instinct told me there was some
mystery under the beautiful sapphire necklace of Miss Stanton.

As I realised
what I’d just thought could seem almost indecent, I almost blushed
a deep crimson.

That was an
entirely inappropriate thought to hold for a woman I had just met.
Yet it had been a mistake. What I had really meant, was that Miss
Stanton appeared to be far more mysterious than she did normal.

A little like
a hidden jewel shining in a mound of mud.

‘
It's just over the street there,’ she said, that note of
nervousness returning to her voice. Using the parasol, unhooking it
from her shoulder in a deft and quick move, she pointed
forward.

I followed
where she was pointing exactly. ‘You mean you are staying in the
funeral home?’

She stopped.
‘I meant over there,’ she said quickly.

The house she
had indicated was not the funeral home. Yet clearly Miss Stanton
didn't know that.

‘
I'm afraid I have got a little turned around,’ she brought a
hand up and placed the back of it over her forehead, apparently
checking for a fever or some such. It was a classic, and rather
obviously faked move of hysteria.

‘
Indeed, well perhaps you can tell me where you are staying,
and I can direct us there.’

She
hesitated.

The more time
I spent with this Miss Stanton, the more I realised perhaps my
initial suspicions were correct.

She didn't
quite fit the dress and the necklace. No, actually, she fit them
perfectly, in fact, they looked as if they had been crafted exactly
for her, and though I would not say it aloud, she looked stunning
in them.

But my point
was, she did not hold herself as a fine woman of London should.
There was no attitude, no sense of looking down on the world. Also,
she seemed too savvy. She most definitely had a secret too. One I
was now more desperate than ever to find out.

I waited.

‘
Oh dear, I really have got turned around,’ she brought a hand
up, and pushed it tight against her cheek and forehead, once again
obviously trying to hide from me.

Why?

That question
now mattered more than before. Was I meant to know this woman? Or
did she simply shun the attention of men?

‘
I really have taken up too much of your time,’ she said, and I
could see as she spoke she sunk her teeth deep into her
delightfully red bottom lip.

‘
Not at all, I must say, I have found this conversation
uplifting. Far more interesting than my usual day,’ I added, in
what I hoped was a friendly tone.

It didn't
work.

It appeared
she was now rattled.

Turning
quickly away from me, I assumed she scanned the street for an
obvious building. Well one that she could confidently point out,
and one I couldn't question whether she was staying at.

‘
No, no, really, it might take me a while to find out where I'm
going,’ she tried, and the confidence was gone from her
voice.

Nerves had set
in.

‘
As I said, Miss Stanton, I would be remiss to leave you on the
street, and if you cannot find where you are meant to be staying,
perhaps I can take you somewhere else?’ I stopped short of saying
Scotland Yard, though I really wanted to.

I did not
quite believe the Miss Stanton before me was a fraud. I would not
go so far as to say that the necklace was stolen, yet I knew
something wasn't right. And yes, I wanted to take her in for
questioning, yet at the same time I wanted to take her out for
dinner and a conversation.

Which was a
very strange and rather paradoxical desire.

And one,
perhaps, she didn't share. Because I was no fool; Miss Stanton
wanted dearly to get away from me, and fast. Yet I could be rather
pig-headed when I wanted to, and I wanted to know exactly why she
was so eager to run.

‘
Look,’ she said through a heavy breath that pushed her bodice
out at a distracting angle accentuating that necklace and the way
it tapered down her neck, ‘perhaps you
should . . . ,’ she trailed off.

‘
Yes?’

‘
Perhaps I should . . . .’

I waited for
her to say something, to suggest something, to come up with another
convenient tale to get me off her back.

Instead I
narrowed my eyes. In that moment she became distracted.

‘
Perhaps you should,’ she tried again, her voice sounding
distant, as her head darted around, her eyes locking on something
further down the road.

‘
Yes, Miss Stanton?’ I prompted. ‘Perhaps I should
what?’

‘
Move,’ she suddenly said.

And in that
moment I realised why.

I had been
distracted by her, and I hadn't heard a cart take the corner far
too quickly. So quickly, in fact, that one of its wheels wobbled
with a perilous tearing sound.

That tearing
sound was the bolts that held it in place on the cart.

The horses
were mad, neighing, straining against their harnesses, and
obviously ready to bolt.

I watched with
wide-open eyes as one of the wheels came free. Yet not only did it
come free, it came straight at me.

Before I could
react, Miss Stanton did.

She leaned
down to the side then hooked her shoulder up, and pushed it into
me.

It was a
powerful move, and it served to knock me clean off my feet. Then I
watched as she darted back quickly, the wheel slicing between
us.

She had saved
me, yet again, and once again, it had been with a deft and quick
move.

The men I had
fought in the alleyway, when I had, apparently, rescued her, had
been undertrained. Though of brutish sizes, and certainly
musclebound, they had been easy to dispatch, because they had never
formally been taught the art of combat. Informally, perhaps; the
scratches and scars that had littered their faces could attest to
that. Formally, however, no. I was certain of that fact, for my
life so far had served to instil in me the necessary arts of
self-defence.

So I fancied I
knew enough to know the following: the way Miss Stanton moved was
precise. Far too precise for ordinary instinct.

She had picked
up the careening cart before I had, and she had certainly reacted
first.

Yet she wasn't
done reacting. Because the cart was not done. The horses finally
sprung free from their leashes, and sped off down the street, a
mess of kicking hooves.

Yet, hardly
being men, and hardly knowing the rules of the road, they quickly
darted toward the pavement.

There were
people on the pavement.

I pushed
myself to my feet.

I had to do
something, before the horses endangered anyone.

Yet Miss
Stanton got there first.

She ran
forward, far quicker than a woman should in that many skirts, and
made her way straight to the cart.

For I had
missed that.

The driver was
still inside, and as the cart spun and twisted around the road, the
wood and metal casings of the remaining wheels setting sparks up
over the cobble, he screamed in fright.

Miss Stanton
reached him, just as he was thrown free. She brought her arms up,
and rather miraculously caught him.

The man, quite
large, did not barrel into her and knock her onto her back.

She stilled
herself, quickly pivoted, and brought him down safely.

However she
was not done.

Because she
confidently sprinted out onto the street, and began to call to the
horses.

The horses had
already run a fair distance, and thankfully all of the pedestrians
in their way had so far retreated rapidly.

So Miss
Stanton planted her hands flat on her thighs, and whistled and
clicked her tongue. Precisely as you would do if you were trying to
catch the attention of a horse. Yet precisely not what one would do
if said horse was running amok. The poor beasts were too frightened
to pay heed to such a quiet noise, and far too spooked to trust
it.

Yet, to my
continuing surprise, the horses began to slow.

She kept
clicking her tongue, slapping her thighs, and making a very precise
and careful noise. She obviously knew what she was doing. Perhaps
Miss Stanton could add to her already miraculous list of skills the
ability to tame a wild horse.

Though it took
some time, the animals began to slow, and finally stopped. That
wild, desperate look gone from their eyes, they moved about, in
what could be described as a sheepish manner, and finally trotted
forward, slowly.

When it was
clear this spectacle was over, I watched in fascination as Miss
Stanton pushed her hair out of her face a brief moment. It revealed
it in full.

She was
pretty, though not the kind of pretty I was used to. Her face was
clean, yet was not defined by makeup. She had a round jaw, bright
cheeks, and very watchful eyes. Eyes that I somehow felt did not
match her hair, as strange as that thought appeared to be.

I locked onto
that image of her face though, and I tried to remember every
detail, because it was clear that she did not want me to notice and
take heed of the way she appeared. Whether she was being demure, or
she was trying to hide, I was going to have to find out.

I was also
going to have to move. Do something. I was the man here, and the
detective, to boot.