Twincy Quinn and the Eye of Horus Part One (22 page)

The horses
continued to trot their slow way towards Miss Stanton, and she held
out her hands to them in a graceful move.

‘
God,’ the cart driver said as he finally pushed himself up
from the street, ‘thank you very much, ma’am.’

Miss Stanton
didn't immediately turn to him. Instead she held her attention for
the horses. With a happy smile on her face, she patted lightly on
their noses as they reached her. She was a woman of slightly above
average height, 5’7 I would say at a rough guess. She had a slight
build, though not so slight that she reminded me of a twig.

Still, the
horses were large, yet she didn't flinch as they came directly
towards her. Whatever had spooked them could still be around, and
at any moment they could rear up or bolt again. Yet she did not
twinge or twitch, and all she managed was a smile.

A private
smile, the kind of smile that got my attention.

In a way I
felt I recognised that look.

I had my own
pets, after all, for a very good reason. They appeared to
understand me. Yes, I appreciated that was an odd statement. They
could not comprehend the English language, and if science were to
be believed, they were patently dull, and were incapable of doing
anything unless on instinct. Yet I stood by my original sentiment:
they understood me. There was something about animals that put the
soul and mind at ease. For animals did not judge. They were a
respite from the world you could not quite deal with, a world that
did not quite know how to deal with you. And I fancied in that
moment that was precisely what Miss Stanton's smile conveyed.

Then, slowly,
she appeared to catch up with the situation.

And she
blushed, deep red, her eyes drawing wide for a desperate
moment.

She turned,
realising that many people around the street were walking close to
see what had occurred. All staring at her. And why wouldn't they
be? She was dressed in an incredible dress, a fabulously expensive
looking necklace, and looked like a lady of class and style.
However that lady of class and style had just run out into the
street, caught a flying cart-driver, and had miraculously calmed
down two bolting horses.

As she
surveyed everyone, finally she turned to me.

For several
brief moments she locked onto my gaze without shifting her
hair.

I think I
shall remember those moments for a long time to come. For it was
one of those rare circumstances where you feel like you're looking
through somebody. Or at least through the face and the facade and
the act they showed to the rest of the world.

Perhaps you
would like to call it a moment of connection, I'm not sure I shall
go that far; I had just met the woman. But it could not be denied,
it was certainly a point of significance.

‘
How did you . . . ?’ the cart driver
began, tugging the hat off his head, and squeezing it tightly in
his hands as his face scrunched up even tighter.

He was
confused.

In fact,
everyone was. What had they just seen?

Yet confusion
would not last very long. Questions would begin.

I was not
entirely sure where I stood when it came to the treatment of the
fair sex. To be frank, it was hardly something that came up often.
Though I did deal with both the ladies of fortune and the women of
great misfortune in this city, I had not yet formed a political
view. I had a practical one. Like it or not, London, at this point
in time, and perhaps for all of her history, relegated women to a
position below men. Physically, mentally, and emotionally, so
science told us, they were inferior. Important, of course. They
were responsible for bearing children, and were essential
confidants. Yet there were things they should not do, for there
were things they could not do. And I fancied that what Miss Stanton
had just done some, had crossed the line.

Ladies of
distinction ought to act like ladies of distinction.

‘
I am used to living on a property with many horses,’ Miss
Stanton said quickly, her voice so nervous, that her words rang
together. ‘I have dealt with them most of my life,’ she
added.

‘
That makes sense,’ the cart driver brought up a hand and
scratched his head, his face still scrunched up in patently obvious
confusion.

‘
You should have somebody clean the cart off the road; it is a
tripping hazard,’ she forced her words out, once again making them
so quick hardly anyone could hear, and she nodded at the cart
driver, glanced around the crowd, and then gave a little
shiver.

It was a tight
and clearly emotional move.

Tugging her
hair in front of her face, she took a slow step backwards,
ascertained a path out of the crowd, and quickly took it. ‘Good
day,’ she waved at no one in particular, and headed quickly across
the street.

People were
beginning to mutter.

I didn't have
to press my hearing too carefully to pick up what they were
saying.

They were repeating one phrase: what had just happened? But
occasionally they added the following sentiment: what had she just
done? With emphasis on the word
she
.

Who was this
woman?

Before I could
allow myself to get distracted by that question, or the mutterings
of the crowd, I realised that unless I caught up with her, she was
going to run away this time.

She walked
quickly and determinedly across the street, and I could see she
flicked a rather morose and lost smile at the horses before she
grabbed up her parasol from the opposite pavement, and continued at
a frightful pace just under a sprint.

Right.

Time to catch
her before she ran away.

I quickened my
walk, letting my legs move as fast as they could before I pushed
myself into an outright run.

‘
Miss Stanton?’ I called out, making my voice carry.

‘
I am quite overcome,’ she called back, leaving it at
that.

I was not
about to have a shouting conversation with her in such a busy
street, not after she had just surprised every passing
pedestrian.

Yet I was
certainly not about to let her get away.

I quickened my
pace.

She quickened
hers.

‘
Miss Stanton, just pause for a moment, I need to see that you
are okay,’ I tried.

‘
Oh no, please don't come any closer, I'm quite overcome,’ she
added again.

Then she
pushed herself into a run.

She was
wearing a startling silk and lace garment of white and baby blue,
with the deepest most amazing sapphire necklace I had ever
seen.

Yet now she
was running.

Fast, that
parasol of hers bouncing up and down on her shoulder as her hair
jumped around her face and cheeks.

She was in
heels, though not very high, they would still be enough to jolt the
ankle with every movement. I, however, was in extremely sensible
shoes, shoes I had nursed for the past several years because they
were so darn good when it came to foot work, whether it be pounding
the streets of London through the day, or chasing after the shadows
at night.

Yet right now,
I could barely keep up with her.

As we rounded
the corner, and into another road, I could see the various people
milling around look over at her with surprise.

‘
I'm sorry, please excuse me,’ she managed as she lifted up her
skirts with one hand, still holding the parasol with the other,
‘but I'm very, very late,’ she lied.

‘
Miss Stanton,’ I tried again, realising I had to say
something, lest it look like I was chasing her.

The people on
the street, after all, had not seen what the amazing Miss Stanton
had just done. They would see a pretty young woman in an expensive
gown and necklace running, and a man chasing after her, and would
conclude one thing.

And sure
enough they did just that. A fact not helped when Miss Stanton said
loudly and prominently: ‘please leave me alone’. She might as well
have added ‘stop chasing me, everybody help, thief, thief!'

Before I made
it another step, a young man in a smart suit stepped out in front
of me. ‘Here, here, what are you doing? Leave that poor girl
alone.’

I faltered a
little, and the man followed my move.

‘
Detective, Scotland Yard,’ I growled, my usually contained
Scottish brogue deepening and making my voice shake.

‘
Of course you are,’ the young man leapt to the side, and
grabbed my arm.

In the time it
took him to do that, the elusive Miss Stanton turned a corner, and
disappeared around a lane way.

I swore
loudly, and as I did, the young man tugged harshly on my arm, and
clearly got ready to hit me.

I reversed his
grip in a rather expert move, stood back, and pulled out my wallet.
‘Young man, I assure you, I am a detective of Scotland Yard, and
unless you would like to be arrested for interfering with police
work, I suggest you step away.’

Perhaps it was
my tone, perhaps it was because I had just removed my wallet, but
his face crumpled in confusion.

‘
Good choice,’ I snapped as I turned to continue my chase, ‘and
good day,’ I added, remembering my manners.

My mother,
after all, had always been big on manners. In fact her lessons had
penetrated far deeper than the so-called etiquette of London. To my
mother, you were polite to everybody. It did not matter where they
came from, it did not matter what they did or where they lived, you
offered them common human courtesy. For that was what made you
human. The ability to connect to a fellow man, rather than
disconnect.

My mother had
been a curiously deep thinker, yet now was not the right time for
such reminiscences.

I made my way
quickly to the lane way, and turned into it as fast as I could,
latching a hand onto the wall to help me pivot quickly.

Yet it was
pointless.

For the lane
way was empty.

It was also
long and straight, and I could see a street almost 50 feet
away.

She could not
have run that distance so quickly. She had not achieved that much
of a head start. And neither had the young man stopped me for so
long.

My eyebrows
crumpled.

I took several
steps forward, turned my head from side to side, double-checking
that there were no little spaces in between the buildings.

There
weren’t.

So I moved on
instinct, or rather my head did; it tipped back, and I stared up at
the roof.

As I did, I
swear I saw something.

A flick of
fabric flaring in the wind. Not just any fabric: white lace and
silk with a hint of blue.

It stilled
me.

It could have
been a trick of the light. It could have been a trick of my
mind.

It wasn't.

I had fine
eyesight, and I had well-honed senses. I knew what I had just
seen.

And if it was
not so much of a logical jump, I can conclude it was Miss
Stanton.

Or perhaps I
should say Twincy Quinn?

The
realisation hit me like a thundering steam train.

I recognised
those eyes, didn't I? That round jaw, those pleasantly plump and
red cheeks? Though I simply did not recognise the hair. When I’d
run into Twincy, her hair had been black, jet-black, and it had sat
perfectly straight over her shoulders, tapering down her back.

It had
obviously been a beautiful and delicately designed blond wig that
had hid her identity from me.

I shook my
head.

Was I making
an illogical jump?

Perhaps.

Yet I was
almost certain that the woman who had ran into me several night’s
before, was the same woman I had seen on top of that roof last
night. It was something about the way she moved, plus, it was the
rather unnerving fact that she had disappeared into thin air. Or
perhaps not disappeared after all.

I craned my
neck further up. I glanced at the walls around me. There were no
ladders, there were no ropes. While there were thin lips in the
brick and stone—that was it.

She had
clambered up there. And not unskilfully. Unnervingly well in fact.
And quickly. Impossibly quickly. Just as the woman who had bumped
into me had done several nights before.

Twincy
Quinn.

Dear God, I
had been walking with her for the last half hour, engaging in inane
chitchat, and all the time I’d been with the one woman in London
who I needed to catch, the one criminal who I had to apprehend more
than any other.

I clamped a
hand over my pressed-open lips, feeling my fingers brushing against
my moustache.

Inappropriately I immediately thought that Twincy Quinn did not
like my moustache. She had not approved, though had done so in a
friendly, if cute way.

I shook my
head. Dislodging the thought. I reminded myself of what had just
occurred.

I could not
stand there forever, but I chose to stand there for quite some
time, staring up, trying to figure out what I should do next.

I had personal
information on her now, yet of course she had not revealed much to
me in our conversation. But she had revealed her expressions, her
features, the way she moved, even the way she talked. And yes, I
also now knew what made her nervous.

Me. And it was
easy to understand why. I was heading up the investigation into the
kidnappings—the same kidnappings for which she was the number-one
suspect. When I had mentioned it, she had immediately and
noticeably withdrawn.

Withdrawn,
mind you, yet not for a second had she looked calculating or guilty
in any way. In fact, remembering that moment starkly in my mind,
she had appeared saddened. Deeply saddened, as if she had been
affected by it personally.