Laura Lee Guhrke Read Free

would be the perfect house for a man who had always dreamed of having a home and family.
    But there was no point in purchasing such a house without a wife, and until he found the right woman and got married, he’d make do with a one-room flat, an obnoxious landlady, and a barking, ankle-biting dust mop.
    Mick glanced at the clock on the wall. It was half past four, and he was supposed to meet Billy and Rob at the pub for his birthday in half an hour. He hadn’t eaten all day, and his mouth watered at the thought of an underdone beefsteak, a plate of chips, and a pint of ale, but he couldn’t tolerate the idea of leaving his desk in a mess. As he worked to put things back in order, a soft, West End, very feminine voice penetrated his consciousness.
    “. . . and I really feel that it is my public duty to report this. Being detectives, you’ll know better than I how to resolve this situation. I have no experience with this sort of thing myself. Murder, I mean.”
    Mick lifted his head at the mention of murder and saw a young woman seated in front of Fletcher’s desk, a woman who seemed ludicrously out of place in the offices of Scotland Yard. He saw the profile of a slender figure in a froth of pale yellow silk. Dozens of tiny, dark green bows trimmed her dress, many of them untied. Long, untidy tendrils of chestnut brown hair had come loose from beneath the unfashionable, wide-brimmed straw hat she wore.
    “After all,” she said to Fletcher, “I saw the poor man lying there, bloody and dead as dead can be. I’m certain you’ll be able to do something.”
    Mick raised an eyebrow. Quite a startling statement from a woman who looked as soft as whipped butter. This might be a case worth investigating.
    As if sensing his scrutiny, she turned her head in his direction. When she caught sight of him, her dark eyes widened with what appeared to be complete astonishment. Fletcher began asking her the questions customary to any police report, and she answered them without taking her gaze from Mick’s. “Haversham. Miss Sophie Haversham. 18 Mill Street, Mayfair.”
    Fletcher wrote down that information, then asked the very question that was going through Mick’s mind. “Now, what would a young lady such as yourself know about a murder, Miss Haversham?”
    She didn’t answer. Instead, she stood up and circled Fletcher’s desk, leaving the bemused constable staring after her, his question still hanging in the air. She came straight to Mick.
    “I think perhaps it would be best if I spoke with you about this, Mr. . . . umm—” She broke off and glanced at the brass nameplate on his desk. “—Inspector Dunbar,” she amended. As she sat down, Mick caught the delicate fragrance of her perfume, something spicy and exotic, a scent he didn’t recognize.
    Though her clothes were expensive, her frayed cuffs told Mick the dress was not a new one. Genteel poverty, he guessed. There were dozens like her in the West End. She was nervous, twisting her gloved fingers together and apart as if gathering her courage. That was understandable if she’d found a dead body. Silent, she continued to stare at him with a sort of apprehensive fascination he couldn’t fathom.
    Mick was accustomed to the attentions of women. He was a big man, tall and dark, with blue eyes and a brawny body that many women found attractive. Hedidn’t get too swell-headed over the attention, though, because most of the women he met were working-class girls who thought any unmarried man with straight teeth and a steady job was a good catch. But this woman wasn’t that sort, and he found it odd that she was staring at him so intensely. It bordered on rudeness.
    Not that he minded. He stared right back and enjoyed the view. She had thick-lashed brown eyes and the soft, pampered ivory skin typical of young ladies within her class. But when his gaze reached her mouth, Mick caught his breath. There was nothing ladylike about that mouth. It was a wide, generous