MIDLIFE MYSTERIES BOOK ONE,

A GHOSTLY GUARDIAN

CHAPTER ONE: PHILIPPA

I never imagined I’d find myself sitting behind bars in a holding cell in Scotland Yard.

But then again, I never imagined that my stepson would accuse me of stealing a diamond necklace in the first place. When I’d awakened this morning, I certainly hadn’t planned on spending my day like this.

As far as I could tell, Scotland Yard (also known as The Metropolitan Police Service) had several holding cells for the temporary detention of suspects, as well as for those awaiting trial.

I certainly wasn’t awaiting a trial but would have been considered a suspect, I supposed. Either way, I wasn’t at all pleased to find myself in this unlikely quandary.

As the constable escorted me through the dimly lit and poorly ventilated holding cells, I noticed with some concern that they were quite overcrowded.

The constable paused at one cell and with the help of his comrade, emptied it of all its occupants, shooing them into the already overcrowded cells on either side. Then he turned to face me with a quick nod.

“In you go, Mrs. Fairfax.” He gave me an apologetic smile then and, overall, seemed quite embarrassed about the whole situation. “I’m awfully sorry about your husband, ma’am. He was a good man.”

It wasn’t as though my husband had recently passed—he’d been gone now for a year, but the condolences were appreciated, all the same.

“Yes, he was,” I answered and realizing the constable hadn’t wanted to put me, a lady of polite, London society, in with the other poor retches (men and women alike), I thanked him for his kindness.

My cell was furnished with nothing more than a wooden bench and a straw mattress on the floor. I didn’t dare sit on either, not so much for fear of whatever creatures were sharing this domicile with me, but the place was quite filthy. It was also depressing, austere and inhospitable. The shorter my stay here, the better.

I leaned back against the cold stone wall and let out a deep sigh as I figured I should be grateful that the constable had seen to it that I was jailed on my own. With the sounds of whatever was happening in the holding cell beside me, it was a small mercy to find myself alone.

But as to this whole incident, it was absurd, really. Yes, I’d stolen the necklace, but only because it was mine to begin with. My no-good stepson had stolen it from me and I’d simply taken it back. Not only had I offered to purchase Andrew as many diamond necklaces as he liked, but I’d actually made good on my offer! Hancocks & Co. had hand delivered not two, but three , diamond necklaces to Andrew’s home, all of which were of far higher quality than the one in question. The only reason I cared about my diamond necklace was owing to its sentimental value.

“Mrs. Fairfax,” came the sound of another constable’s voice as he turned the corner and appeared in front of my cell. The sound of the cell keys jingling met me before he did. “The inspector will see you now.”

“Thank you,” I answered and gave the man a quick smile. He responded in kind, though his smile was a bit on the ill at ease side and he fumbled with the keys in the lock, dropping them once. I was quite certain it wasn’t everyday a lady of the ton was admitted to Scotland Yard as a thief. And if the newspapers caught a whiff of just what was going on, I was more than sure I’d be on the cover of every one of them come the morning. Not that I gave a snuff—the more you cared about your reputation, the more you lived for other people.

The constable escorted me out of my cell and down the long hallway. We passed holding cells on either side of us, each of them near overflowing with all manner of law breakers. As we passed, those incarcerated had plenty of colorful comments for the constable or, perhaps the comments were aimed at me, I wasn’t quite certain. As an American in London, I still hadn’t quite grasped the English accent and all its various forms.

After taking the stairs, we were greeted with yet another hallway and when we reached the office at the end of it, the constable paused before he rapped on the door exactly three times. “Inspector Stirling, I got Mrs. Fairfax here for ya.”

“Escort her in,” came the response, delivered in a heavy Scottish accent.

The constable opened the door for me and I took my cue, bursting past him in an array of skirts. As to the particular gown I was wearing, well, let us just say it was an absolute shame I’d been arrested in this ensemble as it was one I’d just received direct from Paris. The fabric, a lightweight silk, was both delicate and airy, with lace and ruffles embellishing each sleeve. The bodice was fitted, the neckline high and the sleeves long and slender. My waist was cinched in tightly with a corset (a most uncomfortable and irritating contraption, to be sure), and the bodice extended over my hips, creating a smooth, elongated line. The skirt was full and trimmed with lace at the hem along with gathers at the waist, creating a voluminous effect. The back of the skirt extended into a bustle, but one smaller than what was currently all the rage, owing to the fact that I found the things quite frustratingly awkward. As to the fabric, well it was quite lovely, the color a sapphire blue, something all the rage in Paris. I did imagine sapphire would soon catch on in London, owing to the fact that London was really a gray city and, thus, could use a dab of color.

My wide-brimmed hat was the exact color of my dress (as were my gloves) and decorated with feathers. And because I was careful to overdo it, my jewelry was minimal, just a brooch to add a touch of sparkle.

Before you suppose I’m quite a vain creature, I must inform you that it was my responsibility of sorts to notice such details where ladies’ wear was concerned. Among the ton of London, I had (inadvertently) made a name for myself as a bit of a fashion icon—mostly because I’d spent the last year or so living in Paris, among the most fashionable of all ladies.

“Detective Inspector,” I greeted the man who was standing before me.

As to the inspector, I knew his name was Grant Stirling, because my late husband had said as much. Patrick had told me that he and Inspector Stirling had been quite close—not just because Patrick was the inspector’s superintendent, but also because they were friends. I’d never met Inspector Stirling before, but from what I understood from Patrick, Grant Stirling was a true gentleman, a hero in his own right, and a Scot to boot. I couldn’t help but wonder what he would make of me, an American heiress accused of theft and the wife of his deceased boss—one who had left town as soon as her husband had died.

Well, now I was back and facing this... mess.

Inspector Stirling looked up from where he was standing behind his desk, rifling through a stack of papers as I entered his office. He immediately took stock of my gown with an expression of... well, let us just say it wasn’t admiration. But men are very rarely in the know when it comes to fashion.

“Mrs. Fairfax,” the inspector greeted me and then faced the constable, giving the man a single nod to send him on his way. I was quite embarrassed to admit (if only to myself) that I’d completely forgotten the constable was still standing there! But that was the inspector’s fault because he had a quite formidable presence and I did imagine most people would forget any others who happened to be in a room with him.

Grant Stirling most likely towered over most people with his imposing height (upwards of six feet, were I to guess), standing tall and straight, his shoulders squared. He was also exceptionally handsome with a sharp, angular face including chiseled features and a strong jawline, accentuated by a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, the hue of which was the same shade of black as his hair.

As was to be expected, he was dressed in the attire of a detective, exuding a sense of authority and professionalism. A long black coat lay folded over one of the leather chairs in the corner of the room, something that would have paired nicely with his white and crisp shirt, buttoned up to the collar, with a matching waistcoat and dark trousers. His black leather shoes were polished to a high shine, giving off a sharp reflection.

A pocket watch dangled from his waistcoat pocket, and a silver chain linked it to a fob, marking him as a man of some class. On his desk lay a black bowler hat and beside that, a black leather satchel.

Around his left hand, he wore a bandage. I couldn’t help but notice the way he held his hand protectively, as if trying to hide his injury.

“I knew your husband well.”

“Yes, I’ve heard,” I answered, trying to keep the tremble out of my voice, but there was something about the inspector that I found somewhat intimidating. Perhaps it was the thunderous sound to his voice or the storm that brewed in his eyes when he looked at me. A storm that was full of suspicion, I might add.

Though we’d only said less than ten words to one another, I was overcome with the feeling that the inspector disliked me. And I had an idea that his dislike had originated long before this moment.

“Though I’ve never met you,” he continued, eyeing me narrowly as if that fact was somehow my fault.

“A shame, I am certain.”

Inspector Stirling nodded and gestured for me to sit in one of the leather chairs opposite his large mahogany desk. I did as he instructed and found him leaning over his desk directly in front of me, his blue eyes now narrowed on my own.

“It’s not every day we get a lady of your station ... here. Nevermind one who was married to the superintendent.”

“I should imagine you don’t.”

He studied me for a moment, as if trying to decide if we were playing some sort of game and if we were, which character he should assume. “As I understand, you’ve been brought in on charges of theft?”

I took a deep breath. “I haven’t stolen anything that didn’t already belong to me.”

“And, yet, your stepson seems to believe you have.”

At the mention of Andrew, Patrick’s son from a previous marriage, I felt my stomach drop. Andrew and I had never gotten on, but now things had reached an all-time low, to be sure. “The necklace in question was a gift from Patrick. He gave it to me on our wedding day, thus it was mine and still is.”

The inspector raised an eyebrow at that, but didn’t appear convinced—not in the least. “And how did the necklace come to be in the possession of your stepson, Andrew, then?”

“That’s just it,” I said, feeling a spark of anger as I reminded myself to stay in control of my emotions. If there was one thing I didn’t want to do, it was to lose my temper, because men had a stupid way of attributing a woman’s anger to her ‘inability to think rationally’. And if I was one thing, it was rational. “Upon my return to London,” I started.

“And where were you before your return?”

“Paris.” He nodded as if none of this was new information. Perhaps he’d done his research where I was concerned.

“Hence why none of your husband’s colleagues have ever met you.”

I nodded once. “Correct.”

“Go on.”

“Upon my return to London a month or so ago, Andrew came to visit me, claiming the necklace was rightfully his.”

“And why did he think that?”

“He said Patrick had left it to him in his will.”

The inspector nodded. “And according to said will, Andrew was correct.”

Keep control of your temper, Pippa, I reminded myself. “No, he wasn’t correct.”

Stirling’s eyebrows reached for the exceptionally high ceilings in his office. “Am I correct in stating that according to Patrick’s will, you and he both kept the belongings, money and otherwise, with which you both entered the marriage... separate?”

I nodded, wondering what that had to do with anything. “That’s so.”

“A strange legal arrangement to be sure,” Stirling continued as he walked around his desk and crossed over to the numerous windows that overlooked the Thames River.

With his back to me, it was impossible not to notice the detective’s firm and well-defined posterior, revealing the evidence of regular physical training and quite an active lifestyle. The muscles of his derrière were prominently shaped, sculpted by what I imagined was rigorous exercise and physical exertion. As he moved, the well-toned muscles flexed beneath the fabric of his tailored trousers, the contours of his backside hinting at the agility and dexterity required for pursuits that demanded swift action and quick reflexes.

I tried to force my eyes up—to the gray view of the Thames beyond the windows—the river just a shade or two darker than the sky itself, but my mischievous gaze seemed intent on returning to the rather pleasing shape of the detective.

His posture exhibited an upright stance, displaying confidence. The breadth of his shoulders was wide, as was the width of his biceps (which seemed to appear even broader owing to the bands he wore on either of his upper arms). While I would describe the detective as an exceedingly cynical man and none too friendly, his athletic and muscular backside certainly served as a visual testament to his dedication to physical fitness, suggesting that he possessed the strength, agility, and endurance necessary to navigate the challenges of his investigative work in the bustling streets of London.

He glanced back at me then and catching me in the act of taking in his person, I immediately cleared my throat and glanced down at my lap, feeling a blush creeping over my cheeks.

Good God, Pippa, will you stop staring at his posterior! I yelled at myself.

“Do you not suppose that’s a strange legal arrangement?” he repeated, looking at me with a pronounced scowl.

“Oh, well...” Oh, Christ. What the bloody hell was he talking about?

Please let it be known that in general, I tried to dissuade my active mind from thinking up such brazen words but sometimes when one is faced with a quite cross inspector, one’s mind can’t be regulated.

“What was the strange legal arrangement again?” I asked, smiling most apologetically. My heart was now racing and I felt lightheaded and flummoxed over the fact that my brain had suddenly gone as blank as a sheet of paper. It was as if I’d forgotten everything in that moment, including the reason why I was sitting here, staring into space.

Inspector Stirling was stone-faced as he responded, “your husband’s will.”

“Ah, yes! Right!” I said, nodding immediately as I gave him a large grin. “Patrick organized his will in such a way to ensure that should anything ever happen to him,” I took a deep breath at this point because I very much disliked thinking about what had happened to Patrick. “That none of my extensive wealth would pass to Andrew.” I swallowed hard. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you about Andrew’s penchant for gambling?”

The inspector shook his head. “Aye, you don’t have to tell me—I’m aware.”

“Anyway, in keeping our assets separate, Patrick forgot to add a line in his will for the necklace and that oversight has led to this... debacle.”

The inspector looked at me and nodded, while pulling on one end of his mustache. “A necklace which had belonged to his mother, as I understand it?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“So, the necklace was something that came from Patrick, hence it was something that should have been handed down to Andrew?”

I frowned. Yes, it was quite obvious that the inspector didn’t like me, though I felt that bias was completely unfair because this was the first time we’d ever been introduced to one another. And wasn’t there supposed to be truth to the statement: ‘innocent until proven guilty’?

“That’s not true or...” I paused as I considered it, cocking my head to the side as the inspector gave me quite the glum expression. “Perhaps it was true at one point, but it’s not true any longer.”

“I see.” Inspector Stirling then gave me a placating smile but it wasn’t genuine—it was a smile the cat gives the mouse before it’s ready to pounce. “And why is it no longer true?”

“Because, as I mentioned earlier, Patrick gave me the necklace and in doing so, it became mine.”

Inspector Stirling frowned. “And yet there’s no proof that Patrick gave it to you—thus, it appears we only have your word to go on, is that so, Mrs. Fairfax?”

“Yes, I suppose that’s so.” I blew out a frustrated breath—truly, it was quite a maddening situation to be accused of something for which you were wholly innocent.

“Furthermore, I must admit that I do find it strange that your stepson would accuse you of such a crime if the crime were not based in fact—not only that he’d accuse you, but that he’d go to such lengths to take the necklace from you,” the inspector continued as he huffed out a breath and turned from the window to return to his desk. Once he reached it, he stood behind it, one hand reaching out to clutch the top of the chair before him.

I found my eyes settling on his hand—it was the injured one. The bandage wrapped around the entire length of his index and middle fingers and wrapped around the center of his hand. The rest of his fingers grasped the leather of the chair quite emphatically. It was a large hand, to be sure, long fingered, with a dusting of dark, black hair peeking out from under the muslin of the bandage.

“What happened to your hand?” I asked, even though I hadn’t meant to be overly prying or personal—the words had just sort of sprouted from my tongue before I could stop them.

The inspector seemed surprised by the question and immediately stood up straight, pulling his injured hand behind his back. I could tell he was a man who didn’t like to show any vulnerability.

“It’s nothing,” he said gruffly. “Just a little accident.”

My curiosity got the better of me. “Is it broken?”

“Aye.” He hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath before continuing, “I got into a scuffle with a suspect.” His voice was low and gruff. “He didn’t go down easily, and required a good laying out.”

“Goodness,” I replied, eyebrows reaching for the ceiling. “You hit him and broke your fingers?”

He nodded and then shrugged. “It’s nothing that won’t heal in time.” He cleared his throat. “Now, Mrs. Fairfax, back to the subject of why your stepson would insist you stole something that belonged to him, though you insist it belonged to you.”