Page 1 of A Shop Girl’s Christmas (Pennington’s Department Store #3)

One

London, November 1911

Stephen Gower clasped his hands behind his back and fought to keep his gaze steady on Inspector King’s. ‘I appreciate that, sir, but it’s for the best that I leave. I’ve explained—’

‘And your explanation does not sit well with me.’ The inspector leaned his considerable bulk back in the chair behind his desk and narrowed his grey eyes. ‘Those young women and Detective Constable Walker were murdered at someone else’s hand, not yours.’

Tension stiffened Stephen’s shoulders. ‘That maybe so, but it was me who chose to not immediately act on those women’s fears. I should never have sent Walker to investigate instead of going myself.’

‘And who’s to say your being there would have stopped what happened? It could just as easily have been you who was killed. The Board’s investigation into your accountability that night will be sorted out as quickly as possible. You acted accordingly and I’m confident the Board will echo my sentiments.’

Stephen shook his head. ‘Sir, I appreciate your support—’

‘But instead of biding your time, you come to me with the daft idea of working as a security watchman at Pennington’s department store. What on earth were you thinking by taking yourself off to be interviewed without waiting to hear what the Board have to say?’

‘I need to work, you know that. I can’t sit around doing nothing while I wait for the decision to be made of whether or not I can continue to work for the constabulary. My mind is filled with those murders constantly. I can’t eat or sleep. I need some time away from London. Some time to get my head around everything that happened.’

King rose to his feet, his cheeks mottled. ‘How will a detective of your calibre ever be happy wandering back and forth around a damn department store? You’ll be bored out of your mind within a week.’

Stephen stood a little straighter. He didn’t doubt the inspector’s summary was wholly accurate, but he had to get out of the Yard. Out of London. To stay in the capital, to continue working for the police, where memories and images haunted him, was impossible.

He held the inspector’s gaze. ‘I submitted my resignation over a month ago, sir. Today I leave. There’s nothing more to discuss.’

The clock on the office’s grey wall ticked away each second, and when the raucous cheer of his fellow officers rang in the distance, Stephen hardened his resolve. Undoubtedly, a criminal of some description had been apprehended. Most probably someone who’d avoided capture for a considerable time, judging by the continuing cheers and laughter.

Yet, the inspector did not as much as glance towards the door. Stephen kept himself still. He would not – could not – falter in his decision to leave. No matter what the inspector said or did next, for Stephen’s sanity, he had to go.

Today.

‘Fine.’ Inspector King raised his hands in surrender. ‘Go. But there is no chance I’ll be accepting this…’ He lifted Stephen’s letter of resignation from his desk. ‘Until we hear from the Board.’

‘But you’ll keep it?’

‘Yes, but I won’t be opening it. Not yet. If there’s nothing I can do to change your mind, you’d better get going.’ He slowly walked around the desk and stood in front of Stephen, surprising him when he clasped his shoulders. ‘You’re a fine officer and an even better man. One case will not finish your time here.’

A knot of shame and frustration pulled tight in Stephen’s gut. ‘I don’t see Walker’s, Fay Morris’ and Hettie Brown’s deaths as a case and never will.’

The inspector’s wily gaze burned into Stephen’s. ‘Whether it was their deaths, the manner of their killing or the fact we didn’t get to them before that bastard Thorne did, I only want what’s best for you. And…’ He inhaled a long breath. ‘If you can’t stand more than a day in that bloody shop, you come back here, and I’ll find you a place to work. It might not be at the Yard, but I’ll find you something.’

Stephen gave a curt nod, every nerve in his body urging him towards the door. ‘Duly appreciated.’

‘Good.’ The inspector released Stephen’s shoulders. ‘Then you’d better get going and leave me to break the news to the team. Damn shame you don’t want them to know until you’re gone. The least they’d want to do is give you a proper send-off.’

‘It’s better this way, sir.’ The coward’s way. But how could he stand his colleagues adulation or pity?

‘For you maybe, not the rest of us. Go on, get out of here.

‘Sir.’

Stephen picked up his suitcase and left the office. As he walked, he glanced at the men he’d worked with for several years, pleased by their triumphant expressions and mile-wide grins. Once upon a time, the thrill of a capture had been all Stephen needed to sustain him. Not any more. Even as he passed his colleagues’ desks and out to the reception area, none of the previous satisfaction he’d found in his work returned. Instead, only a deep, dark sense of failure lingered. Would always linger.

Pushing open the building’s double doors, he hurried down the concrete steps and into the street. The noise, smog and oppression of London pressed down on him from every direction, making him quicken his steps and bow his guilty head. The sooner he got to Bath, the better.

The blood of two prostitutes and a fellow officer smeared not only Stephen’s hands, but his soul, too. Culpability writhed deep inside him like a debilitating poison. Seeping into his veins and tainting all he was as a policeman and a man. Discovering their bodies, bloodied and beaten, had been the end for Stephen as a public protector and the end of him as a man anyone should rely upon.

Those young, innocent women had come to the police for help. Had petitioned Stephen and Detective Constable Walker as they’d approached the Yard’s entrance, insistent that someone was out to get them. Out to kill them. Having smelled the alcohol on their breath and noted their ragged dress and dirty hair, Stephen hadn’t been as invested in their claims as he should have been. Instead, with a nod of his head, he’d told Walker to take their names and addresses as a cursory measure, wrongly assuming them either drunk or deranged – a supercilious assumption he’d pay for until his dying day. Later, when he’d ordered Walker to follow up the women’s complaint, it had been a command that had cost a young constable – a good and potentially excellent detective – his life.

Which was why Stephen should not be at the Yard making decisions, giving orders. He should be dead, buried six-feet under, where he couldn’t put anyone else’s life at risk.

Damn near jogging along the Victoria embankment, Stephen clasped his suitcase tighter and lifted his arm to hail an approaching cab. Slowly falling snowflakes wetted the tip of his nose and cheeks and he raised his eyes to the ominous late afternoon sky.

The fact he and his team had eventually tracked down the killer and ensured Thorne hung from the neck as he deserved served no penance. Stephen doubted it ever would.

So, he would return home. Return to Bath, work at Pennington’s and spend some overdue time with his mother. His need to flee bordered on cowardice, but a liveable alternative continued to evade him.

He pulled open the door of the cab and stepped back as the driver leaned forward in the light from the lamp beside him. ‘Where can I take you?’

‘Paddington.’

‘Right, you are.’

The cab soon drew up outside Paddington, its huge structure rising like an armoured phantom through the snowflakes, and Stephen stepped out onto cobbled stones. He reached into his pocket and handed the driver a cash note. ‘Keep the change.’

‘Very welcome to you, sir. Safe journey.’

Stephen stared after the cab as it pulled away. Safe journey . God only knew what awaited him in Bath, but, with Inspector King’s warnings of Stephen’s guaranteed boredom ringing in his ears, he entered the station.