Page 73 of In Want of a Suspect

It was a dead end.

Darcy slowed to a walk. Guy was sitting at the edge of a heap of building materials and what appeared to be rubbish, tongue lolling, looking very proud of himself. Darcy didn’t see Henry.

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” he called out, looking around for the boy’s hiding spot. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to hear the message from Lizzie. And to return your hat.”

He looked down at the hat he had picked up without thinking. It was threadbare in places and, like everything else the child wore, not the cleanest. It was also much larger than Darcy would have expected—a hat made for an adult head, not a child’s. It hadn’t looked that large on Henry.

A scuttling sound drew Darcy’s attention. “Guy, come here,”Darcy said, and to his surprise the dog trotted over and looked up at him expectantly. Darcy picked up his leash, now grimy from its drag through the streets. “The dog won’t hurt you either. I’ve got a hold of his leash.”

“I know.”

The small voice came from behind the pile of rubbish. Darcy took a few steps closer, and soon spotted Henry. The boy had his arms covering his head, as if he expected Darcy to rain down a series of blows. Anger lit in his chest at the thought of how and why Henry had learned this instinct—who had hurt him in the past? “Henry?” he asked.

“Don’t come any closer!” he said, his voice sounding almost shrill with panic.

“All right, I won’t.” Darcy lifted up his hands in a placating gesture. “Maybe you can give me your message and I’ll toss your hat over to you? And then if you want me to, I’ll be on my way.”

He considered this a long moment. Darcy couldn’t see his face. But Henry must have decided this sounded reasonable, for he said, “Toss the hat first.”

Darcy took one step forward and lightly tossed the cap in Henry’s direction. It fell just short of him, landing in the muck below their feet. Darcy winced—he hadn’t meant for the hat to fall in the mud—he’d have thought that Henry would have caught it. But he kept his arms over his head. After a moment of hesitation, he reached down, feeling about for his fallen hat.

And a long plait fell over his shoulder.

“Oh,” Darcy said.

Henry snatched the hat from the ground. Despite appearing as though it had been a good number of weeks since Henry had had a bath, his hair was recently combed and tightly plaited. He’d clearly taken great care to keep it neat, and as Darcy watched him wind the hair into a tight coil and ram the hat back on his head, Darcy realized that this was a routine.

He’d never seen a boy with hair like that. Only girls...

Which meant...

Oh.

“What are you looking at?” Henry snarled.

“I beg your pardon,” Darcy said, because in the absence of sense, his manners never deserted him. “I didn’t mean to stare.”

“Are you going to tell?”

The demand caught him off guard. Was Darcy going to tell anyone that Henry... what? Had a long plait of hair? Was a girl?

“Is your name really Henry?” Darcy asked.

He was treated with a magnificent scowl. “Henrietta.”

“Ah.”

“But I prefer Henry.”

“Fair enough,” Darcy said.

The silence between them stretched out, and Henry continued to glare at him. Darcy had the peculiar sensation that he was still missing something. How did Lizzie manage to do it? She never seemed to have any trouble winning over the street children with kind questions, small praises, and the perfect little odd job or bit of encouragement. But she wasn’t here now, and Darcy had the feeling that Henry was one wrong word away from boltingagain, and Darcy really didn’t think he was up for another chase.

“I understand that,” he said awkwardly. “Going by a nickname, that is.”

No reaction.

“Sometimes our parents can saddle us with the most absurd names. Do you want to know my given name?”