The police station was a two-story brick building with an unpretentious front. The windows facing the street were not curtained though the glass was clean. Neither the railings or brass knocker were polished though the paneled door was newly painted red. It didn’t look seedy or disreputable.
Aubrey mounted the stone steps and contemplated the door knocker. The door itself was slightly ajar; she could hear men talking somewhere beyond the building’s foyer. She nudged the door gently and it swung inwards.
“Abercrombie case—re-examine the paperwork—”
“Hullo,” Aubrey called softly.
“—don’t understand why the magistrates insist on witnesses to signed confessions.”
“Keeps us honest,” said a low, amused voice that rode up Aubrey’s spine.
“But if they think a confession is coerced, a witness’s signature won’t make it less so.”
“But the witness could be called to give testimony of the verbal statement. Precautions never hurt us, Mac.”
“Hullo,” Aubrey called again, forcing herself not to whisper.
There was no point in coming to the police if she didn’t intend to see them.
“Hullo,” said a voice directly above her. “Oh, sorry” as Aubrey jumped back. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She stared up at an enormous policeman, a hand to her breast, for once the image of the innocent debutante. He looked back, his affable face creased by a large smile.
“Miss St. Clair,” he said. “How nice to see you again!”
That was one question answered.
“Hullo.” Aubrey moved forward to take the last step into the building. The huge policeman helped, a large square hand beneath her arm, so she was almost lifted into the station’s foyer.
“Thank you,” she said rather breathlessly and looked beyond him to where two men stood in another doorway.
One was a thin man with spectacles; the other, a compact man in his late twenties. He was maybe half a head taller than she and almost extraordinarily ordinary except for his pearl-gray eyes.
She whispered to herself, “I know him.”
“Hullo, Miss St. Clair,” he said in that low-pitched voice, and she clenched her teeth against an exclamation of recognition.
“You all know me,” she said, trying to breathe evenly, to not be the innocent, flustered debutante but someone harder, tougher, someone who could ask questions.
“Yes. I’m sorry. The behemoth is Smithy. And this earnest, scholarly-looking fellow is Mac. I’m Mr. Charles Stowe.”
“Head of the Police.”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Aubrey said. “I have questions. That is, I was hoping you could answer some of my questions.”
“I can try,” he said and smiled at her.
She wanted to smile back, but she was too aware of Mac and Smithy’s curious stares. Mr. Stowe seemed to sense her unease because he came forward and lightly touched her arm.
“If you wish to speak privately—”
“Yes.”
“There’s—if you don’t mind—” He spoke with the barest hesitation now. “You have no chaperone, Miss St. Clair—”
