The Hot, Pulsing Trail
“Faster, my lord, faster!”
Likely stood back, dabbing his brow with a handkerchief, and checked the clock on the wall.
“My apologies, Lady Henley,” he said. “But I’m in a bit of a rush. We will have to continue this interrogation another time.”
“But my lord!” she whined, but he pulled on his trousers, deaf to her pleas. He checked out the window, saw the police had all but left. “I’ll tell you anything you want! Please, just a little longer!”
Just then, a young man covered in soot slipped in through the front door, heading downstairs to the servants’ quarters. Likely jaunted forward, tapping the banister to get the lad’s attention.
“You there, boy!” he called. “Is there any news on that scoundrel, the duck? Have the police captured him yet?”
“Nay, sir,” said the boy, hat in hand. “The police lost the trail, sir, not five streets from ‘ere.”
“By Lucifer’s Love-Length!” cursed Likely. “The trail’s gone cold, then!”
“Not so, sir! Not at all!”
Likely leaned over the railing, eyes narrow.
“Do tell.”
“Me brother saw ‘em getting into a carriage, sir, ‘eading off towards the Thames. ‘e said the old bugger in the carriage paid a full hundred quid for the duck, sir.”
“A hundred, you say? Who was this old bugger?”
“I ain’t seen ‘im meself, sir, but I heard it’s Mr Murphy, the news-paper man.”
Likely’s eyes widened, and he ran to the door, turning back after claiming his walking stick and overcoat.
“Boy, help Lady Henley dress herself, if you please. Her arms may be stiff for several days.” Then, with a bow to the mistress of the house, he said: “Good-bye, my dear. I will come again soon, whereupon you shall do the same, many, many times over.”
Likely bolted to his carriage and took off in fast pursuit of Murphy. He retrieved a bottle of whisky from his inside coat pocket, and a glass from another, and poured himself a drink. As he sat back and supped at his beverage, he thought of dear Duchess Pinchenbadam, the story of how she’d slapped the duck, how angry she must have been, how needy she must have been. He kicked himself for not being there to comfort her.
“Murphy’s estate is to the left!” he called to the driver. “Hurry, before they escape — there shall be a shiny shilling in it for you, my man!”
The carriage took the corner at a delirious pace, almost tipping from the momentum. Likely held tight to the seat, and to his drink, in an effort to prevent any of the precious liquid within spilling.
Just then, the carriage jolted to the side, throwing him against the ceiling, and then tumbling all around until they came to a stop against a nearby house. Likely crawled from the wreckage, still clutching the glass, with its contents miraculously intact.
“Ha!” grinned Likely. “Didn’t lose a drop!”
“LIKELY!” shouted a voice, catching his lordship quite by surprise, resulting in him dropping the glass which shattered upon the cobbles below.
“Blistering ball-bags!” sighed Likely, as he watched the booze trickle away on the street.
“You need to watch where you’re going,” said Inspector Darling, appearing at his side, arms crossed, pencil hanging from her mouth in the most suggestive of ways. “Especially if you’re going to plough through an intersection like that.”
“Racing carriages is not my forte,” admitted Likely. “I rather prefer ploughing through other things.”
“I can imagine.”
“And you are undoubtedly doing so at this very moment.”
“It’s not a pretty sight in my mind’s eye.”
“Maybe your mind’s eye just needs a pair of mind’s eye-glasses. I could help you see more clearly, you know...”
“I haven’t the time,” Darling said, turning back to her own wrecked carriage.
“It won’t take long, my dear!” Likely called to her.
She turned and raised an eyebrow.
“Indeed,” she said.
“It’s not the timing that matters, Darling.” He sauntered up to her, whispering in her ear: “It’s what you do with the time you have.”
“I’m trying to catch a murderer,” she said, stepping away.
“Indeed,” nodded Likely. “As am I. My carriage is ruined, and it appears yours is as well. So how shall we reach Mr Murphy’s estate?”
Darling rounded on him, eyes narrow.
“Mr Murphy? What are you talking about?”
“I have it on good authority that the duck made his escape with the help of Mr Murphy, the news-paper man.”
Darling bit her pencil in half, and Likely tried to contain his excitement. She pulled the harness off one of her horses and guided it free.
“Thank you for the tip,” she said. “Now go home to your fruitcakes. I’ve got work to do.”
Likely grabbed her shoulder, turned her around.
“I’m going with you, my dear.”
“Not likely!” she laughed.
“Yes, Likely,” he countered. “The Duchess was my deepest, most penetrating friend. I must avenge her.”
Darling motioned to the horse, patted its saddle-less back. It whinnied.
“Can you ride bare back?”
Likely smiled knowingly.
“But of course!”
They rode off together, pausing only briefly so Likely could move to the forward position, as it appeared sitting so close behind a lady made an uncomfortable journey for them both. They crossed a short bridge and then up the long, winding driveway that led to the Murphy estate.
“I see no lights inside,” said Darling, dismounting ably and leaving Likely to his own devices. “If they’re here, they’re hiding.”
“Or they’re engaged in a private moment,” suggested Likely.
“It’s a duck, for goodness sake!”
“I would not presume to know Mr Murphy’s personal preferences. I myself enjoy a good game of pin the tail on the—”
“You’re a pervert,” snapped Darling, marching towards the front door.
“A hedonist, if you will,” said Likely. “Though truthfully, the difference is a question of social status, more than psychological—”
“Be quiet!” said Darling. “Keep your mouth shut, and let me do the talking.” Likely moved to argue, but she pushed him back. She took the knocker in her hand, and clapped it against the door.
On the third knock, the house exploded.