O Night Divine A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,140

to hurry off to the police station,” her mother remarked as she set out teacups and saucers on the kitchen table.

“He’s not my young man,” Samantha retorted, though she harbored a secret desire it might be true. “He has a hunch who’s behind the crime.”

“I have a few ideas myself,” Daddy said. “Too many anarchist groups around these days. If it’s not the Fenians clamoring for Home Rule for Ireland, it’s the…”

Samantha barely listened as he expounded on his theories about politics. Her mother brewed tea. They carried everything into the parlor and ate slices of Christmas cake with their tea.

It all seemed normal, and yet her world and the world she lived in had changed. “It seems especially cruel to commit such terrible murder at this time of year,” she mused aloud.

Her father patted her hand. “Since the beginning of time, there have been evil forces at work. I suppose we believe this Victorian age is more civilized, but those forces will always be there, ready to disrupt and destroy. That’s the reason we must cling to the spirit of Christmas. Goodwill and all that.”

“And there’ll always be men like Sergeant Cullen ready and willing to fight for good,” her mother declared, surprising them all. “Though I doubt a policeman makes a very good living.”

Samantha struggled not to laugh. Her mother’s thoughts tended to fly hither and yon at the best of times, and this had been a trying day. “I think we are getting ahead of ourselves,” she said. “I’ve just met Parker.”

Nevertheless, before their relationship developed, she should consider his prospects. That notion flew away like chaff on the wind when her father announced, “I knew the moment I met your mother she was the one for me.”

Parker purloined a truncheon from the rack and concealed it under his cloak. “I’ll be back shortly,” he informed the duty constable. “In uniform.”

The lad nodded. “Right you are, sir.”

Lying to the eager youth didn’t feel right, but Parker had no intention of sitting at his desk all day.

Irish blood flowed in his veins and he’d a hunch the American would head straight for the local Irish pub, perhaps to rendezvous with fellow conspirators. There was only one such establishment in the area, out on the Gloucester road. There was no choice but to hail a passing hansom, but he asked the driver to let him off down the road aways.

In Bristol, patrons of pubs like the Pig and Whistle tended to be leery of newcomers, but he was confident he could pass for an Irishman, especially if the place was crowded.

Fortunately, the smoke-filled room was packed; the main topic of argument was the day’s catastrophe—as he might have expected. He was eventually able to order a glass of beer in what he hoped was a passable Irish accent, and elbowed his way through the throng. The men were so engrossed in loud disagreements about the catastrophe, no one paid him much attention as he sipped his ale.

He was probably the only person to notice two men enter who looked distinctly uncomfortable. Their eyes darted here and there and they seemed reluctant to separate from each other. The older man put Parker in mind of a weasel. He’d wager they weren’t Irish, especially when they set about looking for someone without procuring a drink. It appeared they knew none of the patrons, so they couldn’t be regulars.

Leaning on an old barrel stowed in a dark corner, Parker took the weight off his bad leg and watched the newcomers, excitement building in his gut when they found the person they sought—the American from New York.

His scowl indicated he wasn’t glad to see them. In fact, a heated argument soon ensued, though nobody else in the pub paid attention. “Things didn’t go according to plan, did they, boyo?” he muttered under his breath. He’d lay odds the bridge was supposed to be destroyed before the train embarked on its journey. Nevertheless, people had died terrifying deaths.

The disagreement intensified when the American handed over what looked like a wad of bank notes. He was left with no doubt these men were responsible for the heinous crime and fully intended to take them into custody. He smoothed a hand over the hidden truncheon. Fury gripped him when he remembered Samantha’s abject fear. The wretches were fortunate she hadn’t been hurt. He’d have beaten their brains to pulp.

He’d never felt so protective, nor so possessive of a woman, but he breathed deeply to rid himself