III

I tipped my head to her and walked off still buzzing with the information I had manage to uncover. I mean, I had to do my job right? My feet took me all the way back to my flat still filled with elation, this was brilliant, a nagging thought was also growing at the back of my mind. Why did I feel like I knew her face? She had the lilt of an aristocrat, was it possible her family were famous somehow? I dug into my pile of papers I'd been featured in and flipped though them scouring for a photograph of someone who looked like her. Hours passed, the night grew into early morning and the first workers were out on the street replacing the merry makers of the evening, carts began to clatter and the sun crawled above the rooftops and still I read and read and read, and then finally there it was: Eleanor Felten nee Carter. An actress and singer who had performed in shows for many years up to the war, one of the wealthiest heiresses in all of England, and the spitting image of the detective I'd met. I scanned down the article, she had retired when she got married to her husband changing her name to Felten, her husband had returned from the war home to his two girls. My eyes settled on those words. Two girls, Eleanor and… 

"Where are you? Where are you?" I murmured to myself running my eyes up and down the page settling on the final paragraph. 

When she retired Eleanor married her husband Roger Felten and had one joy filled healthy daughter, Irene. Jackpot. 

"So," I mused, "Irene Felten huh? That's why you don't want people to know you're running around playing Sherlock Holmes, not exactly the most lady like thing to do." Which begged the question why she was doing it, she obviously didn't need the money, was it just a game? She was obviously good, she must be very smart, the whole situation made no sense to me. I needed to speak with her again and was beginning to get nervous, what if she didn't contact me at work, what if she got a lawyer involved? She may be rolling in money but I certainly wasn't, rent was quite enough. Surely she wouldn't though – I mean she went to all the effort of hiding it from her family she wouldn't get a court case involved or she would just let me expose the pictures. There wasn't even anything to expose, they weren't showing her face, no one would believe me without more proof and I was anxious about pursuing this story now. I cursed and laid down my pen again to think for a few moments, I had not gone into this with any sort of game plan and my father wasn't around to bail me out. It was just me and some grainy photographs not even properly developed yet on their little string line against one of the most powerful families in London. I had really got myself into it this time, then again, I did always like to get myself into it didn't I. 

Tossing and turning sometime later that night in bed I was awoken by what felt like a cold breeze blowing persistently across my face, as I opened my eyes I knew something was off. All my windows were closed, and although I knew my flat was crummy it wasn't that crummy. I mean okay, water came through the ceiling when it rained – which was frequently in England – and the bath was definitely not watertight. So what if the landing smelled disturbingly of gas or the bulbs in the hall blew every fortnight or so; my windows were not cracked and I was very proud of that, so where was that accursed breeze coming from? The moment I blinked to clear the heaviness from my eyes it was gone, like, well like the wind. I sighed, yawned and looked at the clock on the wall, it wasn't waking hours, but as I was awake I supposed it was time to go to work. Jacket crumpled, tie partially around my neck, half my collar up and half it down, I cut quite the impressively forgettable figure as I crossed the commons just as the sun was coming up, the smoke from Whitechapel was particularly thick this morning and in the gloom I could almost throw myself back into the days The Ripper had walked those streets – what I wouldn't give for a good ol' fashioned serial killer I mused to myself as I jumped gutters, but I had a case, and a purpose and- 

"Good morning," a tall figure blocked my path, dark coat with hat pulled down and all, Felton. Somehow it still made me jump, although now I knew her there were things I could use to pull down her disguise, the ever so slight click of her heels, the shape of her jaw (coal dusted as it was), the proper pronunciation she hadn't been able to drop from her words – wow now I sounded like a detective. 

"Dawson right?" she prompted, looking me up and down with ever so slight disapproval. "Your collar is unbuttoned by the way, and uh- your shoes are untied-" she opened her mouth to say more but shut it again, possibly finding too much to correct me on. "Look, are you still planning on publishing those photos?" 

I looked at her with all the confidence of one with the upper hand in a debate, "yes I am, unless you have money hidden away under that coat." 

She frowned and then cleared her expression, her look of calm caught me off guard, why wasn't she worried? "I have an offer." 

"What under your coat?" I raised an eyebrow meaning it just the way it sounded. 

She glared at me, correction, she glared down at me, like I was an infant who had done something wrong. I shut my mouth. 

"You want exclusives, I want to keep working cases, you must be able to see where I'm going with this." 

I did not. 

A return eyebrow raise, I was about to protest, she couldn't use my thing back at me but I was cut off. 

"I can give you insights on the cases I work before they're released to the public, and you can write on them, and get much more long term money than blackmailing me one time." 

Interest sparked in my brain, that was a very very tempting offer and I was definitely invested in it, I had been looking for a way to let Scotland Yard let me into their files for years and here she was standing in front of me offering it to me. 

"So we'd work together, I'll come to your cases and write them up." 

"No." she looked firm, "I don't want you on site I'll drop off my findings written up for you." 

"Absolutely not you could be feeding me utter horse shit." 

She looked surprised by the language but said nothing to contradict me, just seemed to mull it over in her mind for a few moments. "Do you realise what that would do to my career if anyone saw I had a reporter trailing after me like a lost puppy?" 

"Either you let me on site to make my own conclusions, or I publicise those photos, today." I folded my eyes knowing I had her over a barrel, she couldn't win this one. Felton looked at me and I knew even her big brain was at a loss for how to worm her way out 

"Fine, you can come with me, under the condition you do not speak to me unless I speak to you and do not acknowledge we know each other at any point." 

I grinned, "no problem." 

She held out her hand, taking her glove off for the formality, "Carter." 

"What?" That caught me by surprise, had I had her confused with the wrong person? 

"My name is Irene," 

"I know" I interrupted before she could finish and she blew out a breath annoyed. 

"But you can call me Carter." 

I didn't question it, keep the sources sweet as my dad would have said. 

"Dawson." 

"Yes," her voice was still cold, "I know."