The River Knows (14 page)

She was gripping her parasol so fiercely now, it was a wonder the handle did not snap. “Did this detective also investigate the third suicide that you mentioned? The one that took place that same month?”

“Joanna Barclay? Yes. He was obliged to look into it because he investigated the murder of Lord Gavin.”

“I see.”

She seemed to be having difficulty breathing.

“Are you feeling unwell?” he asked, abruptly concerned.

“No, I’m fine, thank you.” She hesitated. “I was not aware that you were associated with someone from Scotland Yard.”

“I do not advertise it to the world for obvious reasons. Fowler is equally cautious about keeping our connection quiet.”

“I see. You must admit that it is somewhat unusual for a gentleman of your rank to have a close acquaintance with a policeman.”

He shrugged. “Fowler and I share a mutual interest.”

“Proving that Hastings murdered Fiona?”

“Yes.”

“Can I assume that Mr. Fowler is the source of your information concerning Elwin Hastings?”

Anthony inclined his head. “He also supplied me with some background on Clement Corvus. Fowler has been most helpful.”

She gave him a brittle little smile. “How nice for you.”

15

A short time later Anthony escorted her to the front door of Number Twelve and bid her farewell.

“Send word to my address immediately if and when you hear from Miranda Fawcett,” he said as Mrs. Galt opened the door.

“I will,” she promised, desperately wanting to be rid of him.

He gave her a cool, assessing look and then stepped back. Nodding politely to Mrs. Galt, he went down the steps toward the waiting cab.

Louisa rushed into the hall, feeling as if a legion of demons were in pursuit. She practically hurled her bonnet and gloves to Mrs. Galt.

“Is Lady Ashton home?” she asked.

“Not yet, ma’am. She’s due back from her Garden Society meeting very soon, though.”

“I’ll be in the study.”

It was all she could do to walk, not run, down the hall. She went into the study and closed the door behind her. Clasping the knob behind her back with both hands, she sagged against the wooden panels.

She could not seem to catch her breath. It was as though she were wearing a steel corset. Her pulse was pounding. She wanted to flee, to hide, but there was nowhere to go.

She needed something for her nerves. Pushing herself away from the door, she crossed to the brandy table, yanked the stopper out of the decanter, and splashed a large amount of the contents into a glass. She swallowed too much the first time, sputtering wildly and choking a little. Gasping for air, she began to pace the room.

“Remain calm,” she said. “He cannot know who you are. There is no way he will ever learn the truth.”

Wonderful. Now she was talking to herself.

She took another swallow of brandy, a smaller sip this time, and went to the window. She looked out into the garden.

Inwardly she was reeling. Perfectly understandable, she assured herself. She had sustained one great shock followed by another. First there had been that devastating kiss. Then had come the equally devastating news that the man who had just thrilled her senses was personally acquainted with the detective who had investigated the murder of Lord Gavin.

She tried another sip of brandy. It was some time before her breathing returned to normal, but gradually the panic drained away.

It would be all right, she thought, setting the empty glass aside. She would have to be very careful, of course, but she was in no immediate danger of discovery. Clearly Anthony was consumed with his desire to avenge Fiona. As long as his attention was riveted entirely on achieving justice for the lady he had

loved and lost he had no reason to become overly curious about the woman who was helping him in the project. Did he?

She tried to think logically. Unfortunately, the brandy rather muddled her brain. One thing was obvious, however. It would be best if there were no more kisses. It would be extremely foolish to become involved in an illicit affair with Anthony Stalbridge. No good could come of it. Illicit affairs always came to bad ends.

A sense of gloom replaced the nervy fear. She gripped the edge of the window, leaned her forehead against the glass panes, and closed her eyes. What would it be like to be loved the way Anthony had once loved his dear Fiona? She knew that she would never learn the answer to that question.

16

Daisy Spalding awoke to a sea of pain. The opium concoction she had taken last night had worn off, leaving her to the anguish of her bruised and battered body. She sat up cautiously on the narrow cot and took stock. She had survived another client, but only by the skin of her teeth. If one of the other customers had not heard the noise through the walls and come to investigate, she would have been dead this morning.

The client last night had been the most violent one yet. She had seen the madness in his eyes when he had tied the gag around her mouth and bound her hands behind her back. She had been terrified, but by then it was too late.

She had worked in the brothel for only a few weeks. She did not think she would last the month. After Andrew had died, the man to whom he had owed money told her that she could repay the debt by going to work in Phoenix House for a couple of months. She had considered the river for the first time then, but the creditor had persuaded her.

“Phoenix House is not like other brothels,” he assured her. “All of the women who work there come from respectable backgrounds, just like you. They earn excellent money because they occupy a station far above that of the average streetwalker. They are courtesans, not street whores. Gentlemen are willing to pay well for the company of refined ladies.”

But a whore is a whore, Daisy thought. She had been a fool to think the business would be different just

because she had once been a lady.

Terrified of landing in the workhouse, she had accepted the offer. She did not discover until much later that when she went to work in Phoenix House, her husband’s creditor had received a handsome fee from the proprietor, Madam Phoenix.

Madam Phoenix had explained to her that she was not pretty enough for the regular customers. The only opening was for a woman who was willing to take on the rough trade. Some of the gentlemen liked getting a bit violent, she explained. It aroused them, but no serious damage was done.

Daisy got to her feet, cringing, and looked at her reflection in the cracked mirror over the washstand. Her eyes were black and blue. Her jaw was badly swollen. She was afraid to examine the rest of her body.

This time the damage was serious. Next time it might well prove fatal. If she was doomed to die at the age of twenty-two, she preferred to take her own life. Damned if she would give that privilege to a gentleman who would likely have a climax if she expired because of his brutality.

In spite of her bleak determination to seek the ultimate escape, however, her will to live prevailed. She had heard whispers of an establishment in Swanton Lane where women of the street could go for a hot meal. Some said that the woman who ran the place could sometimes help a girl find respectable work under another name.

What did she have to lose? Daisy thought. But she would have to be very careful. Madam Phoenix was cold and utterly ruthless. It was whispered that she was responsible for the mysterious disappearance of the former madam. And the hard-eyed man she entertained in her private quarters looked even more dangerous.

Daisy shuddered. If Madam Phoenix discovered that one of her prostitutes had fled to the Swanton Lane establishment, there was no telling what she might do. She would consider it a very bad example for the rest of the women of Phoenix House.

17

The note from Miranda Fawcett arrived the following morning. Anthony was still at home when he got word from Louisa. He whistled for a cab and went to Arden Square immediately.

Anticipation and a disturbing heat flooded through him as the vehicle halted at the steps of Number Twelve. It dawned on him that the prowling excitement he was feeling had nothing to do with the coming interview with Miranda Fawcett. He was aroused at the prospect of seeing Louisa again, of sitting close to her in the carriage.

Damnation. What was happening to him? He could not recall the last time he had felt this way simply because he was about to take a ride with a lady.

Louisa was waiting for him in a black gown, black gloves, and a black net veil that concealed her features. He wondered if the clothes were left over from the death of her husband. The thought that Louisa had once loved another man irritated him for some reason. He pushed it aside.

He had to admit the gown and veil made an excellent disguise. Until now he had not realized how perfectly anonymous a widow in full mourning was on the street.

“Do you often find it necessary to go about incognito in the course of your work?” he asked, handing her up into the carriage.

“I have discovered that widow’s weeds are quite useful on occasion,” she said, settling onto the seat.

He sat down across from her. She looked at him through her veil, more invitingly mysterious than ever. He forced himself to concentrate on the matter at hand.

“What did you learn from Miss Fawcett?” he asked.

“There was only a name and an address in Halsey Street.”

She handed him a piece of paper. He glanced down, reading quickly. “Benjamin Thurlow.”

She crumpled the black netting up onto the brim of her black hat and looked at him. Her face was flushed. Behind the lenses of her spectacles her eyes were bright with excitement. He wondered if she looked that way when she was in the grip of passion or if it was only her work as a journalist that inspired such enthusiasm.

“Are you acquainted with this Mr. Thurlow?” she asked.

He reflected briefly and then shook his head. “No.” He stood, raised the trap, and spoke to the driver. “Halsey Street, please.”

“Aye, sir.”

The vehicle rumbled forward into the fog.

“Clearly the next step is to interview him,” Louisa declared. “But we must be subtle about it. We do not want to tip our hand.”

“I understand, Mrs. Bryce,” he said politely. “I will endeavor to be discreet. I feel certain that I can succeed by following the excellent example you set. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the training in investigative work that you are so graciously providing me. I was certainly very fortunate to meet up with you. Who knows what grave mistakes I might have made had you not come along to set me straight in the fine art of making subtle inquiries.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Forgive me. I should not have presumed to lecture you. I fear I am not accustomed to working with a partner.”

“It appears we must both make adjustments.”

“I suppose so.”

He stretched out his legs and folded his arms. “You take your profession very seriously, don’t you? It is not a lark or a game to you.”

“Did you think it was?”

“It is difficult to imagine why a woman in your obviously comfortable situation would undertake a career as a journalist.”

“I find it very satisfying.”

“Yes, I can see that. Do you have informants other than Miranda Fawcett?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Miranda is extremely helpful, of course, and, as you have seen, I also have the advantage of Emma’s social connections and her knowledge of Society.” She paused. “But from time to time I also rely on another source.”

“Who is that?”

“Roberta Woods. She is dedicated to helping women who, for whatever reason, find themselves forced to make their living on the streets. She manages a little establishment in Swanton Lane where she serves meals to women who cannot afford them. She also directs those who want help to a place she calls The Agency.”

“What does it do?”

“The people there give the women training on a new device called a typewriter. Have you heard of such machines?”

He smiled. “My father invented one. He is still working on improvements. He believes it will revolutionize many aspects of industry and business.”

“He’s right.” Louisa suddenly glowed with enthusiasm. “It is a marvelous device. The people at The Agency say that there will soon be a typewriter in every business establishment in the country. Of course, that means that there is a growing need for people who are skilled in operating them.”

“I see. The Agency supplies typists to employers.”

“Yes. Because the skill is rare, many businesses are only too happy to hire trained women for such positions. The people at The Agency tell me that typewriters are opening up a whole new field of respectable employment for females. It is very exciting.”

“I know that career opportunities for women are very limited.”

“Few are ever entirely safe from the threat of finding themselves on the street. Even ladies from the most affluent levels of society turn up in Swanton Lane. Very often they are widows whose husbands left them penniless or in debt. They are forced to sell themselves to buy food and pay for their lodging.”

“I can see that you take a great interest in Roberta Woods’s soup kitchen. How did you learn about it?”

“After I came to live with Emma I took over the business of managing her charities for her. She has provided funding for Miss Woods’s establishment for years. Miss Woods and I have become well acquainted. We share some mutual interests when it comes to exposing gentlemen in Society who take advantage of others.”

He studied her. “What sort of information do you learn at that place?”

She smiled bleakly. “You would be amazed by how much the women of the night know about the men in the Polite World.”

“I have never given the matter much thought, but now that I do, I can see that prostitutes would be an excellent source of information.”

She looked at him. “Swanton Lane was where I learned that Hastings became a frequent customer of Phoenix House several months ago. He now has a weekly appointment there. I am told that he never cancels it for any reason.”

“Interesting.”

Her brows came together. “Don’t you find it odd that a gentleman would have a standing appointment at a brothel?”