The River Knows (29 page)

Hastings and his visits to Phoenix House.”

“That’s right, Roberta, please don’t apologize. I was delighted to get your message.” Louisa took the notepad and pencil out of her muff and put them down on the table. “What have you learned?”

They were sitting in the tiny upstairs parlor of the little house on Swanton Lane. It was midafternoon, and things were relatively quiet at the moment. The women of the streets seldom showed up until after dark. The muffled clang of pots and pans echoed from the kitchen, where the cook and her assistant were busy with preparations for the evening meal.

Roberta was a strong, vital woman who seemed animated from head to toe with the zealous energy and determination of a dedicated social reformer. She set the mugs on the table and sat down across from Louisa.

“A woman who claimed her name was Daisy showed up here just before dawn this morning,” she said. “The poor thing looked quite dreadful. She works at Phoenix House. A few days ago one of the customers beat her within an inch of her life.”

“Good heavens. Did she need a doctor?”

“She refused to see one. Said she couldn’t afford it. I told her that this establishment would pay the doctor’s fee, but she still refused. I could tell that she was badly frightened.”

“Of the man who beat her?”

“No, that is the interesting part.” Roberta’s eyes narrowed. “She was afraid of the proprietor of the brothel.”

“Madam Phoenix?”

“Yes.”

“Did she say why?”

“It seems that Daisy was more or less sold to the proprietor by one of her dead husband’s creditors.”

Louisa’s fingers tightened around the pencil. “Not the first time we’ve heard that sad story from a woman who works at Phoenix House, is it?”

“No,” Roberta agreed in steely tones. “It isn’t. In any event, Daisy was sure the proprietor would be furious if she discovered that one of her girls had run off before she had earned back her purchase price, so to speak.”

“Go on.”

Roberta drank some tea and put down the mug. “Daisy fled Phoenix House for good this morning. She had a little suitcase with her. She came here to ask for help. She said she’d heard rumors that someone at this establishment was willing to pay for information on one of the clients at Phoenix House. Elwin Hastings.”

“Did you give her some money?”

“Yes. Then I sent her to The Agency. She will be safe there, at least for now. They will conceal her identity.”

“What did Daisy tell you about Hastings?”

“Not a great deal, but you might find it interesting. Because of the beating, Daisy has been unable to earn her keep for the past few days. She was assigned to work as a maid until she healed, and she was told to keep out of sight of the customers. One of her tasks has been to scrub Madam Phoenix’s private bath every day.”

“Yes?”

“Well, yesterday, while she was going about her duties she overheard a conversation between Madam Phoenix and her lover.”

Louisa looked up. “The proprietor of the brothel has a lover?”

“Evidently. Daisy was in the bath, cleaning, at the time. She didn’t hear everything, but she did catch Elwin Hastings’s name.”

“What was said about him?”

“Daisy only caught snatches of the conversation, but she said that it was obvious that Madam Phoenix and her lover were arguing about Hastings. Madam Phoenix wanted to wait a little longer to do something. Her lover told her she should do it immediately.”

“Do what?”

Roberta moved one hand in a frustrated gesture. “That’s just it, Daisy didn’t know. All she could tell me was that Madam Phoenix and her lover disagreed about when something should be done about Hastings. She said the quarrel was quite intense.”

Louisa made another note and then sat back, pondering the possibilities. “Did she say who won the argument?”

Roberta made a face. “Madam Phoenix, of course. Daisy says she’s very strong willed. No one goes against her, not even her lover. According to Daisy he does whatever Madam Phoenix tells him to do.”

Louisa picked up the mug and drank some tea. “Did Daisy know the name of the lover?”

“She said no one knows his name. He comes and goes through the kitchen door, not the main entrance, and he always uses the servant’s stairs. The staff is instructed to allow him into the house whenever he shows up.”

“How often does he visit?”

“That was one of the interesting things Daisy told me,” Roberta said quietly. “It seems that the lover often meets Madam Phoenix in her private rooms at the same time that Hastings is getting his treatment.”

Louisa tapped the tip of the pencil against the table. “How did she describe him?”

“Said he was handsome enough, if you liked the hard-eyed type. Daisy does not like that sort, by the way. Dark-haired. Always wears an overcoat when he comes to visit.”

“That could describe a thousand men. Anything else?”

“One more thing,” Roberta said. “Daisy said he wore a very fine ring. Onyx and gold.”

Louisa caught her breath. Then she wrote the name very carefully in her notebook.

Quinby.

40

She hurried back to Arden Square, trying to make sense of what she had learned. It might mean nothing aside from the obvious, of course. What did it signify if Quinby was having an affair with Madam Phoenix? According to Daisy he had started visiting Phoenix House a couple of months ago. The implication was that he had met Madam Phoenix before he had become one of Hastings’s guards.

What was so odd about a liaison between Quinby and the brothel proprietor? Quinby was a handsome man, after all, if you didn’t mind those reptilian eyes. Madam Phoenix had every reason to be attracted to him and vice versa. They were probably two of a kind.

The door of Number Twelve opened before she could dig out her key.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Bryce.” Mrs. Galt stepped back. “There’s another message for you. It was delivered a few minutes ago. I put it on your desk.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Galt.”

Louisa untied the strings of her bonnet and hung it on a hook. She went down the hall to her study, stripping off her gloves.

The white envelope sat on the blotter. She picked it up, tore it open, and read the brief note written in a neat hand.

I have obtained the Milton at a reasonable price. However, another client is quite eager to purchase it and will likely pay more. I will give you until five o’clock this afternoon to come for the book. If I do not hear from you, I shall send word to the other customer.

Yrs.

Digby

Damn Digby. He would have to turn up the Milton this afternoon when she had other matters to deal with. She glanced at the tall clock in the corner. It was four-thirty. If she left immediately she could get to Digby’s Bookshop by five, pick up the book, and be home around five-thirty. There would be time enough to send word to Anthony about her recent discoveries after she returned from the shop.

She went back out into the hall, tugging on her gloves. “Mrs. Galt?”

The housekeeper appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “What is it, ma’am?”

“I must go out again.” Louisa went into the front hall and plucked the straw bonnet off the hook. “The message was from Digby. He has found a book that I am anxious to buy. I will be back by five-thirty at the latest.”

“Very well, ma’am. Best take your cloak. You don’t want to catch a chill.”

“You’re right.” Louisa took down the cloak and pulled it around her shoulders. “I’m expecting Mr. Stalbridge to call. If he shows up, please ask him to wait.”

She snatched up her muff and flew out the door.

41

She opened the door of Digby’s Bookshop and walked into the gloomy interior. There were no customers. Digby was not at his desk behind the counter.

“Mr. Digby?”

There was no response. The door to the back room was closed.

She waited a moment. When no one appeared, she went around behind the counter and knocked on the inner door.

“Mr. Digby? Are you in there? I’ve come for the Milton. It is not yet five. If you have already sold the book to another client I will be most annoyed.”

There was no sound from the other side of the door.

She wrapped her gloved hand around the knob and twisted gently. The door swung inward, revealing a shadowy, unlit, very cluttered back room. Books were piled high on a workbench. Crates and boxes were stacked everywhere. There was a large roll of brown paper and a pair of scissors on a table.

A faint, rather sweet odor made her wrinkle her nose. She was trying to identify it when she noticed the sturdy shoes sticking out from behind an open carton. The shoes extended from the ends of the legs of a pair of brown trousers.

“Mr. Digby. What on earth?”

She rushed into the room and around the carton. Digby lay sprawled face up on the floor. His eyes were closed. There was no sign of blood anywhere. Perhaps he had suffered a heart attack or stroke.

She crouched beside him, took off a glove, and felt for the pulse at Digby’s throat. Relief swept through her when she discovered that he was still breathing, albeit lightly, and that his pulse was steady, if somewhat slow. She started to loosen his tie.

A floorboard creaked behind her. It was all the warning she got before a powerful masculine arm clamped around her and hauled her upright. She opened her mouth to scream. A large crumpled square of fabric—a gentleman’s handkerchief or a napkin—was shoved against her nose and mouth, forcing her to breathe through the fabric. The sweet odor of chloroform was inescapable now, its fumes choking her nostrils and filling her lungs. A wave of dizziness threatened to swamp her senses. She struggled frantically, only to discover that her forearms were pinned to her sides.

She kicked out furiously, her foot colliding with one of the cartons, overturning it. She tried again. This time there was a satisfying thud followed by an angry oath when the heel of one of her walking boots made contact with her assailant’s shin.

“Damn bitch,” Quinby muttered. He tightened his grip on her. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth. If I had my way, I’d slit your throat and be done with it.”

The dizziness was getting worse. She felt warm all over. Her stomach twisted. She had heard somewhere that chloroform was generally effective within a couple of minutes, often less; too much could kill. There was very little time.

She stopped clawing at Quinby’s arms and abruptly went limp, hoping he would assume that the drug had done its job, but her captor was clearly not about to take chances. He kept the dreadful cloth tight across her mouth and nose.

She could barely think at all now. Everything was muddled. She was vaguely aware that there was something she had to do before she passed out.

Quinby dragged her across the room, evidently eager to get her out of the shop. She felt the weight of her muff dangling from the thin strip of velvet that secured it to her left wrist. She wriggled her hand weakly, hoping that, if Quinby noticed, he would assume the motion was merely an indication that her struggles were almost over.

The last thing she heard was the sound of a door being opened. She shook her hand slightly. It seemed to her blurry senses that the weight of the muff fell away, but she could not be certain. Darkness and the terrifying perfume of the chloroform claimed her.

42

What do you mean, she hasn’t returned?” Anthony removed his gold watch from a pocket and verified the time. “It’s nearly six-thirty. She’s an hour late.”

“Yes, Mr. Stalbridge, I’m aware of that.” Mrs. Galt’s mouth pursed in a disapproving manner. “It has been my experience that Mrs. Bryce keeps unpredictable hours. In addition, she is very much inclined to go out without giving anyone a clear notion of her destination or an idea of when she will return At least this time she did mention that she was visiting Digby’s Bookshop.”

Interrogating Mrs. Galt was useless. He surveyed the front hall. Louisa’s bonnet and cloak were gone. That told him only that she was not home. He already knew that much.

“You say she asked me to wait?” he said.

“Yes, sir. When she came home from her visit to Swanton Lane, she said something about wanting to speak with you as soon as possible.”

That caught his attention. “She went to Swanton Lane this afternoon?”

“Yes, sir.” Mrs. Galt snorted. “I don’t know why she insists upon going there so often. It’s all very well to give money to those engaged in charitable work, but there’s no need for a proper lady to become personally involved with that sort of thing.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Galt. You’ve been very helpful. I am going out to look for Mrs. Bryce.”

“Good luck is all I can say, sir.” Mrs. Galt opened the door.

He went down the steps, thinking about his next move. Night was coming on swiftly. He did not like knowing that Louisa was out there, somewhere, on her own.

He would start with Digby’s. Perhaps the bookseller would have some idea of where she had gone after she left his shop.

43

Louisa awakened to a vague headache and the odor of damp that is generally associated with basements and other belowground spaces. She was lying on a hard, cold surface. Panic slammed through her.

I’m in a morgue. Dear heaven, I’m dead.

No, that wasn’t right. Surely if she were dead she would not be so uncomfortable. Unless, of course, she had gone straight to hell for the sin of being a murderess.

She opened her eyes. Close, deep shadows enveloped her, but there were bars of light on one wall. The bands of light were quite distinct, not fuzzy. Good. She was still wearing her glasses. It was another clue indicating that she was still in the realm of the living.

She tried to summon up some coherent memories that would explain her present situation. An image of Digby’s inert body sprawled on the floor floated through her mind. She suddenly recalled the terrifying sensation of being pinned in a grip of steel while she kicked and struggled.

“Damn bitch.” Quinby’s voice. After that, everything went blank.

She sat up cautiously and pushed her glasses more firmly onto her nose. Mercifully the headache did not worsen. Her stomach felt unsettled, however. She took some slow, deep breaths. That seemed to help.