Amanda Quick - The River Knows

The murderer had put the pistol to Thurlow’s head and pulled the trigger. Then he had arranged the suicide scene and conducted a very thorough search of the premises before leaving the note and exiting through the back door.

But if Hastings had hired Slip to watch Thurlow, Anthony thought, there was now a gaping hole in his theory that Hastings had murdered the gambler.

“Obviously, she was utterly humiliated when you offered assistance,” Emma said. “Judging by your description of her, she was once a gently bred, respectable woman. It was no doubt the remnants of her tattered pride that caused her to refuse your kindness and generosity.”

“I suppose you are right,” Louisa said, thinking about the encounter with the prostitute during the night. “She did seem gravely offended.”

They were seated in the library, drinking tea. The morning had dawned clear, but the fog had crept back early in the afternoon, slinking into the streets of Arden Square and pooling in the small park.

“It is a sad and all-too-common story.” Emma picked up the teapot. “One reads about it frequently in the sensation press. There are so many ways a respectable woman can find herself forced to walk the streets. The death or illness of a husband, bankruptcy, debts, divorce, lack of family—any or all of them can render a woman penniless overnight.”

“I know,” Louisa said quietly.

“Of course you do, my dear.” Emma raised her brows. “But do not forget that although you found yourself in desperate straits on two separate occasions, you managed to land on your feet each time without resorting to streetwalking.”

“Sheer luck.”

“No,” Emma said firmly. “It was not luck at all. You are an extremely resourceful woman, my dear. After your father died and the creditors took everything but his books, you saved yourself by going into trade. Following the horrible situation with Lord Gavin, you came about yet again by changing your name, creating a fictitious character reference for yourself and applying to an agency. It was your own ingenuity and determination that kept you off the streets, Louisa, not luck. Never forget that.”

Louisa smiled wanly. “You are always good for my spirits, Emma.”

Emma looked at her curiously. “What is it that bothers you about the woman you saw in the park last night?”

“I’m not certain, to be honest. I do not believe that she’s been in her present dire circumstances for long. Her cloak appeared to be of good quality and quite fashionable, as were the veil and gloves. If she knew she was going to be facing poverty after the death of her husband, why did she spend so much money on stylish mourning apparel?”

“Perhaps she did not find out the extent of her disaster until sometime after the funeral. That is often the way it is for women. Their husbands never discuss their financial affairs with them. The widows do not learn of their true circumstances until it is too late.”

“Yes. Well, there is nothing more to be done in that quarter.” Louisa set aside her teacup and opened her little notebook. “If you don’t mind, I would like to ask you a few more questions about Victoria Hastings.”

“Certainly.” Emma’s head tilted slightly in inquiry. “Why does she interest you?”

“Mr. Stalbridge suspects that Hastings murdered her as well as Fiona Risby. It occurs to me that since we are having very little luck coming up with a motive for Fiona’s death, it might make sense to try to reason out why Hastings killed his wife. It seems to me that there must be some sort of link between the two murders.”

That afternoon she took her customary path across a large park to Digby’s Bookshop. The fog had thickened into a seemingly impenetrable sea, but she knew her way very well.

She had the park to herself. This was not the sort of day that brought out kite-flying children and nannies with their charges.

When she reached the far side of the park she found the traffic in the street only moderately heavy. Carriages and omnibuses moved slowly through the mist like a fleet of clattering ghost ships. There were very few pedestrians about.

She hurried across the street and entered the bookshop, bracing herself for the pang of melancholy and the small, icy chill she always experienced when she walked into Digby’s. The sight of the shelves crammed with books and the smell of the leather bindings never failed to stir old memories and more recent fears.

Albert Digby, small, stooped, and balding, put down the day’s edition of the Flying Intelligencer that he had been perusing and peered owlishly at Louisa over the rims of his spectacles. As usual, he was visibly annoyed by the intrusion of a customer.

“Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Bryce.”

She gave her business to Digby for two reasons. The first was that he was an extremely knowledgeable bookseller with a wide array of contacts among collectors. The second reason she had chosen Digby’s was because she had never met him personally during the two years when she was the proprietor of Barclay’s Books, so there was no way he could recognize her.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Digby.” She went to the counter. “I got your message. I’m delighted to hear that you were finally able to secure the copy of Woodson’s Aristotle.”

“Wasn’t easy locating the specific copy you wanted. But I did manage to obtain it for you at a good price, if I do say so myself.”

“I appreciate your negotiating skills, Mr. Digby.”

“Bah, Glenning’s heir doesn’t know a damn thing about books, nor does he care to learn. He is happy enough to sell off every volume he inherited from his father. His only concern is the money he got when the old man cocked up his toes.”

Digby disappeared behind the counter. When he straightened he had a parcel wrapped in brown paper in his hand. He put it down on the battered wooden surface and unwrapped it slowly. The volume that was revealed was bound in red leather.

A thrill of hope swept through her. It certainly looked like the right book. She picked it up, opened it slowly, and began turning the pages, hardly daring to hope.

When she saw the small handwritten notations, she knew for certain. It wasn’t just another copy of Woodson’s Aristotle; it was the very same copy that she had been forced to sell last year, her father’s copy. One of the two books she had stuffed into the suitcase on that dreadful night.

She closed the book, trying not to let her excitement show. “I am very pleased. How did you manage to track it down?”

He looked sly. “Those of us in the book business have our ways, Mrs. Bryce.”

“I understand. Now about the Milton—”

“You’d best forget about that one. I’ve told you before, the new owner made it clear he would only sell if the price was right. Between you and me, Mrs. Bryce, you can’t afford the book.”

“Yes, well, people’s circumstances change as they did when Glenning died and left the Aristotle to a son who didn’t want it and didn’t know its value. I would be extremely grateful if you would occasionally remind the owner of the Milton that you have a client who is interested in the book.”

“I’ll do as you wish, Mrs. Bryce, but it’s a waste of my time.”

She gave him a fixed smile. “Thank you.” She glanced at the newspaper on the counter. “I see you read the Flying Intelligencer.”

He followed her glance and grimaced. “Cheap sensation rag, like all the rest. Except for the Times, of course. But I buy it whenever there’s a report from I. M. Phantom in it.”

“I see.”

“Fascinating case of a young gentleman’s death today. Outward appearances indicate he took his own life. Seems the victim had a pile of gambling debts. But I. M. Phantom says that rumors are circulating to the effect that it may have been murder. Makes you wonder how many other murders go unsolved simply because it looks like the victim committed suicide.”

“Yes, it does.”

She paid for the book and went back outside. The fog was so heavy now that it was difficult to make out the trees in the vast expanse of the park. She wondered uneasily if there was a risk of becoming disoriented in such dense mist. What was she worrying about? All she had to do was stay on the path, and she would be fine.

She crossed the street and plunged into the sea of vapor.

She judged she was a third of the way through the park when she heard the soft brush of a shoe on gravel behind her. Her hands suddenly felt very cold inside her gloves. A tiny flicker of electricity touched the nape of her neck, lifting every fine hair.

She stopped and turned very quickly, searching the featureless gray mist. There was nothing to be seen in the fog except the vague, shadowy outlines of some of the nearer trees. She listened intently for a few seconds, but there were no more footsteps.

She started walking again, hurrying more quickly now. She was on the edge of panic, which was ridiculous. What was wrong with her? There was someone else on the path behind her. What of it? It was a public park.

She wondered if this edgy sensation was an indication that her nerves were starting to fail. She had to get control of herself.

The footsteps started in behind her again. In spite of the little lecture on self-mastery, her anxiety redoubled. Every instinct she possessed was urging her to break into a run, but if it was a man who was following her and if he elected to pursue her, running would do no good. Garbed in a gown, even one fashioned according to the most modern principles of dress design, she could not hope to outrun a man in trousers.