Amanda Quick - The River Knows

She tugged on a hidden lever. The bookcase swung open, revealing a narrow passage that was dimly illuminated by a wall sconce. She moved inside and closed the panel behind her.

The original owner had ordered the concealed passageway built because he did not like to encounter servants on the main stairs or in the formal hallways. The hidden corridors allowed the staff to move unobtrusively throughout the house without being seen by their employer or his guests.

The former proprietor of the brothel had found another use for the secret passageways. After she disposed of her predecessor, Madam Phoenix had continued the tradition. At various points along the way small holes had been cut in the walls, allowing views into the adjoining rooms. The openings were discreetly concealed with paintings on the opposite side of the walls. The occupants of the rooms were unaware that they sometimes provided amusing entertainment for those who paid for the view.

Only the most valued clients were informed that the opportunity to watch others indulging in a variety of sexual acts was available. The fee was exorbitant, of course, but thus far none who had been offered the chance to take advantage of the service had refused to pay it.

Some distance along the corridor she descended a cramped flight of steps. She went a short distance along another corridor and stopped in front of a small hole in the wall.

The room on the other side was lit by a gas lamp that had been turned down very low. The walls and ceiling were covered in black velvet. A bed occupied the center of the room. It was sheathed in ebony silk sheets. Black velvet manacles dangled from each of the four stout posts.

There was a glass-fronted cabinet against one wall. Inside were a variety of devices, including several sizes of whips and some unusual implements.

As she watched, the door of the room opened. One of the pertly dressed maids ushered the client inside.

“Miss Justine gave orders that you are to undress, fold your clothes, and lie down on the bed to await her pleasure,” the maid said.

The client nodded eagerly. “I understand.”

The maid departed. Metal clanged on metal when she locked the door behind her.

The client undressed with obvious enthusiasm. He folded his clothes neatly and put them on the dresser. He was already fully aroused. He lay facedown on the bed.

The key scraped in the lock again. The door opened to admit a tall woman dressed in a severe, tightly corseted dark gown. She looked like a governess.

“You may stand beside the bed,” the woman said in a cool, bored voice.

“Yes, Miss Justine.”

The client obediently stood.

“Go to the cabinet of correction equipment and select a whip. The large one this time, I think. I can see that you did not fold your clothes as neatly as you ought to have done. You must be punished.”

“Yes, Miss Justine.”

The client opened the cabinet and removed the whip.

“Kiss the whip before you give it to me and then put on the blindfold.”

“Yes, Miss Justine.”

The client dutifully pressed his lips to the hilt of the whip before handing it to her. He walked to a table, picked up a strip of black silk, and wrapped it around his head, covering his eyes.

“Lie on the bed. Facedown.”

“Yes, Miss Justine.”

The client used his hands to feel his way back down onto the black sheets. When he was in position Miss Justine walked around the bed in a leisurely manner pausing at each post to secure his wrists and ankles. She picked up the whip.

Madam Phoenix turned away from the opening in the wall and started back toward the staircase that led up to her study. There was no pleasure to be had watching Elwin Hastings undergo his punishment. The bastard enjoyed it, after all. He paid dearly for it.

She went back to her private quarters via the concealed hallways.

Things were going very well here at Phoenix House, but a problem loomed. It was clear that something would have to be done about Louisa Bryce. She was asking far too many questions.

She opened the door of her private apartment. He was waiting for her, as she had expected.

“Darling.” She smiled and went into his arms.

He kissed her deeply, hungrily. His fingers found the fastenings of her gown. A few minutes later he pulled her down onto the bed.

The restaurant was the one they had begun using a little over a year ago when they had wished to meet privately. As was their custom they occupied a booth at the rear of the premises. From that position Anthony and Fowler both had a clear view of the entrance.

The small establishment was owned by a French chef and served a truly remarkable coq au vin. It also boasted an excellent selection of wine. It’s chief attraction, however, was that it was tucked away in a tiny, anonymous lane, quite remote from Scotland Yard. Fowler did not have to be concerned about being spotted by any of his colleagues.

“I told you last year that Gavin’s murder and Miss Barclay’s suicide had no connection to the deaths of Miss Risby and Mrs. Hastings,” Fowler said. He forked up a bite of the chicken.

“I’m sure you’re right.” He had to be careful about this line of questioning, Anthony thought. There was a bond between himself and Fowler because of their mutual interest in learning the truth about Fiona Risby’s death, but Fowler was still a detective. “Nevertheless, I find it interesting that so many women chose to cast themselves into the Thames in the space of less than a month. What do you know about Lord Gavin?”

Fowler snorted. “As far as the Yard is concerned, the world is better off without him. I believe his widow is equally pleased to be free of the bastard.”

The vehemence in Fowler’s tone made Anthony pause. He lowered his fork slowly back down to his plate. “You did not mention your strong feelings on the matter when we discussed Gavin last year.”

“No offense, sir, but I didn’t know you well at the time.” Fowler picked up his wineglass and took a sip. “If you will recall, we had only just met. I told you as much as I thought you needed to know in order to satisfy yourself that there was no link between the Gavin affair and Fiona Risby’s death.”

“I see. Now, of course, you have made me curious. Why are you pleased that Gavin is no longer among the living?”

Fowler’s brows rose. “Were you acquainted with him, sir?”

“Only in passing. Saw him occasionally at the clubs, but we were never friends.”

Fowler glanced at the adjoining booths, assuring himself that they were still empty. He lowered his voice. “Lord Gavin was, shall we say, not unknown to those of us involved in murder investigations at the Yard.”

Anthony went cold. “I never heard any rumors to that effect.”

“Of course not. My superiors were careful to keep it all extremely quiet. There would have been hell to pay if it got out that we had linked his name with an investigation. Gavin would have been furious. Everyone involved at the Yard would have lost his position.”

“I understand.”

“You must not repeat any of what I am going to tell you in your clubs, sir.”

“You have my oath on it.”

Fowler nodded once, satisfied. “Very well. A few months before Gavin’s death the proprietor of a glove shop, a young widow who had taken over her husband’s business, was raped and beaten almost to death. She was found in a state of shock by her shopgirl, who summoned the police.”

“Go on.”

“The victim named Lord Gavin as her attacker.”

Anthony stilled. “I read nothing about that in the press.”

“Of course not.” Fowler snorted. “It was hushed up immediately. Among other things, the proprietor of the glove shop was not the most credible of witnesses. She was having an affair with a married man at the time and had been overheard quarreling with her lover.”

Anthony put down his fork. “So it was assumed that he was the one who had beaten her in a fit of jealous rage and that she had named Lord Gavin as her assailant rather than reveal her lover’s name.”

“Precisely. In the end the victim suffered an overwhelming attack of nerves and confessed that she had lied about Gavin having assaulted her.”

“Surely you are not going to tell me that she plucked Gavin’s name out of thin air and gave it to you?”

“No. He was one of her customers. Gavin purchased two pairs of gloves from her in the weeks before she was assaulted.”

“Did you speak with Gavin?”

“He refused my request for an interview. With no evidence and my only witness changing her mind about the facts of the case, there was nothing more I could do.”

“I sense the tale does not end there.”

“No,” Fowler said, grim-faced. “It does not. A month later another single woman living alone was found dead in the rooms above her shop. She had been raped, beaten, and stabbed to death.”

Anthony pushed his plate aside, his appetite gone. “That murder was in the press. As I recall, there were no arrests.”

“Because there was no evidence. The victim was unable to tell us anything because she was dead. However, there were certain similarities to the first assault that bothered me. I eventually found one witness who saw a man of Gavin’s description entering the shop on one or two occasions in the days preceding the crime, but that was not enough to act upon.”

“What did you do?”

Fowler widened the fingers of one hand. “I wanted to assign a constable to keep an eye on Gavin for a time, but my superiors were afraid that Gavin might notice and complain.”