Amanda Quick - The River Knows

“How do you plan to simulate a heart attack?”

“It is no great secret that a sufficient quantity of chloroform will cause the heart to fail.”

“And then I go into the river, is that it?”

“I’m afraid so. You will leave a sorrowful note behind stating that you lost your heart to Mr. Stalbridge and that you recognized that the affair was doomed because of the difference in your stations. Women are always throwing themselves off bridges because of illicit love affairs. Amazing, isn’t it?” Victoria shook her head. “I have never understood why anyone would die for love, but there you have it.”

“Mr. Stalbridge will not believe it.”

“My dear Mrs. Bryce. You really do not comprehend the nature of men. I told you, Stalbridge is only interested in you because he thinks you can help him bring down Hastings. Trust me, once he learns that Hastings is dead, he will be satisfied that his hunt is concluded. There is no reason why he would feel compelled to investigate your death. You are simply not important to him.”

“I think you are the one who is in danger of misjudging Mr. Stalbridge. I agree that he is not in love with me, but I assure you he will nevertheless feel an obligation to question my sudden demise.”

“You are deluded, Mrs. Bryce.” Victoria paused. “Do you know, I regret the necessity of killing you.”

“Do you really expect me to believe that?”

“It’s true. Aside from your appallingly naïve views on the subject of Anthony Stalbridge, you are an interesting woman. I admire your accomplishments as a journalist. Under other circumstances, I would have enjoyed a closer acquaintanceship with you. I’m sure we would have much to discuss.”

“I doubt it.”

Victoria paid no attention. “Unfortunately, due to your journalistic endeavors, you have become a problem for me. It became clear that your inquiries were bringing you closer and closer to the truth. It was only a matter of time before you realized my true identity. Sadly, you are in the same situation as Fiona Risby. I’m afraid you know too much, Mrs. Bryce. I can hardly resume my place in Society after Hastings is gone and create new investment opportunities for the gentlemen of the Polite World if a correspondent for the Flying Intelligencer is aware that the grieving widow was a former brothel madam.”

Marcus planted his hands on his hips and squinted upward, surveying the illuminated windows on the highest floor of Phoenix House.

“Are you certain she’s in there?” he asked.

“No,” Anthony said, “but it seems the most likely possibility. The truth is, I don’t know where else to look.”

They were standing in the alley behind the brothel. He and his father were dressed in sturdy, working-class clothing that had been purchased hastily from a shop in Oxford Street. Low-crowned hats were pulled down over their eyes. Behind them was a horse and cart. Night shrouded the scene.

He knew all too well that his plan, such as it was, could only be called desperate, but he had been unable to think of any other approach to the problem and his intuition warned him that time was running out. He could not allow himself to dwell on the possibility that Louisa might already be dead; that way lay madness.

“Odds are they would not keep a prisoner on the ground floor,” he said. “It would be too obvious. Roberta Woods told me that the brothel was built on the foundation of an ancient monastery and that there are some old basement rooms underground. Once the commotion begins, I’ll start there.”

“I’ll work from the top floor down,” Marcus said.

“We will meet in the kitchens.”

Marcus looked at him. “What are we going to do if we don’t find her?”

“I do not intend to come out empty-handed,” Anthony said evenly. “At the very least I will bring Madam Phoenix or Quinby with me. I suspect that either one of them can tell me the truth.”

Marcus raised his bushy brows. “Provided he or she will talk to you.”

Anthony flexed the fingers of his left hand. “One of them will talk.”

Marcus scrutinized him for a moment and then exhaled deeply. “Very well. I am ready to do my part whenever you give the word.”

“Now,” Anthony said.

Marcus reached into the back of the cart and rummaged around under the tarp. He withdrew a basket that contained four bottles bearing the labels of a very expensive brandy. Without another word, he started toward the tradesmen’s entrance of the brothel.

Anthony watched the door open. A harried-looking woman appeared.

“I’ve got the brandy Madam Phoenix ordered for her special guests tonight,” Marcus said, doing a rather good job of assuming a working-class accent.

The woman frowned. “No one told me anything about a brandy delivery.”

Marcus shrugged. “If ye don’t want the brandy, it’s none of my affair. My employer said he’d bill Madam Phoenix for these bottles at the end of the month. Maybe she won’t even notice that she paid for brandy she never received.”

The woman hesitated and then widened the door. “Very well. Take the brandy into the reception room. Beth will likely know what to do with it.” Marcus disappeared inside the house.

Anthony looked at his watch. He did not have long to wait for the first signs of smoke to come, drifting from a partially open window on the top floor. Screams and shouts of alarm went up almost immediately.

“Fire.” The cry came from somewhere inside the brothel.

Although the smoke was difficult to make out in the darkness, Anthony knew that it would soon fill the hallways inside the house, creating panic.

A short time later people began pouring out of the kitchen door into the alley, cooks and their apron-draped assistants appearing first. They were followed by three maids in skimpy uniforms. They all milled about, talking loudly and gazing up at the plumes of smoke now billowing from the top-floor windows.

“Someone should send for the fire brigade,” the cook declared.

“Madam Phoenix won’t want her guests embarrassed,” a buxom maid said urgently. “There are some very important gentlemen inside.”

“I doubt if she wants the house to burn down around her ears either,” someone snapped.

“I’m sure she’ll be out herself soon enough,” the maid said. “We should let her decide what to do.”

Smoke appeared at another window. More screams echoed in the night.

Anthony went toward the tradesmen’s entrance. No one looked at him or questioned him when he entered the building.

Roberta Woods had drawn a rough floor plan of the establishment based on a description given by a woman known only as Daisy. He had studied it earlier, trying to think the way a kidnapper would think.

The most obvious place to conceal a prisoner was the ancient basement. According to the young woman who had recently left her position in the brothel, Madam Phoenix had forbidden the staff to go down into the basement unless specifically ordered to do so.

He went along a hall, searching for the door that opened onto the basement stairs. A familiar-looking, middle-aged man rushed past him, red-faced and nervous. His open shirt and unknotted tie flapping wildly. Anthony ducked his head and angled his face toward the wall, but there was no need to be concerned that the Earl of Pembray would recognize him. Pembray was clearly intent only on escape.

From what Anthony had heard about the formidable Lady Pembray, that seemed wise. That grand dame would be extremely displeased if a mention of her husband’s name in conjunction with a fire in a notorious brothel appeared in the papers.

Two more partially clad men and three women in filmy, near-transparent gowns fled past Anthony. None of them paid him any attention.

He found the door to the basement precisely where Daisy had indicated. It was locked, as she had warned. He took out his set of lock picks and went to work.

Faint, muffled shouts of alarm brought Louisa to her feet. She went to the door of the cell and gripped the iron bars. Boots sounded on the stone stairs.

Quinby, wearing his overcoat, came out of the darkness of the stairwell. In the flaring lantern light she could see that his features were set in grim, determined lines.

He had a large, old-fashioned iron key ring in one hand. In his other hand he gripped a revolver.

“What is it?” she asked. “What’s happening?”

“A fire has broken out somewhere upstairs. We can’t risk having the fire brigade find your body here. There would be too many questions. You’re coming with me. You’re going into the river now instead of later.”

He shoved the key into the lock of the cell and twisted. The ancient door opened reluctantly, grating and grinding on its hinges.

A glimmer of anticipation sparked to life within Louisa. A fire meant chaos and confusion. Perhaps she would have an opportunity to attract attention or even escape.

The door swung open. Quinby shoved the gun into the pocket of his coat and reached into the cell. His hand closed around Louisa’s upper arm.

“Hurry,” he ordered, yanking her arm. “There is no time to waste.”

“I trust you do not expect me to run in this gown,” she said. “It is quite impossible. Everyone knows that if you force a woman to move too quickly, her legs become tangled in her skirts.”

“If you go down I will drag you,” he vowed. “The choice is yours. Do not even think of screaming. No one will hear you.”