by Ava Rose
“I do understand,” he said in a soothing tone. “Do you know where they got the information?”
“No, but they’re not one to tell lies.”
“Can you ask them?”
“Yes, of course. I can go there today.”
“I believe someone is playing at something behind the scenes. Misdirection everywhere—first toward you, and now the Raven. Finding out who is doing the misdirecting, might lead us to the killer.”
Libby’s eyes brightened. “Truly?”
Henry nodded. “I will leave you now, but we should meet again soon.” He got to his feet and she rose from her chair.
“Thank you, Henry,” she said quietly, sincerely.
Henry had to check to make sure his hands were firmly at his sides as they should be. The urge to touch her was almost too much. With a curt nod in her direction, he stalked out of the room as quickly as he was able to. The butler who had received his greatcoat and hat was nowhere to be found, unfortunately.
He swiveled and found Libby in the drawing room entrance with a puzzled look on her face.
“My coat. I gave it to the butler.”
She crossed the hall to open a door and slip inside—the cloakroom, perhaps. When she reappeared, she had his coat and hat with her.
“I would ask you why you are in such a hurry to leave, but I suspect you would not give me a straight answer.”
“You are coming to know me already,” he murmured as he collected his things from her.
“You are not the only one with the gift of reading people, Henry.”
He quirked a smile. “I am starting to see that.”
The journey to Sarah’s shop felt longer this time, but then, Libby was anxious to arrive. She was in such a hurry to climb down from the carriage that she almost forgot her black-beaded reticule on the seat.
Thankfully, there was only one client in Sarah’s premises and it looked like they had just concluded their business.
“Did you find him?” Sarah asked as soon as they were alone.
“Yes, but it seems as if he didn’t do it, either.”
If Libby didn’t know better, she would think that was relief that just crossed her friend’s face. She dismissed the thought as ridiculous, and carried on with what she had come for. “Where did you get the information about the hit, Sarah?”
“A man who supplies me with Belgian lace also supplies liquor to The Barbican. I heard it from him.”
“What is his name?” she asked urgently.
“Terrance Read.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
Sarah penned down an address on a piece of paper, folded it, and gave it to Libby who nodded her thanks.
“I’m glad I could help,” Sarah said. “But really, what is going on, Libby?”
“It appears someone is spreading rumors; giving false trails. We think tracking down that person will lead us to the true killer and I can finally clear my name.”
“Oh, please be careful. And remember that I am here if you need anything,” Sarah assured her.
Libby was glad she had such supportive friends. It marked her as a very fortunate lady, despite the current circumstances.
She left La Robe Dorée and studied the address on the paper. Roxbury. It was not the safest of neighborhoods, but she did not want to drag Anna to a place like that and asking Pen to go with her was not an option. He would take over, for sure.
And Henry? It felt quite strange thinking of him by his Christian name. For some reason she hesitated to call on him. When Henry was around, her feelings were all aflutter and she had trouble thinking straight. Perhaps it would be all right to check this out on her own, and then call upon Henry to assist should any additional leads come to light. I can do this, she thought. I don’t need Henry to hold my hand.
Libby’s heart sped up. Roxbury was a fast-growing area and a good place for merchants and businesses, but it was not free of crime. Footpads often attacked the upper-class who dared venture out after nightfall, and there had been murders and other crimes often centered around the debauched gambling dens that had made the neighborhood infamous.
But she had to brave it, if she wanted to find out the truth.
CHAPTER NINE
Boston Police Department
“A witness came forward early this morning.” Montgomery handed Henry the case file. “On the last page.”
Henry opened to the page and read the witness report.
A lady fitting Libby’s description had bashed Mr. Hart on the head with a boulder and then stabbed him. The witness claimed to have seen a carriage stop on the side of the road in a street in Roxbury after midnight on the day the murder had occurred. Mr. Hart had come out of a bar staggering and appeared drunk. A woman had alighted from the carriage and walked up to him before they had a heated conversation. She pulled him into a nearby alley where she killed him. Afterward, someone else came to cart the body away.
Henry found many things wrong with the witness’s statement.
“Who is the witness?”
“A lady. For her safety, we are keeping her anonymous,” Montgomery replied.
“A proper lady?”
Montgomery nodded.
“I see you are still keeping information from me.” The police did not share everything and sometimes they dangled information before him like a carrot on a stick to entice him to join them.
“You know we can’t. Besides, I took the statement myself, so only I know who she truly is. If you want full information, you will have to become one of us.”
Never.
Henry dismissed that with an uncaring wave of his hand. “You said the witness is a lady.”
“Yes.”
“In Roxbury, after midnight. Montgomery, do you not find anything wrong with both the witness and the statement?” Henry gave the commander a disbelieving look.
“That is why I called you in.”
Irritated, Henry snapped the folder shut. “So, you are letting me do all the work.”
“Let me be honest with you, son. We have many reservations regarding this case. We are dealing with a very influential family here.”
A bitter laugh escaped his throat. “That is cowardly.”
“Maybe it is. You may no longer feel as you did earlier, but we are still looking for a murderer. If she is found guilty, it will be a shame to cover this up.”
“Then don’t!” Henry snapped.
Montgomery was quiet for a very long time with his eyes fixed on the folder in Henry’s hands. “It is not that simple, DeHavillend.”
“So you just stay out of it? That is your way of bringing justice to the city?”
The commander did not respond, and Henry sighed. Instead of attacking the police about what they were doing wrong, perhaps he should focus even more energy into solving this case. “She didn’t do it,” he stated.
Montgomery’s brows rose. “The witness report—”
“Is full of holes.”
Tugging down his uniform coat and removing lint from his sleeve, Montgomery said, “Take a seat and we’ll work out the holes.”
Henry did as requested, and opened the file again, this time removing the paper containing the witness’s statement completely.
“What was a lady doing in Roxbury at midnight?” he asked again.
“That is a good question.”
“Have you confirmed Lady Elizabeth’s alibi?”
“She told Graves that she was asleep at that time.”
Confirming her alibi would be difficult given the time the murder had been deemed to occur. Libby did have a knack for stealing out of the house.
“And she said the body was taken away in a cart…”
“What do you say we check the street, maybe ask a few people some questions?” Montgomery suggested.
Henry nodded. “Excellent idea.”
As they exited the commander’s office, Anderson came rushing down the hall. “You are needed in the mayor’s office, Chief.
”
Montgomery sighed and looked apologetically at Henry. “You are going to have to go ahead without me, son.”
“That is fine.”
“Let me know what you find.” With that, the commander left with Anderson and Henry hailed a carriage and made for Roxbury.
***
Her foot landed in a puddle and sank up to her ankles, drenching the hem of her dress.
But Libby didn’t care. If she wanted to keep her clothes clean and her boots dry, she would not have come here.
Terrance Read’s shop should be on this street. As she looked around at the brick buildings and colorless surrounds, her stomach flipped.
Do not be afraid, she told herself as she took a deep steadying breath.
The building before her was number seven, she realized, and her destination was number seventeen. The carriage had dropped her at least a hundred yards from Terrance Read’s shop. She huffed in frustration and wanted to stamp her foot on the ground like a child about to throw a tantrum. But that would only get her muddier, and blaming the carriage driver would not change anything.
She took a tentative step forward, taking note of her surroundings, every building, every face. The streets were busy and the bustle almost gave her a sense of security, but she knew better than to rely on the kindness of strangers when she found herself in trouble.
When she had been kidnapped, she had been taken to a chapel where she had been forced to marry Mr. Hart. On seeing the minister, Mr. Anders, she had hoped that he would help her. He had been just as bad, locking her up in a dank crypt without food or water for quite some time. He had also hit her across the face many times.
Libby paused and clenched her teeth together while she balled her hands into fists to suppress the memories. The very air in this place smelled of despondency and as if the heavens wanted to demonstrate the gloom, they opened up and sent an untimely downpour.
She opened her umbrella and quickened her steps. If she got lost, at least Sarah would know she had been headed here and Anna knew she had gone to see Sarah.
Right now, as she walked quickly toward Terrance Read’s shop, she became aware of that presence that seemed to stalk her every time she stepped out of her house alone. She was more certain than ever that it was not paranoia. This creepy feeling denoted something as real as the rain falling from the sky.
What does one do when one is being followed?
She made even more haste to her destination. A tendril of fear began to curl around her thoughts and began slowing her, dulling her senses until all she could hear was the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. This was no doubt what her stalker wanted; for her to be paralyzed by fear.
With her free hand, she grabbed a chunk of her heavy skirt and began to run, evading walkers as best as she could. She was certain she looked like a madwoman dashing through the street like that.
She ran into someone, a temperamental person it would seem, for he pushed her back instead of steadying her. She quickly took hold of a street lamp post to regain her balance and leaned against it as she turned her head to look for who might be following. As expected, they were out of sight. An elderly woman walked up to her.
“Are you all right, child?”
Libby nodded and released the lamp post. “I am fine,” she croaked.
The elderly woman turned to a few onlookers who had gathered. “Just a frightened girl. Nothing to see.”
Heeding her, the onlookers returned to their business and Libby reached to retrieve the umbrella she had dropped when the man pushed her. She felt a hand on her sleeve and quickly looked up, preparing to defend herself.
“Easy there, child! I am not going to harm you. This is my store,” the same woman said, pointing at a sweet shop. “You should come inside out of the rain.”
Libby straightened and raised her umbrella to shield herself. “Thank you, but I would rather continue on.”
The old lady smiled and asked gently. “Not even for some warm tea? You look like you could use it.”
That was when she realized she was shaking like a leaf. She was cold and afraid and alone. She nodded. “Actually, I would like that. Thank you.”
The nice woman took her by the arm and led her into her shop. The scent of caramelized sugar and sweet treats filled her nose and began to ease her frayed nerves.
“Would you like to take off your cloak?”
Libby nodded and unclasped the fastening. The woman took the cloak from her and hung it on a coat rack by the door. There was a young woman behind a glass counter that showcased a variety of sweets and chocolate. She gave Libby a nod of acknowledgment and a shy smile.
“Do come through, please,” the elderly woman said and led Libby to a small sitting room at the back of the shop. A fire was burning in a small fireplace, the flames radiating warmth and welcome throughout the small space.
“I come back here to rest when there are not many customers around,” she supplied as she directed Libby to a chair near the fire. “I can't seem to stand very long these days. Old age.” She poked the fire a bit and left the room, presumably to arrange for tea.
Libby looked around, still anxious. The sitting room was very modest and nicely decorated in shades of pale blue and rose. The quality of the furniture was quite good, albeit worn. It was as homely as the owner. She felt herself begin to relax. Not all strangers were bad and perhaps this woman might help her.
A short while later, she returned with a tea tray and set it on a small table between the chairs in front of the fire before pouring and handing her a steaming cup.
“Thank you.” Libby accepted it gratefully. Her hand shook when she did.
“Good heavens! You must have had quite the fright. You are still trembling.”
Libby tried to smile.
“What is your name, child?”
“Elizabeth,” she said without thinking, then checked herself and ensured she did not give her last name.
The woman brightened immediately. “My name is Elizabeth, too!” She clapped her hands together in delight. “I am Mrs. Elizabeth Dawson.”
Libby smiled properly at last, feeling more at ease. The warm tea was helping a great deal. She did not know what had come over her but she could remember the fear that had gripped her vividly.
“Pardon my question, but are you in mourning?” the woman asked.
Libby started to shake her head but changed her mind and nodded instead. How else could she explain her attire?
“Husband,” she said to a waiting Mrs. Dawson.
“I am so sorry for your loss.”
I’m not, she was tempted to say. But she guessed Mrs. Dawson would think her deranged, or worse, heartless.
“You have a nice shop,” Libby said, to change the subject.
A proud smile uncreased Mrs. Dawson’s features. “It was my father’s and he left it for me. In his time, we only sold dry fruits and sugar plums, but when I took over, I expanded it and brought chocolate and other kinds of confectionaries. The caramel is a favorite around here.”
Libby was impressed by the woman. It was only a candy store, but she had turned it into something special.
“What brings a genteel lady like you to Roxbury?” When Libby gave her a surprised look, she added, “That is a very fine dress you have on…especially for a widow.”
Libby felt somewhat embarrassed by the woman’s observation.
“Oh, don’t be ashamed of your fortunes, child. I spoil myself too, even at my age. There is a fine French brandy I like to get from my neighbor, Mr. Read…”
The rest of what Mrs. Dawson said faded. Only Mr. Read still rang in her head.
“Terrance Read?” she blurted out, and Mrs. Dawson frowned a little as she inclined her head in question.
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“I-I…”
Oh, what was the point of keeping her quest a secret? She was already a murder suspect and the worst that could happen at this point was for her to be killed.
&n
bsp; “He is the reason I came to Roxbury. I am in a spot of trouble and I need information from him that might help me.”
“Goodness! Fate works in mysterious ways. He is a good friend of mine.” Mrs. Dawson set her empty cup back on the tray and Libby did the same. “Are you acquainted with him then?”
“No. A friend of mine directed me here.”
“Would you like me to take you to meet him? Perhaps he will be more forthcoming if he sees us together. He is quite a distrusting man.”
For the first time that day, hope shimmered within Libby and she was grateful Mrs. Dawson had found her.
“I would really appreciate that, Mrs. Dawson.”
The rain had subsided by now and together, they stepped out of the shop and into Terrance Read’s premises.
It was like what she could only describe to herself as an “everything” shop. It sold many things, from fabric, to books to liquor and more. The space was large, too. A gray-haired man looked up from behind a counter and beamed at them, although Libby suspected the welcoming smile was more for Mrs. Dawson than her.
“Elizabeth,” he said, walking around the counter to meet them halfway. He kissed both of Mrs. Dawson’s cheeks before looking at Libby with a question in his wary brown eyes.
“Terrance, this is Elizabeth, a friend of mine,” she introduced.
He smiled. “Nice to meet you, Miss—”
“Mrs.,” Mrs. Dawson corrected.
“My apologies, Mrs….”
“Armstrong,” Libby supplied.
Mrs. Dawson took charge and began to explain. “Elizabeth here finds herself in a bit of a mire and she needs your help.”
Terrance Read looked around the shop and said in almost a whisper, “We should speak in my office.”
He showed them through a door on the right and into his office where they sat in the two chairs in front of a nice oak desk. “I will be right back. I just have to settle the customers in the store.”
Mrs. Dawson, after reading the worry in Libby’s eyes correctly, reached over and gave her hand a motherly pat. “He will help you if he can. I am sure of it.”
Libby returned her smile and tried to relax.
