The River Knows

by Amanda Quick

  Daisy shuddered. If Madam Phoenix discovered that one of her prostitutes had fled to the Swanton Lane establishment, there was no telling what she might do. She would consider it a very bad example for the rest of the women of Phoenix House.

  17

  The note from Miranda Fawcett arrived the following morning. Anthony was still at home when he got word from Louisa. He whistled for a cab and went to Arden Square immediately.

  Anticipation and a disturbing heat flooded through him as the vehicle halted at the steps of Number Twelve. It dawned on him that the prowling excitement he was feeling had nothing to do with the coming interview with Miranda Fawcett. He was aroused at the prospect of seeing Louisa again, of sitting close to her in the carriage.

  Damnation. What was happening to him? He could not recall the last time he had felt this way simply because he was about to take a ride with a lady.

  Louisa was waiting for him in a black gown, black gloves, and a black net veil that concealed her features. He wondered if the clothes were left over from the death of her husband. The thought that Louisa had once loved another man irritated him for some reason. He pushed it aside.

  He had to admit the gown and veil made an excellent disguise. Until now he had not realized how perfectly anonymous a widow in full mourning was on the street.

  “Do you often find it necessary to go about incognito in the course of your work?” he asked, handing her up into the carriage.

  “I have discovered that widow’s weeds are quite useful on occasion,” she said, settling onto the seat.

  He sat down across from her. She looked at him through her veil, more invitingly mysterious than ever. He forced himself to concentrate on the matter at hand.

  “What did you learn from Miss Fawcett?” he asked.

  “There was only a name and an address in Halsey Street.”

  She handed him a piece of paper. He glanced down, reading quickly. “Benjamin Thurlow.”

  She crumpled the black netting up onto the brim of her black hat and looked at him. Her face was flushed. Behind the lenses of her spectacles her eyes were bright with excitement. He wondered if she looked that way when she was in the grip of passion or if it was only her work as a journalist that inspired such enthusiasm.

  “Are you acquainted with this Mr. Thurlow?” she asked.

  He reflected briefly and then shook his head. “No.” He stood, raised the trap, and spoke to the driver. “Halsey Street, please.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The vehicle rumbled forward into the fog.

  “Clearly the next step is to interview him,” Louisa declared. “But we must be subtle about it. We do not want to tip our hand.”

  “I understand, Mrs. Bryce,” he said politely. “I will endeavor to be discreet. I feel certain that I can succeed by following the excellent example you set. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the training in investigative work that you are so graciously providing me. I was certainly very fortunate to meet up with you. Who knows what grave mistakes I might have made had you not come along to set me straight in the fine art of making subtle inquiries.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Forgive me. I should not have presumed to lecture you. I fear I am not accustomed to working with a partner.”

  “It appears we must both make adjustments.”

  “I suppose so.”

  He stretched out his legs and folded his arms. “You take your profession very seriously, don’t you? It is not a lark or a game to you.”

  “Did you think it was?”

  “It is difficult to imagine why a woman in your obviously comfortable situation would undertake a career as a journalist.”

  “I find it very satisfying.”

  “Yes, I can see that. Do you have informants other than Miranda Fawcett?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Miranda is extremely helpful, of course, and, as you have seen, I also have the advantage of Emma’s social connections and her knowledge of Society.” She paused. “But from time to time I also rely on another source.”

  “Who is that?”

  “Roberta Woods. She is dedicated to helping women who, for whatever reason, find themselves forced to make their living on the streets. She manages a little establishment in Swanton Lane where she serves meals to women who cannot afford them. She also directs those who want help to a place she calls The Agency.”

  “What does it do?”

  “The people there give the women training on a new device called a typewriter. Have you heard of such machines?”

  He smiled. “My father invented one. He is still working on improvements. He believes it will revolutionize many aspects of industry and business.”

  “He’s right.” Louisa suddenly glowed with enthusiasm. “It is a marvelous device. The people at The Agency say that there will soon be a typewriter in every business establishment in the country. Of course, that means that there is a growing need for people who are skilled in operating them.”

  “I see. The Agency supplies typists to employers.”

  “Yes. Because the skill is rare, many businesses are only too happy to hire trained women for such positions. The people at The Agency tell me that typewriters are opening up a whole new field of respectable employment for females. It is very exciting.”

  “I know that career opportunities for women are very limited.”

  “Few are ever entirely safe from the threat of finding themselves on the street. Even ladies from the most affluent levels of society turn up in Swanton Lane. Very often they are widows whose husbands left them penniless or in debt. They are forced to sell themselves to buy food and pay for their lodging.”

  “I can see that you take a great interest in Roberta Woods’s soup kitchen. How did you learn about it?”

  “After I came to live with Emma I took over the business of managing her charities for her. She has provided funding for Miss Woods’s establishment for years. Miss Woods and I have become well acquainted. We share some mutual interests when it comes to exposing gentlemen in Society who take advantage of others.”

  He studied her. “What sort of information do you learn at that place?”

  She smiled bleakly. “You would be amazed by how much the women of the night know about the men in the Polite World.”

  “I have never given the matter much thought, but now that I do, I can see that prostitutes would be an excellent source of information.”

  She looked at him. “Swanton Lane was where I learned that Hastings became a frequent customer of Phoenix House several months ago. He now has a weekly appointment there. I am told that he never cancels it for any reason.”

  “Interesting.”

  Her brows came together. “Don’t you find it odd that a gentleman would have a standing appointment at a brothel?”

  “I’m afraid that it is not that unusual, Louisa.”

  “Oh.”

  He smiled. “If it matters, I can assure you that I do not have such an appointment.”

  She reddened. “I never meant to imply anything of the kind, sir.”

  He had embarrassed her enough, he thought. “Tell me more about the California Mine Swindle. I recall being impressed by the details that I. M. Phantom provided in the press. How did you learn so much?”

  “As Miranda told you, I called upon her the day after I overheard the conversation. I did not really expect her to receive me, let alone trust my word. But to my surprise she not only invited me into her home, she listened to what I had to say. We came up with a plan.”

  “What was that?”

  “Miranda is nothing if not an excellent actress. When the men contacted her to get her to sign the final papers she acted the part of a naïve female who was only too pleased to have an opportunity to be involved in an investment scheme with two such distinguished gentlemen. I hid behind a service door in the drawing room, listening to every word and making notes.”

  “What was your next step?” he asked, fascinated.

  “I sent
a cable to the editor of the newspaper in the town in California where the gold mine supposedly existed. He was kind enough to reply immediately, saying that there was no mine anywhere in the vicinity. He strongly suspected fraud and urged caution. He also said he would like the details for his paper.”

  “That was when you got the idea of becoming a correspondent?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I immediately made an appointment with the publisher and editor of the Flying Intelligencer. We met and discussed my offer to write a series of occasional news reports from inside Society, as it were, beginning with the notice of a swindle perpetrated by two very prominent gentlemen.”

  “I assume he leaped at the opportunity?”

  “Mr. Spraggett did not hesitate for even a second,” she said with a note of pride.

  “That does not surprise me.” He contemplated her for a moment longer. “If it is not too personal a question, may I ask what happened to Mr. Bryce?”

  “Sadly, he was taken off by a fever shortly after we were wed.”

  Smoothly said, he noted, and with just the right touch of regret.

  “My condolences, madam.”

  “Thank you. It has been a number of years now. The pain of the loss has receded.” She pushed her spectacles higher on her nose and assumed a determined expression. “We must consider how we are going to approach Mr. Thurlow.”

  “It would be best if you remained in the carriage while I talked to him.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  He nodded, accepting the inevitable.

  “I had a feeling you would say that.”

  18

  Halsey Street proved to be a small, cramped passage in a modest part of town. Drenched in fog, it seemed to exist in some separate, isolated world. Louisa studied the scene through the window of the cab. The neighborhood appeared deserted. There were no pedestrians and no traffic.

  Anthony ordered the cab to halt, opened the door, vaulted down onto the pavement, and lowered the steps. Louisa adjusted her veil and allowed herself to be handed out of the vehicle.

  “Be so good as to wait for us,” Anthony instructed the driver.

  “Aye, sir.” The man settled back and took a flask out of one of the pockets of his coat. “I’ll be here when you’re ready to leave.”

  Louisa walked with Anthony through the swirling mist to the front door of Thurlow’s lodgings.

  Anthony rapped sharply. There was no response.

  “That is odd,” Louisa said. “I can understand Mr. Thurlow being out, but one would think that there would be a housekeeper about.”

  Anthony studied the heavily draped windows with a speculative expression. “If there is a housekeeper, she may have gone shopping.”

  Something in his tone caught her attention. “What are you thinking, sir?”

  “That we will obviously have to come back another time.” He took her elbow and started toward the waiting cab. “Come along, Mrs. Bryce. I will take you home.”

  “Hah.” She came to a halt, forcing him to stop, too. “Do not think you can fool me so easily, sir. You are plotting to get me out of the way so that you can return here to Halsey Street and break into Mr. Thurlow’s lodgings to have a look around, are you not?”

  “You wound me with your lack of trust, madam.”

  “I shall do more than wound you if you try to keep me out of this.”

  “If you think that I am going to allow you to break into Thurlow’s rooms with me, you are delusional. I will not be responsible for your arrest on burglary charges.”

  Pointedly, she looked around the empty lane. “I see no sign of a constable anywhere in the vicinity. We are highly unlikely to be arrested if we are careful. No one will take any notice of us if we go in through the front door. If someone does happen to see us, he or she will simply assume that the occupant has let us inside.”

  “The front door is most likely locked, Mrs. Bryce.”

  “I’m certain that a person capable of breaking into an Apollo Patented Safe will have no great difficulty with a simple door lock. I will stand in front of you while you do your work. My skirts will conceal your actions.”

  “And if someone does question our presence inside the house?” he asked.

  “We will tell them that we are friends of Mr. Thurlow and had cause to be concerned about his health.”

  “Huh.” He contemplated that for a few seconds. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

  “We entered to assure ourselves that he was not ill,” she continued blithely. “Who would contradict us?”

  “Thurlow, himself, perhaps, if he happens to walk in on us while we are searching the premises?”

  “He is hardly likely to summon a constable once we inform him that we are aware he is involved in an extortion scheme.”

  Anthony’s teeth gleamed in a wolfish smile. “Mrs. Bryce, you and I do tend to think alike when it comes to certain matters.”

  “Indeed, sir.” She smiled, aware of a keen sense of anticipation. “Now, if you would be so good as to go about your business?”

  “This shouldn’t take long.” He put his hand on the knob and twisted experimentally. The door opened easily. “Not long at all.”

  Louisa frowned. “Mr. Thurlow must have neglected to lock the door when he left.”

  Anthony pushed the door open wider, revealing an empty hall. Louisa did not like the heavy silence that emanated from the interior of Thurlow’s lodgings. She felt the hair stir on the nape of her neck.

  Anthony glided into the shadowed opening. There was a predatory alertness about him that sent another little chill across her nerves. He, too, sensed that something was very wrong.

  She followed him inside, raised her veil, and looked around.

  Thurlow’s lodgings were typical of those belonging to a man of modest means. She looked into the parlor, which was quite small and sparsely furnished. A hall led to the kitchen and a rear door that likely opened onto an alley. A narrow staircase ascended upward into deep shadow.

  Anthony closed the door. “Is there anyone home?” he called in a voice that was pitched to carry to the upper floor. The reverberating silence seemed almost suffocating.

  Louisa ran a fingertip along the top of the hall table. Her glove came away slightly smudged.

  “He employs a housekeeper, but from the looks of things I would say that she does not come around every day.”

  “Which may explain why she is not here today,” Anthony said.

  He went into the parlor and opened the drawers in the desk. Removing a sheaf of papers he rifled through them quickly.

  “Anything of interest?” she asked.

  “Bills from his tailor and other tradesmen to whom he owed money.” Anthony put the stack of papers back into the drawer and picked up a small notebook. He flipped through the pages. “Miss Fawcett was right. Thurlow is, indeed, an inveterate gambler.”

  “What have you got there?” She tried to peer over his shoulder.

  “A record of people to whom he owes money.” Anthony turned a few more pages. “Evidently he routinely gets into debt and then somehow manages to pay off his creditors.”

  “He must win occasionally, in that case.”

  “This record goes back nearly three years. A few of the debts are quite large. Several thousand pounds in some instances.”

  Anthony returned the notebook to the desk drawer.

  She trailed after him through the remaining rooms on the ground floor. Nothing appeared out of place. It was as if Thurlow had walked out the door only moments before they arrived.

  When they returned to the front hall, Anthony started up the stairs. Louisa hurried after him. The oppressive sensation seemed to grow heavier.

  At the top, Anthony halted, looking down the short hall to a closed door. Louisa stopped, too, unaccountably chilled.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Wait here,” he said quietly. “He may be asleep in bed. Gamblers keep late hours.”

  She ignored the orde
r, but she was careful to keep a respectful distance behind him. The last thing she wanted to do was walk into the room of a sleeping man.

  Anthony seemed unaware of her presence. Everything about him was concentrated on the closed door at the end of the hall. He knocked once. When there was no response, he turned the knob. The door opened with a long, mourning sigh of the hinges. He stood in the opening, looking into the heavily draped and shadowed room. He did not move.

  Dread tightened Louisa’s nerves. She did not want to go any closer, but she forced herself to move to the doorway. The unmistakable miasma of blood and death flowed from the room.

  “You do not want to come any farther,” Anthony warned in a flat, cold voice.

  She took a handkerchief out of her muff and held it to her nose. Then she looked past him into the room.

  A man lay face up on the bed, blankets and sheets tumbled around his waist. There was something terribly wrong with his head. The white linen pillow case was saturated with blood.

  A hellish vision seemed to shimmer in the air in front of her. Lord Gavin had looked just like this when he lay dead on the floor of her bedroom.

  “Louisa?” Anthony’s voice was sharp and brutal. “Are you going to faint?”

  “No.” She pulled herself together with an effort. “I won’t faint.”

  The dead man’s arm was crooked at the elbow, she noticed, the hand not far from his head. The lifeless fingers were wrapped around the handle of a revolver.

  “Dear God,” she whispered. “He took his own life.”

  Anthony walked across the room to stand looking down at the body.

  “Now this is interesting,” he said.

  Louisa was shocked by the stunning absence of emotion in his voice. Anthony sounded as if he were making an observation on the weather. But his face, she saw, had gone very hard, his eyes stone cold.

  “What do you mean?” she managed.

  “I wonder what the odds are of two of Hastings’s employees committing suicide within the span of a little more than two weeks,” he said.