by Amanda Quick
She opened the door of Digby’s Bookshop and walked into the gloomy interior. There were no customers. Digby was not at his desk behind the counter.
“Mr. Digby?”
There was no response. The door to the back room was closed.
She waited a moment. When no one appeared, she went around behind the counter and knocked on the inner door.
“Mr. Digby? Are you in there? I’ve come for the Milton. It is not yet five. If you have already sold the book to another client I will be most annoyed.”
There was no sound from the other side of the door.
She wrapped her gloved hand around the knob and twisted gently. The door swung inward, revealing a shadowy, unlit, very cluttered back room. Books were piled high on a workbench. Crates and boxes were stacked everywhere. There was a large roll of brown paper and a pair of scissors on a table.
A faint, rather sweet odor made her wrinkle her nose. She was trying to identify it when she noticed the sturdy shoes sticking out from behind an open carton. The shoes extended from the ends of the legs of a pair of brown trousers.
“Mr. Digby. What on earth?”
She rushed into the room and around the carton. Digby lay sprawled face up on the floor. His eyes were closed. There was no sign of blood anywhere. Perhaps he had suffered a heart attack or stroke.
She crouched beside him, took off a glove, and felt for the pulse at Digby’s throat. Relief swept through her when she discovered that he was still breathing, albeit lightly, and that his pulse was steady, if somewhat slow. She started to loosen his tie.
A floorboard creaked behind her. It was all the warning she got before a powerful masculine arm clamped around her and hauled her upright. She opened her mouth to scream. A large crumpled square of fabric—a gentleman’s handkerchief or a napkin—was shoved against her nose and mouth, forcing her to breathe through the fabric. The sweet odor of chloroform was inescapable now, its fumes choking her nostrils and filling her lungs. A wave of dizziness threatened to swamp her senses. She struggled frantically, only to discover that her forearms were pinned to her sides.
She kicked out furiously, her foot colliding with one of the cartons, overturning it. She tried again. This time there was a satisfying thud followed by an angry oath when the heel of one of her walking boots made contact with her assailant’s shin.
“Damn bitch,” Quinby muttered. He tightened his grip on her. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth. If I had my way, I’d slit your throat and be done with it.”
The dizziness was getting worse. She felt warm all over. Her stomach twisted. She had heard somewhere that chloroform was generally effective within a couple of minutes, often less; too much could kill. There was very little time.
She stopped clawing at Quinby’s arms and abruptly went limp, hoping he would assume that the drug had done its job, but her captor was clearly not about to take chances. He kept the dreadful cloth tight across her mouth and nose.
She could barely think at all now. Everything was muddled. She was vaguely aware that there was something she had to do before she passed out.
Quinby dragged her across the room, evidently eager to get her out of the shop. She felt the weight of her muff dangling from the thin strip of velvet that secured it to her left wrist. She wriggled her hand weakly, hoping that, if Quinby noticed, he would assume the motion was merely an indication that her struggles were almost over.
The last thing she heard was the sound of a door being opened. She shook her hand slightly. It seemed to her blurry senses that the weight of the muff fell away, but she could not be certain. Darkness and the terrifying perfume of the chloroform claimed her.
42
What do you mean, she hasn’t returned?” Anthony removed his gold watch from a pocket and verified the time. “It’s nearly six-thirty. She’s an hour late.”
“Yes, Mr. Stalbridge, I’m aware of that.” Mrs. Galt’s mouth pursed in a disapproving manner. “It has been my experience that Mrs. Bryce keeps unpredictable hours. In addition, she is very much inclined to go out without giving anyone a clear notion of her destination or an idea of when she will return At least this time she did mention that she was visiting Digby’s Bookshop.”
Interrogating Mrs. Galt was useless. He surveyed the front hall. Louisa’s bonnet and cloak were gone. That told him only that she was not home. He already knew that much.
“You say she asked me to wait?” he said.
“Yes, sir. When she came home from her visit to Swanton Lane, she said something about wanting to speak with you as soon as possible.”
That caught his attention. “She went to Swanton Lane this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir.” Mrs. Galt snorted. “I don’t know why she insists upon going there so often. It’s all very well to give money to those engaged in charitable work, but there’s no need for a proper lady to become personally involved with that sort of thing.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Galt. You’ve been very helpful. I am going out to look for Mrs. Bryce.”
“Good luck is all I can say, sir.” Mrs. Galt opened the door.
He went down the steps, thinking about his next move. Night was coming on swiftly. He did not like knowing that Louisa was out there, somewhere, on her own.
He would start with Digby’s. Perhaps the bookseller would have some idea of where she had gone after she left his shop.
43
Louisa awakened to a vague headache and the odor of damp that is generally associated with basements and other belowground spaces. She was lying on a hard, cold surface. Panic slammed through her.
I’m in a morgue. Dear heaven, I’m dead.
No, that wasn’t right. Surely if she were dead she would not be so uncomfortable. Unless, of course, she had gone straight to hell for the sin of being a murderess.
She opened her eyes. Close, deep shadows enveloped her, but there were bars of light on one wall. The bands of light were quite distinct, not fuzzy. Good. She was still wearing her glasses. It was another clue indicating that she was still in the realm of the living.
She tried to summon up some coherent memories that would explain her present situation. An image of Digby’s inert body sprawled on the floor floated through her mind. She suddenly recalled the terrifying sensation of being pinned in a grip of steel while she kicked and struggled.
“Damn bitch.” Quinby’s voice. After that, everything went blank.
She sat up cautiously and pushed her glasses more firmly onto her nose. Mercifully the headache did not worsen. Her stomach felt unsettled, however. She took some slow, deep breaths. That seemed to help.
How much time had passed? She staggered to her feet and turned slowly on her heel, trying to make out the details of her surroundings. The dim, glary light of a lamp filtered through three iron bars in the opening in a heavy wooden door. She was in a small space with a low, vaulted ceiling. There were no windows. An ancient storage chamber, she decided, or a nun’s cell. Judging by the stones and the masonry, it dated from medieval times.
She went to the door without much hope and tried the knob. It did not turn. When she felt the cold iron under her fingers, she realized she had lost one glove. She had a dim recollection of having removed the glove to check Digby’s pulse
The opening in the door was at eye level. She peered between the bars and found herself looking into another ancient, low-ceilinged stone room. The lamp that was the only source of light sat on a low table in the middle of the outer chamber. It cast just enough illumination to reveal a closed door in one wall and the darkened entrance to a narrow flight of worn stone steps cut into the opposite wall.
She was about to turn away to explore her cell when she heard the faint echo of shoe leather on stone. A new wave of fear flooded through her. Someone was descending the staircase. She saw the skirts of a stylish black gown and a pair of fashionable black walking boots first.
The woman arrived at the bottom step and moved into the main chamber. The last element of her wardrobe, a small blac
k hat, was perched atop a wealth of golden hair. A heavy black lace veil concealed her features.
Louisa took a deep breath. “Victoria Hastings, I presume? Or should I call you Madam Phoenix?”
The woman paused slightly, startled that she had been recognized. Then she glided slowly across the stone floor to the door of the cell. Coolly she reached up with one black-gloved hand and crumpled the veil onto the brim of her hat. Victoria possessed the face of an angel, Louisa decided, but the unwholesome, pitiless glint in her blue eyes was nothing short of demonic.
“I regret the necessity of having you kidnapped,” Victoria said, “but you have only yourself to blame. You were, indeed, getting much too close to the truth, Mrs. Bryce. Or should I call you I. M. Phantom?”
44
The closed sign dangled in the window of Digby’s shop. Anthony ignored it and tried the door. It was locked. He took out the lock picks that he always carried in his boot and went to work. He was inside the darkened shop in ten seconds. A bell chimed when he opened the door.
“Who’s there?” an anxious voice called from the rooms above the ground floor. “Go away. The shop is closed for the day.”
Anthony walked across the shop and halted at the foot of the stairs.
Digby looked down. He seemed nervous.
“Sorry to intrude,” Anthony said. “I’m Stalbridge. I trust you remember me. I was here about the Milton.”
Digby peered at him. “I remember you well enough. What are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for Mrs. Bryce. Have you seen her?”
“Not today, thank the Lord. I’ve had enough trouble.”
“You sent her a message earlier this afternoon.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Are you certain of that, sir?”
“Of course, I’m certain.” Digby scowled. “I had no reason to send her a message.”
“Are you sure that she didn’t arrive around five o’clock today?”
“I just told you, she wasn’t here. Now please leave, sir. I’m not feeling quite myself.”
“Are you ill?”
“Not now.” Digby put a hand to his brow, looking worried. “At least I don’t think so. Had a bit of a spell earlier. Don’t know what happened. Must have fainted. Came to on the floor of my back room. Decided it would be best to take to my bed.”
“You were unconscious for a period of time?”
“Yes. Half an hour or so at most. What of it?”
“What time did you return to your senses?”
“See here, I wasn’t looking at a clock.” Digby gestured in an irritated manner. “I suppose it must have been shortly after five.”
“May I take a look around your back room, Mr. Digby?”
“Why?” Digby’s expression darkened with deep suspicion.
“I am concerned for Mrs. Bryce’s safety.”
“Then you must look elsewhere. I told you, she wasn’t here today.”
“I’ll just be a moment,” Anthony assured him.
He walked into the back room of the shop and turned up a lamp.
“See here, sir,” Digby yelped from the top of the stairs. “You can’t just barge in there and rummage around.”
Anthony ignored him, studying the cluttered back room with a growing sense of impending disaster. A carton of books lay on its side. It looked as if it had been kicked over. He went closer to the carton, pausing when he saw a glove on the floor. An icy chill tightened his insides. He picked up the glove.
“What have you got there?” Digby demanded from the doorway. “It looks like a lady’s glove.”
“It is a lady’s glove.”
“How did that get there?” Digby looked both annoyed and baffled. “I’m the only one who goes into this room.”
“An excellent question.” Anthony prowled through the cartons and spotted a crumpled handkerchief. “Is this yours, Digby?”
Digby reluctantly came closer to get a better look. “No. I don’t carry fancy embroidered handkerchiefs. That’s a gentleman’s style.”
A faint, sweet scent drifted up from the handkerchief. Not perfume, Anthony thought. It took him a second to place the odor. When he did, a wave of dread threatened to consume him.
“I believe I know what caused your fainting spell this afternoon, Digby,” he said. “Someone used chloroform on you.”
“Devil take it, are you certain?”
Anthony was about to respond when he noticed the muff. It was on the floor near the alley door.
The ice inside him expanded, chilling the blood in his veins. He scooped up the muff. The notebook and pencil that Louisa carried everywhere were still inside.
He thought about Mrs. Galt’s comments regarding Louisa’s visit to Swanton Lane. He reached into the muff, took out the notebook and opened it to the most recent entry.
The first thing he saw was the name Quinby. Next to it was a small arrow that pointed to another name: Madam Phoenix.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER he knocked on the back door of the little house on Swanton Lane.
A stern-featured woman looked at him through an iron grate.
“Gentlemen are not allowed on the premises,” she said.
“My name is Stalbridge. Anthony Stalbridge. I’m a close friend of Mrs. Bryce. I believe she is in grave danger. I need your help.”
45
Louisa took two steps back, moving out of the light that came through the opening in the door and deeper into the shadows of the cell. She could be mysterious, too, she thought.
“I assume you have some purpose in bringing me here,” she said.
Victoria stepped closer to the door, peering through the bars. “I’m afraid there is going to be yet another unfortunate suicide in the Thames. This time the victim will be Lady Ashton’s unprepossessing and extremely distant relation from the country. Very sad.”
“You have made a grave mistake in kidnapping me,” Louisa said. “Mr. Stalbridge will not be pleased.”
“By the time Stalbridge figures out what has happened it will be too late for him to do anything about the situation. In any event, I doubt that he will trouble himself overmuch with your demise, even if he does suspect the truth.”
“You seem very sure of that.”
Victoria’s smile was all that was arrogant and certain. “I am sure of it because, unlike you, I understand him. Once you comprehend a man, once you know what he wants most, he is yours to control.”
“How can you say that you know Mr. Stalbridge? According to him, the two of you met only in passing at occasional social affairs.”
Victoria gripped one of the iron bars embedded in the door. “I said I know what he wants. He is obsessed with obtaining revenge for his beloved Fiona. He suspected from the beginning that her death was not a suicide, you see.”
“He is right, isn’t he?”
Victoria smiled coldly. “Yes. And soon I am going to give him what he seeks most. Fiona’s killer. Rest assured, Stalbridge’s concern for your safety is based entirely upon your usefulness to him in the pursuit of his quest. Once you are dead and he has his answers, you will cease to have any value to him.”
“Hastings murdered Fiona, didn’t he?”
“With my assistance.” Victoria’s shoulder moved in an elegant little shrug. “We had no choice. She accidentally came upon us that night in the gardens at the ball. I do not know what drew her outside. Perhaps a desire for some fresh air. Whatever the case, she overheard an argument between Hastings and me. The quarrel involved the details of the blackmail scheme I had arranged. It was working nicely, but Elwin wanted to expand it.”
“Blackmailing those elderly ladies was your idea?”
“Of course. All of the plans that Hastings profited from so handsomely were conceived by me.” Victoria’s face tightened with anger. “But the fool convinced himself that he was the brilliant mind behind each venture. My mistake was in allowing him to deceive himself. He actually came to the conclusion that he no longer nee
ded me.”
“What did you do to Fiona?”
“When I heard a faint sound from the other side of the hedge I knew at once that someone was there and that she had no doubt heard enough to ruin us. We could not afford to let her live. I went around the corner of the hedge and spoke politely to her, as though nothing was amiss. Hastings came up behind her and struck her on the back of her head with his walking stick.”
“Dear heaven,” Louisa whispered.
“Once she was unconscious we carried her out through the garden gate and left her in the alley, bound and gagged with items of her own clothing. Leaving her there was a risk, but we could not think of anything else to do. We went back into the ballroom, summoned a cab, and departed as though nothing had happened.”
“And then went back to take her to the river?”
“Elwin handled that part. He took one of my cloaks and returned to the alley for Miss Risby. She was still unconscious but not yet dead. He wrapped her in the cloak.”
“How did he get her out of the alley and to the river?”
“You will have noticed that Hastings is a large man. Miss Risby was a small woman. Elwin simply put her over his shoulder and hauled her out of the alley as though she were a sack of coal. When he reached a side street he summoned another cab.”
“How did he explain his burden to the driver?”
Victoria smiled. “That was simple enough. He explained that the woman with him was a whore who had entertained him and then passed out from too much gin. Out of the goodness of his heart he wanted to see the woman safely back to her lodgings near the river. The driver asked no questions.”
Louisa shuddered. “But Hastings made a mistake. He could not resist the temptation of the necklace Fiona wore that night. He removed it before he threw her into the river.”
Victoria laughed. “You must not blame Elwin for taking the necklace. I removed it from Miss Risby when we left her in the alley. One could hardly allow such a valuable piece of jewelry to go into the river. I had planned to have the stones reset in the modern style, of course.”
