The River Knows

by Amanda Quick

  “Let her go, Quinby, and I will not stop you from leaving through that tunnel,” Anthony said quietly.

  “She comes with me,” Quinby said. “Drop the gun now or she’s a dead woman.”

  “You don’t need her,” Anthony said, moving toward the wooden table. “Whatever you were involved in here is finished. You’re free to go.”

  “Stop right there,” Quinby’s voice vibrated with an unstable-sounding fury, “or I’ll splatter her brains against that wall.”

  “Very well.” Anthony stopped beside the table.

  “Drop the gun on the floor and kick it away from you,” Quinby ordered.

  “She’ll only slow you down,” Anthony said gently, “and you need to run for your life, because Clement Corvus knows that you have been serving two masters lately. He is not pleased.”

  “Damn you, Stalbridge.” Quinby’s face darkened with rage. “I am my own master.”

  “Unfortunately for you, Corvus doesn’t view it quite that way,” Anthony said, “and I doubt that Madam Phoenix does, either. They both see you as a servant, Quinby. Nothing more.”

  “I’m not anyone’s damned servant,” Quinby shot back. “My father was a gentleman, you son of a bitch. I may have been born in the gutter, but my bloodlines are better than Clement Corvus’s and every bit as good as yours. Just because my father never saw fit to marry my mother doesn’t change a damn thing.”

  “How long have you been Madam Phoenix’s lover?”

  “Long enough,” Quinby said, triumphant. “She’s going to marry me.”

  “Why the devil would you want to marry a whorehouse madam?” Anthony asked, sounding only mildly curious.

  “Madam Phoenix is Victoria Hastings,” Louisa said.

  Anthony raised his brows. “I see.”

  Quinby smiled coldly. “I’m marrying up, Stalbridge. I know Society will never accept me, but it will accept my children and grandchildren.”

  “I wouldn’t count on Victoria Hastings keeping her promise, if I were you,” Louisa cautioned him, “and she certainly doesn’t strike me as the maternal type.”

  Quinby smirked. “She loves me. She needs me. She’ll marry me.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?” Anthony asked. “If so, then you’re a fool.”

  “They say a gentleman bleeds just as easily as a bastard,” Quinby pointed the gun at Anthony. “Let’s see if that’s true.”

  Louisa heard the frightening rasp of metal on metal. Quinby had cocked the revolver. He must have realized that Anthony would never fire as long as she was in the way.

  Horror crackled through her. It was all happening too fast. She did the only thing she could think of. She lurched backward.

  Quinby had been concentrating all of his attention on Anthony. The sudden shift in weight caught him off guard. Reflexively he tightened his grip on Louisa’s throat, choking her. At the same time he took a couple of quick steps, struggling to keep his balance and readjust his aim, but Louisa’s weight, combined with the voluminous skirts of her gown proved too much. Quinby went down, dragging Louisa with him. Pain smashed through her when her shoulder struck the unyielding stone.

  The revolver roared, deafening her. She dimly heard the ring of a bullet on stone.

  Anthony moved in swiftly. He lashed out with one booted foot, kicking the gun out of Quinby’s hand. The weapon skidded across the floor.

  Quinby grunted and released Louisa to seize Anthony’s ankle with both hands. He twisted violently. Anthony went down, sprawling on top of Quinby.

  Louisa rolled out of the way. She heard dull, sickening thuds as fists smashed into flesh.

  She lurched to her feet and started toward the nearest gun. More footsteps echoed from inside the stone stairwell. She realized she was unlikely to reach the gun in time. Even if she somehow managed to get to it she was not at all sure how to fire it.

  She altered course, scooped up the iron key ring that Quinby had dropped on the floor, and dashed toward the stairwell. She pressed her back flat against the stone wall on one side.

  The skirts of a black gown and the toe of a fashionable black kid boot appeared at the opening of the stairwell. Victoria paused at the foot of the steps and looked at the two men locked in mortal combat. A small derringer glinted in her black gloved hand.

  She took in what was happening immediately and just as quickly dismissed Anthony and Quinby. She turned toward the half-open cell door.

  “Come out, Mrs. Bryce. The house is on fire. We must leave at once.” She cocked the derringer and aimed it at the entrance of the cell. “Did you hear me? Come out at once. Surely you do not wish to roast to death down here.”

  When there was no response from the interior of the cell, Victoria moved out of the stairwell and started forward.

  Louisa came away from the wall in a desperate rush, swinging the heavy key ring with all of her strength.

  At the last instant Victoria sensed movement behind her and started to turn, but it was too late. The iron ring struck her head just above her right ear. She fell to one knee, shrieking in pain. Blood flowed down the side of her head, but she did not collapse. Her eyes wild with rage, she started to turn the barrel of the derringer toward Louisa.

  Unable to think of anything else to do, Louisa struck her a second time. Victoria sprawled on the stone floor. This time she did not move.

  Just like Lord Gavin.

  Louisa whirled around. Both men were still fighting furiously. As she watched, Quinby produced a knife. She ran toward the pair, but Anthony, evidently aware of the new danger, broke free and rolled away from Quinby.

  Quinby got to his feet and charged, blade raised to strike. Anthony’s hand closed around the grip of one of the revolvers. He aimed, cocked the gun, and fired. Quinby jerked violently, spinning backward. He came up hard against the wall. The knife fell to the floor.

  “Bastard,” Quinby stared at Anthony, raw hatred etched in every line of his face. “You ruined everything. Everything.”

  He gripped his injured shoulder with his other hand, swung around, and stumbled away into the darkness of the tunnel.

  The room went very quiet. Louisa went to Anthony.

  “Are you all right?” Anthony asked. The heat of battle still burned in his eyes.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “You?”

  “Yes.” He got to his feet and looked at Victoria.

  Louisa followed his gaze. Blood matted Victoria’s blond hair and pooled on the stone. Again the image of Lord Gavin, bloodied and dead, rose up before her, roiling her stomach. She gasped for breath. She could not be sick, she told herself. Not yet.

  “Is she dead?” she managed.

  “I don’t know.”

  Anthony crossed the room and crouched beside Victoria.

  “She’s alive,” he announced. “You didn’t kill her.”

  Louisa’s stomach calmed miraculously. She breathed deeply. “What about Quinby?”

  “He’s Clement Corvus’s problem now.”

  Anthony tore a strip of fabric off one of Victoria’s petticoats and used it to secure her wrists. He repeated the procedure with her ankles.

  Yet another set of footsteps echoed on the stairs, heavy boots this time. Louisa flinched and whirled around to face the opening. Anthony raised the nose of the revolver.

  Marcus Stalbridge appeared. He smiled broadly when he saw Louisa. “Ah, I see you found her. Shall we be off, then? The police and the fire brigade will be along soon. It would be best if no one noticed our Mrs. Bryce emerging from a brothel.” He winked at Louisa. “Not that we couldn’t handle the problem if it arose, of course.”

  “My cloak,” Louisa said. “It’s in the cell.”

  Anthony disappeared into the small chamber. When he emerged he had her cloak in his hand. He secured it around her shoulders, covering her from throat to toe. He adjusted the hood so that it concealed her features.

  “Come along, love,” he said gently. “It’s past time to leave this place.
I think there has been enough excitement around here, even for an intrepid journalist such as you.”

  Love? A figure of speech, she told herself, hurrying up the stairs behind Marcus. There was no time to dwell on the tiny endearment.

  When they emerged into an empty hall, Louisa saw a strangely odorless thick white smoke drifting eerily through the air.

  “I don’t see any flames,” she said.

  “That’s because there aren’t any,” Marcus chuckled. “The managers of the Olympia Theater don’t want real smoke, you see, so I had to go about things somewhat differently.”

  “I don’t understand,” Louisa said.

  “I’ll explain later.”

  “Take her to the carriage,” Anthony said. “I want to look around Madam Phoenix’s private rooms before the authorities arrive.”

  He paused long enough to kiss Louisa hard on the mouth. Before she could question him he disappeared up a staircase.

  “Come along, my dear,” Marcus said.

  He ushered her out through the tradesmen’s entrance into a night filled with chaos and shouts. None of the people standing around outside in the alley paid them any heed.

  A few minutes later Marcus guided her into a nearby lane. A closed carriage stood waiting. The door of the vehicle flew open. A woman garbed in a cloak leaned out.

  “Hurry,” Clarice said, her voice bright with excitement. “We must get you away from here, Mrs. Bryce. We do not want to take the chance of you being seen by a member of the press. You know how those correspondents are when it comes to a story of sensation and scandal involving those who move in Society.”

  Stunned, Louisa got into the vehicle. When she sat down she realized that Clarice was not alone. Georgiana Stalbridge sat on the seat across from her. She, too, was draped head to foot in a concealing cloak.

  “Thank goodness you are safe,” Georgiana said. “We have been so worried about you. Are you hurt in any way, dear?”

  “No,” Louisa managed. “I’m fine. Truly.”

  “That is a relief,” Georgiana said. She looked at Marcus as he climbed into the cab. “Where is Anthony?”

  “Stayed behind to have a look around before the police arrive,” Marcus said. “We’ll meet up with him at home.”

  The carriage rumbled forward.

  Louisa looked at Clarice, Georgiana, and Marcus in turn. In the dark confines of the unlit carriage it was difficult to see the expressions on their faces.

  “I don’t understand,” she said to Georgiana. “Why are you and Clarice here? I know Anthony must have felt an obligation to rescue me, and it was very kind of Mr. Stalbridge to assist him, but surely there was no need for you and Clarice to take the risk of being seen this close to Phoenix House.”

  Georgiana reached out and patted her hand. “Clarice and I refused to remain at home while Anthony’s future wife was in peril. In this family we stand together.”

  Anthony’s future wife. Appalled, Louisa stared at her. “I fear there has been some terrible misunderstanding.”

  “I’m sure that’s not the case,” Clarice said, relentlessly cheerful. “Now, we will go straight home and relax with a glass of brandy while we wait for Anthony.”

  48

  The door at the end of the hall was closed. All the rest had been flung open by the fleeing staff and clients. Anthony paused on the landing. He had intended to go straight to the top floor where Madam Phoenix’s private quarters were located, but the closed door caught his attention.

  He went down the hall and stopped. Gripping his revolver, he stood to one side and tried the knob. It turned easily in his hand. He pushed the door open with the toe of his boot, keeping himself out of the line of fire just in case. No shots rang out from inside the room. Instead there was a frantic rustling sound, followed by an urgent moan.

  He looked into the room. The walls were covered in black velvet. A glass-fronted case containing a variety of whips and unusual devices stood in the corner.

  Elwin Hastings lay face up on a bed covered in black silk, his wrists and ankles shackled to the bedposts. He was naked. There was a gag in his mouth. When he saw Anthony relief replaced the fear in his eyes. He moaned again.

  Anthony walked to the bed and untied the gag.

  Elwin sputtered furiously. “Stalbridge. Didn’t recognize you in those clothes. What the devil are you—? Never mind. I thought she was coming back to murder me. Untie me. Hurry, man. I heard the shouts. The house is on fire.”

  “The house is not on fire,” Anthony said.

  “Either way, I’ve got to get out of here. You don’t understand. She intends to kill me.” He paused, finally noticing the revolver in Anthony’s hand. “What’s that for?”

  “I met up with your first wife and her lover a short time ago. Things became somewhat complicated.”

  Elwin’s eyes widened. “You saw Victoria?”

  “Yes. The police will be here soon. There’s a Mr. Fowler from Scotland Yard who will want to talk to you. You remember Fowler, don’t you? He was the man who investigated the suicides of both your wife and Fiona Risby. I understand you were not helpful the last time he tried to interview you.”

  Elwin’s eyes widened. “See here, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Stalbridge, but you have to help me.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “Bloody hell, man, how can you ask me such a thing? We’re both gentlemen. Gentlemen have an obligation to protect each other.”

  “Oddly enough I feel no such obligation toward you, Hastings. My sole responsibility in this matter is to obtain justice for the murder of Fiona Risby, and that is what I intend to do.”

  “You’re mad if you think you can prove that I killed her.”

  Anthony reached into the pocket of his rough jacket and withdrew the black velvet pouch. He opened the pouch and let the Risby necklace spill across his palm. The stones sparked with fire in the light of the wall sconce.

  Elwin’s mouth sagged in shock. “So I was right. You were the thief.”

  “Let’s just say I retrieved it for safekeeping. I have been waiting for the right moment for it to be discovered. Tonight is a good time, I think.”

  He dropped the necklace back into the pouch and drew the gold cord taut.

  “What are you doing?” Elwin shrieked.

  Anthony did not answer. He walked across the room to where Elwin’s black evening coat hung from a wall hook and dropped the necklace into the pocket.

  “That won’t work, you bastard,” Elwin shrieked. “I’ll tell the police you put it there. It will be the word of one gentleman against another. They won’t investigate further.”

  Anthony smiled. “Fortunately we will also have the verdict of the sensation press. Consider how this will look in the newspapers and penny dreadfuls. Your supposedly deceased wife is the operator of one of the most notorious brothels in London, and you were discovered naked on the premises. In addition, you have a financial interest in this house of ill repute.”

  “Shut your damn mouth.”

  “I think we can anticipate that when the police arrive, the first Mrs. Hastings will be only too pleased to accuse you of attempting to murder her last year. Add to that the discovery of a dead woman’s necklace in your possession and I think we can safely conclude that the weight of public opinion will be on the side of justice.”

  “Son of a bitch. You can’t do this.”

  “Even if the police do not charge you with murder, you are a ruined man, Hastings. At the very least you will be forced to retire to the country. No club will have you. No hostess in the Polite World will send you an invitation. And now that you’re a proven bigamist, your new bride will be free to leave you. I’m told her grandfather is an excellent businessman who took steps to protect his granddaughter’s financial interests before the marriage. When Lilly departs, she will take her inheritance with her.”

  “How dare you threaten me?” Elwin’s features contorted. “You should be dead. Do you hear me? You
should have died the night I followed you home from your club and very nearly put a bullet in you. If it hadn’t been for the fog and that trick you played with your coat—”

  Harold Fowler appeared in the doorway, a constable behind him.

  “Mr. Crawford, make a note of Mr. Hastings’s comments concerning his attempt to murder Mr. Stalbridge,” Fowler said.

  “Yes, sir.” The constable took a pad and pencil out of his pocket.

  Anthony looked at Fowler. “I see you got my message.”

  “Yes. We waited until we saw your father depart the premises with a young woman concealed in a cloak, as you suggested.”

  Elwin stared at Fowler, desperation in his eyes. “I can explain everything.”

  “There will be plenty of time for explanations, sir.” Fowler looked at Anthony. “I will want to speak with you, also.”

  “Of course.” Anthony inclined his head. “I am at your disposal, Detective. You might also be interested in talking to the late Victoria Hastings. The last time I saw her she was unconscious in the basement. With luck she will still be there.”

  Fowler’s bushy brows jumped. “I see. This affair sounds a bit tangled.”

  “No,” Anthony said. “It is really very simple. You were right, Detective. When it comes to murder, there are only a small number of motives. Greed, revenge, the need to conceal a secret, and madness. In this case, there seems to have been something of all four.”

  49

  Two days later Louisa sat at her desk reading the report in the Flying Intelligencer. As usual, Mr. Spraggett had chosen a headline designed to capture attention from a wide assortment of readers. Several headlines, actually. Spraggett was never one to use a single sensational headline when two or three would suffice.

  A CASE OF MURDER MOST FOUL IN HIGH SOCIETY.

  BLOODY EVENTS IN A BROTHEL. MEMBERS OF POLITE

  WORLD ARRESTED. MISSING WIFE RETURNS

  FROM A WATERY GRAVE.

  by

  I.M.Phantom

  The Polite World was shocked to learn that Mr. Elwin Hastings was recently arrested for the murder last year of a young lady named Fiona Risby and the attempted murder of his first wife, Victoria Hastings, long presumed a suicide.