“You sent Hastings a message at his club tonight.”
“Aye, that I did. I arranged for a meeting so that I could give him my final report on Mr. Thurlow’s affairs and collect my fee.”
“What information did you give Hastings?” Anthony asked.
“Weren’t much to tell. Last night Mr. Thurlow spent the evening in the hells, as was his custom. He went back to his lodgings at dawn, drunk as a lord. I watched him go inside. Then I went home. I didn’t return to Halsey Street until two o’clock this afternoon. Figured Mr. Thurlow wouldn’t get out of bed until at least noon or later, so I had plenty of time.”
Slip had arrived after he and Louisa had both left Thurlow’s lodgings, Anthony reflected. That was good news. It meant Slip had not seen Louisa.
“What of the housekeeper?” Anthony asked. “Did she leave while you were watching Thurlow’s door?”
“No. She wasn’t there at all. This was her day off.”
“What did you do after you got to Halsey Street this afternoon?”
“I could see a constable at the front door and a lot of people standing around in the street. Someone said there was a man from Scotland Yard there, too, so I took myself off straightaway. I make it a policy not to linger in the vicinity of policemen. No good ever comes of it.”
“Do you think Thurlow killed himself because of his gambling debts?”
“Doesn’t seem likely,” Slip said. “He won last night and was in a grand mood when he went home. Must have had some other reason for taking his own life.”
“How long did you watch him for Hastings?”
“No more than a day or two.”
“Did he have any visitors during that time?”
“If he did, they didn’t come through the front door.”
“What do you mean?”
“Simple logic, sir,” Slip said. “I kept an eye on Thurlow’s lodgings from across the street. Can’t see the back door from there, now can I?”
The killer had come through the rear door, Anthony thought. Perhaps he had followed Thurlow home last night or maybe he had been acquainted with Thurlow’s routine and knew that his quarry would return to his lodgings quite drunk.
Thurlow had gone to bed, dead to the world because of the sprits he had imbibed. He had probably never awakened, never known that the killer was inside his bedroom.
The murderer had put the pistol to Thurlow’s head and pulled the trigger. Then he had arranged the suicide scene and conducted a very thorough search of the premises before leaving the note and exiting through the back door.
But if Hastings had hired Slip to watch Thurlow, Anthony thought, there was now a gaping hole in his theory that Hastings had murdered the gambler.
25
“Obviously, she was utterly humiliated when you offered assistance,” Emma said. “Judging by your description of her, she was once a gently bred, respectable woman. It was no doubt the remnants of her tattered pride that caused her to refuse your kindness and generosity.”
“I suppose you are right,” Louisa said, thinking about the encounter with the prostitute during the night. “She did seem gravely offended.”
They were seated in the library, drinking tea. The morning had dawned clear, but the fog had crept back early in the afternoon, slinking into the streets of Arden Square and pooling in the small park.
“It is a sad and all-too-common story.” Emma picked up the teapot. “One reads about it frequently in the sensation press. There are so many ways a respectable woman can find herself forced to walk the streets. The death or illness of a husband, bankruptcy, debts, divorce, lack of family—any or all of them can render a woman penniless overnight.”
“I know,” Louisa said quietly.
“Of course you do, my dear.” Emma raised her brows. “But do not forget that although you found yourself in desperate straits on two separate occasions, you managed to land on your feet each time without resorting to streetwalking.”
“Sheer luck.”
“No,” Emma said firmly. “It was not luck at all. You are an extremely resourceful woman, my dear. After your father died and the creditors took everything but his books, you saved yourself by going into trade. Following the horrible situation with Lord Gavin, you came about yet again by changing your name, creating a fictitious character reference for yourself and applying to an agency. It was your own ingenuity and determination that kept you off the streets, Louisa, not luck. Never forget that.”
Louisa smiled wanly. “You are always good for my spirits, Emma.”
Emma looked at her curiously. “What is it that bothers you about the woman you saw in the park last night?”
“I’m not certain, to be honest. I do not believe that she’s been in her present dire circumstances for long. Her cloak appeared to be of good quality and quite fashionable, as were the veil and gloves. If she knew she was going to be facing poverty after the death of her husband, why did she spend so much money on stylish mourning apparel?”
“Perhaps she did not find out the extent of her disaster until sometime after the funeral. That is often the way it is for women. Their husbands never discuss their financial affairs with them. The widows do not learn of their true circumstances until it is too late.”
“Yes. Well, there is nothing more to be done in that quarter.” Louisa set aside her teacup and opened her little notebook. “If you don’t mind, I would like to ask you a few more questions about Victoria Hastings.”
“Certainly.” Emma’s head tilted slightly in inquiry. “Why does she interest you?”
“Mr. Stalbridge suspects that Hastings murdered her as well as Fiona Risby. It occurs to me that since we are having very little luck coming up with a motive for Fiona’s death, it might make sense to try to reason out why Hastings killed his wife. It seems to me that there must be some sort of link between the two murders.”
26
That afternoon she took her customary path across a large park to Digby’s Bookshop. The fog had thickened into a seemingly impenetrable sea, but she knew her way very well.
She had the park to herself. This was not the sort of day that brought out kite-flying children and nannies with their charges.
When she reached the far side of the park she found the traffic in the street only moderately heavy. Carriages and omnibuses moved slowly through the mist like a fleet of clattering ghost ships. There were very few pedestrians about.
She hurried across the street and entered the bookshop, bracing herself for the pang of melancholy and the small, icy chill she always experienced when she walked into Digby’s. The sight of the shelves crammed with books and the smell of the leather bindings never failed to stir old memories and more recent fears.
Albert Digby, small, stooped, and balding, put down the day’s edition of the Flying Intelligencer that he had been perusing and peered owlishly at Louisa over the rims of his spectacles. As usual, he was visibly annoyed by the intrusion of a customer.
“Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Bryce.”
She gave her business to Digby for two reasons. The first was that he was an extremely knowledgeable bookseller with a wide array of contacts among collectors. The second reason she had chosen Digby’s was because she had never met him personally during the two years when she was the proprietor of Barclay’s Books, so there was no way he could recognize her.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Digby.” She went to the counter. “I got your message. I’m delighted to hear that you were finally able to secure the copy of Woodson’s Aristotle.”
“Wasn’t easy locating the specific copy you wanted. But I did manage to obtain it for you at a good price, if I do say so myself.”
“I appreciate your negotiating skills, Mr. Digby.”
“Bah, Glenning’s heir doesn’t know a damn thing about books, nor does he care to learn. He is happy enough to sell off every volume he inherited from his father. His only concern is the money he got when the old man cocked up his toes.”