Lily watched him go, feeling a little uneasy. She had been sure his behavior the other night was drunken playacting. But that final smile had been downright flirtatious. She shook her head, turning away from where he was disappearing around the bend, and found Ofelia watching her with a considering look.
“Is he courting you?”
“If he thinks to, he will be most severely disappointed. What did you make of him?”
Ofelia frowned, fiddling with the buttons on one glove as she considered the question. “He is not a very open person,” she said at last. “Polite and charming, of course, with an excellent manner. But not open. I rather suspect he is the sort of man who could lie to your face and you would never know.”
Lily blinked in surprise. “He was as a boy,” she said. “But that is hardly uncommon with children.”
“And thanks to the captain and his”—Ofelia waggled her eyebrows for emphasis—“naval connections, we know he wasn’t lying about where he was the night of his father’s death.” She sighed as they began walking again. “Now, I must admit, the person I most want to meet is Lady Wyatt. Your reports of her are intriguing. So politely mercenary! And what a pity that she should befriend one of her husband’s sons but take such a dislike to the other. And when Arthur is so perfectly sweet!”
Lily frowned. “Unfortunately, she was friends with neither of her husband’s sons. That happens sometimes in a second marriage. I imagine that was why she wanted to leave Wimpole Street so quickly, even if it did mean returning to the home of her parents.”
“But …” Ofelia frowned. “She and Mr. Frank Wyatt are friends, of course.”
“No, not in the least. They are rather known for their animosity toward each other.”
“But he called her Winnie. And Arthur has told me that is a name only her friends may call her.”
Lily’s feet slowed to a stop as she stared at her friend, eyes wide with surprise. Ofelia was right. Lady Wyatt had said as much herself on the afternoon Lily had heard her yelling at Arthur in the hallway.
It hadn’t struck her because she had heard Frank call his father’s wife Winnie before. And it was the sort of familiarity that should have seemed natural in a family, even between a grown man and his father’s second wife.
Except there had been no such familiarity between them. And Frank Wyatt, she knew, wasn’t the sort of man to be careless in how he addressed others, as he had just proven a moment before.
But he had called Lady Wyatt Winnie. Not even Winifred, her given name, but Winnie, the pet name reserved for her closest friends. He wouldn’t have begun calling her that without permission.
When had she heard him say it?
Once at her home, and once the day after Sir Charles’s death, when Mr. Page was interviewing them.
Lady Wyatt had been displeased with him then. Lily hadn’t given it a second thought—surely she had every right to be. But what if she hadn’t been displeased so much because of what he had said but because of who had heard it and what it might reveal?
“What is it?” Ofelia whispered, taking Lily’s arm and urging her off the path, where their sudden pause might look odd to anyone passing by. There was a small grove of trees a few steps away, with a bench underneath. Ofelia steered them toward it, smiling politely at the people they passed to avoid any poorly timed offers of assistance. “Mrs. Adler?”
Lily sat, feeling dazed as what she’d thought she’d known about the Wyatts shifted entirely. “Ofelia,” she whispered, raising her eyes at last. “The maid said Lady Wyatt began refusing her husband her bed perhaps a month after they married, though they had seemed a devoted couple before. And at some point she must have invited her husband’s son to call her by the name only her intimate friends used.”
Ofelia’s eyes grew wide. “Had …” She hesitated. “Do you know whether Lady Wyatt had met Frank before her marriage?”
Lily shook her head. “I know for a fact that she had not. Theirs was a brief courtship, and she did not meet either of Sir Charles’s sons until after they were already wed.”
Ofelia again hesitated, looking ill. “Do you think she killed her husband because she was in love with his son? How horrifying.”
“And almost too Gothic to believe,” Lily said. It seemed ludicrous. But even as she told herself it couldn’t be true, she couldn’t help thinking back to all the interactions between Frank and Lady Wyatt that she had observed.
The animosity between them had always seemed so determined. But had there been something exaggerated about it? Something almost like a performance?
“But possible,” Lily added. She stood abruptly, her hands shaking. “It is possible.” Unable to keep still, she began pacing through the little woodland, away from the path they had been on before and toward the next field.
“But do you think he knew?” Ofelia asked, bounding to her feet and following. Glancing around, though there was no one promenading nearby, she lowered her voice. “Could he love her too?”
Lily halted so abruptly that Ofelia almost bumped into her. “But she could not have killed him. Whoever killed Sir Charles would have had to overpower him, then move him from where he was actually killed to a spot on the other side of the room. And Lady Wyatt was a slight woman. Her arm might have even been injured still. She couldn’t have done all that.”
“The maid was poisoned; maybe Sir Charles was as well,” Ofelia suggested, then frowned. “But no, he died of a blow to the head. With help? Maybe Frank helped her?”
“But he was not there.” Lily slammed her hand against the trunk of a tree, the sudden violence of the motion making Ofelia jump. “There is something between them; you were right, I am sure of it. They have always been so … there was no reason for them to air their dislike of each other so publicly. Just as there is no reason for Frank to play at courting me. No reason except convincing everyone around them that they are not in love with each other.” She took a deep breath. “But I suppose their being in love with each other does not automatically mean they were the ones to kill him. Perhaps they played at hating each other because they wanted to convince themselves.”
“We are still missing something,” Ofelia said. Just as Jack had said the night before.
And Lily, though she felt she was only a breath away from discovering it, still had no idea what it was.
* * *
It wasn’t until she was home, alone once more and pacing across her room while the light faded, that Lily thought about Ofelia’s first suggestion.
Could Sir Charles have been poisoned? Mr. Page had said Sir Charles had died of a blow to the head. But was there some kind of poison that could have immobilized him? Left him vulnerable, even to a person much smaller than he?
But where would a woman like Lady Wyatt find such a thing, or learn about it in the first place? And how would she, once he was dead, have moved him to a new spot in the room?
Lily frowned, staring out the window, oblivious to the stunning sunset that was painting the skies above London in shades of crimson and gold. Closing her eyes, she pictured the library in the house on Wimpole Street, tried to remember everything she had seen or overheard while she was there.
There was something she was forgetting, but if she could just remember …
Lily’s eyes snapped open. She needed to speak to Mr. Page.
Her father had left for the club in St. James where he kept a membership, saying sarcastically that he would dine out to spare her his company before going to pay his call on Frank. If he had expected her to protest, he had been disappointed: Lily had been glad to see him go.
And she was even more glad now. If her father had seen her departing alone in a hackney coach as dark was falling, cloaked and veiled and not dressed for an evening out, he wouldn’t have held back his questions.
And though Lily knew she would have to speak to him soon, to tell him what she knew and ask for his help, she needed to speak to the constable first.
CHAPTER 25
After telling the driver of the hackney coach the address of her destination, she ignored his raised brows and climbed inside, clutching the paper with Mr. Page’s address written on it like a talisman and trying to ignore how her heart felt like it was trying to climb out her throat.
But with the Wyatts leaving London tomorrow, what Lily needed to tell Mr. Page couldn’t wait. So when the driver pulled to a halt at the end of a street that was too narrow for a carriage and told her that the house she wanted was up ahead, Lily swallowed down her fear, paid her fare, and hopped down without expecting assistance.
She had been to the area of London known as Clerkenwell twice before during the day, never at night, and certainly never alone. Parts of it, she knew, were respectable enough, with pretty walking paths over the New River canal and fields where a herd of cows still grazed. But there were at least two prisons in the area, and many of the streets were crowded with pickpockets and worse.
Her veil and cloak covered her from head to toe and—she hoped—hid the quality of her garments. Trying to move briskly enough to show that she was unafraid but not so briskly that she attracted attention, Lily set off down the street.
“Watch it, there!” A group of women and men, brassy laughter bouncing off the stone walls of the houses around them, pushed past her. Lily stumbled out of the way quickly, feeling heat rising to her face as they laughed, though none of them could see behind her veil. Once they had passed, Lily glanced at the houses, frowning. Only a few of them had numbers, and none of them were close to the number she was looking for.
Walking more quickly, Lily crossed another street. The sun was nearly set, and its straggling light did little to illuminate the narrow street, but there was enough momentary light spilling from a window that allowed her to glance around. Had the driver let her off at the wrong street?
The sound of footsteps behind her made her start, and she spun around, one hand reaching under her cloak. But the person coming behind her—a young, professional man, by the look of him, perhaps a clerk of some kind—simply lifted his hat and would have gone on walking had Lily not stopped him.
“Excuse me, sir!”
The heavy weight under her cloak made her feel both more afraid and braver as she curled her hand around it, but she kept her voice polite and unworried as she continued.
“I wonder if you might help me. I am looking for number sixteen, St. John’s.”
He gave her a wary, surprised look, and Lily realized her voice must have given her away as not belonging to this part of the city. But he still asked politely, “Which St. John’s, miss?”
She stared at him blankly. “I am afraid I do not know.”
A small sigh. “This here’s St. John’s Lane. If you can’t find the house you’re looking for, it might be St. John’s Street or St. John’s Square. Square’s one block west, next to the church. Street’s one block east.”
“Oh damnation,” Lily muttered.
It was hard to see in the dim light, but she thought he smiled at the curse that slipped out. He shrugged. “London, miss.”
“London, indeed.” Lily puffed out her cheeks and blew a frustrated breath. “I don’t suppose you live around here? And perhaps know where the Page family lives?”
“Simon Page?” The young man let out a short, surprised laugh. “Sure, miss. Folks always know where the nearest constable lives. He and Miss Page are on St. John’s Square.” He pointed back the way she had come, indicating a narrow, dark passage that led away from the road. “Right that way. North side o’ the square, red door.”
Lily swallowed nervously, wondering if she should ask him to accompany her. But even in the fading light, she could see dark shadows of fatigue under his eyes. This was the sort of young man who had been up at dawn to spend all day working and likely would be again tomorrow. She doubted that he wanted to make his day longer by accompanying lost women through neighborhoods where they didn’t belong. And it wasn’t as if she had far to go. So she nodded politely. “I thank you for your assistance.”
“Good evening, miss.” He lifted his hat and hurried on his way, and Lily turned her steps back toward St. John’s Square.
The walls of the narrow passage shut out all the fading light, but it wasn’t long, and Lily plunged ahead without giving herself time to feel nervous. Her footsteps were muffled by the damp and moss that covered the stones, and she slowed down so that she wouldn’t slip or stumble as the passage took a turn.
That was when the hand snaked out and grabbed her.
“What’s a fine lady like you doing out on such a gloomy night?”
Lily yanked away without needing time to think, feeling as though her stomach had dropped out of her belly, and tried to turn back the way she had come. But the man, who had been tucked between the barrels stacked against the wall, stumbled forward, trying to grab her again.
“Here now, fine lady. Why so hasty? Stop and have a chat with me.”
She couldn’t see his face clearly, but she could smell him, a mixture of unwashed flesh and the faint tang of liquor. It wasn’t the scent of drunkenness. In fact, she thought he had sounded sober. But it floated with him, as though it had been his companion so long that he could no longer escape it.
She could see his outline as she tried to pull away again, trying desperately to decide whether shouting would bring help or more assailants. He wasn’t a large man. And as far as she could see, he didn’t have a weapon.
There were reasons that ladies did not venture out alone in London’s streets at night. But she had, at least, come prepared.
The metal was cold in her hand as she drew her pistol out from under her cloak. It was one half of a set of dueling pistols that had belonged to her husband. It had proved useful once before when she was investigating a murder. She had kept it close by ever since she first saw the puddle of Sir Charles’s blood on the floor of the library at Wimpole Street.
The man hadn’t let go of her arm, and when he dragged her back toward him, his face was close enough for her to see his leering grin. “Whatcha got under that fancy cloak, then? Pretty trinkets? Or just your pretty self? I’ll take either.”
Lily wanted to scream or vomit. Instead, she cocked the hammer of the gun, which now rested between them.
“Cold lead,” she said, grateful that the words made it past her lips. Her voice shook, but her hands, she was relieved to realize, were steady. “And unless you want a permanent hole in your ballocks, I suggest you run away. Immediately.”
She didn’t want to shoot him. And he clearly didn’t want to be shot. He dropped her arm and backed away.
“Come on, now, miss,” he said, his tone sinking to a whine. “Just need some help, I do. I got three little ’uns to feed at home.”
“That argument might have been more persuasive if you had led with it. In daylight. Since you did not, I suggest you go home to those little ones. Now,” Lily bit off, taking slow steps away from him and closer to the square. He didn’t move, but she didn’t take her eyes off him. For all she knew, he was telling the truth about having children, but while that meant she was loath to hurt him, she knew it didn’t mean the feeling was mutual. She gestured with the gun. “Unless you would rather I summon a night watchman? I hear there is a constable living just one street over.”
The man hesitated once more, and Lily, barely breathing, raised her gun. He let out a whimper and fled back the way she had come.
A quick glance over her shoulder showed that the rest of the way to the square—a matter of only a few steps—was clear. But Lily didn’t lower her gun or turn from where the man had disappeared until she tripped over a loose paving stone and stumbled into the open space.
She turned at last, hiding the pistol under her cloak once more. Her hands were shaking, now that the confrontation was over, and she had to take several deep breaths while she tried to distract herself by looking for the red door.
St. John’s Square was a tidy spot surrounded by narrow houses, several of them with we
lcoming light glowing in the windows. At one side of the square was the tall facade of what she assumed was St. John’s Church, though it didn’t look much like the parish churches she was used to seeing scattered around London.
And there, across the way, with warm candlelight glowing in the window, was the house with the red door. Lily pressed one hand against her heart, which still felt as though it might leap out of her chest, took a deep breath, and walked toward it.
* * *
Simon had been trying to persuade his twelve-year-old niece that it was indeed time for bed when he heard three sharp raps on the front door.
“Who on earth could be knocking at this hour?” his sister, Judith, called from upstairs, where she was trying to persuade their seven-year-old nephew that it was indeed necessary to wash behind his ears.
Their niece did not lift her eyes from her book, just pulled the candle on the table closer to her pages and lifted her feet to cross them beneath her on the chair.
Simon frowned. “I don’t know,” he called back over the sound of splashing water. He wasn’t on night duties this week, so there was no reason for anyone from the force to be calling, and the neighbors, most of whom worked during the day and had children of their own, were never out paying calls at this hour of the evening.
“Well, for heaven’s sake, go see who it is,” Judith called back down.
“No shouting,” their niece said. It wasn’t a complaint or an impertinence; she said it without inflection or emotion, merely repeating the instruction that she had both heard and given many times before.
Simon shook his head, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Of course, Fanny. No shouting. You’re quite right.”
Silence in the Library Page 32