The River Knows

by Amanda Quick

  “You must not blame yourself, sir,” she said briskly. “I have done a great deal of thinking about the incident, and I see now that I must bear the majority of the blame.”

  “Because you did not warn me that you lacked experience in that particular enterprise?”

  She glowered. “No, for expecting too much from the business itself. I fear I placed too much credence in the glowing descriptions of the novelists and the sensation plays. All that lovely nonsense about exquisite rapture and transcendent passion. I should have known that the reality would fall somewhat short.”

  “In my opinion, you would do well to withhold judgment on the matter until you have conducted a few more experiments.”

  “Hmm.”

  He tightened his grip on her arm. “And I must insist that those experiments be conducted with me.”

  For some reason the ominous tone of his voice elevated her spirits. Was he just a bit jealous?

  “Why?” she asked lightly. “Surely it would be more scientific to experiment with a variety of gentlemen.”

  He halted, forcing Louisa to stop, too.

  “You are teasing me,” Anthony said evenly.

  “Yes, of course I am.”

  “Don’t. Not when it comes to that subject.”

  “Very well.” She smiled a little.

  “Correct me if I am wrong, but I was under the impression last night that you did not object to my kisses.”

  She blushed. “No. That aspect of the business was quite gratifying.”

  “I am relieved to hear that.”

  He slid his warm, powerful hand around the nape of her neck, pulled her close very deliberately and kissed her. His mouth was a slow, seductive drug on her senses. Heat and excitement ignited within her. She put her free arm around his neck and abandoned herself to the tantalizing sensations that were igniting her senses. She could easily become addicted to Anthony’s kisses.

  When he freed her a moment later, she was feeling breathless again, but not from fear this time.

  “I must say, the novelists may have got things wrong when it comes to the denouement of the thing,” she announced, vastly pleased. “But they are quite correct when they write about the pleasures of illicit kisses.”

  Anthony gave her his mysterious smile. “I shall take that as a sign of progress.” He took her arm and propelled her swiftly along the path. “But future experiments must wait. We have a more pressing problem.”

  “Our investigation?”

  “That, too. I now have a strong reason to believe that Hastings did not murder Thurlow, by the way.”

  “What?”

  “He set a man to watch Thurlow. I don’t think he would have done that if he intended to kill him.”

  “Good heavens. That means that either Thurlow really did take his own life or—”

  “Or someone else murdered him. For the moment, I’m assuming the latter, but first we must deal with an invitation.”

  She made an impatient little sound. “Another boring society affair?”

  “No. I cannot guarantee that you will enjoy this particular event, but I can promise that it will not be dull.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “My mother has invited you to tea tomorrow afternoon.”

  She stopped short, utterly aghast. “Your mother. She cannot possibly want to meet me.”

  “It was inevitable. She has heard the gossip about us.”

  “But we are having an illicit affair. Mothers never want to entertain the women with whom their sons are conducting illicit liaisons.”

  “You don’t know my mother.”

  27

  Anthony waited until the only other customer in Digby’s Bookshop had left before he put down the novel he had been pretending to examine and went to the counter.

  Digby was seated at his desk. He did not look up from a catalog of rare books.

  “What do you want?” he growled.

  “I wish to purchase a book for a good friend who shops here,” Anthony said. “It is to be a surprise for a special occasion. My friend is very knowledgeable about rare volumes, but I lack expertise in the field. I thought perhaps you could assist me in selecting something that she will truly appreciate.”

  Digby snorted and turned the page. “What’s the name of your friend?”

  “Mrs. Bryce.”

  Digby reluctantly put down the catalog and heaved an exasperated sigh. “No offense, sir, but the lady is a bloody nuisance.”

  “In what way?”

  Digby flung a hand wide, taking in the shelves of books. “Nothing in my shop is good enough for her. She only reads sensation novels. I don’t carry that sort of thing. I am a dealer in rare volumes.”

  “I thought she came here specifically to purchase rare books.”

  “There are only two such books that are important to her. Both exceedingly difficult to obtain,” Digby said grimly. “She’s very choosy. Very demanding. Not just any first editions, but specific first editions. Neither one was in my shop.”

  “I understand you had some luck. She showed me the copy of a book on Aristotle that you located for her.”

  Digby’s whiskers twitched in an irritated manner. “The only reason I was able to persuade the new owner to sell it to me was because he has no interest in rare books. Didn’t know the value of what he had. I haven’t been so fortunate with the owner of the Milton. Even if he could be convinced to sell, he made it clear the price would be far beyond Mrs. Bryce’s reach.”

  “Perhaps if I spoke with the collector I could convince him to sell it to me,” Anthony suggested. “Would you give me his name?”

  Digby scowled suspiciously. “Now, see here, Mrs. Bryce is employing me to find that book. Damned if I’ll hand the business over to you, sir.”

  “I would, of course, pay you a commission as a token of my appreciation for your valued assistance.”

  Digby did not appear enthused. “Even if I did give you the name of the collector, you probably won’t be able to talk him into selling.”

  “I will pay the commission whether or not I am successful in acquiring the book for Mrs. Bryce,” Anthony said.

  Digby’s brows formed a solid line above the rims of his spectacles. “The commission must be paid before I give you his name.”

  “Of course,” Anthony said.

  AN HOUR AND A HALF later Anthony was shown into a library that was so cluttered with bookshelves and volumes he could not immediately locate his host. The housekeeper disappeared before he could request directions.

  “Lord Pepper?” he said to the seemingly uninhabited room.

  “Over here, sir,” a gruff voice called out from behind a towering bookcase. “Near the window.”

  Anthony threaded a path through a maze of books piled on the carpet and walked past several rows of bookcases.

  A large, heavily built man lumbered to his feet behind a vast mahogany desk. His clothes were of good quality but sadly out of style. It had clearly been some time since he’d had his graying hair and whiskers trimmed. He smiled widely, displaying a gold tooth.

  “Mr. Stalbridge, a pleasure to meet you, sir.” He motioned to a chair piled high with leather-bound tomes. “Sit down, sit down. With any luck my housekeeper will bring us some tea.”

  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, sir.” Anthony picked up the stack of books on the chair and looked at his host. “Where shall I put these?”

  “Just set them down anywhere on the floor.”

  Easier said than done, Anthony thought. He eventually located a section of carpet that was not already littered with books and put down his burden, then returned to the chair and sat down.

  Lord Pepper resumed his seat. “How is your father, young man?”

  “Very well, sir. He sends his regards and asked me to ascertain that you are still satisfied with your Apollo Patented Safe.”

  Pepper smiled fondly at the massive strongbox that stood next to the desk. “Perfectl
y satisfied. I have the utmost confidence in the Apollo. I may have to acquire another one soon, however. That one is full.”

  “My father will be delighted to hear that.”

  The Apollo was the reason he had got past the front door of Pepper’s town house. When he had mentioned the name of the owner of the Milton to his father, Marcus had recognized it immediately. “Known Pepper for years. Very keen on books.”

  Pepper laced his thick fingers together on top of the desk. “Now then, what’s this about my copy of Milton? Have you become a collector, sir?”

  “No,” Anthony said. “I wish to acquire it for a very good friend.”

  “I see.” Pepper assumed a sly expression. “Well, I’m not sure I can be of assistance. That book is one of my most valuable possessions. In fact, I keep it in my Apollo.”

  It was the answer Anthony had expected. He settled into his chair and prepared to go after the information he really wanted.

  “I understand, sir,” he said. “Obviously I shall have to look elsewhere for a gift for my friend.”

  “You won’t find another copy of a first edition of that particular Milton in such excellent condition,” Pepper said proudly. He nodded in the direction of the safe. “I spent years trying to obtain that one.”

  “As a matter of curiosity, would you tell me how it came into your hands?”

  Diamond-bright satisfaction gleamed in Pepper’s eyes. “I’d heard rumors from time to time that it was in the private collection of a gentleman named George Barclay. I approached him once or twice while he was alive, but he refused to sell.”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s a rather sad story, I fear. Barclay took his own life, leaving behind a massive amount of debt. His only living relation was his daughter. She was forced to sell off the house and most of the contents, but she managed to keep Barclay’s books. Very few people know it, but the young lady used them to open a small bookshop.”

  A chill of awareness made Anthony go very still. “She was the proprietor of a bookshop? Barclay’s Bookshop, by any chance?”

  “Ah, I see you’re aware of part of the story. It became quite notorious, of course, after Gavin was murdered there.” Pepper lounged back in his chair, shaking his head sadly. “Shocking, really.”

  “The murder?”

  “That, too. But I was referring to Miss Barclay’s decline and fall. The Barclays were descended from an old, distinguished family. I’ve no doubt but that George Barclay would have turned over in his grave at the notion of his daughter lowering herself so far as to go into trade.”

  “Doesn’t sound like he left her much choice,” Anthony said evenly. “After paying off his debts she would not have had many alternatives.”

  “Yes, well, I suppose that’s true. Nevertheless, it was a great pity. You’d think a young lady would have had more self-respect.”

  What was she supposed to do? Anthony wondered. Walk the streets? Enter a workhouse? Doom herself to a miserable life of genteel poverty as a governess or a paid companion?

  He forced himself to suppress his anger. He was here for information, he reminded himself, not a debate. “Continue with your story, sir. I find myself fascinated.”

  “Let me see. Where was I? Ah, yes, Barclay’s Bookshop. It was located in a rather poor part of town, but Miss Barclay knew a great deal about rare books because her father had been an avid collector. She had begun to attract a good clientele and, I believe, must have been turning a profit there at the end. But then, of course, she murdered her lover, Lord Gavin, and committed suicide.” Pepper clicked his tongue against his front teeth in a tsk-tsking manner. “Tragic.”

  “Were you acquainted with Miss Barclay?”

  “No. The Barclays did not go into Society. Never had occasion to meet the girl.”

  “What of Lord Gavin? Did you know him?”

  “Not well. He belonged to one of my clubs, but I rarely encountered him. Had a taste for seventeenth-century volumes, as I recall. Not too particular.”

  28

  Anthony climbed down from a hansom cab, paid the driver, and went up the steps of J. T. Tuttington’s Museum of Murder Most Foul. An older, badly faded sign was still visible over the entrance: BARCLAY’S BOOKSHOP.

  A bell rang when he opened the glass-fronted door.

  The interior was poorly lit. There were still a few volumes on the shelves. Cobwebs draped the higher sections of the bookcases. The sole occupant was a young woman seated behind the counter. She wore a plain dress and a neat white cap. She surveyed Anthony’s expensive attire and immediately put down the penny dreadful that she had been perusing.

  “J. T. Tuttington?” Anthony said politely.

  She giggled. “That’s my father, sir. My name is Hannah Tuttington. I look after the museum when he’s not here.”

  He inclined his head. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Tuttington.”

  Hannah Tuttington blushed at the polite greeting. “May I be of assistance, sir?”

  “I understand that this is the scene of a scandalous murder.”

  Hannah’s eyes widened. “That it is, sir. A most dreadful, bloody event, it was. A woman murdered her lover in cold blood on these very premises. Would you be wanting the full tour, then?”

  “Yes, please.” Anthony took a coin out of his coat and put it on the counter.

  Hannah snatched up the money. “This way, sir. We’ll start with the back room. Handsome Lord Gavin used to come around to that door when he called on her late at night.”

  She hurried around the end of the counter and led the way into the rear of the old bookshop.

  Before following her, Anthony glanced at the magazine she had been reading. The cover featured a lurid drawing of a dead woman lying at the foot of a flight of stone steps. The menacing figure of a man stood at the top of the steps, a knife dripping blood in one hand. The title read: A Complete History of the Dreadful Murder of Frances Hayes, a Prostitute.

  He walked into the back room of the shop, taking his time, absorbing the feel of the place.

  “I see you kept some of the previous owner’s books,” he said, looking at the cartons of old volumes stacked in the small space.

  “Only a few left now. Pa sold most of them right after he took over the shop. In the first few days after the murder all sorts of odd people showed up on the doorstep wanting to buy the books.”

  He looked at her. “What do you mean by odd?”

  Hannah made a face. “They told Pa they were collectors. You wouldn’t believe the prices they were willing to pay for dusty old books. Who would have guessed that there was a market for that sort of thing? Pa thought we were going to get rich within the month, but after a while that sort stopped coming around.”

  “And you were left with these volumes?” He motioned toward the cartons.

  Hannah regarded them morosely. “Occasionally someone will buy one as a souvenir of the tour, but our customers aren’t willing to pay as much as the collectors did. Most of the books go for a few pennies now.”

  “Do you have a lot of customers for your tour?”

  “Not nearly as many as we did in the first few months after the murder.” Hannah sighed. “Business has been slow lately, I’m sorry to say. Pa’s doing his best to promote the museum, but there’s a lot of competition these days. Seems like hardly a week passes without another scandalous murder or suicide in the press. Pa’s thinking of going into some other line.”

  “A wise decision, no doubt. Tell me about the murder.”

  Hannah cleared her throat and assumed a melodramatic tone. “The name of the murderess was Miss Joanna Barclay. She was very beautiful, with long blond tresses and lovely blue eyes. Her lover’s name was Lord Gavin. He was ever so elegant and handsome.”

  “Where did you get the descriptions?” Anthony said.

  Hannah blinked at the interruption. “Why, from the newspapers and penny dreadfuls, of course. I assure you, every detail is based on fact, sir.”

  “Of
course. Please continue.”

  “On the night of the dreadful event Joanna Barclay heard handsome Lord Gavin knock three times here at the back door.”

  Hannah made a fist and knocked in what was no doubt meant to be an ominous fashion.

  “How do you know that he knocked three times?” Anthony asked.

  “It was their secret code.”

  “If it was a secret code, how did you come to learn it?”

  Hannah frowned, thrown off-stride again by the question. “Pa read about the code in one of the penny dreadfuls.”

  Anthony nodded. “Always a reliable source of information.”

  Hannah resumed her sepulchral tones. “Miss Barclay came downstairs to greet her handsome lover dressed only in her nightgown, robe, and slippers.”

  “How do you know what she wore? Did you get that out of the sensation press accounts, too?”

  “Pa says the customers like to hear the details,” Hannah confided. “So I made up some. Makes the story more interesting that way.”

  “Very enterprising of you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Hannah was pleased. “As I was saying, the lovely Joanna Barclay came down the stairs dressed for a night of illicit passion. She unlocked this very door to welcome her elegant lover.”

  Anthony studied the lock. It was a relatively new model that had not been on the market long. What interested him were the marks in the wood around it. There were several grooves and gouges. He could see the outline of a previous, much larger device.

  “Was this lock on the door at the time of the murder?” he asked.

  “No, sir.” Hannah frowned, obviously bewildered by the question. “Pa had to install a new one when he rented the premises. The one that was on before was broken.”

  “Any idea how it got broken?”

  Hannah shook her head, baffled. “How would I know that, sir?”

  “Never mind.”

  Hannah coughed slightly and once again took up her tale. “After letting her handsome lover in on that fateful night, Joanna Barclay gave Lord Gavin a most passionate kiss, took him by the hand, and led him up the stairs. Little did he know that he was climbing to his own death.”