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 black 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.