Love Between the Lines (19 page)

“
Good morning to you,” he said. He bowed, turned, and left.

As he reached the door, Oyster opened it.
“Good morning, Mr. Canin,” Lord Petersly said and pushed past him.

Oyster swiveled
sharply on his heel and looked after Lord Petersly. Lizzy wondered if he’d go after the man and beat him senseless. Oyster just pushed his hands into his pockets and slouched toward her.

“
Morning,” he said. He jerked a finger in the direction of the door. “You heard him? What he said to me?”

“
Yes.”

“
You knew that name was mine?”

She nodded.

Oyster rubbed his side-whiskers for a second, his pale eyes fixed on her face. “Yeah. I guess over here it don’t matter much.”

She cleared her throat.
“Is it a matter of the law?” she asked as low as she could. In the nearly silent room, she could almost hear the other reporters listening hard. As if the act of paying attention created a low buzz of tension.

“
Sure.” He grabbed one of the chairs and sat on it backwards, leaning his beefy arms over its top. “You knew that too? ’Bout the law?” He was quiet too.

“
I suspected as much.”

Indeed she
’d wondered about him from the first time she’d met him—the day he’d pulled two street arabs off her when she was walking near Fifth Avenue. The attack had nothing to do with anything she’d written and she wasn’t even in a bad neighborhood when the small boys had launched themselves at her to grab her groceries in her net bag.

After he
’d pummeled and sent the last boy on his way, Oyster had silently fallen into step next to her until she reached her doorstep. She’d timidly offered him what she’d called money for her protection. He took it without a word.

After that h
e’d appeared now and then. That was how she knew he kept an eye on her. Then she’d written a truly controversial story and gotten Trudy Tildon her first anonymous, threatening notes delivered via Tooley, who’d already cautioned her to watch her back.

When
Oyster had met up with her one morning in the usual manner, she talked about the trouble she’d face if the truth of her identity got out.

He
’d sniffed and rubbed the left side of his face with a big paw. “Guess I’d better work for you more often,” he’d said as if offering her a great boon. He was too. Because Oyster was the toughest man she’d ever met, and sometimes she needed that strength.

Now, five years later in England, she tried to explain why she’d long suspected he was not a model citizen in the eyes of the law. “You don’t like the police, you’re not afraid of violence, and I rather thought a person such as that might have, ah, seen trouble in his life.”

He gave her the fishy
look he always did when she acted too high and mighty. Lizzy felt reassured. This wasn’t some kind of monster. It was Oyster, after all. He grunted. “Yeah, trouble. Sure.”

He
’d never volunteered any facts, even with her delicate questioning, and chances were he wouldn’t now, not with the reporters nearby. Just as well. But then he shocked her.

“
I killed a guy,” he said, almost whispering. “Two of ’em.”

“
Oh.”

“
Got drunk and killed them,” Oyster said.

“
Why are you telling me now?” she whispered. She recalled she’d never seen him drink more than a single beer at a time, and felt somewhat reassured.

“
Because over here it don’t matter.” He thumped the top of his chair with his fist. In a louder voice he said, “Going back over to that loony bin today?”

She nodded.
Apparently his explanation of the past was over. Maybe later, when other people weren’t listening, she’d push for more. And likely not get another word.

O
yster, in one surprisingly graceful movement, got up and shoved the chair back to the side of the desk. He gave Buckley, the man at the next desk, one of his stares.

Th
ey left the office and as the door closed, she could hear the reporters’ voices behind them break the listening silence. She overheard the words, “He’s a bloody earl. Far better than a baronet.”

Damn
Langham. She’d thought she could do her job, the work she loved, but his invisible hand made her the object of gossip among the reporters. She wondered if the editor would notice if she did most of her work at home.

“
You never had gent callers in New York. Now you got them lined up.” Oyster sounded disapproving. “A pack of ’em.”

“
They’re none of them actual suitors. Lord Petersly thinks I’m a challenge, and David Oliver has been pressed into service by Sir Gideon.”

“
Who’s David Whatsit?”

She
’d slipped. “Mr. Brinker. I learned his given names. Of course I don’t call him that.”

“
Except in your mind.” He sniffed and spat on the street’s cobblestones.

“
You don’t approve?” She wondered what he’d say about that kiss she’d exchanged with Sir Gideon.

“
Not up to me,” he said darkly.

“
What advice would you give me?”

His thick brows relaxed and he gave her a sidelong glance.
“I don’t give nobody advice about personal stuff.”

She nodded.
“You’re the only person I know who doesn’t.”

“
You don’t neither,” he said. “Much,” he added. They walked along in companionable silence. They had less than a mile to walk, and she could stroll through almost any neighborhood with Oyster next to her.

He
began to whistle.

Miss Miles had been placed in a private clinic not so far from what Sir Gideon said was the original Grub Street. Lizzy had heard the expression “Grub Street hack.” That was what she’d been for years, and now she might be poised for better.

But never mi
nd future ambition. The story was all that mattered, and she could dig as deep as she wanted with this one, no harried rush to meet the rent.

They went through the iron gates in front of
the brick building. This asylum was far smaller than nearby Bethlehem hospital and certainly more lavish. Who had arranged such a thing?

Dr. Barnes, the nerve specialist and director of the establishment,
was willing to give her as much of his time as possible but he wasn’t about to tell her who was paying for the woman’s stay in the asylum. Lizzy made delicate pushes for information and then asked outright questions.

She
sat primly in the administrator’s well-appointed office, admiring the many framed degrees on the wall, as she tried to think of ways to get a closer look at the woman’s records. Barnes was polite yet entirely vigilant. Lizzy soon understood he was smart enough not to leave her alone in the room.

She
mentioned how she sometimes had to pay sources for their time. He only glared at her and drummed his manicured fingers. She smiled back innocently and thought,
officious twit
. Miss Drury might admire people who wouldn’t accept bribes, but Trudy Tildon found those honest people a nuisance.

She managed to dredge up more questions about the superior methods of this institution—
a tactic that warmed up the previously frosty Dr. Barnes, who loved the subject. Lizzy listened, smiled, and nodded, as from the corner of her eye she read the first page of an American patient’s papers upside down from her side of the desk.

Nothing particularly interesting
lay on his desk. The diagnosis of madness was certainly not news. Dr. Barnes’s lecture on the treatment of madness wasn’t either, but she decided if she ever lost her hold on her sanity she’d hope to be put under his care.

Dr. Barnes talked on about
restoring the delicate balances of the mind. As he leaned back to illustrate a point with his hands, he finally removed his elbow from the file. Lizzy read the bottom of the page—and learned Miss Miles was the American patient. This was interesting. The poor creature had signs of being bodily outraged, which wasn’t true of those other drugged and released females in New York. Their bodices had been violated, not their innocence—had that murdered girl been outraged? She wished she’d read the later versions of the story, but leaving for England had seemed more important at the time. There was also mention of an attempt at suicide. Poor woman.

Lizzy
ran out of questions for Dr. Barnes and asked to interview Miss Miles.

Dr. Barnes led them
through freshly painted corridors. Even the very best asylums held the faint scent of fear and urine and carbolic. He pulled out a big ring of keys and opened a series of locked doors.

S
tark yet clean, the visiting room contained nothing but comfortable chairs and pretty prints on the walls. Lizzy walked to one and examined one of the landscapes. It was bolted to the wall—just like the paintings in her stateroom on the ship.

“
We are always delighted to spread the good news about our methods. Unlike many other institutions, we have no secrets to hide here.” Dr. Barnes bowed again and left.

The attendant who accompanied Miss Miles
to the visitor’s room was neatly dressed in a gray suit—a uniform of sorts. He had dark hair under his gray cap and on his knuckles, and he was almost as broad and large as Oyster.

Miss Miles
ignored the sofa and sat huddled on the floor. She wore a white shift and was barefoot, but her feet and gown seemed clean, and thank goodness, she wore undergarments. She began rocking back and forth.

“
Good morning,” Lizzy said heartily. “Miss Miles, I am Miss Drury. I am glad to meet you.”

Miss Miles looked up at her, the lovely blue eyes blank.
“You’re safe,” she told Lizzy.

“
Good.” Lizzy smiled at her encouragingly.

“
You’re safe.” Miss Miles looked at Oyster, who leaned against a wall, picking his nails. “You’re safe.”

“
You’re safe,” she told the asylum attendant who sat on a chair in the corner with a newspaper on his lap—a Langham publication, Lizzy noticed.

Miss Miles rocked and stared at the bare polished floor.
“Someone else created the trouble,” she said. “It is her fault.”

Did she speak of herself in
the third person? The report mentioned Miss Miles had made an attempt to put a period to her existence.

Lizzy
watched and listened. More babbling about trouble, darkness, and the woman until she lapsed into silence. One of the first times she stopped the babbling.

“
You’re safe now,” Lizzy said to fill the unexpected silence.

The woman nodded.

“The place you were found. Were you a woman who…” She stopped to think of a polite way to ask. “Did you work in that house?”

“
No, no. They ask me that over and over.” She sounded almost normal as she gave the tart answer. “I must say no. There was the man in the mask who did the worst, and he told me to say nothing about it. That mask had black eyes.” She shivered and opened her mouth, but no noise came out.

“
What did the man in the mask say to you? What did he do?”

“
He told me whose fault it was, and then he hurt me.” She pointed at her arm. “He hurt my arm and… And other things.” She looked down at her feet again.

“
Visiting hours are almost over,” the keeper said.

Lizzy
nodded, but he must not have seen her, because he said in a slightly louder voice, “Miss Tildon, tomorrow’s visiting hours are—”

“
No, no! That can’t be right. You must not come here again. No!” Miss Miles began to scream, and the visit really did come to an end. The attendant bolted from his chair.

“
Does she often fall into this sort of frenzy?” Lizzy called out over the woman’s shouts.

The attendant
threw her an exasperated look as he circled Miss Miles. “Don’t think so.” He managed to wrestle the howling woman out the door. The noise drifted away down the hall. Another gray-suited attendant came into the room at once and insisted on escorting Lizzy and Oyster from the premises. Dr. Barnes might not mind her asking questions, but obviously she wasn’t to wander unattended.

“
I don’t wish to stay, but I do have some questions.” She produced a few guineas and was relieved that their escort, who introduced himself as Mr. Clark, proved to be a bribable attendant. The woman had had some lucid moments in the past, Clark said. He slipped the money into his pocket and promised to send word if the patient said anything interesting.

“
Take notes,” Lizzy suggested. “And if you happen to see any notes in her file… Well. I’m very interested, that’s all.”

A
s they waited behind the attendant who unlocked the main door to the corridor for them, Oyster said, “Get anything from that?”

“
Not much,” she said gloomily. “The man in a mask sounded horrible. But she didn’t answer any of the questions I need answered.”

“
Huh.”

She often chose to interpret Oyster
’s grunts as encouragement to think aloud. “What on earth did my mysterious correspondent mean? What about where she was found? And that other girl was near that house. A murdered girl this morning.”

She
’d poke around some more. Strictly a research story and no hijinks, as Tooley fondly called her attempts to uncover stories using unusual methods.

She didn
’t have the approval of her powerful publisher and Oyster wasn’t enough protection here. Without the support of men like Bill the waiter or the police captai
n
—
men who grudgingly watched out for he
r
—
or good knowledge of the city, she wasn’t about to try to get herself grabbed by kidnappers or murderers. “I’m not giving up yet,” she told Oyster, who rolled his eyes. “Just a little more hunting on paper. And we’ll keep watch on that house, all right?”

This
would give her an excuse to avoid writing up the article from those awful notes she’d jotted down about the ball.

“
If I even had an inkling who sent the letter about Miss Miles,” she mused as they skirted a small pile of garbage.

“Dunno,” Oyster said.

They walked in the direction of Langham House, Oyster leading the way, while Lizzy stopped now and then to flip through the pages of her guidebook. “Do I want the British Museum?” she said. “Where are the libraries in this blasted city?” She muttered the best of the curses she’d gathered over the years she’d spent in the company of newspapermen. “Geez, I miss home.”

“
I don’t,” Oyster said. “I expect I ain’t going back.”

Lizzy stopped dead.
“Oh no. Oyster, no!” In that second, she understood how much she liked Oyster and counted on his large, solid presence in her world. He’d always been more than just hired muscle. He was a good friend.

He sniffed disapprovingly at her exclamation
of distress. She tried to make amends. “I understand. It’s a fresh start here,” she said and began to walk again, a little faster. He wouldn’t appreciate hearing anything about her affection. He’d only give her one of his looks if she said anything about how she’d miss him.

She tucked away the
guidebook. “Well. Let’s go find out about that dead girl. But first I should talk to an editor about the other story.”

Mr. Rupert, head editor of the
Clarion
, Langham House’s premier paper, resembled a parrot with a bad attitude. When he saw Lizzy, he put down his pen and the papers he held and glared at her with his beady brown eyes.

She waited for his invitation to sit and
, when it didn’t come, took the chair in front of his desk. She’d spent too many years with newspaper people to take his manner as a personal affront.

“
I trust your first article about your introduction to society is going well, Miss Tildon?” he asked. Where did the acid in his voice come from?

Lizzy gave in
to her instinct for bluntness. “May I ask, sir, did you object to this story?”

He blinked.
“Why would I?” Not a real answer she noticed.

She shr
ugged. “A story about a society event certainly doesn’t fit the front section of your paper, which is where I understood it might be placed.”

He leaned back.
“It’s not my paper.” The acid was back in his voice, and she had her answer. He disliked the idea as much as she did.

“
Why do you suppose Sir Gideon is so insistent that I stay away from the stories I usually write?”

Mr.
Rupert shuffled some of the papers on his desk and looked at them instead of her. She didn’t speak or move, and after almost a full moment, Mr. Rupert answered. “I suspect he has a, ah, sense of responsibility for you.”

“
That’s no reason to insult the integrity of the
Clarion
.”

Mr.
Rupert dropped the papers. He beamed—a parrot with a full tray of sunflower seeds—and, as simply as that, she’d won an ally in him. Perhaps because she’d presented herself as an ally to the paper.

“
What do you think I should do?”

He took off his glasses and pinched the
permanent indentations on the bridge of his nose. With his pale complexion, the marks on his nose showed bright red. “I have thought… Yes, a suggestion coming from you might sway him. You might request that the story go in another Langham House publication?”

Oh dear. He didn
’t even want the thing on the inside society pages? She nodded. “Would he listen to me?”

“
Yes, I most certainly think he would.” Mr. Rupert smirked. Oh no, that implied something and now she longed to ask him about any rumors he’d heard—there was a world of innuendo on his beaky face.

“
Has he indicated to you what he expects of me?”

The smirk increased, a
las.

She
’d skip delicate questioning and go again for direct. “What exactly has he said about me? I mean as a reporter. I get many different sorts of messages from him—about my work,” she hastily added, “and I wonder what he tells other people.”

Rupert
picked up his pen. “I don’t have time for this.”

“
Mr. Rupert. Despite my profession, I know how to keep secrets and would never reveal any sources. Just tell me the common talk. The gossip.”