“Because Dot and I spoke endlessly of our similar taste in books. My soon-to-be-sister and I have a great deal in common when it comes to reading.”
His smile brought an immediate softening of his features. “It has not escaped my observations that you two have a great deal in common, notwithstanding books.”
The ladies exchanged amused glances. “How perceptive your brother is.”
He handed first his sister into the coach, then Dot, whom he came to sit beside. He examined each lady’s choice.
“Do you approve, sir?” Dot asked.
“I’ve not yet read Annie’s book, so I cannot say.” He eyed Dot’s. “Why just the one volume of Gibbons?”
“Because I expect it will take quite some time to finish it. My father has the set in his library at Blandings.”
“As do I at Hawthorne Manor.”
“And you recommend it?”
“I found it fascinating reading. I’m just surprised that a . . . a woman would be interested in reading it.”
Dot bristled. “You offend me.”
“Yes, Timothy! Why should women not be permitted to read the same things men read?”
“They are permitted. It’s just that I thought—yourself excluded, Annie—most women were interested in nothing but flowery poetry and gothic novels.”
Annie glared at her brother. “Do not disparage flowery poetry!”
“There’s nothing wrong with flowery poetry,” Dot said.
Forrester held up his hands. “Forgive me. I can see I’m dealing with two exceptional young women who are possessed of most discerning taste in literature.”
The ladies looked at one another and burst out laughing.
Then the coach slowed in front of the house on Camden Crescent, and Annie left them.
Forrester then took Dot’s hand in his and pressed his lips to it. A quiver strummed through her. “I’ve instructed the coachman to take us to Ellie’s lodgings.”
His calling the dead girl by her Christian name made Dot even more aware that Ellie Macintosh had been a real person, a young woman who’d been full of life, a young woman Forrester had known, a young woman whose tragic death had saddened him.
* * *
While Ellie’s street, Lower Richard, was not inhabited by the upper classes or even the upper middle classes, Appleton thought it most respectable looking, with its stone façades not altogether different from that of the city’s more affluent addresses. Seeing a crested coach stop in front of Number 17 drew attention from the neighbors who were obviously unaccustomed to seeing such an occurrence in their neighborhood.
As he and Dot moved to the front door of Ellie’s lodgings, he was pleased that she had dressed modestly in her simple sprigged muslin. Nothing about her shouted of affluence.
An aproned, stooped-over woman answered his knock on the door, which needed a fresh coat of paint. He handed her his card. “Lord Appleton to speak to the proprietress.”
The old woman’s eyes widened. She stood there for a moment, pondering if she should leave him standing on the step or invite him in. Obviously, she was unaccustomed to being called upon by a viscount. “Please, my lord, do come in while I give yer card to me mistress.”
He signaled for Dot to enter first. The two of them awaited in the dark entry hall dominated by a narrow wooden staircase while the woman he assumed was the housekeeper entered a drawing room on the ground floor, shutting the door behind her.
She soon emerged from the chamber with a smile on her wrinkled face. “Mrs. Thorpe will see you now. Follow me, yer lordship, if you please.” She went back into the drawing room.
The cream-coloured chamber was lighted from a single tall casement which faced the street and had been covered in draperies made of heavy linen the shade of celery. They crossed the room’s bare wooden floors to face a middle-aged woman wearing a mob cap and sitting at a walnut writing table. She looked up to greet him. “Lord Appleton. Pray, do sit.”
There was no sofa in the sparsely furnished room, only an olive green settee and several side chairs clinging to the walls. He would never be so rude as to greet a woman from a seated position. “You are Mrs. Thorpe?” he asked.
“Indeed, my lord.” Her gaze flicked to Dot.
He nodded. “I should like to present you to Miss Dorothea Pankhurst.”
The older woman offered a weak smile and nodded as her guests lowered themselves into the settee facing her.
Mrs. Thorpe did not waste time on pleasantries. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit, my lord?”
“Miss Pankhurst and I are most distressed over the recent . . . murder of your lodger, Miss Macintosh.” A small prevarication, he decided, was needed. “She was our friend.” Even though Dot had not been acquainted with the gaming hostess, she was as upset over her death as a friend would have been.
Mrs. Thorpe sighed heavily. “Dreadful business. I don’t mind telling you I haven’t been able to sleep since it ’appened. There’s a murderer on the prowl, and he may come back. I keep my doors and windows locked day and night.”
“As you should,” he said. “You said he may come back. Does that mean that a man came here for Miss Macintosh the night she died?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I can’t say as Miss Macintosh ever had a man call ’ere for her. She was a good girl, she was. I don’t run that kind of establishment. My ladies are not permitted to bring men onto these premises.”
“We could tell you run a respectable establishment,” Dot reassured.
“Do you know if Miss Macintosh had a special man that she saw?” he asked.
Mrs. Thorpe shook her head. “I ’ad no knowledge of it. During the three years she lived ’ere, there never seemed to be any man in her life. She worked nights, you see. And you could ’ave set your clock by the time she got home each night. She never dallied with her patrons after hours.”
This visit wasn’t yielding
