Page 108 of An Artful Dodge
His entire expression changed, and he looked sickened. “Well, that would do it.”
“Why do you say so?”
“It’s a particular cause of his,” he said. “Did he not tell you?”
“No.”
“Two or three years ago, Fuller wrote a series of articles about women who had been outraged in London. He interviewed nearly fifty of them, and the articles stirred up enough public sentiment that they led to the creation of the Society for the Protection of Women, which has worked tirelessly to advocate for laws requiring mandatory fines and punishment for offenders. They work out of one of the churches in Covent Garden.”
“He didn’t tell me.” I had observed Mr. Fuller’s distress when I told him about Maggie. “Did he know someone personally?”
“He never said so,” Mr. Stiles replied slowly. “But I would guess perhaps he did, given the way he pursued it. You might read the articles sometime. They’re very moving.”
Or perhaps taking down fifty stories, all of them terrible, had profoundly affected him.
“Well.” Mr. Stiles stood with a smile. “Let me know if you think more of the costumer position.”
I thanked him again, and he plucked his hat from the table a second time. He looked at me sideways. “It seems that five diamonds were stolen from the necklace, not just one. I don’t suppose you know what happened to the others?”
I shook my head. “If I were Maggie, I’d have hidden them all separately.”
He pursed his mouth. “And I don’t suppose you know who killed her.”
He’d been truthful with me, and I felt sorry I couldn’t be more truthful with him. “I didn’t witness it.”
“It wasn’t ten steps from where Rose Pratt was stabbed—and in exactly the same manner.” He turned his hat in his hands. “Seems someone had a sense for poetic justice.”
“I don’t know anyone but you who’s much for poetry,” I said.
“She didn’t have many friends that we could find.”
That made me think of Mr. Ardle for the first time in weeks, and my heart sank, knowing the grief he’d surely feel at her death.
“The Yard has pretty well washed their hands of the case,” he said. “There are no clues to speak of, and she was a dangerous woman.”
“She was an angry one,” I said. “And not wholly without cause.”
“Most of us come by our anger honestly.” He settled his hat on his head. “Goodbye, Kit.”
“Goodbye.”
The door closed behind him.
A costumer, I thought. It was kind of Mr. Stiles to ask me. It was certainly suited to my talents. But with other things he’d said, Mr. Stiles had unwittingly given me encouragement in a wholly different direction.
Chapter 29
I’d shared sleep since I could recall.
For years, I’d had Sarah in the same bed and my mother close by, snoring thickly. Sarah slept the way she lived, more quietly than I, though often I’d wake to find some part of her touching me—a hand on my shoulder blade, a foot on my shin. After Ma died, Sarah and I shared a bed in the lodging house, and later, after Sarah left to work in Mayfair, I slept alone in my bed, but still in a room with Mary, whose whistling snores sometimes worked their way into my dreams.
But I’d never woken up to a man until now, for I’d taken to spending one or two nights each week with James.
It was a Sunday morning, and neither of us had a reason to rise early. James’s face was soft in sleep, his dark hair tumbled, his lips parted.
My own mouth felt hot and tender from last night’s kissing. I shifted my limbs cautiously, remembering James’s hands on them and feeling a pleasant heat run over me at the memory of it.
I might have stayed there just to watch his face, but practicalities intruded.
