Page 63 of An Artful Dodge
I sank back in the chair. I might have misread everything, from Maggie’s penetrating look that very first night. It might not have been for me alone. After all, her expression had hardenedaftershe’d seen Mary, who had been standing beside me.
I drew a breath. “Rose was murdered in March.”
Amelia followed my thought, for she shook her head. “Maggie wasn’t here yet. She came to see me in June and said her boat had docked in Liverpool three weeks before.” Her expression changed. “Although that could be a lie.”
“I think it was,” I said, “and I think Maggie killed Rose.”
“You’ve no proof of that,” Amelia said. “I’m not saying it’s impossible, but—”
“Maggie said that God kept her alive in Swan River so she could have revenge. That balancing the scales was the most important thing.” My mind was leaping from point to point. “That first day when I saw her in the taproom, IknewI’d seen her somewhere before. I remembered her face, and nearest I can recall it was in a shop, months before.”
“When, Kit?” Her voice was tight.
I closed my eyes and pressed my palms to the side of my head, trying to remember.
Where was it? A West End shop?But even as I thought it, I rejected the idea. The West End shops tended to be large and brightly lit, and the place in my memory had been smaller and dimmer.
Where the devil was it?
Someplace small, someplace smelling of fabrics, woolens, the faint smell of glue used in hat making.
Then it came to me.
Emma had run short on some threads and buttons for a coat she was making for Mrs. Prentice. A red coat, with a thick collar.
I opened my eyes. “Mr. Thorpe’s shop, back in February or early March at the latest. There was snow on the shoulders of her coat. I was buying notions for Emma.”
Amelia rested a hand on the back of the chair. “February or March,” she said softly. “My God.”
“Do you think Maggie killed Rose herself?” I asked. “Or had it done? By Billy?”
Amelia considered a moment before answering. “Two stabs of the knife under the ribs toward the heart? I’d say that’s the way a woman like her kills, if she’s bent on revenge.”
I shuddered, imagining the scene.
“You need to be bloody careful with her,” Amelia said soberly. “Will she let you say no to her dodge?”
My heart gave a sickening thump. Knowing Maggie was capable of murder with her own hands changed everything. “I said no tonight, but she told me she wants me to think on it and come back tomorrow. She ... she seems fixed on it.”
“Oh, Kit.” Her eyes were dark with sympathy. “What did she offer you?”
“Three hundred pounds,” I said. “Enough money to leave. She’s all but said she’d want me to.”
“Three hundred! What the devil are you nicking?”
“An heirloom necklace from Simonson’s,” I began and relayed everything about Roger Simonson, the Hargrave necklace, the store, the constables, the mirrors, the locks, the safe, the alleys, and the family living upstairs.
“You’re right,” Amelia said, her voice hollow. “It sounds near impossible.”
“James and I figured out a way to get the necklace without going into the jeweler’s shop—because the marchioness is wearing it at a ball in just over a week. We could take it from her there. But Maggie wants it taken from the jeweler, to disgrace him. To ruin him.”
“I can see it,” Amelia said, coming around to the chair to sit again. She put her elbows on her knees, her fingertips on her mouth for a long moment before she sat back with a sigh. “Well, she’s had months to plan this, and she’s clever enough to pull it off. God knows, she uses every tool she has.”
There was a dark note in her voice that drew me up.
“How did she get you to hand over the ring?” I asked. “I know you said it was hers by rights, from her mother ... but Emma told me—and these were her exact words—that you did the best you could for all of us, but you had no choice. What did she mean?”
Amelia took a moment to answer. “The first time she asked for the ring, I told her I’d think about it.” She tapped the first two fingers of her left hand on the chair arm, soundlessly. “When she came back the following week, I refused. I told her that I cared about all of you, and I didn’t want anything to change. Plus, I’d built it into something beyond what her mother had done. Patty was clever, but there were only eight or nine thieves then, including herself, and no rhyme or reason to where we went or when. I reminded her that mostly, they’d only work when they were sober, which wasn’t often.”
