As he acted his part he watched her face, reading it the way a sailor reads the surface of the sea. For a moment she tried to put on a look of astonishment, but she abandoned it almost immediately. She gave the hint of a gratified smile, then a faint blush of embarrassment that was almost maidenly; and then a calculating look that told him she was reckoning up what she had to gain and lose.
He saw she was still undecided.
He put his hand on her corseted waist and drew her gently toward him. She did not resist, but her face still wore that appraising look which told him she had not made up her mind.
When their faces were close and her breasts were touching the lapels of his coat, he said: “I can’t live without you, dear Augusta.”
He could feel her trembling beneath his touch. In a shaky voice she said: “I’m old enough to be your mother.”
He spoke into her ear, brushing her face with his lips. “But you aren’t,” he said, making his voice almost a whisper. “You’re the most desirable woman I’ve ever met. I’ve longed for you all these years, you know that. Now …” He moved his hand up from her waist until he was almost touching her breast. “Now I can hardly keep my hands under control. Augusta …” He paused.
“What?” she said.
He almost had her, but not quite. He had to play his last card.
“Now that I’m no longer minister, I can divorce Rachel.”
“What are you saying?”
He whispered into her ear: “Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” she said.
He kissed her.
APRIL TILSLEY BURST INTO Maisie’s office at the Female Hospital, dressed to the nines in scarlet silk and fox fur, carrying a newspaper and saying: “Have you heard what’s happened?”
Maisie stood up. “April! What on earth is it?”
“Micky Miranda shot Tonio Silva!”
Maisie knew who Micky was, but it took her a moment to remember that Tonio had been one of that crowd of boys around Solly and Hugh when they were young. He had been a gambler in those days, she recalled, and April had been very sweet on him until she discovered that he always lost what little money he had in wagers. “Micky shot him?” she said in amazement. “Is he dead?”
“Yes. It’s in the afternoon paper.”
“I wonder why?”
“It doesn’t say. But it also says—” April hesitated. “Sit down, Maisie.”
“Why? Tell me!”
“It says the police want to question him about three other murders — Peter Middleton, Seth Pilaster and … Solomon Greenbourne.”
Maisie sat down heavily. “Solly!” she said, and she felt faint. “Micky killed Solly? Oh, poor Solly.” She closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands.
“You need a sip of brandy,” April said. “Where do you keep it?”
“We don’t have any here,” Maisie said. She tried to pull herself together. “Show me that paper.”
April handed her the newspaper.
Maisie read the first paragraph. It said the police were hunting for the former Cordovan Minister, Miguel Miranda, to question him about the murder of Antonio Silva.
April said: “Poor Tonio. He was one of the nicest men I ever opened my legs for.”
Maisie read on. The police also wanted to question Miranda about the deaths of Peter Middleton, at Windfield School in 1866; Seth Pilaster, the Senior Partner of Pilasters Bank, in 1873; and Solomon Greenbourne, who was pushed under a speeding carriage in a side street off Piccadilly in July of 1879.
“And Seth Pilaster — Hugh’s uncle Seth?” Maisie said agitatedly. “Why did he kill all these people?”
April said: “The newspapers never tell you what you really want to know.”
The third paragraph jolted Maisie yet again. The shooting had taken place in northeast London, near Walthamstow, at a village called Chingford. Her heart missed a beat. “Chingford!” she gasped.
“I’ve never heard of it—”
“It’s where Hugh lives!”
“Hugh Pilaster? Are you still carrying a torch for him?”
“He must have been involved, don’t you see? It can’t be a coincidence! Oh, dear God, I hope he’s all right.”
“I expect the paper would say if he had been hurt.”
“It only happened a few hours ago. They may not know.” Maisie could not bear this uncertainty. She stood up. “I must find out if he’s all right,” she said.
“How?”
She put on her hat and stuck a pin in it. “I’ll go to his house.”
“His wife won’t like it.”
“His wife’s a paskudniak.”
April laughed. “What’s that?”
“A shitbag.” Maisie put on her coat.
April stood up. “My carriage is outside. I’ll take you to the railway station.”
When they got into April’s carriage they realized that neither of them knew which London terminus they should go to for a train to Chingford. Fortunately the coachman, who was also the doorman at Nellie’s brothel, was able to tell them it was Liverpool Street.
When they got there Maisie thanked April perfunctorily and dashed into the station. It was packed with Christmas travelers and shoppers returning to their suburban homes. The air was full of smoke and dirt. People shouted greetings and farewells over the screech of steel brakes and the explosive exhalations of the steam engines. She fought her way to the booking office through a throng of women with armfuls of parcels, bowler-hatted clerks going home early, black-faced engineers and firemen, children and horses and dogs.
She had to wait fifteen minutes for a train. On the platform she watched a tearful farewell between two young lovers, and envied them.
The train puffed through the slums of Bethnal Green, the suburbs of Walthamstow and the snow-covered fields of Woodford, stopping every few minutes. Although it was twice as fast as a horse-drawn carriage it seemed slow to Maisie as she bit her fingernails and wondered if Hugh was all right.