Love Between the Lines (28 page)

“
Wait. Just wait. It’s complicated. I don’t entirely understand it myself. Christ, I don’t have time for this.” He pressed his palms to his eyes and tried to think.

“
Lizzy said that perhaps someone had conspired against her.” He spoke slowly, only going over the facts he knew. “The brothel ownership has nothing to do with Ernest. The madwoman and the murdered girl, nothing to do with him or the brothel. Nothing. But if the papers really existed… Someone wanted Lizzy to think there was a connection.”

He thumped the chair.
“Who in hell would do something like this? A business rival of Ernest’s? Someone wanting to throw mud on my paper?”

Oyster stood.
“I got a name in my head.”

“
Petersly?”

“
Naw.” He started for the door, and Gideon went after him.

“
You don’t think you’re going alone, do you?” Gideon said.

Oyster sniffed.
“Nope.”

“
We’ll take my carriage.” Gideon sped down the stairs. “What name do you have?”

Oyster trundled along behind him
. “Lord Ernest has seen the man. So Ernie’ll know if I’m crazy.”

Gideon
gave instructions to the driver and clambered back into the carriage. “You think Ernest is behind it after all? I’ll rip his bloody arms off and beat him senseless with them.”

Oyster settled in, taking up a great deal more room than Brinker
had. He grunted. “You’re crazy too. Crazy for Miss Lizzy.”

Gideon
stared at him and decided there was no point in being coy. “Has my interest always been that obvious?”

“
Obvious to anybody who walks in any room where the two of you are looking hungry at each other. You was more’n obvious from that first day in New York.” Oyster sounded scornful.

Gideon remembered something he
’d seen on Oyster’s face that first day. “I hope you don’t feel…” He cleared his throat. “I have decided no more lies to myself or anyone else. And if I can convince Miss Drury—”

Oyster held up a big hand to stop him.
“’Tain’t none of my business.”

“
But you care about her.”

Oyster, who
usually avoided meeting anyone’s gaze, looked at him straight on. The pale blue eyes held no expression. “Sure I do. And if she says you hurt her, I’ll kill you.”

Gideon
nodded. “Good.” He pulled out his little notebook.

“
That’s like Miss Lizzy’s book,” Oyster said.

“
I never got out of the habit of carrying it.” Gideon flipped through it and spotted his schedule. He gave a mirthless laugh. “I’ve missed two appointments and two meetings with editors already today. All right. You say Lord Ernest really is behind it? The man’s a fool. If he has an ounce of cunning, it’s all related to how to touch his friends for a few dollars.”

Oyster rubbed his b
ig hands over his knees. “Yeah, Ernie’s got money trouble. Like you said, right?”

Gideon nodded.
“The whole family does.”

“
Some guy comes along and hires Ernie to do errands, maybe deliver a package to a lawyer. The fellow says, ‘Tell the clerk it belongs to you, but don’t look inside.’ He’d do it, right?”

“
Lord Ernest as a messenger boy. It would be within his abilities.”

“
My guess, that mighta happened.” Oyster spoke in that flat New York accent of his. “Someone hired that Smith, and that Ernie and the bad guy did some other stuff. Like those notes.”

“
But why?”

Oyster said,
“To ruin her reputation.”

Gideon winced.

“Not that kind of reputation. Her what-you-may-call-it”—Oyster waved a hand. “Her work.”

“
Why would someone do that to her?” He thought of her in Mrs. Pruitt’s parlor, pale, angry, and lovely. No, Gideon had not just merrily followed along with a plan to destroy Lizzy. The thought was unbearable. “It’s ridiculous. Why?”

“
I reckon because she did the same to him.”

Gideon
shook his head. “It’s insane. Who would take vengeance to a personal level like that?” Before Oyster could speak, he answered his own question. “Someone who knew her personally.” He slapped a hand against his leg. “That banker, the one she’s talked about. But he’s in jail.”

“
Yeah, him. But maybe he isn’t in the chokey. She thought she saw him.”

Gideon waited, but apparently the
big man had nothing else to add.

Gideon leaned back in the seat.
“All right, we’ll hunt down Lord Ernest, and if we can’t find him, Smith. I know his haunts.”

Oyster gave an unpleasant smile.
“Yah, me too. Good idea. He said he followed the man too. ’Bout time he show me where.”

Lizzy woke with the most appalling headache. When she was about ten, she’d sneaked downstairs after one of her parents’ parties and she’d discovered a bottle of some sort of wine. Despite its sour taste, she’d swallowed most of it just to experience the sensation of being drunk. It had felt horrible. It still did. When did she drink so much? She recalled the added unpleasant scent of cigar smoke that night too.

Cigar smoke.
Her father had given up cigars. She wasn’t at home or in her New York apartment or in bed at Mrs. Pruitt’s house.

“
Good morning. You are a sound sleeper.” An American accent.

She
remembered what she’d seen before she passed out, and she opened her eyes wide to the sheer, strange truth. “Mr. Harrington.”

He leaned over her
, and she tried to reach up to push him away, only to discover her hands had been tied to the bed.

“
Lizzy,” he said. “Except that sweet little girl, a girl I liked, no longer exists. Trudy Tildon. She’s the evil creature that replaced that good girl.”

The pleasant
banker who’d attended her parents’ gatherings was long gone. Even the frightened defendant in the dock had vanished. This haggard, gray-faced man might be their sickly older brother. A fever burned in his eyes. His face seemed much thinner, so perhaps he suffered from illness of the body as well as of the mind.

He seemed to be waiting for her to speak
, so she asked, “Mr. Harrington, why are you in London?”

He still loomed over her, looking her up and down. He smelled of sweat and cigar smoke and alcohol.
“You, Trudy Tildon.” At last he straightened and walked away, his shoes thumping on the floor. No carpet. Something squeaked and scraped—he’d dragged a chair over to her bedside.

Her legs couldn
’t move. They’d been tied too. She lay on her back but managed to look around the room—a wretched place with one window covered by something that looked like a blanket. The room contained the bed, a chair, and a table with a jumble of objects on it: a pen, ink, blotting paper, the remains of a sandwich. The room was entirely empty otherwise; no carpets and only shapes on the wallpaper where there must once have been pictures.

He moved closer
, blocking her view so she saw nothing but him. “Pay attention. We’re nearly done, Trudy Tildon.”

He spat out th
e four syllables of her name as if he cursed. His breath smelled as dank as an old cellar.

“
You may still call me Lizzy,” she said, trying to lean away.

“
Alas, no. You lost the right when you stole from me.”

“
I’m not the thief here. I never stole a cent from—”

The slap
across her face came fast and hard. Something trickled down the side of her mouth, and she tasted blood.

“
You really need to learn to keep your mouth shut.”

She couldn
’t disagree with that.

“
No one would have caught me if it hadn’t been for you, Trudy Tildon. I had a good life, a wife. Children. I had friends I cared about, such as the Drury family. You took it all from me, Trudy Tildon.”

“
It was the judge and jury who—”

He hit her again.

She shut up after that and let him talk to her. He listed her sins, how she’d been the reason he’d lost everything. He punctuated the angry narration with blows, along with pinches. He even leaned over her and bit her shoulder. Still she remained silent—until he picked up the knife.

She had time to scream once before he shoved a cloth into her mouth. He began cutting away her clothes. As he worked, his hands shook
, and he muttered, “Trudy Tildon has more to write. We’re not done yet. Almost there, almost.”

He worked on her clothing
, and she squirmed away until he slashed her hip. After that, she lay still.

All the time
, he said Trudy Tildon over and over—she grew to hate hearing those two words. Maybe this was what happened with Miss Miles. He had tied her to a bed too, and muttered on and on about Trudy Tildon. No wonder the poor woman screamed at the name.

Then he saw
ed away at the cloth binding her right hand to the bed. When the cloth gave way, she sat up at once, but Harrington had already backed off, knife at the ready.

“
We have work to do, Trudy Tildon. I had thought to write it out or use a typewriter. I bought one, you know. But this needs to be in your hand. Written by Trudy Tildon herself. Her confession of guilt.”

She used her free hand to slowly pull the cloth from her mouth, all the while watching him for his response. He didn
’t seem to notice that she had removed the gag.

He went to the table, gathered some things
, and put them on the floor. “The pen and paper and ink are right there. You can reach them.”

She leaned over and discovered she could reach them, though she had to allow herself to
dangle from the remaining handhold. As she reached down, the last scraps of her clothing parted from her body. She tried to cover herself, but he gave an impatient hiss.

“
Pick up the writing materials,” he ordered. “Use the small board as a desk. Go on, Trudy Tildon. It’s time to write.”

Awkwardly, with only one hand, she picked up each obj
ect, one by one, and arranged them on the bed. After she shuffled the papers in place one-handed and had the ink precariously balanced on the bed next to her, she dipped the pen in the ink and waited.

He licked his lips and
, staring at her body, began. He spoke slowly, waiting while she scratched out each word.

“
I, Trudy Tildon, once known as Elizabeth Drury, feel the need to confess my sins because of my guilty conscience.”

She tried to stop the protesting sound that rose in her throat. He didn
’t seem to care when it emerged as a small squeak.

Harrington went on.
“I am guilty of the following crimes.”

He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. She realized he was crying.

“Fraud, defamation of character, murder, and, soon, suicide.”

That last stopped her dead. Suicide. Her thoughts raced and her hand stopped.

“Go on,” he said and waved the knife at her. “Write.”

“
If you’re going to kill me anyway, why should I write a confession?”

He was on her again
, striking her and screaming. She managed to hit him once or twice. At last he backed away. “Next time I will use the knife, Trudy Tildon.”

Her head
and hip hurt. The ink spilled, and the board she was to write on had crashed to the ground. Maybe all the noise they made would alarm neighbors.

He left the room
, and she strained to listen for signs of life. The interior of the house remained silent except for his echoing footsteps. Could it be empty of furniture too? She could hear the noises outside: the shout of costermongers, the whine of a violin. Lizzy considered screaming for help but didn’t want that rag in her mouth again, and the city noises floating in through the window seemed faint and far away. No one outside would hear her cries.

He returned with another bottle of ink and more paper.

“You will write this, Trudy Tildon,” he said. “I need a full confession of every crime. If you do not, I will cut off the fingers of your left hand. You still need your right hand.”

She suddenly recalled the description of the dead woman found in Maida Vale
, and she nodded.

He handed her the ink and the paper
, and she arranged it again. The tattered remains of her clothes and her skin were drenched in the black ink they’d spilled, and she blotched the paper several times.

With a tsking sound of impatience, he got more paper and a towel. She wiped it up
as best she could, trying to ignore the way he eyed her.

“
Where were we?” he asked.

She didn
’t answer.

“
I said, ‘Where were we?’ and you will answer, Trudy Tildon.” He raised a knife.

“
Um. Oh. You told me about the hardships you endured after you lost your good name.”

He made a snarling sound.
“At least I put aside some money for a rainy day, hey? The morning I saw that first article about the money missing from my bank, I knew I had to work fast.”

The bank and insurance company hadn
’t found all of the embezzled funds, and Lizzy suspected she knew where some of the money had gone. His passage to England, for instance.

“
I didn’t know that bitch snooping into my business was the girl I had cared about. The girl I dandled on my knee.”

She was glad she didn
’t recall any knee-dandling.

He muttered some more about betrayal
, then said, “Where are we? What have you written so far?”

She cleared her throat and decided she might as well go for the interesting part first.
“I was to confess some murders?”

“
The girls, yes. That first one taught me deception. Your articles taught me how to hide my work.”

“
My articles?”

“
I read every one. I even entered your apartment to see what you would write in the future.”

Another mystery cleared up
; she wanted to banish the thought of that hollow-eyed hatred skulking around her rooms.

“I
am your most avid reader, Trudy Tildon. The man whom you found, the man who enjoyed his blue-eyed prey—you thought you’d found the only perpetrators, didn’t you? It was easy enough to set up after those dolts made a path for me.”

She wondered what he was talking about.
Her confusion must have shown.

“The mysterious extra man in the band of kidnappers.
The fourth kidnapper. No such person. I worked alone. Not with them. I only required help here.”

“Lord Ernest and Mr. Smith,” she said
encouragingly. He wanted to talk, and she wanted to know. Even in the middle of gut-clenching, breath-stealing terror, she felt a flicker of curiosity.

“
A fool and a thief.”  He chewed on his thumb, and she saw it was a bloody mess, bitten to the quick. She hated the fact that they shared that nervous habit. If she survived, she’d never bite another nail.

“
Why did you kill the girl in New York?” she asked.

“
You did.
You
killed her, Trudy Tildon. The pressure of your actions brought a good man to despair. I had to do something to alleviate the hurt. She looked so much like you, the pressure eased though the event was not prolonged. Perhaps she would have survived if
you
weren’t in such a hurry. I didn’t have time, because I knew we were traveling to England.”

The hair on her arms prickled as she understood. H
e was even more insane than Miss Miles. She came up with a new plan, and this one meant he had to get over to the bed, close to her.

Deliberately provoking him seemed easy.
“How did you kill her?”

“
I just explained, Trudy Tildon. Do you mean the weapon? Don’t you read articles other people write? A knife. It wasn’t entirely intentional, but it did teach me a lesson.”

“
You mean it taught you deception?”

She waited for him to respond with fury
, but he only nodded and looked pleased. “Yes. I had practiced some deception earlier, though nothing on the scale you taught me, Trudy Tildon. I’d done just enough to make my wife and daughters comfortable. They deserved that comfort—that
you
took away from us.” He was working himself up again. He stood and paced. She braced herself. But after some more muttering, he settled back into the chair.

“
You make me so angry, and I need to do something to work off the anger,” he was saying. “You are the reason they died. But I am the reason their deaths could lead to something good. I mean the downfall of Trudy Tildon. No, no, do not write that down. We shall leave a different sort of record. We will need to finish the business at hand. Your destruction, personal and public, just like mine at your hands. And then your pain. And so on and so on, until amen, Trudy Tildon.

“
I need to be fair. It is important that I feel pain too,” he said. He rolled up his pants leg, revealing a cross-hatching of scars and broken skin. She stared as he drew the blade of his knife across his calf, leaving a trail of red. That marked the moment she knew one of them would end up dead.

“
I am done improvising.” He dropped the knife and rolled his pants leg down. “You will write. Pick up the pen so you can copy down your crimes.”

As he described the way the two women died
, she scribbled every word. He added, “I wore a mask to hide my face as I worked on the poor women,” and she remembered the mask Miss Miles described.