“Perhaps she did not find out the extent of her disaster until sometime after the funeral. That is often the way it is for women. Their husbands never discuss their financial affairs with them. The widows do not learn of their true circumstances until it is too late.”

“Yes. Well, there is nothing more to be done in that quarter.” Louisa set aside her teacup and opened her little notebook. “If you don’t mind, I would like to ask you a few more questions about Victoria Hastings.”

“Certainly.” Emma’s head tilted slightly in inquiry. “Why does she interest you?”

“Mr. Stalbridge suspects that Hastings murdered her as well as Fiona Risby. It occurs to me that since we are having very little luck coming up with a motive for Fiona’s death, it might make sense to try to reason out why Hastings killed his wife. It seems to me that there must be some sort of link between the two murders.”

That afternoon she took her customary path across a large park to Digby’s Bookshop. The fog had thickened into a seemingly impenetrable sea, but she knew her way very well.

She had the park to herself. This was not the sort of day that brought out kite-flying children and nannies with their charges.

When she reached the far side of the park she found the traffic in the street only moderately heavy. Carriages and omnibuses moved slowly through the mist like a fleet of clattering ghost ships. There were very few pedestrians about.

She hurried across the street and entered the bookshop, bracing herself for the pang of melancholy and the small, icy chill she always experienced when she walked into Digby’s. The sight of the shelves crammed with books and the smell of the leather bindings never failed to stir old memories and more recent fears.

Albert Digby, small, stooped, and balding, put down the day’s edition of the Flying Intelligencer that he had been perusing and peered owlishly at Louisa over the rims of his spectacles. As usual, he was visibly annoyed by the intrusion of a customer.

“Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Bryce.”

She gave her business to Digby for two reasons. The first was that he was an extremely knowledgeable bookseller with a wide array of contacts among collectors. The second reason she had chosen Digby’s was because she had never met him personally during the two years when she was the proprietor of Barclay’s Books, so there was no way he could recognize her.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Digby.” She went to the counter. “I got your message. I’m delighted to hear that you were finally able to secure the copy of Woodson’s Aristotle.”

“Wasn’t easy locating the specific copy you wanted. But I did manage to obtain it for you at a good price, if I do say so myself.”

“I appreciate your negotiating skills, Mr. Digby.”

“Bah, Glenning’s heir doesn’t know a damn thing about books, nor does he care to learn. He is happy enough to sell off every volume he inherited from his father. His only concern is the money he got when the old man cocked up his toes.”

Digby disappeared behind the counter. When he straightened he had a parcel wrapped in brown paper in his hand. He put it down on the battered wooden surface and unwrapped it slowly. The volume that was revealed was bound in red leather.

A thrill of hope swept through her. It certainly looked like the right book. She picked it up, opened it slowly, and began turning the pages, hardly daring to hope.

When she saw the small handwritten notations, she knew for certain. It wasn’t just another copy of Woodson’s Aristotle; it was the very same copy that she had been forced to sell last year, her father’s copy. One of the two books she had stuffed into the suitcase on that dreadful night.

She closed the book, trying not to let her excitement show. “I am very pleased. How did you manage to track it down?”

He looked sly. “Those of us in the book business have our ways, Mrs. Bryce.”

“I understand. Now about the Milton—”

“You’d best forget about that one. I’ve told you before, the new owner made it clear he would only sell if the price was right. Between you and me, Mrs. Bryce, you can’t afford the book.”

“Yes, well, people’s circumstances change as they did when Glenning died and left the Aristotle to a son who didn’t want it and didn’t know its value. I would be extremely grateful if you would occasionally remind the owner of the Milton that you have a client who is interested in the book.”

“I’ll do as you wish, Mrs. Bryce, but it’s a waste of my time.”

She gave him a fixed smile. “Thank you.” She glanced at the newspaper on the counter. “I see you read the Flying Intelligencer.”

He followed her glance and grimaced. “Cheap sensation rag, like all the rest. Except for the Times, of course. But I buy it whenever there’s a report from I. M. Phantom in it.”

“I see.”

“Fascinating case of a young gentleman’s death today. Outward appearances indicate he took his own life. Seems the victim had a pile of gambling debts. But I. M. Phantom says that rumors are circulating to the effect that it may have been murder. Makes you wonder how many other murders go unsolved simply because it looks like the victim committed suicide.”

“Yes, it does.”

She paid for the book and went back outside. The fog was so heavy now that it was difficult to make out the trees in the vast expanse of the park. She wondered uneasily if there was a risk of becoming disoriented in such dense mist. What was she worrying about? All she had to do was stay on the path, and she would be fine.

She crossed the street and plunged into the sea of vapor.

She judged she was a third of the way through the park when she heard the soft brush of a shoe on gravel behind her. Her hands suddenly felt very cold inside her gloves. A tiny flicker of electricity touched the nape of her neck, lifting every fine hair.

She stopped and turned very quickly, searching the featureless gray mist. There was nothing to be seen in the fog except the vague, shadowy outlines of some of the nearer trees. She listened intently for a few seconds, but there were no more footsteps.

She started walking again, hurrying more quickly now. She was on the edge of panic, which was ridiculous. What was wrong with her? There was someone else on the path behind her. What of it? It was a public park.

She wondered if this edgy sensation was an indication that her nerves were starting to fail. She had to get control of herself.

The footsteps started in behind her again. In spite of the little lecture on self-mastery, her anxiety redoubled. Every instinct she possessed was urging her to break into a run, but if it was a man who was following her and if he elected to pursue her, running would do no good. Garbed in a gown, even one fashioned according to the most modern principles of dress design, she could not hope to outrun a man in trousers.

It dawned on her that whoever was behind her could not see her any better than she could see him. That thought broke through the rising tide of panic. The intelligent thing to do was to get off the path, hide in the trees, and allow the other person to go past. If it was another innocent pedestrian, there would be no problem. If the person behind her was bent on mischief, he would likely assume that she was still ahead of him and keep walking. Either way, she would be safe.

She left the path and made her way toward the dark shadows that marked a stand of trees, her footsteps muffled by the damp grass. When she reached the shelter of the trees she turned to look back toward the path. The ghostly outline of a figure dressed in a dark cloak, the hood pulled up over her head, appeared in the mist.

The cloaked woman stopped as though listening and, after what seemed an eternity, turned abruptly and walked swiftly back the way she had come. She was swallowed up in the ocean of fog almost immediately.