He would have looked younger then. Perhaps she could see the shadow of his youth.
“You so strongly favor your mother,” he added, and her heart gave a hard lurch.
“Did you know her, then?”
“I did, yes.”
“And my father?”
“Him, as well.”
She wanted to ask for details. How had he known them? Had they been friends? Had he introduced them to the opium that had taken them from her? Had he traveled the path to ruin beside them? But she wasn’t here for her past. Unfortunately, however, neither could she claim to live in this neighborhood because he might question her regarding precisely which residence was hers, hoping to become reacquainted. She decided honesty was her best approach. “I wondered if you knew Mrs. Mallard.”
“I do, yes. As a matter of fact, she paid me a visit last night.”
His straightforwardness surprised her. She’d expected a denial. “May I ask her purpose in coming here?”
“Would you fancy joining me inside?”
Over his shoulder, she could see naught but darkness. “No, but thank you for the invitation. I just...I’m worried about her. Widows are easily taken advantage of.”
“They are indeed. She’s fortunate to have your concern. She came to me because I have the ability to serve as an intermediary between this world and the next. She was hoping to connect with her husband so he might tell her who killed him.”
She couldn’t have been more shocked. Had Mrs. Mallard truly loved her husband or was it fear that sent her in search of the culprits, dreading she might be next? Did she know why he was killed, know more than she was letting on? “Did she find the answers she sought?”
“Unfortunately, no. But we’re likely to try again in the near future, in her residence, where his spirit no doubt lingers awaiting justice.”
“I see.” Would they invite Inspector Swindler to attend? Did he believe such poppycock? “I shan’t keep you any longer.”
She backed up a step. Stopped. “I’m sorry. What was your name?”
His smile transformed not only his face, making it appear younger, but himself as well, giving him a charismatic and charming air, and she understood how he could easily lure women into believing not only that he could communicate with the dead but that he could bring them back to life. “Thanatos.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Thanatos.” With that she spun on her heel—
“Daisy.”
With a chill racing up her spine at how easily he said her name, as though it belonged to him as much as to her, she came to an abrupt halt and looked back over her shoulder.
“Be wary of the gent across the street, pretending to read the newspaper. I don’t trust him.” With that, he closed the door.
“He warned me about you.”
Even from his position across the street, Bishop had seen her go pale, and he had nearly dashed over straightaway, but she’d raised a hand—palm out, fingers spread—so quickly that she might as well have shouted,Don’t.
Turning down the street, she’d walked at a fast clip. After passing his newspaper and a crown to a scruffy fellow who’d been limping by, Bishop had sauntered along his side of the street until he was out of view of that residence, and then he’d crossed over to her. Immediately he’d placed his hand on the small of her back and detected the tiniest of tremors going through her. As though anticipating he was going to begin asking questions, she’d shaken her head. It had nearly killed him to hold his tongue.
Only now when they were finally in his carriage, her nestled against his side, his arm around her shoulders, the curtains drawn because it wouldn’t do for anyone who might recognize her to see her in such an intimate position with him, had she spoken.
“His purpose was no doubt to unsettle you,” he assured her. It seemed he’d done a bang-up job of it.
“I didn’t like him. He knew my name. Knew my parents, which immediately makes him suspect, because they visited and were known in the unsavory parts of London. I think he’s a charlatan, claiming to have the power to communicate with the dead. Said his name was Thanatos—”
“Like the Greek god of death?” he interrupted.
She nodded. “Mrs. Mallard wants this Thanatos fellow to ask her husband who killed him. Apparently, she visited him last night for that purpose, and he had no luck, so he’s going to hold a séance within her residence. What amount do you think she’s paying for that service?”
“Far more than I’m paying you for the same information, I suspect.”
