Page 116 of When We Touch

The murderer had been interrupted.

He turned quickly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat, and moving along.

* * *

“This is insane! We need the police,” Mireau whispered as they headed up a small walkway toward the house of the cigarette maker. “What if this fellow is Adrian Alexander going by another name. And what if Arianna really is with him, and wants you dead?”

“I don’t recognize myself, Mireau. How would she recognize me?”

“She’ll know me, and think I’m a traitor,” Fiona said.

“That’s true. We’ve got to get Fiona back to the carriage; she’ll be safe with Clayton,” Maggie said.

“She could recognize me,” Mireau said.

“No,” Fiona said.

“She saw me at the funeral, and at the wake, and—”

“No,” Fiona said, and flushed furiously. “I saw you at the funeral and the wake.”

“Why, you little minx!”

“We grew up together; I’d served her forever,” Fiona explained.

“If we’re any later,” Maggie said, “this cigarette maker may not let us in his house. Mireau, see Fiona back to the carriage.”

“You’re not going in there without me!” Mireau protested.

“Yes, I am,” Maggie said. “I have to find Arianna. I owe Charles something! Hurry—once we’re in, they’ll let you. Now, move!”

He glared at her, but he knew her, and knew that arguing at that moment was going to be futile. He set an arm around Fiona’s shoulder, nearly running her along the street.

“Cecilia, you don’t have to come with me,” Maggie told her friend.

“I have never felt so alive!” Cecilia said.

“Good, because if this man is Alexander, he’s deadly.”

“Bring him on. Or, rather, Auntie, you come along with me!”

They headed on up the walkway. Maggie got a moment’s start when a man stepped from the shadows at the overhang of the house. He was young, like the fellow who had called himself John. He was dressed in light trousers and a dark coat as well. He had no waistcoat, but wore a white cotton shirt.

“ ’Ello, there.”

Cecilia stepped forward. “We’ve . . . we’ve been told we might have a chance to see Jeremiah Heath here this evening.” She said the words with reverence.

The man nodded but looked down the walk. “What happened to the pair with you?”

“Our little serving girl has taken sick. My husband will be back in just a few minutes. We were afraid that we wouldn’t be allowed in, were we to take any more time. It’s so late,” she said apologetically.

The man watching her nodded, then stepped forward and opened the door. “They’ve not started as yet. Mr. Heath has been detained. Come in.”

They stepped into the house. A rather worn-looking woman in a worn black dress, yet surely her best, came forward, wiping her hands on an apron. “I’m Mrs. Hennesy.” She looked Cecilia and Maggie up and down, and must have approved them. She extended a hand. “Welcome to our poor abode. I hear that you’ve lost your dead husband, missus,” she said, looking at Maggie.

“And you’ve lost a child,” Maggie said, the sorrow in her voice real.

“This is Sissy, my niece,” she said, indicating Cecilia. “I’m Mona. We’re so very grateful to you.” She didn’t quite manage to bring a tear to her eye, but she dabbed at her face convincingly with her handkerchief.