“Edwina seems ter have confided a considerable amount in you, Bridget.”
“Folks don’t like lookin’ at her, ’cause her face is burned. But Oi’d talk ter her when she’d buy me oranges. She told me Oi reminded her of her little sister.”
“Did you hear what happened at Bowden Theater?” he asked, and watched fear darken the little girl’s eyes before she averted her gaze to the oranges in the crate at her feet.
“Aye,” she whispered. “A gentry mort cocked up her toes. Edwina didn’t have nothin’ ter do with it.”
He contemplated her tense face. “You seem awfully sure of that.”
She lifted her eyes to meet his. “Oi am.”
The child could simply be speaking out of loyalty to her friend, but Sam’s gut told him that there was something more. “Were you here on Sunday, selling your oranges?”
She shifted her gaze, focusing on two horseback riders trotting by.
“Bridget. This is important. Edwina might be in danger.”
“Oi know,” she said softly. “Oi saw her. She was running and a man was chasin’ her. He weren’t no watchman, neither.” She shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. She pinned Sam with her accusing eyes. “The last time Oi saw anyone that scared was when me ma told me that she was gonna be transported ter Botany Bay.”
“Did you hail a watchman for help?”
Bridget said nothing, simply stared at him with her bruised, reproachful eyes.
“God’s teeth, how can the law help if no one reports crimes?”
“The law don’t help when wedoreport crimes,” she shot back. “And since the man was dressed like a swell, thelawwould be thinkin’ that he was chasing Edwina ’cause she stole somethin’ from him.”
The girl was probably right. Sam blew out a breath. “What time was this?”
“The bells rang—little after ten o’clock.”
“Can you describe the man?”
“Nay.”
“Young or old? Short or tall?”
The girl shrugged. “He had on a hat, and his collar was turned up.” She bit her lip, thinking. “Young enough, Oi reckon. He wasn’t bacon-fed neither. Fit enough ter run fast.” She gave Sam a once-over. “He was taller than ye.”
The defiance suddenly drained out of her, leaving her small face ashen and pinched. “Oi haven’t seen Edwina since,” she said. “Oi reckon the man caught her and Oi won’t be seein’ her again.”
***
Fifteen minutes later, Sam clumped up the stairs at 25 Bedford Square behind the Marquis of Sutcliffe’s stiff-necked butler. In the library, his gaze immediately went to Kendra, writing on the slate board.
“Did you learn anything?” she asked when he joined her.
“Aye, a bit. I see you’ve acquired a slate board.” It was, he’d always thought, a clever way to organize the various bits and pieces of an investigation. He’d even suggested setting one up in Bow Street, but they’d been less than receptive.
“The Duke had it brought over,” Kendra told him.
Sam studied the timeline she’d written on the slate board, beginning with Wednesday, when the body was found in the Thames and delivered to Munroe’s morgue, then Friday, with Lady Westford viewing the body, to Sunday, when she was murdered.
“A girl selling oranges on the street saw Edwina on Sunday morning fleeing from a man,” he said. “A little after ten o’clock.”
She gave him a sharp look. “Why are we just hearing about this now?”
“The girl—Bridget—didn’t report it. Said Edwina doesn’t trust the law, and she doesn’t either. Her ma was deported.” Sam lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “A lot of folks are like that. Or they just want ter mind their own business rather than get involved.”
