In the basin a charred pile of trash still smoldered, books and food and women’s clothing.
“Viv,” Danny called, and there was a tightness to his voice that made her neck prickle.
She found him in the sitting room, standing in front of the windows. There were long gray curtains hung at each one, stretching from the ceiling to puddle on the floor. But Danny had pulled one of those aside to expose the bars that cut across the window in unforgiving lines.
“Why do you suppose a room on the top floor would have those?” he asked. His shoulders were so tense she could see a muscle jumping at the side of his neck.
Vivian stared at the bars, then went from room to room, jerking the curtains aside. Each window was the same. She glanced around, realizing for the first time that there was no kitchen or old lamps, nowhere with flames or knives or gas.
Danny was in the middle of the sitting room; she went to join him,standing close enough that their shoulders could press against each other. Vivian needed the comfort, and Danny didn’t pull away.
“Someone was worried about her killing herself,” Vivian said. She didn’t intend for the words to come out as a whisper, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak at a normal volume.
She could feel Danny’s surprise as he turned to look at her. “You know who was here?”
“Honor told you about Roy and Hattie Wilson’s baby?” Vivian glanced at him, and he nodded. She let out a shaky breath. “Turns out it wasn’t her. The little sister, Myrtle, was the one who got in trouble. Mrs. Wilson pretended she was pregnant and said Myrtle was at boarding school. She told me that Myrtle was actually staying with a relative on Long Island, but now I bet she was really here.”
Danny turned, taking in the whole room. “Why would someone worry she would kill herself?”
“It was Wilson’s kid,” Vivian said bluntly. She thought back to her conversation with Pretty Jimmy, remembering Wilson’s interest in Mags, who was barely old enough to be going around in society. She wondered if she was going to be sick. “Apparently he liked to force himself on schoolgirls.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.” Something white on the floor near the front door caught Vivian’s eye. Bending down, she discovered a pile of lumpy cigarettes, as if they had tumbled from someone’s coat pocket or handbag. “Myrtle’s a smoker,” she said absently, remembering. “She and Hattie both hated Wilson for what he did.”
“You don’t think Roy killed him,” Danny said.
Vivian shook her head. “Hattie couldn’t have done it, she was at a party that night. If Myrtle had been on Long Island, she couldn’t have either.” She glanced around, shivering again. “But it doesn’t look like she was on Long Island.”
“You going to do anything about that?”
Vivian glanced at Danny, but his face was as expressionless as hisvoice. She remembered abruptly that he worked for Honor, that he wanted the Nightingale freed from the shadow cast by Wilson’s murder as much as anyone. They had all been glad to have Roy Carlton guilty and gone and the whole mess put behind them.
“I don’t know,” she said. She was still kneeling on the floor, and she absently picked up a couple cigarettes and turned them over in her hand before slipping them into her coat pocket. “I don’t think I blame her for it. But Honor should probably know.”
She glanced at Danny again. His jaw was clenched, but after a moment he nodded.
“She should know.” He smiled grimly. “Hux likes to know everything. Come on.” He looked around the room, then reached out a hand to pull Vivian to her feet. “This place gives me the creeps. Let’s shake a leg.”
Vivian didn’t disagree.
They heard the commotion while they were still inside, raised voices calling out in a babble of languages. Danny, looking suddenly worried, bounded down the last few steps and out the front door, barely glancing over his shoulder to make sure she was following.
On the sidewalk in front of the building, the old woman who had shown her in was struggling to support a man—himself white-haired but with far fewer wrinkles—while he bent over, gasping and clutching his chest. Unable to understand them, it took Vivian a moment to realize what was going on. But Danny was already there, easing the man from the old woman’s grasp and asking a quick stream of questions. The man was having trouble standing; a look from Danny goaded Vivian into action. She got there just in time to help lower him to the ground while the old woman bombarded Danny with instructions.
The man was breathing wheezily, but his color was still good; Vivian held his head in her lap while he took deep, gasping breaths.
“Hey, mister, it’s going to be okay,” she said quietly, ignoring the hubbub around her as more neighbors appeared. She thought she heard someone talk about a doctor, someone else mention a daughter. Taking his hand gently, she gave it a little squeeze. “I’m sure someone’s going to get you a doctor real quick—nothing to worry about at all, right?”
She didn’t know if he could understand her, but his breathing was growing calmer. She kept up the flow of words while the people around her decided what to do. But she was unprepared when he opened his eyes at last. They widened, and he raised one shaking hand to her cheek.
“May?” he murmured. “Is that you?”
Vivian froze, staring at the man as another wheezing gasp shook his body and he dropped his hand once more. Before she could think of anything to say, several neighbors were swooping in, lifting the man and carrying him off in a clamor of instructions and suggestions.
“Wait!” Vivian called, stumbling to her feet.
“They’re taking him to a doctor,” Danny said, catching her arm. “Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll be fine. Time to get you home.”
