“You abandoned me, and I went to the police station for safety,” she said. “I wasohso frightened, Mrs. Rose.”
Mrs. Rose narrowed her eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Then it is your word against mine. But I have to imagine there are plenty of matchmakers in the city who would be happy to take your place.”
“Ha! But none so affordable.”
“I suppose the cost reflects the quality.”
Mrs. Rose scoffed loudly, then pressed her lips into a line. “Perhaps some leeway is required in your scheduling. I would be willing to chaperone you on the occasional… errand.Ifyou ensure that your father hears only positive reviews of my performance. But do not think that you are free to do whatever you wish. If your actions embarrass me or endanger the good name of my business, I’ll drop you like a bastard at a church door. Understood?”
“Quite,” she said. “I’m glad that we could come to an agreement.” Then she turned on her heel and continued walking.
“Wait!” she cried. “Miss Elderwood, where are yougoing?”
Elswyth hitched up her skirts and walked as quickly as she liked. “To the library.”
“What I don’t understand,” Mrs. Rose whispered, “is why we must be soquiet.”
The man next to Mrs. Rose—an academic-looking type with glasses and a three-piece tweed suit—shushed her.
Elswyth sat in the reading room of the British Library. It was a large rotunda, with a white dome and skylight that hung over rows of reading tables. At the center was a circular reference desk, manned with harried-looking librarians. All around her were ladies and gentlemen at work or leisure, reading magazines or reference texts, penning letters, or simply enjoying the view of the dome. The oculus in the center of the ceiling let in a column of gray light, which swam with motes of dust.
Elswyth sat with a stack of newspapers. Currently, she read an article titled “Vanished Gentlewoman Still Missing.” The article onPersephone was little more than a column, pushed to the right-hand side of the news sheet. A few paragraphs alongside a sketch of her sister, her paper-white skin seeming ghostlike against the black ink. Next to it, in far bolder print, was an article titled “Another Woman Found Slain in East End—Organs Removed in Grisly Fashion.”
There were dozens of similar papers. She had her commonplace book on the desk and was taking notes on each article, gathering any details she could.
“Hello?” Mrs. Rose asked, waving a hand in front of her face. “It is quite rude to ignore someone who is speaking to you.”
Again, the man reading next to Mrs. Rose shushed her. She gave him a withering look.
“It is the only place where recent news articles are available for free,” Elswyth said.
Mrs. Rose rolled her eyes. “The news. How trivial. A gentlewoman does not concern herself with such business. Especially not a macabre rag likethat. No better than a penny dreadful.” She gestured disdainfully at the article about the Reaper.
Elswyth said nothing. Instead, she discarded the old news sheet and pulled a fresh one. This one read “Fifth Seamstress Slain in Whitechapel.” Next to it was an obituary for the death of a bishop who had died in his bed the month before.
She closed her eyes. They were beginning to tire from the constant reading. She rubbed at them and then ran her hands through her hair.
“This is clearly upsetting you,” Mrs. Rose said, with surprising sympathy. “Perhaps we should retire.”
“Not yet,” Elswyth said. “The reading room doesn’t close for another two hours.”
“Twohours?” Mrs. Rose said, her voice distressed. “I’ve never sat so long in a library in my life.”
“That much is evident,” Elswyth said, under her breath.
The man next to her—clearly very irate—shushed Mrs. Rose a third time. She turned to him and hissed: “Yourshushing, sir, is louder than myspeaking!”
The man scowled, slammed his book shut, and moved away. Mrs. Rose practically beamed after him.
Then she moved closer to Elswyth, leaning on the table. She sighed. “Perhaps I can help, if that will speed the process.”
Elswyth considered. “I suppose. Read through this one—write down any dates mentioned first. Then the names of people who might have found the body or known the victim. Places they might have worked or otherwise frequented.”
She handed Mrs. Rose an article about the murder of Lily Thornton. She took it, scanning the headline.
“Miss Elderwood—why this article? I supposed you were here inquiring after your sister—surely you don’t think that the murders of these women are somehow connected to Persephone?”
