She considered for a moment. She still wasn’t sure if she trusted Mrs. Rose. She did have a reason to dislike Persephone, if her sister had played a part in her dismissal, and she could have been the person who created the cryptic bouquet. But then again, so could dozens of other women in Persephone’s social circles. And if Elswyth was honest with herself, Mrs. Rose simply seemed too ridiculous to murder anyone. And so she decided—perhaps foolishly—to share what she’d learned.
“Something about the Reaper murders has been troubling me since I arrived in London. Persephone disappears while someone slaughters women in the Rows. It seemed too much of a coincidence.”
Mrs. Rose laughed nervously. “But Persephone was the diamond of the season! And these women were all, well…”
“Prostitutes,” Elswyth said.
“If you must put it so bluntly, yes.”
“It’s true that Persephone was, on paper, as different from the Reaper’s other victims as a woman could be. Which raises the question: Why were both of their cases assigned to the same detective?”
Mrs. Rose blinked at her. “They were?”
Elswyth nodded, looking over her shoulder, then leaning in closer to Mrs. Rose. “Yes.Detective Inspector Reed. He’s in charge of the Reaper murdersandPersephone’s case. Don’t you think it’s odd?”
“Well, I suppose. The police usually ensure that cases regarding the nobility are held separately, and discretely. But theseareall cases involving murdered women.”
Elswyth frowned. Persephone had gone frommissingtomurderedrather quickly, she thought. And then there was Inspector Reed’s demeanor. He’d seemed so dismissive at first, when she tried to share her theory regarding the flowers. But then it almost seemed as though he were trying to scare herintentionally, by making her look at the photographs of the murdered women. By telling her to bevery careful. Elswyth was used to being dismissed, but it had felt like more than that. It had felt like Inspector Reed wanted Elswyth to stop asking questions.
She stared at her commonplace book—in it, she’d made notes about each of the Reaper’s victims and when their bodies had been discovered. And then she noticed something, staring back at her like a gap in the floorboards. Her hand stopped over thepage, hovering. Her skin flushed, and she frantically began double-checking the broadsheets.
“What is it? What are you doing?”
“November…” Elswyth muttered, “September, October, December, January, February. No November.”
“It’s March, dear.”
“No—the dates the bodies were discovered. Daisy Gartner was the first. They found her in September 1888. Missing her heart. Lily Thornton was next, in early October. Missing her liver and lungs. Then there was a gap, in November, where no body was discovered. Flora Broadbent in December. Delaney Shaw in January. And finally Hazel Fairburn, the most recent, in February. Missing her uterus.”
“Your point, dear?” Mrs. Rose said.
Elswyth tapped the gap in the timeline. “Monthly killings for half a year, except for one month. The month when Persephone went missing.”
Mrs. Rose blinked. “But surely the police would have noticed…”
“Inspector Reed seemed very interested in protecting Persephone’s reputation, to say the least,” Elswyth said. “If they did suspect the Reaper had a hand in her disappearance, they wouldn’t have told the papers. For her name to appear alongside the other victims, all prostitutes… it would risk damaging her reputation, and by extension Lord Devereux’s. Inspector Reed only agreed to meet with me because he wants my uncle’s support in Parliament.”
Mrs. Rose took Elswyth’s commonplace book and examined it more closely. Then she shook her head. “It’s nonsense, Elswyth, really. Your sister was out shopping for a ball at Syon House. Thesewomen were walking the streets. There is simply no way they are connected.”
“My sister had her secrets. She was not a prostitute, but she was no paragon of virtue. What woman is, truly?” She tapped a broadsheet with a sketch of a murdered girl splattered across the page in black ink. “And ultimately, what is the difference between one woman and another, to a man like this?”
Mrs. Rose frowned deeply, something haunted in her eyes. “These are dreadful things. I won’t hear any more of it. It is not for a lady’s ears.” She stood, grabbing her reticule. “I will adjourn to the powder room for a moment, to collect myself. When I return, I should very much like to leave.”
She stood in a huff, then walked briskly away, taking the smallest steps she could manage.
Elswyth sighed. She would return tomorrow, if she could, and continue reading. But for the moment, she closed her commonplace book, rubbed her eyes, and stood. Around her, the library had begun to empty—the last of the gray light had vanished, and the stacks around her seemed like a labyrinthine forest, a maze with no way out.
She gathered her things and walked carefully to the exit, considering Novembers.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ebony trees, which include several species in the genusDiospyros, produce some of the hardest woods in the world. Ebony trees can take centuries to grow and have been cut to near extinction for their beautiful heartwood, which is dense enough to sink in water and resistant to damage and rot.
Elswyth crept into the hall and gently shut the door behind her. The click of the lock echoed through the old house, and she paused for a moment, her muscles tensed. When the hall was silent again she made her way into the shadows, stepping soundlessly on the carpet. The wool of her gown seemed oppressive, scratching at her skin. Over her shoulders lay an old riding cloak, its edges fraying, the hood concealing her scar.
She reached the staircase. Uncle Percival’s chambers lay beyond it, looming. No light came from beneath his door, nor any sound. Still, she held her breath as she tiptoed down the staircase, cloak whispering along the steps.
Finally, she stood in the basement of the house, where a long hallway stretched in either direction. To her right were the storeroomsand the kitchens. To her left, at the end of the hall, was the servants’ entrance.
