Page 50 of A Murder in Bloomsbury

"But which one?"

"The London Review and Athenaeum is possible. They occasionally print political commentary disguised as literary criticism. But Lydia may have chosen something smaller. More radical."

"I take it such publications exist."

"Oh yes." A gleam entered her eyes. "London is full of respectable people publicly denouncing dangerous ideas while privately reading them."

Despite everything, the corner of my mouth threatened to turn upward.

"I shall prepare a list tonight," she continued. "And begin visiting them tomorrow."

"Do you believe the poem named someone outright?"

Her expression grew thoughtful again, and I watched her turn the question over the way she turned over everything, patiently, from every angle before committing to an answer. "No. Lydia was too intelligent for that. But I think she wrote it in such a way that the right men would recognize themselves."

A chill moved slowly down my spine.

"And if they recognized themselves," she finished quietly, "that alone may have been enough to kill her."

Silence settled heavily between us.

Then I said, "I'll need to locate Brookes as well."

"The man in Edinburgh."

I nodded. "Twelve years have passed since that night. The distance in time may loosen his tongue."

"We can only hope," she said. "Once his address is located, you will need to travel there."

"Shouldn't pose a problem. There are northbound trains from King's Cross each morning. I could be in Edinburgh by that evening." Then I looked directly at her. "What else needs exploring?"

"The institution in Kent," she said. "We need to know who funds it, who runs it, how women arrive there, and what becomes of them afterward."

"I can ask my solicitors to delve further into it."

"And I shall make enquiries amongst my acquaintances. Someone is bound to know something."

A cold heaviness settled in my chest, spreading outward until I felt it in my hands. I knew enough about that institution to fear for her. "Lark, I want you to leave Kent to me."

She frowned, the line of her jaw setting in a way I was coming to recognize as immovable. "Not entirely to you, surely."

"You would be exposed."

"I am not proposing to march through the front doors announcing myself, Thorne, though I appreciate your obvious horror at the possibility."

Amused despite the tightness still in my chest, I couldn't help but smile. Still, she had to use sense. "You will not go as yourself." It was neither a suggestion, nor a command. But something betwixt the two. I let it sit there between us, unwilling to soften it further.

She met my gaze without flinching. "Of course not. I shall arrive as a concerned gentlewoman making inquiries on behalf of an elderly relative. Surely you can find no fault with that."

"It's a sensible plan, as well as plausible." But it also made her vulnerable and put her in danger. The thought of her walking willingly into a place like that settled badly inside me, a cold stone I could not dislodge. "At least wait until I have more information before you act. It should not take long."

She did not look pleased, but after a moment she agreed, and I allowed myself the small, unworthy satisfaction of having won that much.

By the time our conversation ended, the light beyond the tavern windows had faded to gray, and river fog curled through the Wapping streets.

I offered to escort her home, but she refused. It would not do for us to be seen together in Bloomsbury.

After paying the tab, I accompanied her outside. The damp evening air smelled of coal smoke, tar, and the low-tide reek of the river, and somewhere out on the water a ship's bell rang the hour. A hansom appeared within minutes—Burch's doing, no doubt; few enough passed this deep into the docks unbidden.