“Yes.” He turned back to her. “To my mind it is all the evidence I require to be convinced that Elwin Hastings murdered Fiona, but I am left with another question, one for which I intend to get an answer.”

“What is that?” Louisa asked.

“I’m very sure he killed her, but I have no notion why. There is simply nothing to connect Fiona Risby with Elwin Hastings other than the fact that they were both at the same ball on the night she disappeared.”

“There must have been a large crowd at that ball,” she pointed out. “How did you narrow the suspects down to Hastings?”

“There were several aspects of the situation that made me curious about him. The first was the death of his wife a few days later. I found the suicides of two women in Society, carried out in precisely the same manner less than a week apart, extremely coincidental, to say the least.”

Louisa tapped her pen lightly against the blotter. “One may have inspired the other. A woman overwhelmed by melancholia who happened to read of another woman’s suicide might decide to take the same path.”

Emma frowned. “I admit that I did not know her well, but I must tell you that I was quite shocked to hear of Victoria’s death last year. At the time I remember thinking that she did not seem at all the sort to take her own life.”

“That was my impression of her, too,” Anthony said. “I am even more convinced that Fiona would never have done such a thing.”

The door opened again. Mrs. Galt set the tea tray on the table in front of Emma.

“I’ll pour, Mrs. Galt,” Emma said. “Thank you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

No one spoke until Mrs. Galt was gone and the door was once again closed.

Louisa looked at Anthony. “You were saying that the coincidence of the two suicides caught your attention.”

He lounged deeper into his chair and regarded her over steepled fingers. “There were actually three suicides that same month. The third was Joanna Barclay, the woman who killed Lord Gavin. You may recall the name. The murder created a great sensation in the press.”

Louisa froze. Icy tendrils of fear uncoiled inside her. She was very careful not to look at Emma.

“Yes,” she managed. “I believe I did hear something about that suicide.”

It was all she could do to keep breathing normally. The old terror began to creep out of the deep shadows, where it was always lurking. He could not possibly know who she was. As far as the world was concerned Joanna Barclay was dead. Society had long since forgotten the sensation Lord Gavin’s death had created.

But Lord Gavin had relatives. He had been married. There was a widow. Lady Gavin did not currently move in Society, of course, because she was still in mourning. Nevertheless, she was out there, somewhere. Perhaps Anthony was acquainted with her. Perhaps he had concluded there was some connection to the deaths of Fiona and Victoria. Perhaps he would feel it necessary to investigate the suicide of Joanna Barclay…

“Mrs. Bryce?”

She jumped at the sound of Anthony’s voice. He was watching her with an unsettling, enigmatic expression.

“Sorry,” she said quickly. “I was just thinking about what you said, sir.”

Emma gave her a worried look. “Do you feel faint, dear?”

“No, not at all.” Louisa forced her chaotic fears back into the shadows. Get hold of yourself. You’re allowing your imagination to run wild. You must deal with this situation one step at a time.

“Please continue with your explanation, sir,” she said coolly. “What of the third suicide?”

He continued to regard her in silence for a few heartbeats. She did not like the calculating expression in his eyes. Eventually he inclined his head slightly, as though accepting her explanations.

“I made some inquiries into Miss Barclay’s suicide,” he said, “but I was forced to conclude that there was no connection to the deaths of Fiona or Victoria Hastings. Miss Barclay was a bookseller. She had nothing to do with the Polite World, and there was no indication that Hastings knew her in any capacity. She specialized in rare and expensive volumes. Her clientele consisted primarily of collectors. Hastings is not interested in books.”

He had gone so far as to make inquiries. Cold perspiration dampened Louisa’s chemise. In an effort to settle her nerves, she removed her spectacles and began to polish the lenses with a handkerchief.

“Hmm,” she said, trying to appear thoughtful again.

“As I recall,” Emma said, composed, as always, in a crisis, “the sensation press made it plain that there was no mystery whatsoever about Miss Barclay’s death. She had a very strong motive for taking her own life. She must have known that she would be arrested for the murder of Lord Gavin. Obviously she could not bear the thought of the ordeal that was to come.”

“Indeed.” Anthony tapped his fingertips together once. “I was convinced to abandon that line of inquiry.” He did not take his attention off Louisa. “But the suicides of both Fiona and Mrs. Hastings continued to make me uneasy. I made some more inquiries, this time into Elwin Hastings’s business affairs.”

Louisa abruptly stopped polishing her spectacles. Curiosity surfaced above her fear. She popped the spectacles back on her nose and peered at him. “Did you find anything that aroused your suspicions?”

“Unfortunately, no. Hastings was involved in one of his investment consortiums at the time of the deaths, but I could not see any possible link between Fiona and his financial affairs.”

Louisa cleared her throat. “Forgive me for mentioning this, sir, but I must. Is there any possibility that Fiona and Mr. Hastings were intimately involved?”

“None whatsoever.”

The denial was flat and unequivocal. It allowed for no argument.

“I see,” she said. “Very well, then.”

“I spoke with several people who saw Fiona and the Hastingses at the ball that night. Evidently Mr. and Mrs. Hastings had gone out into the gardens to take some fresh air. Fiona was also seen leaving the ballroom. She was alone, and she, too, went into the gardens.”

Emma handed him a cup of tea. “There would have been a number of people out in the gardens that night.”

“True.” Anthony took the cup and saucer and set them on the table beside his chair. “In any event, the Hastingses were seen returning from the gardens some time later. They called for their carriage and left almost immediately.”

“What of Miss Risby?” Louisa asked.

Anthony’s jaw hardened. “She was never seen alive again.”

“I don’t understand. Are you saying no one noticed her come back into the ballroom?”

“Yes, Mrs. Bryce, that is what I am saying. She went out into the gardens alone and never returned. When she was pulled out of the water at dawn she was still in the gown that she had worn to the ball. The necklace was gone. It was assumed that it had fallen to the bottom of the river.”

Emma stirred her tea with an absent air. “I hadn’t heard those details.”

“For obvious reasons, the Risbys were anxious to maintain as much privacy as possible,” Anthony said.

“Go on,” Louisa urged, fascinated now. “Were there any other clues that led you to link the deaths of the two women?”

“In the course of the autopsy it was discovered that Fiona had suffered a blow of some kind to her head. The authorities concluded that she had hit a rock or some other underwater obstacle when she jumped, but there are other possibilities.”

Louisa stifled a small shiver. There were indeed other ways one could sustain a blow to the head. A poker, for example, could create a most grievous wound, a killing wound.

She touched her tongue to her suddenly dry lips. “Is that all you found in the way of clues?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “In the end, I was forced to abandon my inquiries.”

“I don’t understand,” Louisa said. “If that is the case, what led you to take the risk of opening Hastings’s safe last night?”