The Bachelor's Bride (The Thompsons of Locust Street #1) - Holly Bush Page 0,37
busy traffic to her side of the street. She noticed a trolley coming down between them, and just as the horses passed her and the trolley itself blocked the view of them, she slipped into the bookstore she and Kirsty frequented. She exited through the back door and crossed a narrow alley to the open back door of a bakery. She was through and out the front door of the bakery onto the next street, hurrying and turning the corner onto Locust Street, and finally running, nearly losing her hat, and hearing the pounding of her own feet. She didn’t risk a glance back until she was on her own stoop.
Elspeth burst through the front door, slammed it shut, and locked it. She dropped her arm holding the basket to her side and closed her eyes. What was going on? Who were they? She slowed her breathing, willing her heart to stop pounding in her ears.
Chapter 11
Alexander sat at his desk, thumbing through paperwork he could not concentrate on, thinking about what he would say to Elspeth and her family when he went to her home that evening, unable to think of anything to say other than the absolute truth. Which may forever ruin any slim chance he had with her. A deception would not do, though, just as his father had told him the day before, not with a woman he cared about, and he thought it might be possible that his father was correct, that he was more than just partial to Elspeth Thompson. She was tied somehow to all of his thoughts, and it was difficult to imagine a life lived that she was not part of, even though she was no clear part of it now.
He looked up when he heard the front office door bang open. Kleinfeld was speaking loudly and telling whoever was entering to stop immediately. He wondered if the men who’d threatened Schmitt were back. He hurried to the hallway to help Kleinfeld but stepped back into his office as three policemen, the brass buttons on their double-breasted coats glittering in the hallway light, went past him, straight into Schmitt’s office.
“Hey,” Kleinfeld yelled. “You can’t just go barging in there!”
“Stop us, boyo,” one of them said quietly.
The officers went into Schmitt’s office with Alexander and Kleinfeld close behind. Schmitt stood up, glaring at the men and pointing his beefy finger at Kleinfeld. “Why did you let these coppers in the door? What is going on?”
“When did you last see Lily Barnsworth?” one officer asked as the other took out a scrap of paper and a pencil stub from his pocket.
“Lily Barnsworth? Who is she? Did my wife send you?” Schmitt asked with a laugh and a broad smile.
“Lily Barnsworth was found dead in her bed this morning by her maid. She’d been strangled and cut with a knife,” the officer said.
Schmitt dropped into his chair. Alexander pushed past the officers to stand beside him. “Kleinfeld, close the front door and make sure no one comes in the offices.” Alexander turned to the officer. “Who are you, and why are you asking Councilman Schmitt about this woman, whoever she was?”
“I’m Sergeant O’Sullivan. Lily Barnsworth, also known as Lily Darling, was a prostitute. We’re investigating her murder. Who are you?”
“Alexander Pendergast. Assistant to Mr. Schmitt. Clearly, you’ve got the wrong office, Sergeant. Perhaps someone is playing a cruel joke on you, sending you to speak to the councilman and eventually embarrassing yourself and your superiors.” Alexander looked down when he felt Schmitt tugging at his coat sleeve. “What is it, Mr. Schmitt?”
Schmitt’s face was white, a sickly, chalky color—even his lips were pale. “Lily Darling, you say?” he whispered between heavy breaths.
“When did you see Miss Darling last, Mr. Schmitt?”
Alexander looked down at Schmitt and back at the officer. “I’m concerned about Mr. Schmitt’s health. Can you please give us a moment for him to collect himself? No one likes to hear about a woman who’s been murdered.”
O’Sullivan looked from Schmitt to Alexander. “Five minutes. No more. We’ll be right outside the door.”
Alexander went to the hutch at the side of the room, poured an inch of whiskey into a cut glass-tumbler, and handed it to Schmitt. He drank it down in one swallow, his hand quivering where it held the empty glass, and slowly sat it on his desk.
“Do you know this woman?”
Schmitt nodded.
“How well? Did you see her recently?”
He nodded again and leaned back in his chair, still pale.