Mary's expression flickered, just for an instant.
Her eyes stayed lowered. She let her father see nothing of what moved behind them.
"But... Father..." the girl said quietly, with exactly the right measure of hesitation. "You said before that he was only an interlude. A stumbling block..."
"That was before," Arthur cut in. "Before, he was. Now he isn't."
Arthur Morstan rose as he spoke, crossed to the window, and stood with his back to Mary, gazing out at the sunlit garden.
"You need to understand something, Mary." The man's voice came from ahead of her, weighted with the air of hard-won wisdom. "The cheapest thing in this world is what people call pride.
"The man I look down on today may be the man I want to flatter and court tomorrow. The stone I grind under my heel today may be the pedestal I can't reach tomorrow."
He turned then, and looked at her.
"So learn to read the situation. Learn to change your posture at the proper moment."
His gaze settled on the girl, as if checking whether she had truly grasped his meaning.
"When I told you to stay away from him, it was because he wasn't worthy of you. Now I'm telling you to give him a chance, because he's begun to be worthy. There's no contradiction between the two."
Mary listened in silence, her face still wearing that same gentle, obedient look.
"He has a name now. Connections. Enough standing to be seen beside you — but that isn't enough," Arthur Morstan said.
"What he lacks is a platform. Something to turn all those intangible assets into things of real value. And we, the Morstan family, can provide him with that platform."
He said it as though he were bestowing an enormous favor.
"You may go on as before. Be his friend, talk with him, invite him to the house as a guest, or to the salons. Give him a taste of sweetness now and then. Let him see hope in you, until his eyes hold nothing but you.
"Keep him at that careful distance — near enough that he isn't pushed away, never near enough to be intimate. He has potential, he has talent, but in the end he's seen too little of the world. With your looks and your wits, managing him won't be difficult. But do it early.
"Show him something of society, introduce him to the right people. Let the other noble houses learn to link his name with the Morstan family, so that he feels himself in our debt. Think of it as... cultivating a capable subordinate for your future, in advance."
He spoke lightly, as though it were already a settled fact.
A subordinate...
The light in the girl's eyes dimmed for a heartbeat.
But when she raised her head again, there was nothing there but obedience, measured out to precisely the right degree.
"I understand, Father," she said softly.
"Good." The man nodded, satisfied, and sat back down at the table. "Then handle it as you see fit. Judge the measure carefully. Don't let anyone think the Morstans are the sort of snobs who bend whichever way the wind blows."
"Yes, Father."
Breakfast ended in silence.
Mary set down her knife and fork, touched her napkin lightly to the corner of her mouth, then stood and dipped a small curtsy toward her father.
"Then, Father, I'll return to my room."
"Mm." The man answered without lifting his head.
The girl turned and left the dining room, walking back to her own room at an unhurried pace.
Only after the door had closed behind her did that straight-backed figure begin to sag, bit by bit.
The gentle eyes lost every trace of warmth.
Just then, a knock came at the door.
The light returned to the girl's eyes. She turned and opened it.
Mel the maid stood in the doorway, a letter pinched between her fingers.
"Miss, a letter for you."
Mary took it, shut the door, and went to sit at her writing desk.
She tore open the cheap envelope — the paper rough under her fingertips — drew out the sheet inside, and let her eyes fall to the writing.
The inquiry she had arranged some days ago, to deal with the matter of Pilsen, had finally come back with an answer.
The inquiry she had arranged some days ago, to deal with the matter of Pilsen, had finally come back with an answer.
[Bermondsey and Rotherhithe show no trace of the target, though he appears to have been active in the Walworth district for a time. Not long, not brief.
In the last few days Scotland Yard seems to have fixed on a new direction. They are looking for a woman.
I tried asking the cigarette peddlers, but none of them know who it is Scotland Yard is after. If you know anything, I would be grateful to be told.]
Mary's fingertips brushed lightly across the page, thought moving behind her eyes.
Charlotte had a new direction. And her own side was not without threads either.
Pilsen had been active in Walworth, and for a middling stretch of time.
Barring surprises, that was the period he'd spent in Emily Collins's apartment. But he hadn't stayed long.
And yet the place itself was a decent hiding hole. Why would Pilsen abandon a perfectly good refuge?
Unless he'd decided it was no longer safe — Scotland Yard's men, perhaps, or the killers she had sent, spotted by him.
Or else he'd found somewhere new and safer, and no longer needed to burrow in Walworth.
Which was it...
The girl sank into thought.
In the Southwark District as it stood now, where else could offer him fresh lodging that also satisfied the condition of safety?
Bermondsey?
The most chaotic, filthiest, most crowded slum of them all.
If the aim were simply to hide, it would indeed be a fine choice. A tangle of alleys, cheap tenements beyond counting, and a population packed in at nearly a hundred souls to the acre.
There, every man cared only about where his next meal was coming from. Nobody noticed one more stranger, or one fewer.
Scotland Yard's constables could run their legs off and still never search that place through.
But that was hiding, and nothing more.
If Pilsen were alone it might have done — but he had Emily Collins with him.
That Pilsen could stomach curling up in a hole like that did not mean Emily Collins could.
She was a fool in love, but that didn't mean she would lower her standards that far.
Pilsen still needed her, so he couldn't afford to ignore how she felt.
He couldn't lock Emily Collins up, and he couldn't hurt her and shatter her illusions about him.
Otherwise Emily Collins would have to die.
And once she died, Pilsen would have almost no way left to touch the outside world — and would draw far more trouble down on himself besides.
She was Pilsen's hands and feet. She was also the malignant tumor he couldn't cut away.
So Bermondsey could be ruled out. Rotherhithe likewise.
With those two eliminated, what remained?
Only Walworth and Southwark.
Walworth seemed unlikely. Pilsen had fled from there; he wouldn't go back.
Which left Southwark.
The wealthiest quarter in the whole Southwark District...
Mary frowned.
The thought had barely surfaced before she rejected it herself.
What right had he to hide in a place like that?
That was not Bermondsey, not Walworth, not one of those slums where a few coppers bought you a ruined room.
There were orderly streets there, respectable apartments, uniformed constables passing on their rounds.
The landlords there did not turn a blind eye to a tenant's identity. The neighbors there cared very much who had moved in.
Pilsen was a wanted man carrying a murder and a robbery. Unless he could genuinely turn invisible, there was no chance of him lying low in such a district unnoticed.
Besides — even granting the impossible, even if he really were in Southwark, where could he hide?
The inns there required registration. They weren't like Bermondsey, where money alone bought you a bed.
And he had no money to speak of.
And yet...
Mary's fingertips tapped softly against the desktop as she sank deeper into thought.
Once you have eliminated all the impossibilities, whatever remains, however unbelievable, is the truth.
Could it be that Pilsen truly possessed some special means, something that let him lie safe and undisturbed in Southwark?
Or that he had, somewhere in Southwark, a refuge so absolutely secure that even Scotland Yard could not uncover it?
But if such a place existed, would he still have needed to go to all that extra trouble — seeking out Hannigan, and going so far as to kill him?
Mary's brow drew tight.
Unless... the two matters were not parallel at all, but cause and effect.
Her thoughts raced, drawing every scrap of information she held into a single connected whole.
After a long moment she lifted her head, and something like certainty flashed through those deep blue eyes.
Mary hesitated no longer. She went to the desk, drew out a sheet of paper, took up her pen, and wrote.
She wrote quickly, and she wrote briefly.
No superfluous hints, no superfluous orders. There was one thing on the page and one thing only: an address.
An address that announced the curtain rising on a death.
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