Chapter Forty

We stop by the lodgings on Buccleuch Place, to make sure Florence didn't go there to study with the others. The young woman who answers the door says she hasn't seen Florence all day. We should look for her down along the Water of Leith. That's where she likes to walk… and that's also where we planned to go next.

From our earlier talks, when Florence had been establishing her post-murder timeline, I know the route she takes. She heads to Dean Bridge and then follows along the Water of Leith to Stockbridge, before she exits and heads home.

Just a few days ago, I'd walked along the Water of Leith with my mom, the Stockbridge entrance being near our rented flat on Royal Circus. It's a pleasant stroll down along the river, a place where, if there's no one else around, you can listen to the burbling water and enjoy the old architecture and imagine yourself living… well, around now.

However, that's during the day, and I'm not sure I'd walk along the river at this hour, and certainly not by myself. I definitely wouldn't in this time period. The Water of Leith may meander through the New Town, but that doesn't mean it's safe on a winter's eve as the clock nears midnight.

As we cross Dean Bridge, I spot a sex worker, keeping warm in a doorway. Yes, again, it's the New Town, but there are still parts like this, where you'll find the underground world thriving. You can put up pretty town houses and pretty private gardens across a mound dividing your world from the slums, but poverty isn't going to stay on the other side of that mound forever.

This sex worker wears a wool dress with extra petticoats for warmth. Her dress isn't scandalous by any stretch of the imagination, but her unbound hair and her makeup betray her occupation, as does the fact that she's tucked into that shadow, alone, at this hour.

"How much would it cost to buy her favors for an hour?" I ask under my breath as we pause at a street corner.

Gray looks startled. "How would I know?"

"I'm not asking for your personal experience, Gray. Just a rough figure."

He sputters and protests, and finally allows that he may have heard that for a woman on the street, it would be a few shillings for a well-dressed man.

I put out my hand. He sputters some more and then sets the coins in my palm. I walk toward her, letting my heels click to warn the woman we're coming. She looks over, her gaze traveling from me to Gray. When she realizes we're heading her way—and not scowling in righteous indignation—she steps out, smiling.

"Good evening," she says. "Looking for a little winter warmup party?"

"More like looking for a missing party." I hold up the coins. "A young woman likes to walk back here, and we have reason to be concerned for her well-being tonight. Any chance I could buy a few minutes of your time?"

"You're looking for Miss Flo?"

I slow. "Uh, yes."

The woman laughs, and as I draw closer, I realize she's older than I thought. Maybe midthirties, with a pleasant face and enviably sleek black hair.

"There's only one young woman who walks here at this hour, and you'd have every right to be concerned about her." She rolls her dark eyes. "That lass is living proof that intelligence and common sense do not go hand in hand. No matter what I say, I cannot keep her out of here. None of us can."

"Not exactly the safest place for a young woman on her own," I say.

"Please tell her that. Or perhaps if your gentleman friend here does, she might listen. Some women listen better to men. She is a sweet, sweet girl, and I envy her bravery but…" She sighs and shakes her head.

"Just because she ought to be able to walk around safely on her own does not mean she can."

The woman points a finger at me. "Exactly that, miss. Exactly that. Anyway, the answer to your question is yes. I saw her an hour or so ago. She tried to give me a few shillings, as she always does, in hopes I will take the night off. I won't take her money. She needs it more than I do."

"Did she say anything tonight?"

The woman shakes her head. "Hardly a word. She's never chatty, but she usually asks how I am doing, reminds me to take care against the pox, asks after my little ones. Tonight though, it was barely a few words. Her mind was elsewhere."

"And she headed down there, along the river?" I point.

"As always. If you're going after her—hopefully to talk her out of this madness—you can ask anyone you see. We all know her, and we take care of her." She sighs. "Which might be part of the problem. With us keeping watch, the lass never has any trouble down there. I don't suppose you would mind putting a wee bit of fear into her?"

"We're more concerned about her finding trouble on her own but, yes, it might help her to realize that she has only been safe because others have looked out for her. I suspect she would not want to be a bother."

"It is no bother. We only wish she would stop these mad jaunts. Or bring that husband of hers along. I cannot imagine how he allows it."

I really hope she doesn't have her husband along tonight. I don't say that. I just pay her the coins—despite a protest it isn't necessary—and then we head down the stairs to the path below.

This is a part of the city even Gray hasn't seen. He has taken these walks, of course, but only in daylight and only in areas where those of the New Town stroll along the river. It isn't only night today. It's winter, with newly fallen snow and a cold wind whipping along the open streets above. Down here, it's calmer and quieter. Too quiet for a young woman on her own, but I suspect Florence only sees the peace and the silence. It feels safe, especially with the pretty layer of white purifying even the dirtiest corners.

When we smell roasted chestnuts, we climb a set of stairs to find a bent and elderly woman closing up her little cart for the night. We're near a garden that's been decorated for the winter, and people would have been out enjoying the snowy walk earlier. We don't expect she'll have seen Florence, but when we ask, she says yes, she knows the young woman, who bought chestnuts and paid double, as she always does. We take the last bag of her wares, already cooling off the coals, and thank her as we head back down.

We don't go much farther before Gray spots an old man, huddled in his blankets against the chill. He has also seen Florence, who gave him the chestnuts she bought. She didn't stop to talk, as she usually does, just said a few kind words and carried on. He points us in the right direction, and we give him our chestnuts before resuming our walk.

It doesn't take more than twenty steps before even the sounds of the city above disappear. I'm not sure where we are, but it's completely quiet now, even the river soundless as it runs along under a skin of ice.

When we reach a bridge, I look down. Earlier, I'd noted footprints in the new snow but there'd been too many to track. Now I see only one set, already filling in.

"We're not far behind," I say as we skip the bridge and continue on. "And there's no sign that anyone followed her."

"Good," Gray says. "Though even if her husband did not pursue her, we should strongly recommend that she doesn't go home."

"We'll take her into the police office for questioning," I say. "Hugh might not need to question her yet, but it's a good excuse."

"Agreed."

We follow the footprints until they stop, and another set approaches from the opposite direction. Then both sets head across a little bridge, toward the other side of the river.

"Those aren't Emmett King's footprints," I say.

"No, they are not."

When we realized we would be looking for Florence and Emmett, we'd found an extra pair of shoes for each of them. Florence's were smaller than mine, Emmett's longer than Gray's.

"I know people don't always wear the right size shoes here," I say. "They get what they can afford. Is it possible Emmett's feet are actually smaller than the shoes we found?"

Gray shakes his head. "I checked for unusual wear patterns on both and found none." Gray puts his own booted foot beside a print. This one is a size or two smaller.

"Unless now he's wearing boots too small for him," I say. "Damn it."

"Look at the print," he says. "These are new boots, but the wearer has a slight limp. I would expect to see…"

He takes a few steps and then points. "There."

He's indicating a divot in the snow. It's so small that, unlike the prints, it's almost filled in.

"A walking stick," I say. "A man with newish boots, a size or two smaller than yours, who used a cane." I follow the two sets of prints as they head, side by side, across the bridge. "Someone Florence would go with willingly."

"Or, at least, someone she would follow without fear of harm."

"Because even if she doesn't like him, he's an old man with a cane." I look over at Gray through the fog of our breath. "Lord Muir."