Daphne couldn't remember the last time she'd seen her cousin so distraught. Rose hadn't stopped pacing since the moment they'd returned to Daphne's flat. Back and forth, back and forth, the length of the parlor, over and over.

Perched on the sofa in her own state of unease, Daphne poured tea into a pair of white teacups. Her hands shook, and she gnawed relentlessly at her bottom lip. James Gallagher's French lover was dead. Dead. Found in the canal. The day after her arrival in Manchester. The day after telling Gallagher a life-altering secret.

This was no coincidence. Nor had it been an accident. Once the other officers had arrived on the scene, the constable shooed the steel workers away and pulled Daphne aside. He'd then proceeded to inform her that ‘the drowned woman’ hadn't drowned at all. She'd been strangled.

“Seen alotta drownings. This ain't one. There's no froth or foam in or around her mouth and nostrils. Y'see?” the constable had said, pointing at Geneviève's discolored face. “But she's got all kinds o' marks on her neck. Finger-shaped marks. Lass was dead before she went into the drink.”

His commentary, delivered with such apathetic flippancy, disturbed Daphne. Was a bit of compassion too much to ask? Job aside, he was still human.

Her cousin continued on her repetitive trek, punishing the worn area rug with each turn about.

“Rose,” Daphne said. “Please stop pacing. Come and have some tea.”

Rose halted in her tracks and spun around. “Tea?” she exclaimed. “How could this abominable state of affairs possibly be improved by tea? Geneviève is dead! And it was my employer who murdered her! He, or someone on his orders!”

“We're English, Rose. A cup of tea is the remedy for everything,” Daphne recited from their Grandmamá's book of decorum. She patted the sofa cushion beside her with a shaky hand. “Now, let me be clear, the direful nature of the situation isn't lost on me. I am not belittling the poor woman's death or the sinister implications behind it. I'm simply suggesting we keep level heads and talk this through. You are in close quarters with that man. For the sake of your safety and wellbeing, he cannot even begin to suspect you know anything about this.”

With an anguished sigh, Rose collapsed on the sofa next to Daphne and put her head in her hands. “I told her to write that letter, Daph. I told her to tell Mr. Gallagher where she was staying. This is my fault! First Dmitri, now Geneviève! I'm cursed!”

Aggrieved by her cousin's pain, Daphne wrapped her arms around Rose and pulled her into a snug embrace. “You are most certainly not cursed, Rose,” she murmured. “You are one of the kindest, most selfless people ever to walk the streets of this rotten city. Geneviève's death is no more your fault than was the death of August. Don't you dare blame yourself. Rose? Are you listening to me?”

Rose's arms encircled Daphne's waist, returning the hug. “I'm listening,” she said, her voice breaking. “But the fact remains that Geneviève is dead, Daphne. By Mr. Gallagher's hand. Directly or by proxy makes no difference. I knew he was dangerous, right from the start. Before I met him, even. But this... Well, I suppose it hadn't occurred to me that he was a murderer. Should have. After everything Jimmy told me. Am I really so foolish?”

“Shhh-shhh…” Daphne soothed. She ran her hand softly across the back of Rose's shoulders. “You are the furthest thing from foolish. Your artificial beau Jimmy isn't exactly the most credible source, is he? Any rational person would assume his recounts were exaggerations.”

Rose released her and picked up one of the teacups. “You're right, of course. I did assume. He loves to spin tall tales.” She sipped the steaming tea with care. “Hmmm. Yes. That does help.”

Daphne lifted the other cup to her lips and blew gently before drinking. For being so out of sorts, she'd still managed to brew a tasty tea. Good on her.

“Two things I know,” she said, her tone calm and steady. She set her teacup back on its saucer and turned to meet her cousin's eye. “One, you must tell William all of this as soon as you return to Warwick Hall tonight. And two, you must end your employment at Gallagher Automotive Factory. The sooner the better. You're in danger, Rose. As long as you're in the company of that man, you're in danger.”

“I am, yes,” Rose admitted. “I know it. If Mr. Gallagher would cause the demise of a woman he genuinely cared for to bury a secret, I can scarce imagine what he would do to me for my voyeurism.” In her eyes, Daphne could see the sheen of naked dread. “And for the first time since I met him, I'm frightened, Daph.”

“Tell William,” Daphne repeated. “Don't wait.”

“I won't wait,” Rose promised. “We'll discuss it tonight.”

“Good.”

They sipped their tea in silence for the next few minutes, Daphne lost in her thoughts, and Rose likely lost in hers. Daphne still wasn't certain that William could be trusted, but after Rose's recount of his earnest apology, she found she was far more keen on trusting him than James Gallagher.

“Must you write on this?” Rose asked suddenly. “For the Daily Post?”

Daphne gave Rose a rueful smile. “I'm afraid so,” she affirmed. It wasn't ideal, but it was necessary. “The constable saw me. Spoke to me. I identified myself as a Post employee, and he gave me information. Not to mention, such an atrocity may be more commonplace here than where we come from, but a body found floating in the canal still constitutes as news in Manchester. It would be far more suspicious if I didn't write about it.”

The corners of Rose's mouth dipped in a frown. “I understand that. It would look like a blatant cover-up. I'm simply worried for what Mr. Gallagher might do when he sees the article.”

“It will be my article, therefore I will control the narrative,” Daphne said, her smile turning the faintest bit coy. “An unknown woman that, as of yet, has not been identified was found deceased. No citizens in Manchester have been reported missing. Short, basic, vague. Only what I would know had you not been with me. Which you hadn't. Obviously.” She winked at her cousin.

Rose reached over and squeezed her hand. “As you say, Daph. I trust you.”

【♖】

Thanks in no small part to the loose lips of the steel workers by the canal, the news of the drowned woman had spread through the Broken Crown to every ear sober enough to comprehend the words.

“Heard she was heartbroken when her married lover went back to his wife,” Jackson said, his eyes wide and tone conspiratorial. “That's why she drowned herself. Heartbreak.”

“Nah, I bet she was just some shoddy tart,” Ransom countered. “Don't know why everyone's gettin' all worked up over it.”

“She weren't no ‘shoddy tart,’ Ransom, get your facts straight,” Audrey said, jabbing her pointer finger at her younger brother. “She was wearin' the latest Parisian fashion. No workin' girl from Manchester can afford a dress like that. And anyway, were she a tart, you would already know her. Wouldn't ya?”

Ransom bobbed his shoulders in an amicable shrug. “Aye, probably would.”

Liam, his brothers, and their sister Audrey were sitting around their usual table in the corner of the pub. Private enough for conversation, but visible enough to be noticed by all. As his three companions speculated wildly over every word uttered by the steel workers, Liam remained silent. He nursed his glass of whiskey with care, taking in the buzz of gossip around him.

“Alls I'm sayin' is, it's strange no one has claimed her,” Jackson remarked. “Someone in town's got to know her, right? Otherwise, why would she be here?”

“Bloody head-scratcher, it is, Jack,” Ransom agreed. He took a swig of his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“A head-scratcher, indeed,” Audrey echoed. “I don't think that girl jumped in the canal of her own free will. There's foul play afoot, boys, mark my words.”

“Ya think?” Ransom questioned, eyebrows elevated.

“Aye,” Audrey replied, her expression grim.

“Whatcha think, Liam?” Jackson asked. “Ya haven't said a word.”

Liam gave a diminutive shake of his head. “I think there's no point in spinnin' stories when we don't know all the facts,” he stated.

“C'mon, Liam. What's the harm?” Jackson insisted.

“No harm,” Liam said. “Just a pointless endeavor. 'Till we know more.”

【♖】

When Liam arrived back at Warwick Hall that evening, the hour was fast approaching nine. He had returned even later the previous night, and therefore had not had a chance to parley with Rose. He planned to remedy that tonight.

Eleanor greeted him at the door and took his hat and bag. “Good evening, Mr. Mercer. Welcome home.”

“'Evening, Eleanor,” he said in response. “Seen Rose as of late?”

“Yes, sir,” the housekeeper replied. “She's with Master Teddy, tucking him into bed.”

A small smile broke his phlegmatic expression, and he gave her a nod. “I'd better go say good night, then. Thank you, Eleanor.”

He made his way through the main hall and up the grand staircase at a brusque pace. Once in the second story corridor, the sound of Rose's voice carried through the dark from the direction of Teddy's bedroom. The door stood partially ajar, and Liam approached with light footfalls, pausing just outside the threshold.

As he peered through the crack between the door and its frame, Liam could see Teddy tucked beneath his blankets, his angelic little head propped upon the pillows. Rose sat in the chair beside his bed, a large hardcover volume in her lap.

“The wolf did not seem to be trustworthy,” Rose read aloud. “Red Riding Hood got the distinct impression that every word he uttered was an enticing lie. Her mother had told her to stop for no one. Converse with no one. Stay on the path, straight to Grandmother's house. And so, the little girl pushed her curiosity aside and continued on her way, further into the dark, dark woods.”

She paused and held the hefty book aloft to show Teddy the illustrations.

Enraptured, Teddy regarded the pictures with wide eyes. “Does the wolf want to eat her up?” he asked.

“Well, I'm not sure,” Rose answered, a cheeky quality to her voice. “But I believe he's up to no good. We shall see. Tomorrow.” She closed the book and got to her feet.

“No!” Teddy protested. “Please read more, Miss Rose!”

“Not tonight, darling,” she said, setting the book on the bedside table. “It's growing quite late, and all good little boys must go to sleep. But we'll finish the story tomorrow, I promise. Alright?”

“Alright,” Teddy relented with a disgruntled pout. “I guess I can wait.”

Rose leaned down and kissed his forehead. The sight caused Liam a shortness of breath, and he rubbed his chest with his palm.

“Good night, sweet boy,” Rose said as she pulled the blanket up to his chin. “Sleep well.”

“Good night, Miss Rose,” Teddy replied. “Thank you for the story.”

“My pleasure, darling,” Rose said. She switched off Teddy's lamp and made her way to the door.

Liam took a step back to avoid a collision, but still managed to startle Rose enough to elicit a gasp.

“William, you're back!” she exclaimed in hushed tones. “Thank goodness. I must speak with you.”

Although the urgency in her voice and expression caused him some concern, Liam found he was oddly pleased to learn that she'd been awaiting him. “O'course,” he said. “Been wantin' to talk with you, too.”

“Da'?” called Teddy's little voice from inside his room.

Liam glanced back and forth between Teddy's bedroom door and Rose, conflicted.

“Go and say good night first,” Rose instructed with a small smile.

“Ya made it sound serious,” Liam argued.

“It is, but it can wait a few minutes more,” she insisted. She reached out and gave his arm a brief squeeze. “Go. I'll be in your study.”

With a nod, Liam moved past her and into Teddy's room. He sat down on the chair Rose had recently occupied and stroked his son's plump cheek with his thumb. “Alright there, Teddy?”

“Yes. I'm alright,” Teddy replied. He blinked up at Liam in the dark.

“Glad to hear it,” Liam said. He leaned forward and brushed the hair off of Teddy's forehead. “You sure do like Rose, don't ya?”

His son gave him a solemn nod. “I love her.”

At the softly spoken words, a foreign pressure took hold of Liam's heart. He couldn't remember the last time, if ever, his son had said that. About anyone. Or to anyone. He'd been too young when Clementine had died. The shortness of breath returned, and Liam shifted in his seat. “I see why,” he said.

“Can she stay for always?” Teddy asked.

“You'd like that, would ya?”

“Yes.”

“I would, too,” Liam confessed. “Can't make any promises, but I'll do me best, Teddy.”

【♖】

William joined Rose in his study several minutes later, a rare look of content on his face.

“Alright, Rose,” he said. “Got my full attention. What's goin' on?”

“Much,” she stated. “Much is going on.”

Taking a deep breath, Rose began to purge the information from her mental vault for the second time that day. With as calm and steady a voice as she could muster, she withheld no particulars regarding everything that had happened in the past two days, beginning with Geneviève's appearance, and ending with the state in which she and Daphne had found the French dancer earlier that evening.

“He strangled her, William,” Rose concluded, her throat tight with suppressed emotion. “He strangled her and threw her body into the canal. He, or one of his henchmen. She's dead, because of a secret. He murdered her. A woman he loved.”

“So, this Geneviève was the woman found in the canal,” William murmured. “Hm.”

“You already knew?” Rose asked in surprise. “How?”

He shook his head. “Didn't know anythin' of value. Just gossip at the Broken Crown. Lotta steel workers are regulars there.”

“Ah,” Rose said. From her dress pocket, she pulled Geneviève's charred letter and handed it to him. “Here. I saved this from the rubbish bin in Mr. Gallagher's office.”

William took the letter to his desk and read it in silence. Once finished, he folded the paper with a nimble touch and slipped it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Ya did good, grabbin' this,” he said.

“Thank you,” Rose said with a helpless shrug. “I couldn't let him toss out her words the way he did her.”

“Mmm,” William mused. Leaning back in his chair, he laced his fingers together across his torso. He was quiet for so long Rose wondered if he'd forgotten she was there. At last, he asked, “And Jimmy? Ya said he's comin' back in a couple o' days? And ya got plans to see each other?”

Befuddled by his odd change of topic, Rose made a motion of acknowledgement then let her hands fall to her sides. “We're to take in a play at the Kensington Theater Friday night.”

William nodded, his gaze on the wall behind her. “The Kensington is just down the street from the Mitre Hotel.”

“Where Geneviève was staying. And likely where she was murdered,” Rose sighed. “But what has that to do with anything?”

“Got an idea,” William said simply. “But, as discussed, we're partners now. I won't order ya to do somethin' dangerous, Rose. Tell me straight: can ya stomach goin' to work tomorrow? If ya can't, if ya don't feel safe, we'll come up with somethin' else.”

Rose bit her lip in fret. Her eyes darted to the floor as she contemplated his question. “I...don't feel safe,” she admitted. “To occupy the same room as James Gallagher is the very last thing I want to do. However…” She paused and swallowed. “I've been thinking about this very thing for hours now, and I believe it would be far more condemnatory if I didn't go in. Proof of guilt, so to speak. Therefore, yes. I will go in for my shift at the factory tomorrow.”

William gifted her with a smile. “You're brave, Rose. Very brave.”

“Or very foolish,” Rose offered. But his words pleased her.

“Alright. You'll go to work,” William said. He ran a hand along his jaw. “I'll make sure either Elijah or Archie is in the area. Afterwards, you'll come to my office on Deansgate. I'm callin' a family meeting.”

Rose frowned. “Won't it look quite suspicious if I go to the offices of Mercer Industries straight from the factory?”

“It would, aye,” William granted. “Which is why you're not gonna do that. Now, listen carefully…”

【♜】【♞】【♟】

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