The Darkest Sin by Caroline Richards Page A

question,” he said, removing his arm from the back of his chair to face her directly, his expression unchanging. Heavy footsteps sounded from behind as the publican came over to their table, apron straining over his girth, and placed two tumblers of brandy, both chipped, in front of them. Rowena was about to refuse the drink and then thought better of it. It was barely noon, but she needed the fortification, and she took a sip of the strong drink, aware that Rushford was watching her carefully. “I don’t usually indulge in spirits,” she said for no reason, her tone hopelessly prim in contrast to the welcome warmth in her chest.
    It was obvious that he did. Rushford shrugged, taking a healthy mouthful. “Immaterial to me,” he said. “And by the way, the answer is still no.”
    Rowena almost jerked from her chair but then sat down again, hiding her disappointment beneath a brittle bravado that barely held her nerves in check. “I haven’t even had the opportunity to pose the question,” she said. She wanted nothing more than to leap out of the tavern and return home to Montfort, to reassure herself that all was well with those she loved most. But it was impossible. In the past, hers had been a direct, forthright nature, but now she realized that circuitousness had its place. Setting her glass down carefully, amazed that her hands did not tremble, she tried another tack. “Why were you at that dreadful place this morning? I can only assume that you were investigating the possible causes behind another suspicious death.”
    Rushford’s glance flicked away from her to the bar, where the publican was arranging a row of glasses on the dusty rack in preparation for the regulars to take their place under his rheumy gaze. “That dreadful place,” he said, returning his attention to her, “belongs to Mrs. Banks, East London’s undertaker. There are hundreds if not thousands of suspicious deaths in the city each year, although few receive undue attention, but that is another matter for discussion at another time.” Rowena wondered whether he was thinking of the Cruikshank murders, of the prostitutes about whom no one cared. “And to answer your next question,” he interrupted her thoughts, “which I’m certain is forthcoming, the cause of death in this instance was by way of drowning.”
    Drowning . Rowena’s mouth was suddenly dry, her hands in their leather gloves cold. It was not his words so much as the incisive tone that pushed her close to the edge. “Was he or she . . . could she have been . . .” Rowena struggled to finish the sentence.
    â€œShe,” Rushford supplied.
    The implications crowded her thoughts. “Is that why you were called to Shoreditch? There is something of a sinister nature behind her death,” she said, answering her own question.
    Rushford smiled grimly. “In all probability there is something untoward going on. Most actresses are not partial to midnight swims fully clothed in the Thames. Besides which, bruises on her throat lead one to believe she had been strangled—asphyxiated.” Rushford stared at Rowena over the table. “And her body was weighted down.”
    Rowena paled. “Weighted down? To do that to someone—” She straightened in shock, struggling to keep her own nightmares from piercing the light of day. Her throat closed on memory of the water flooding her lungs, her heavy skirts pulling her inexorably lower. The cold, stiff body on Mrs. Banks’s table could have been Meredith’s or Julia’s. The horror repeated like an incantation in her mind. Her eyes tracked the scratches on the wooden trestle table. She chose her next words with the exactness of a surgeon, as though they could form a bridge away from madness toward reason. “I know you may choose not to believe me,” she said, her voice sounding hoarse to her own ears, “but