Page 54 of Love Among the Shadows
“Pardon, sir—”
He stiffened. A diminutive man stood by his table, hat in hand, his air apologetic. “Forgive me, but have we met? I could almost swear your face is known to me.”
The killer’s gaze lifted, cold yet composed. He lived here. He had made a place for himself in this town, woven his presence into the fabric of the marketplace and the streets. He expected recognition, for that was the point of his disguise: to be seen, yet not seen; to be known as one thing so that no one thought to look for another. But this man’s words betrayed a gap. He had not recognised him as the neighbour, the tradesman, the fellow townsman he was meant to be. Instead, he had glimpsed something else.
The realisation chilled him. If his careful fiction did not hold in every mind, then his safety was not so certain as he had believed.
His voice, when he spoke, was low and deliberate. “You are mistaken, sir. However, good day to you.”
The fellow coloured, bowing awkwardly. “I meant no offence. Only, when I looked at you—”
The scrape of the chair forestalled him. Rising with studied composure, he adjusted his coat, left the almost full tankard precisely where it was, and moved past without haste. His step was steady, unhurried—such as might belong to any gentleman grown weary of unwelcome intrusion.
“Sir! Pray forgive me!” the little man called, hurrying after him. “I was certain I had seen you before—at Portsmouth perhaps? Or… yes, was it not near Rams—”
But he was already gone. His dark coat vanished round the corner, his tread measured upon the cobbles. Behind him the fool’s voice still carried—“Ramsgate!”—a word tossed into the air like a careless spark. He felt the danger of it, sharp and perilous. Sparks, left untended, have a way of kindling fire—and he had no intention of leaving this one to burn unchecked.
***
Mrs. Bennet could not prevent her younger daughters from leaving the house, particularly when they reminded her—rather saucily—that she had allowed Elizabeth and Jane to pass three entire days at Netherfield without her chaperonage, and that Christmastide shopping was in full swing. Thus compelled, she permitted Mary, Kitty, and Lydia to walk into Meryton to call upon their Aunt Philips. Jane, unwell with her courses, remained at home, and Elizabeth elected to stay behind and keep her sister company.
The three younger Bennet ladies set out merrily enough, and as they passed the marketplace, Lydia spied Mr Denny standing near the public house at the town’s edge. With her usual vivacity, she hailed him at once, and he came forward with a bow.
“My dear Miss Lydia, Miss Kitty, Miss Mary—how do you all do?”
“Well enough,” Lydia returned with a grin. “And you, sir? It is long since we met in the High Street.”
Kitty, ever eager to be included, leaned forward. “How are you bearing it all, Mr Denny—after Mr Wickham’s death, I mean?”
Denny’s expression sobered. “It is a great loss, I assure you. The regiment feels it sorely. Colonel Forster has all hands employed in discovering this killer. We will not rest until justice is served.”
Lydia tossed her head, her tone half-petulant, half-mournful. “I shall always admire Mr Wickham, whatever others may say. He was the handsomest officer in the corps.”
Before Denny could reply, a snatch of conversation drifted from behind them—low voices carrying from the corner of the public house. One word reached Lydia’s ear with peculiar force:Ramsgate.The tone in which it was spoken possessed a certain distinction that made her turn instinctively. She saw only a man standing outside the pub alone, his coat dark and worn, his manner outwardly unremarkable. His eyes met hers for the briefest moment, then he stepped forward with a smile.
“Pardon, young ladies,” he said, doffing his hat politely. “Might I tempt you with a toy? Fine work, I assure you.”
Kitty laughed. “We are too old for toys, sir.”
“Too old?” he echoed with good humour. “Nay, the child within us never dies. A simple trifle may cheer the heart of any age.”
Mary drew herself up with quiet propriety. “We thank you, sir, but we have business with our aunt and must not be delayed.”
“Then perhaps,” he replied easily, “you might purchase something for a younger friend—or as a neighbourly gift. Christmas comes apace, after all.”
Lydia chuckled, amused by the suggestion, but Mary urged her sisters on. Mr Denny, with a gallant air, offered his arm.
“Permit me to see you safely to Mrs. Philips’s door,” said he. “I know well that is your destination, and three ladies alone are too pretty a sight to go unattended.”
Accepting his escort with goodwill, the Bennet girls continued toward their aunt’s, leaving the toy-seller behind them. None of them spared a second glance for the shadowed corner of the public house.
***
From the instant Thomas Dobson blurted the word -Ramsgate!– outside the tavern, his life had been forfeit. The man knew he might not even have recognised him, not truly; yet the danger lay not in what he knew but in what he might provoke. A careless word repeated, a memory stirred in the wrong quarter, and all might be undone. Such risks could not be tolerated. Not now. Not when he had finally figured the final piece that afternoon, and it was so near its conclusion.
Thus, he had shadowed Dobson from that moment. All through the afternoon, he kept watch, while the man hawked his toys to curious children in the marketplace and when he later retired for drinks in the evening. He did not lose him from sight but stayed out of his.
Dobson lingered long in the pub by the marketplace, drinking more than was prudent and boasting of his sales to any who would listen. He laughed too loudly, slapped backs too readily, and when at last he staggered out into the night air, it was with the careless gait of a man half-foxed.
