“I thought maybe the numbers were money and the initials were people. Perhaps she owed money or was owed.”
“That’s possible,” he agreed.
“But the rest…”
“She was afraid of something,” he agreed. “She locked her door at night. They killed Alistair. She thinks she’s next.”
“Exactly,” Audrey agreed. “But Alistair died of consumption. I’m sure of it, Henry.”
“Why are you sure of it?” Henry asked.
“Because my father died of consumption and the coughing used to hound me. I would have nightmares of coughing. When I met Alistair, it was the same. That hacking cough.” She would never forget the sound coming from her father.
“Hmmm. But let’s look at this logically.” Henry leaned forward. “Alistair was an inmate in the workhouse. He probably had no money and very little to his name. Maybe a few books and some clothes he came in with. So, if someone did kill him, why? What’s the motive?”
Audrey bit her lip. “I know. I thought the same when I read it. A harmless old man. Who would want to kill him?”
Chapter Eighteen
Henry was quiet for several seconds and then said, “Unless he wasn’t harmless.”
She frowned. “Wasn’t harmless?”
“Yes. If Alistair was killed and he had no worldly possessions, then there must be another motive for his murder. If it was murder.”
Audrey shivered suddenly. “What could be the motive? It makes no sense. He worked backstage at the theater. I can’t imagine him doing anything that would make someone want to kill him. And let’s say for the sake of saying it, he was killed. What about Marguerite? In the diary, she said they killed Alistair. That she was next. What did she do that prompted her murder?”
Henry shrugged. “At this point, we’re guessing. We may never know anything for sure. And it could be that Marguerite, who lived the life of an actress, was performing once more but this time in the form of a diary.”
“You mean she was making it up.”
“It’s one theory, among many.”
“Yes.” Audrey looked down at the diary she held in her hands. “It is a theory among many.” Henry took another sip from his tea before replacing the cup in its saucer, and Audrey realized she probably needed to go. “I’ve interrupted your work for some nonsense. I should leave you to it.”
“I was going to take a break anyways. I’ve been working since we parted earlier.”
“Thank you for being so obliging. I should return home,” Audrey said, standing.
“If I can be of any further assistance,” he offered, “find me.”
“Thank you.”
After Henry had secured a cab for Audrey, he returned inside to his office. He turned up the gas lantern a bit and worked another hour into the night. He could hear the sounds of the night outside. The horses’ hooves on the stones. The boy calling out to passersby, selling the evening paper. The familiar sounds comforted him.
He tried to concentrate on his work, but his mind kept replaying the conversation with Audrey and the strange diary she had found. He was a fan of puzzles, and the numbers and initials Marguerite had written intrigued him. What did they mean? He sat back in his chair, thinking again of the first pages. It had not been difficult to commit to memory. It was a single number followed by initials. They must have been important or else why bother to write them down?
Audrey’s theory seemed plausible enough. The numbers represented money that was owed and the initials were the people who owed it. But inside the workhouse, money was one thing most inmates had little of. If anything, it was the reason they were there. Lack of funds. That Marguerite might be some sort of lending bank made little sense. Sh
e didn’t have that kind of cash.
Marguerite had been one of the longest inmates at the workhouse, and money was something she simply didn’t have. He shook his head. It made such little sense. He pulled another sheet of paper close to him and continued his work.
Audrey paid the cab driver and began the long walk from the main entrance of the workhouse to the cottage at the far back of the property. Her mind churned. Marguerite was dead. She had liked the old woman and had enjoyed hearing her stories of the music hall days with her many admirers.
She had felt a bit of a kindred spirit with Marguerite, as they had both been stuck in a place out of necessity and both had made the best of their situation. Even though Audrey needed the workhouse as a place to keep her family safe, she wasn’t exactly thrilled with it. Despite whatever her mother might think.
She sighed as she felt the chill in the air. It must be past ten at night.