Her aunt stared at her, then nodded. “Yes. The same.”
Amy decided to veer from that subject. She would have a difficult enough time trying to avoid Lady Wethington and her suggestive looks without adding Aunt Margaret to the mix.
They arrived at William’s house. Amy watched William help his mother from his carriage, which was parked directly in front of theirs. “I think I shall ‘gird up my loins,’ as Proverbs says, and try to consume my meal without accidentally ending up betrothed.” She spoke over her shoulder and then smiled as William opened the door to help her out.
* * *
The following Tuesday afternoon, Amy pushed her notebook away and tossed her pen onto the desk, ink splattering across the blotter. No matter how many times she thought she had come up with the best situation to get her main character into, it didn’t seem right.
“My lady, Lord Wethington has arrived.” Lacey poked her head into Amy’s small office with her announcement.
Thankful for the break, Amy pushed her chair back and stood. “Tell his lordship I will be right down.”
She fussed a bit with her hair, which was generally a lost cause, since the curls never stayed where they were supposed to and the hairpins didn’t always help. She plopped a hat on her head, stuck in a pin that scratched her scalp, and grabbed her gloves and reticule before leaving the bedchamber.
They were going to visit the three pubs nearest the site on the River Avon where Mr. Harding’s body had been found. William had learned from someone he knew at the police station that the autopsy had revealed that the victim had not been in the water more than twelve or thirteen hours.
William had used the tide, the time of day, and the weather conditions on the day before Harding’s body was discovered to determine the general area where the killer had met with Harding to ply him with alcohol—or something to make him lethargic—and then place the flask in his pocket before shoving him into the river. Most likely this had all taken place under cover of darkness, but William had refused to go at night if he was to take Amy with him. He’d insisted it would be too dangerous, and when she’d again suggested that they bring a gun, he hadn’t even answered her.
Hopefully the bartenders and tavern wenches they would meet in the afternoon also worked in the evenings.
The first pub, the Owl and the Mouse, was a mere quarter mile from the banks of the river. Amy wore one of her older, less fashionable dresses for the occasion. She borrowed Lacey’s coat and didn’t look anything like a lady of the ton descending upon the underclass.
William had also dressed more like a working-class man, with a cap pulled low over his forehead. “Remember, this is not one of your usual high-class teahouses. It’s a low-class pub.”
“For goodness’ sake, William, I’ve done research before. I’ve been in some derelict places,” she huffed.
“And I can assure you that will never happen again.” He took her by the arm and escorted her into the pub.
Whatever did that mean? Was he already trying to tell her what she could and could not do? Did he think one little kiss—all right, several more than one, and not so little—gave him rights where she was concerned?
Before she could give him the rough side of her tongue, he walked her to a table, one of the few empty ones left in the room. Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, most of the tables were filled with men, all of them with glasses of ale in front of them.
“Why aren’t they at work?” she asked.
“They are probably dock workers. The ships that go out of Bristol pick up men here and all along the road. Most of these men are waiting for a captain to arrive and offer them a job.”
“And they drink while they wait?”
William shrugged. “It passes the time.”
A young woman with a dress sporting a bodice considerably lower than Amy had ever seen approached their table. Amy watched her, amazed that her charms didn’t fall out onto the table. “What’ll be, laddie?”
“Ale for both of us.” William’s accent changed a bit, which brought a smile to Amy’s lips.
When the lass returned with the ale, William said, “I’m lookin’ for someone ’oo I fin’ might ’ave been ’ere a couple of weeks ago.”
Amy almost choked on the watered-down ale, and the wench snorted. “Good luck wif that, laddie. I ain’t got the bloomin’ nickle and dime ter keep track of ’oo comes in ’ere. They aw butcher’s alike.”
“This geeza ’ad a silver flask. It belongs ter me.”
She shook her head. “Ain’t seen notin’ like ’at, laddie.” She sauntered off, hips swaying, but not before she gave William a look that Amy found quite annoying.
The next pub they entered, ridiculously named the King’s Garden, was a bit more tasteful, but still not something
Amy would ever patronize. They took seats at a table. This pub was more than half-empty. The woman who approached their table this time was older, with missing teeth in the front of her mouth. She was bosomy, cheerful, and relatively clean.
William asked his usual questions and got the same results. The woman had seen nothing and knew nothing. He was urging Amy to finish her ale—which she had no intention of doing, since the cleanliness around the rim of the glass was questionable—when a man approached their table.