Page 88 of When We Touch

“But I don’t understand. What would that have to do with anything?”

“What if someone were furious. Did you hear me? Catholic shop girl! And there was a child!”

Maggie sipped her tea, shaking her head. “Father Vickers,” she said gently. “If this had happened, it wouldn’t matter. If there was a marriage, it would not be legal. Eddy cannot marry without the Queen’s permission, and an heir to the throne cannot marry a Catholic. And you said that she was a shop girl. What has that to do with prostitutes?”

Father Vickers sighed. “The shop girl hovered on the verge of prostitution. She might well have been friends with these women. And perhaps . . . they’re being silenced.”

“The theory is ridiculous,” Maggie said flatly. “If someone were to be silenced—they’d be killed. Simply killed. I mean, if someone were trying to cover something up—and none of it really seems to go together—why make such a huge production of it? We all know that it’s sad but true—simple murder here goes unnoted. People have only cared, the newspapers have only gone wild, because of the beastly details.”

Nodding at her, Father Vickers continued to look glum.

“Why are you so worried, still?” she asked him.

“Because there’s truth, and perception of the truth. I’m very afraid of what people will say, and what they will believe, whether true or not, if these murders continue,” Father Vickers said.

“We have to pray that this man is caught,” Mireau said. “And by the way, Father, Maggie didn’t come with any handouts. No food. So she gave away our money.”

Father Vickers stared at her.

“What do you think they’ll do with that money, so early in the evening?” Mireau asked Father Vickers.

“Buy gin,” he said.

She let out a long sigh. “Let’s arrange for some food, then, Father, shall we?”

As it happened, Mireau did have the money on him for the cab ride home. Father Vickers walked them out. After Maggie was seated, before closing the door, Father Vickers gripped her hands in his own. “Bless you, child. And don’t you worry. God above knows that you’re innocent.”

A creeping feeling settled over her.

“Innocent?” she said.

“You haven’t been keeping up with the papers, have you?” he asked.

“No.”

He drew a clipping from his pocket and handed it to her. She noted the paper, and then that the item was unsigned. “Dead is Dead,” the caption read. She scanned it quickly. “While the police are insane seeking a murderer who relishes his task with grotesque mutilation, it seems the authorities have forgotten that whether brutally slain or killed quickly and in silence, dead is dead. Perhaps the authorities should be looking in higher places, for murder which does scream out in blood. They look to madmen, and not the fairer sex. A beautiful face can hide an evil heart. Be warned.”

She looked at Father Vickers, and didn’t flush, nor betray her anger. “Thank you for showing me this.”

“Most readers will have no idea what it means—or to whom they’re referring.”

“But enough will,” she said softly. “It’s all right. I have been the subject of scandal before.”

“For your marriage to Nathan, not murder,” Father Vickers said worriedly.

“There was an autopsy. And the Queen attended my husband’s funeral.”

“The wrong person could point out that the rich can be protected because of the Queen—if that were the case, the anarchist would be justified in tearing down the Crown,” Father Vickers reminded her.

“I’m forewarned, Father. And I believe I know where this came from,” she said. “Thank you again. And we’ll return—with bread next time. No more coins to be spent on gin.”

He grinned. “God go with you.”

“And you, Father,” she said.

Their cab jostled onto the street. Mireau was staring at her. “So—where did the article come from?”

“I’m not certain, of course.”