Secret Night Read Online Free PDF

desk, Patrick found the paper. "Ah, yes. That will be all for the moment." He unfolded the newspaper and scanned the front page for the previous day's account of the Coates's trial. It wouldn't show that she'd been acquitted, but it would still provide diversion from the usual announcements and scarce-veiled on dits.
    To his disgust, there was nothing of interest beyond the lurid account of another murder, once again a prostitute, judging by the reference to "the soiled dove." He read on, drawn in by the writer's clever mix of righteous indignation and condemnation. "The poor unfortunate," one Fanny Shawe, had apparently fallen victim to a dissatisfied client, resulting in a vicious attack that left her dead, her botly dumped into the Serpentine. She'd apparently attempted to fight, for no fewer than fifteen slashes to her arms and face had been counted. Either that, or her killer had vented a great deal of fury upon her botly.
    "One more thing, sir," John Byrnes murmured apologetically from the door. "Yes?"
    "I almost forgot—Lord Leighton stopped by to see you."
    "On business?"
    "No. He wished me to tell you that Latly Townsend is supremely happy."
    "I know—she wrote me also."
    Byrnes's gaze dropped to the Gazette. "Shocking business—that poor girl, I mean." "Yes."
    "He seems to like the river, doesn't he? The killer, I mean."
    Patrick refolded the paper and set it on a corner of the desk. "It almost reminds me of the Peg Parker thing, but in that case, there was little struggle."
    "Third girl to be discovered in the Serpentine this year," Byrnes remembered. "Except for the suicides, that is." When Patrick said nothing, he added, "You'd think they—those girls—would be more careful, wouldn't you?"
    "A hazard of the profession."
    "I suppose." Byrnes sighed. "Well, in any event, I'm off—unless you need me, of course."
    "No, not at all. I'll walk out with you. We shall leave Mr. Banks to toil alone, poor fellow."
    "Oh, I think he likes being shut up with the books, sir."
    "And you, John—what do you like?" Patrick wondered.
    "I should wish to be precisely what you are," the clerk answered without hesitation.
    Patrick heaved his tired botly up from his chair and twisted his head to ease his aching neck, 1 le could hear the vertebrae in his neck pop beneath the back of his stiffened cravat. His eyes were almost dry from lack of sleep, telling him he ought to be going home to bed. Instead, he was looking forward to freeing a Cit's daughter, who was probably possessed of more hair than wit.
    Aloud, he said, "You'd best lock the door—Henry can let himself out when he wishes, but I doubt he will want to speak with anyone who should wander in."
    " 'Tis a wonder he does not go blind from preparing papers, sir."
    "Being a solicitor is a good, solid profession," Patrick reminded the clerk.
    "I should still wish to be a barrister." Retrieving the office door key from a coat pocket, John Byrnes waited for him to step outside. "A man cannot burn both ends of the candle forever," he observed as Patrick passed him. "Though you and Mr. Banks seem to think so."
    "Two more weeks, John—two more weeks," Patrick promised, "and then I shall enjoy hunting grouse with Lord Dunster in Scotland."
    "And upon your return, I expect we shall be wishing you happy," the younger man said matter-of-factly.
    "Where did you hear that?"
    "Everywhere—'tis common gossip in the Bailey, sir." The clerk grinned. "I've got ten quid on it myself." He looked up, his expression sobering suddenly. "But if you do not mind my saying it, sir, I should think it a shame if you ceased the practice of law."
    "Actually, I have been thinking of standing for Parliament."
    "I know. There's wagers on that also, sir," Brynes acknowledged. "But I still think it wrong for you to be anywhere other than arguing in the Bailey."
    "I shall take that under advisement," Patrick murmured dryly.
    "I hope so," the clerk declared sincerely. "I truly hope so."
    R eading again, Puss?