To Live and To Breathe (Could Be #2)

Chapter 26

Mr. Webb took the note that said "dare" with fingers that trembled. He looked at it a moment, licked his lips, and then dipped his chin in a way that spoke of hesitation. "Mr.—?"

"Wright," Timothy supplied, watching him carefully.

"Mr. Wright," Mr. Webb went on, well-mannered even in the shadow of the noose. "I must first of all ask if you are in the official capacity of reporter at the present moment?"

Timothy narrowed his eyes. "Possibly."

Mr. Webb tried to laugh, but only succeeded in sounding breathless. "I only ask because I want to know how likely you are to believe my story. Something brought you here, and it wasn't an invitation."

Timothy's cheeks burned, but he refused to let himself become distracted by the inconvenient truth. Somewhere, an orchestra started up. "I am here mainly to satisfy my own curiosity," he replied coolly. "I have as personal a stake in finding out who is leaving these notes as you do."

Mr. Webb's eyebrows shot up. "Do you mean to say there's more of them?"

"There may be," Timothy replied, unwilling to go into more detail. He hadn't come to bore Mr. Webb with his life history, only to find the next piece in the puzzle.

"The first I saw of that note was at Mr. Basken's side after he was dead," Mr. Webb said suddenly, handing the clipping back. "I know it doesn't sound likely, but now you know just as much as I do about the matter."

There was truth in Mr. Webb's face. Timothy could scarcely conceal his disappointment. He nodded and was just on the point of leaving, when Mr. Webb stopped him.

"Might I ask what leads you to believe there's more of these notes?"

Timothy studied his face closely, looking once more for anything other than simple honesty in his expression, and finding nothing. "I've seen them. That's how I know they exist. Not the same message, but the same handwriting." He bid him good evening, and left. What Mr. Webb would do with such a statement he didn't know, but Timothy had had about all of the socializing he could take for one night.

He found a chair in a convenient alcove, and rested his leg while he wondered which of all the evening's fruitless happenings to mull over first. He had not a doubt that Sam would eventually drift his way, but in the meantime he had enough other problems to occupy him.

Outside the alcove, which had the double advantage of being placed behind a pillar, Timothy could see snatches of dancers lining up to whirl away with the music. He had never enjoyed dancing—a circumstance owing largely to the indignity of being taught it along with fifty-odd other boys at Sir Williams' without a girl in sight—but he didn't like to think that he'd been robbed of the choice.

He'd been sitting there for nearly an hour, wrapped in his own musings, when suddenly the dancing stopped and someone screamed. Timothy lurched to his feet and crept out of his hiding place, hoping the source of the scream had been caused by nothing more than a torn skirt. But the music had ceased, and a dreadful ripple of murmurs rose from a group of bustles and coattails gathered in the center of the floor.

Timothy hadn't a hope of drawing near enough to see what was the matter, but whispers of conversation began to tell him what had happened. It was more than a torn skirt, but less than a murder—and he was thankful for that. He'd been puzzling over the "dare" note so much that he almost wouldn't have been surprised had someone made a move tonight.

"Really! Is she fainted clean away?" a woman asked.

A man near the center shrugged. "Poor soul—upon my word, I don't know what caused it."