“Mr. Poole scoured the city day and night for over a week looking for her.” Lady Vickers shook her head sadly. “But he never found her.” Her voice softened to almost a whisper. “And a few weeks later, he returned home to find his sister had killed herself.”
I pressed a hand to my mouth, aghast.
“He said she was wild with grief, and the parish priest allowed her to be buried in the parish graveyard. But even such a comfort, of course, could not bring her back.”
“No wonder he is so passionate about the welfare of the lower classes and the care of children,” I murmured. I hardly thought of Mr. Poole as lower class, but in Britain, anyone below the nobility or the gentry often merited fewer rights.
“Yes,” Lady Vickers agreed, leaning toward me. “So you see why he cannot have anything to do with these murders. Why, I cannot even begin to fathom him doing something so horrendous.”
I nodded in agreement, even though I was thinking the exact opposite. I was more certain than ever that he was behind it all. And now I knew why.
We chatted a bit longer about Mr. Poole and indulged in the tea and cakes Lady Vickers had so thoughtfully ordered for me, though they settled like lumps in my stomach. When enough time had passed that we could politely extract ourselves, we thanked them and departed in our carriage. The bells of one of the nearby churches pealed softly in the cool morning air.
“I find it difficult to believe Lord Redditch contacted Mr. Poole to offer him the post of his personal secretary,” Gage remarked, tapping his fingers against the side of his leg.
“I don’t think he did.” I spoke toward the window. “I think he applied for the post, and that his intentions were initially just as Lord Vickers described.”
“But then Redditch proved intractable, and he failed to present the measure they worked on for the care of vagrant children. Because of Feckenham.”
“That’s why Feckenham was first,” I murmured, still fitting the pieces together in my mind.
“And then . . . Newbury?”
“Yes, before he lost his nerve. And also to confuse us.” I looked up at Gage. “He told us himself, you know. Outside Callihan’s office. He didn’t state it directly, but Newbury’s kindness and integrity made his death impossible to ignore. Society wants justice for him, while the other victims can all be dismissed in one way or another as just scoundrels.” I squeezed my hands together in my lap, turning the knuckles white. “That’s why he got sick in the alley. He didn’t want to kill Newbury. He actually liked the man, and he knew his death would mean a temporary setback to their efforts to fund the building of an orphan home. But he believed he had to do it if he had any hope of forcing the nobility to effect real change.”
“He’s been targeting their children,” Gage replied in comprehension.
“Yes. And their heirs, their firstborns, at that. The most precious of the lot. I suppose he decided he couldn’t take his revenge out on actual children, so he targeted young men instead—mostly feckless wastrels of noble houses. He tried to make it look like they were falling prey to the burkers, just like the lower classes.”
I sank my head back against the squabs. “The truth is, I can’t fault him for his anger. The fact that so many people, so many children, have gone missing from the streets of London without much of the upper class even knowing, let alone caring, is unconscionable. We carry on blithely, ignorant of those below our station except when they are supposed to cater to our needs and whims, safe in our mansions, without fear our children will be abducted. He should be furious about our ignorance and indifference.”
“But this murder of the Italian Boy has shaken us all up,” he pointed out.
“Yes. For a time,” I muttered sardonically. “But how much longer do you think society will continue to care once it’s begun to fade from the papers?”
His expression was grave. “However, these Mayfair murders will not be so easy to forget.” Lifting his walking stick, he wrapped on the ceiling of the carriage and ordered the coachman to take us to Redditch House.
“It’s Sunday morning. Do you think he’ll be there?”
“If not, Redditch should at least be able to provide us his address.”
My stomach coiled in knots, urging the horses onward, hoping we weren’t already too late, or that we hadn’t somehow let our suspicions slip.
Gage didn’t wait for our footman to knock for us, instead charging up the earl’s steps to bang loudly on the door until Hotchkins opened it in astonishment. “Is Mr. Poole here?” he demanded, charging past the butler and dragging me in his wake.
“No, sir,” he stumbled over his words. “I believe he has the day off.”
Gage’s eyes met mine in silent alarm. “The earl, then. Is he at home?”
“I . . .” He hesitated. His normal training would have him inquire of his lordship if he was home to callers, before admitting us. But judging from our insistent behavior, he could clearly infer these were extenuating circumstances. “Yes. He’s in his study.”
Lord Redditch glanced up in surprise when his butler announced us, before his face transformed into a scowl. “I hope you have some encouraging news for me, for if you’re here to badger my son again, I’ll have you thrown out.”
“We need to find Mr. Poole,” Gage snapped. “Do you know where he is?”
The earl stared at him. “Poole?”
“Yes.” He gestured impatiently. “Do you know where he lives? Surely he must have given you an address, some way to contact him.”
Irritation sparked in his eyes at being spoken to in such a way. “You think Poole . . .”
“We know Poole is behind the murders. Now, where is he? Quickly! Before he kills anyone else.”
“Holborn. Eagle Street, I believe.”
“If he should return here, send word to us immediately,” Gage instructed him. “And don’t let him leave!”
We hurried from the house and climbed back into our carriage as Gage shouted directions to the coachman. “Great Marlborough Street Police Office. I would rather not risk the chance of him escaping out the back of his rooming house or turning violent on us,” he explained to me. “I trust Goddard will know how to proceed.”
But by the time we located Poole’s lodgings, he was already nowhere to be found. Whether he had left earlier that morning or seen us arrive and slipped past us, we didn’t know, but his landlady confirmed she had seen him the evening prior. A quick search of his rooms yielded no evidence, which either meant we were wrong, or he’d taken the knife, sticking plasters, and any bloody clothes with him. The latter was not a comforting thought.
I climbed inside the carriage and extracted the sketchbook and pencils I stored underneath the seat in order to create a quick drawing of Poole so that Goddard, his men, and the police would know what he looked like. Goddard left one of his men to monitor the lodging house in case Mr. Poole returned, and sent another to the pub his landlady told us he favored, and a third to Mr. Callihan’s place of business off Lombard Street. Then Goddard and his remaining men spread out through the city—into Mayfair, down into Covent Garden, and east toward Newgate, where the execution would take place the next morning—showing the sketch to the constables they met along the way. Their task was akin to looking for a needle in a meadow, but something had to be done.
Gage and I raced back to Chapel Street to pore over the list of heirs I’d created. I tried not to worry I’d missed someone, or let the fact that we were not precisely cognizant of all the parameters Poole was using to select his victims cloud my judgment. All we could do was work from logic, and pray for some bit of inspiration.
“Thus far, all the victims have been under a score and ten years of age, but have at least reached the age of majority,” Gage murmured, beginning to scan through his half of the pages of names I’d written out.
“They’re also unwed and without chi
ldren. And they’re currently residing in London,” I added as an obvious but necessary condition.
We set to work, conferring with each other from time to time as we crossed off names. Once that was done, we compiled the lists onto a single page, finding we still had more than two-dozen names.
I inhaled a shaky breath. “There is no way we can set a watch on all of these gentlemen.”
“I agree. So let’s think about what else we know.” Gage rubbed his chin and then brightened. “Redditch and Newbury are Tories.” His shoulders slumped. “But Acklen doesn’t really have a definitive political affiliation.”
I shook my head, feeling like the answer was just beyond our fingertips.
“Then perhaps something more . . . personal.” He tilted his head. “We know Newbury is the aberration and was the hardest to kill, at least for Poole’s conscience. So if I were him, I would want to choose another easy target. Another feckless lordling I believe isn’t worthy of their position.”
“Yes, but he must realize he cannot continue this forever. That eventually he will be caught. At this very moment, he might already know we’re searching for him.” I inhaled. “I don’t think he will waste his last chance at retribution, at proving his point, to kill another care-for-nothing young gentleman.” I sat taller, a sudden thought occurring to me.
Gage watched with interest as I pulled the list closer to me, scanning down through the names. “Unless that care-for-nothing young gentleman happens to have a very powerful father.” I pointed to the name at the bottom of our list alphabetically.
Gage blanched. “Yaxley. Lord Paddington’s heir.”
And Lady Felicity’s brother.
“You must know him,” I remarked. “Is he the ne’er-do-well he’s reputed to be?”
He slid the paper back toward me and slumped in his chair. “I wouldn’t call him useless. More like aimless. His father holds the reins rather firmly, and since he’s not willing to pass any responsibility on to his heir, Yaxley has fallen into disreputable habits. He’s not a bad sort, all in all. But, yes. I would say he currently fits the definition of ne’er-do-well.”
“And Lord Paddington is a rather prominent Tory. If one wished to make a statement, one could scarcely find a more noteworthy name on that list.”
Gage raked his hand through his hair, wrestling with himself. “No, you’re right. It’s just . . .” He groaned. “Why did it have to be Yaxley?”
I could empathize with his dismay. I was not any more eager to inform Lord Paddington of our suspicions than he was. It was certain to be a tense conversation.
“If we can’t locate Mr. Poole, then our best course is to find his most likely target.”
“And that means paying a visit to Paddington House.” He grimaced.
I stacked the lists of names together. “Maybe we should ask your father for assistance. After all, he and Lord Paddington are close friends.” My brow furrowed. “Or at least, they were.”
My bungling their plans for their children to marry might have strained that relationship.
Gage forgot his own dread for a moment to glance at me in interest, recognizing the significance of my making such a statement. “Yes. I think that’s an excellent idea.”
Unfortunately, Lord Gage was closeted with Melbourne, undoubtedly debating the fate of James May. So Gage and I hastened to Lord Paddington’s massive Grosvenor Square mansion ourselves, bracing ourselves for unpleasantness.
Though the footman who showed us in displayed not an inch of condescension, the moment we were shown into the drawing room, it was clear we had been correct in our anticipations. Lord Paddington sat in a chair near the hearth, the thick facial hair at the sides of his face accentuating his bulldog-like appearance and making his ferocious scowl appear even fiercer. Perched on a dainty settee to his right, his daughter directed her icy gaze at us. Annoyingly, I noticed again that she was one of those ladies for whom anger did not detract from their beauty.
No sooner had the door shut behind us than Lord Paddington’s jowls began to quiver. “How dare you come here after the insult you delivered me! And then to show your face with her on your arm. That passes everything.”
“I delivered no insult,” Gage retorted. “I can’t be held responsible for whatever schemes you and my father cooked up. And Lady Felicity is well aware we would not have suited, for I am not pliable enough for the likes of her.”
Her brow puckered slightly.
Gage sliced his hand through the air. “But that is not of the moment. The location of Yaxley is. Is your son at home?”
“What is Yaxley to do with anything?” Lord Paddington snapped.
“Please,” I interrupted, hoping to halt all of their angry sparring. Such a disagreement was not going to be resolved today, if ever. “We think he may be the next target of the Mayfair Murderer, and it’s imperative we ensure he’s safe before nightfall.” Given the early hour that the sun set at this time of year, and the fact Poole always struck under the cover of darkness, we had little time to spare.
He sniffed haughtily. “Why would this miscreant target my son? He’s done nothing to incur such acrimony.” His eyes narrowed. “Unlike some people.”
“Neither did David Newbury or Percy Acklen, and yet they were killed,” I replied, ignoring his implied insult. When still he didn’t relent, I huffed in impatience. “Your son is the heir to a noble house—the same as the others. He is also young and unwed.” I elected to leave out the part about him being somewhat feckless. “And now that the killer knows we may suspect him, he is expected to go after the young blade with the most powerful father. That is you.”
I didn’t intend to entreat his vanity, only state the matter as fact, but nevertheless, I could see this description pleased him. Some of the fire in his eyes dimmed, and his figurative hackles no longer bristled like the quills of a hedgehog. Though that did not mean he was prepared to cooperate. “I’m still not convinced.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to be safe?” Gage persisted. “If we’re wrong, then all that befalls Lord Yaxley is our annoying interference in his current affairs. But if we’re right, and we cannot keep the killer from getting to your son because you will not share where he is . . .”
Lord Paddington’s frown was stern. “Do not attempt to frighten me, boy. I’ll not stand for such nonsense. In any case, I do not happen to know where Yaxley is. He departed the house about an hour ago and did not share his intentions for the evening.”
“Maybe not with you . . .” Gage’s eyes flicked to Lady Felicity.
Her mouth pursed into an angry moue, and she arched her chin.
Her father turned to her abruptly. “Felicity, do you know where your brother’s gone?”
“If I did . . .” Her brown eyes flashed at Gage. “Why should I tell you?”
“Because you care for your brother,” he answered calmly. “You care for him perhaps more than anyone alive.”
A deep vee had formed between her eyes, telling me he spoke the truth. Despite this, her mouth remained closed so long I thought she might still refuse to tell us. Then she bit out a response. “He was joining his friends. They intended to visit a saloon in Covent Garden before taking in a show at the Olympic Pavilion. Then I’m sure they’ll visit a gaming hell or two before venturing into The City. Yaxley expressed interest in watching the execution, and one of his chums said he could get them sill-side seats at the King of Denmark.” A pub which stood opposite Newgate’s Debtors’ Door, where the scaffold was erected for executions.
“Thank you,” Gage told her earnestly. With that much detail, it should be relatively easy for us to locate the young lord. “If he should return here for any reason, do what you must to keep him here, and then send word to my house.”
We turned to go, but Lord Paddington bellowed after us.
“What are you going to do?”
“Find him,” Gage answered over his shoulder before adding under his breath, “Hopefully alive.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Gage and I returned home long enough to collect Bree and Anderley and inform Jeffers of our intentions. My husband tried to convince me to remain behind with Bree, but I was not about to spend hours pacing the floor when there was something to be done, and neither was my maid.
Our butler, being as organized as always, ordered a hamper of food be prepared and stowed it in our carriage along with several bottles of refreshment, already anticipating the potentially long night in store for us. We had received no word from Mr. Goddard, so our first destination was to the Great Marlborough Street Police Office, where Anderley dashed inside to find out if they had any news of the matter to share. Our queries were in vain, so the carriage carried us on to Covent Garden. Once there, Anderley and Bree went to inquire after Yaxley at several of the saloons while Gage and I purchased tickets for the evening’s show at the Olympic Pavilion, now known as the Royal Olympic Theatre.
I had yet to attend a performance at Lucia Elizabeth Vestris’s theater, the first female actress-manager in London’s history, but I had, of course, heard of her. She was famous, or rather infamous, for her breeches-roles, in which she played the part of a man using her lovely contralto voice. Her theater was well known for its comedies, both burlesques and extravaganzas, and if not for the seriousness of the night’s undertaking, I suspect I would have enjoyed seeing Planché’s Olympic Revels. The opening scene, which portrayed the Greek gods in classical dress playing whist, already had me gurgling with laughter, even as I scanned the audience for Lord Yaxley.
However, by the time the show had reached its first interval, and still there was no sign of Paddington’s heir, we abandoned our seats and exited onto Wych Street. Whether Yaxley and his friends had found better sport for the evening or Lady Felicity had lied to us, I didn’t know, and there was no use dwelling on it. Hoping they’d had better luck, we rendezvoused with Anderley and Bree outside the Drury Lane Theatre, crowding close to the single streetlamp. Covent Garden was notorious for how poorly lit its streets were. The large market at its center had but one centrally located lamp, and it didn’t help that some of the buildings were painted black—a passing Georgian fancy—while most of the rest were blackened with soot and filth.
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