Murder at the Marlowe Club

by Kate Parker

  MURDER

  AT THE MARLOWE CLUB

  KATE PARKER

  JDP PRESS

  A corpse in a corset. A dangerous gambling den.

  A perilous path between safety and evil.

  London, 1905. Leading milliner Emily Gates’ illegal shortcut through a private park in the rain brought her straight to a scantily clothed corpse. Then her route took her straight into the hands of indefatigable Lady Kaldaire, who recognized the body as a relative of her longtime friend, the Duchess of Wallingford. Lady Kaldaire blackmailed Emily before to find Lord Kaldaire’s killer. Why not this murderer, too?

  Emily has plenty of reasons why not, but finding links between her father’s nefarious family of crooks and conmen and the debauchery of the secretive Marlowe Club involves her in the investigation led by the handsome Inspector Russell of Scotland Yard. Emily discovers more than she expects about the licentious world of the corpse through her aristocratic customers, including Georgia, heroine of the Victorian Bookshop Mysteries, now the Duchess of Blackford.

  Are the scandal rags correct, or has the victim been maligned by a mastermind who’ll stop at nothing to gain everything?

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual occurrences or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Historical events and personages are fictionalized.

  Murder at the Marlowe Club

  copyright ©2020 by Kate Parker

  All rights reserved. With the exception of brief quotes used in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

  ISBN: 978-1-7332294-0-11 {ebook}

  ISBN: 978-1-7332294-1-8 {print}

  Published by JDP Press

  Cover design by Lyndsey Lewellen of Llewellen Designs

  Digital Formatting by Author E.M.S.

  Table of Contents

  MURDER AT THE MARLOWE CLUB

  About the Book

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Author’s Notes

  Also by Kate Parker

  About the Author

  Dedication

  To my Mom, still the queen of the one-line zingers at 97.

  To my children, who light up my life.

  To John, forever.

  Chapter One

  London, 1905

  I shivered in the damp early morning chill and plodded on to the park gate. The park was private, but I knew if I squeezed around the gate at the corner of the square and cut diagonally across, I could save myself a three-minute walk. It was too early for anyone but servants to be out. No one would catch me trespassing.

  I looked both ways. No bobbies. No one at all. Only a cat hiding under the cover of a wheelbarrow. Everyone was wisely indoors, where I would be if I didn’t have a hat to deliver to a fussy baronet’s wife. And collect my fee from her unwilling fingers.

  Once inside the dripping gate, soaking one glove in the process, I hurried past the cat and the wheelbarrow, the formal flower beds with their tiny plants, and the benches soaked with rain. I kept my gaze firmly fixed in the direction of the gazebo in the center of the park where the paths met. I hoped I looked like I belonged here.

  Only householders on this square in Mayfair had keys to this park. The rest of us, middle class included, were expected to walk around the edges of the square, outside the wrought-iron fence.

  A gust of wind nearly took my umbrella into a clump of bushes, pelting my face with raindrops. Grumbling, I marched on.

  Why did Lady Meacham insist on having her new hat delivered this morning of all mornings? I doubted she’d wear it today. I was having enough trouble keeping the box dry under my umbrella. Even the protection of a carriage would not guarantee the hat’s survival if she chose to wear it in this steady rain.

  No committee meeting or good deed session could possibly warrant my trip through this foul weather. Worse, the new hat would have to be adjusted to her hairdo once I arrived at her home. Did she think that demanding I go out in this weather to fit her hat was a good way to get me to forget the money she owed me? Did she think in the Year of our Lord 1905 that tradesmen in a cosmopolitan city like London would wait for their fee as if they were medieval serfs?

  Fuming, I had nearly reached the gazebo when I spotted what at first appeared to be a bundle of brightly colored rags. Then I saw a pale hand and arm sticking out from the garish garments.

  Lady Meacham vanished from my mind as I hurried to the round bench in the center of the shelter. A woman, her hair in disarray, lay sprawled on the bench. Rust-colored blood streaked outward from under the pink scarf that encircled her neck.

  She was dressed in a red-striped satin and white lace garment that was little more than a corset. Under and around her was wrapped a pale green satin cape that covered her limbs except for the hand and arm I’d noticed and her bare feet. The woman, whoever she was, wore neither shoes nor stockings.

  Poor wretch. She looked to be in her mid-twenties. My age. I knew how dangerous London could be for any young woman, no matter how careful and respectable.

  I suspected she was a lady of the night, although why would she be out on the streets barefoot? And what was she doing in this private park? Even high-class kept women wouldn’t be allowed in this park. They wouldn’t dress the way this woman was dressed, either.

  I reached out to take her hand to see if there was life in the body. It was as cold as the morning, but dry. Her cape was also dry.

  My curiosity would count for nothing if I were caught with this murder victim. My reputation would dissolve in tatters, and my business, Duquesne’s, milliner to the aristocracy, would fail.

  I went in search of a bobby.

  I retraced my steps, past the cat and the wheelbarrow, and out the gate. I saw a bobby at a distance and hurried toward him, my umbrella pulled this way and that by the wind. At the next corner, I nearly collided with Betsy, a maid who worked for Lady Kaldaire.

  She fumbled her shopping basket and came close to dumping the day’s bread on the ground. I grabbed the basket to keep it from falling while holding on to the hatbox and clutching my umbrella. Betsy rescued the loaves of bread.

  “Miss Gates, where are you going in such a rush?” Betsy asked as she caught the bread and her breath.

  “To find a bobby. There’s a dead woman in the park.” A shiver wracked my body as a stream of water from her umbrella hit my shoe. The words came out before I thought.

  By the look in her widened eyes, I realized I should have kept that knowledge to myself. “Oh, my goodness,” she exclaimed as she ran toward Lady Kaldaire’s. Once again, the basket threatened to tip over as it swung with each step.

  The bobby reached me as I dashed toward him into the street. “Good morning, miss. Watch out for traffic.”

  “There’s a body in the middle of the park.”

  �
�A body? You mean, a dead body?” he asked. He appeared both young and astounded, but with enough presence of mind to turn so the rain stopped striking his reddened face. “Who is it, miss?”

  “I don’t know who she is. It’s a woman, and she’s—well, you need to see her yourself.”

  “Come along with me, miss,” the bobby said, now sounding gruff and in command. The wide eyes in his young face ruined any impression he might have tried to make.

  I hurried down the block to the gate, the constable right behind me. When I wiggled through the metal bars, he stopped me.

  “Did you enter here illegally?” he asked, now trying to sound stern.

  “Of course not,” I said with the haughtiness I’d learned from my clients. “The body is in the gazebo.”

  He gave me a skeptical look, but he maneuvered his larger frame through the gate and followed me. When we reached the edge of the pavilion, he stopped, getting dripped on. I stepped onto the paving under the gazebo for cover from the rain and set my umbrella to the side.

  “You shouldn’t do that, miss. Nobody should get too close until my sergeant says you can,” the bobby said.

  “I’ve already been closer than this when I first found her. I’d hoped to find warmth or a pulse on her wrist, but she was as cold as the grave.” I glanced at the leaden sky. “Besides, I don’t like getting rained on.” Already, my shoes and the hem of my skirt were soggy. At least the hat box was still dry.

  “What happened to her?” he asked as he stared at the woman, twisting his hands and breathing shallowly. I suspected he’d never seen a dead body before that wasn’t decently coffined. “Did she freeze to death with her feet bare?”

  “That looks like a gash and blood coming from under the scarf around her neck,” I told him.

  The bobby leaned closer to peer at the streaks. He blanched before saying, “Don’t touch anything while I call for help.” Then he ran back the way we’d come, blowing his whistle in short bursts.

  It wasn’t long before he returned with two other bobbies and Lady Kaldaire, who was carrying a large ring of keys in her hand. At my surprise on seeing her, she said, “Someone had to open the gate to let them in. What is this about a dead woman?” She stepped closer. “And why is she dressed like that?”

  “I don’t know.” That was for certain.

  Lady Kaldaire shook her head and clucked her tongue. “Poor creature. How did she die?”

  “I think perhaps her neck was sliced and the wound covered with the scarf,” I told her. “That’s a great deal of dried blood on the scarf. Perhaps she was murdered elsewhere and then her body moved. There’s no blood on the paving under the bench,” I pointed out.

  Lady Kaldaire turned to the closest bobby. “You should inform Detective Inspector Russell of Scotland Yard to come and investigate this crime. Tell him Lady Kaldaire specifically requests his presence.”

  “My lady, I don’t—”

  “Did you not hear me? Go.”

  The bobbies looked at each other and then the one Lady Kaldaire had spoken to left. Meanwhile, I was glad no one was looking at me. Inspector Russell, James when we were alone, had taken a few dinners with my family since we caught the man who killed Lord Kaldaire.

  Then James was sent to Manchester for two weeks, and I hadn’t seen him since.

  I could tell by the heat on my face while the rest of me was chilled that I must be blushing.

  Lady Kaldaire joined me under the roof of the gazebo. She furled her umbrella and leaned on it before she looked me square in the eye and said, “It’s early to be paying calls. Who is the hat for?”

  I knew better than to avoid answering. “Lady Meacham.”

  With a disapproving sniff, Lady Kaldaire said, “That woman is getting above herself. She’s only a baronet’s wife. And this woman…”

  Lady Kaldaire took a closer look at the dead woman and became so still and pale I was afraid she would faint.

  “My lady, are you unwell?” I asked.

  “I’m perfectly fine, thank you.” She appeared to study the bare branches of a nearby bush, her chest sharply rising and falling despite her corset, but I felt I could hear gears spinning to life inside her gray-and-brown-haired head. Others might think of her as an insignificant widow dressed completely in black and veils, but I knew better.

  “What is it?” I murmured.

  “What is what?”

  “What is bothering you? Do you know her?”

  Lady Kaldaire looked down her long nose at me. “Why would you ask if I know a common trollop?”

  “She’s not a common trollop. Look at her hands. Perhaps someone stole her clothes.”

  The bobbies heard me and came over to stand by the body. The younger one, who’d come into the park with me, examined both her hands. “No calluses. She’s never worked a day in her life.”

  “It’s her back that should be calloused,” the other bobby said with a smirk. Then he glanced at Lady Kaldaire, who was glaring arrows at him, and turned beet red. Taking a step back as he was dripped on by a tree branch, he said, “Beggin’ your pardon, my lady.”

  “I’m middle class and I have calluses,” I told the bobby who’d examined the woman’s hands. “My nails aren’t cut and buffed as beautifully as hers. The only women with hands like that are in the aristocracy.” Then I turned and looked at Lady Kaldaire. “Do you recognize her?”

  “What a monstrous thing to say.” She turned away, her chin elevated.

  “I’m sure her family is searching for her. They must be worried sick.” The dead woman was too old to be a debutante, but aristocrats of all ages attended the numerous balls held in London every spring. This was the beginning of the mating season for aristocrats, as single women presented at court searched for a suitable husband.

  The beginning of the Season, when aristocrats who’d been at their country estates since last August returned to London and required new wardrobes. My thoughts slid off in a new direction. New wardrobes necessitated new hats. Milliners like me were kept busy and thankful.

  I glanced at Lady Kaldaire and the bobbies. I was wasting valuable time. I had hats to design back at my shop.

  “I’m sure her family is not searching for her,” Lady Kaldaire snapped at me.

  That sounded odd, but she seemed sure. “How can you be certain?”

  Her arms folded over her chest, Lady Kaldaire stared once more at the body. “Because I know the family. It’s Lady Theodore Hughes. The notorious Roxanne.”

  Now the bobbies and I stared open-mouthed. They must have read the same gossip I had in the penny press. All London had heard of the notorious Lady Theodore Hughes, or the notorious Lady Roxanne, as the scandal rags called her.

  Chapter Two

  I’d read in the papers that Roxanne Starley had a reputation for daring, for being unconventional, before she’d married Lord Theodore Hughes, second son of the Duke of Wallingford. He’d had a reputation for being a rogue before the wedding. Together they’d become the center of scandal. No wonder Lady Kaldaire wasn’t eager to acknowledge her acquaintance.

  I’d heard it said theirs was a match made in a gin-soaked brothel. Personally, I didn’t believe that piece of gossip. No lady of the night would pass the inspection of a duke’s family before the wedding. And no duke’s son would marry without the family’s approval, not if he wanted to keep his allowance.

  Roxanne, now Lady Theodore Hughes, the daughter of a now-deceased wealthy brewer, barely made the cut for a younger son.

  The gossip, murmured behind the hands of my customers before the wedding, had grown since that date nearly two years before. Drunken carriage races through the streets. Rumors of group sex, drug usage, and huge debts. Tales of massive family rows.

  The scandalmonger newspapers had happy days covering the rumors. Then a month ago, Lord Theodore died. The proper newspapers reported his death as due to an accident. The scandal rags suggested poison. Drugs. Dark secrets.

  Within a day, Scotland Yard declared
there was no reason for an investigation. No autopsy was performed. The lower-class penny newspapers suggested, keeping just this side of the law, that Scotland Yard had been bought off.

  All London read the stories with self-righteous glee.

  “I’ve never seen her except for some terrible photographs in the newspapers. Had you ever met her?” I asked Lady Kaldaire.

  “Yes.”

  Her tone was so bitter that I couldn’t help but ask, “What happened?”

  She gave me a scathing look. “What didn’t happen? I’m an old friend of Theo’s mother, Lulu. She has rapidly aged as the family name has been dragged through the mud by these—horrid events. Then Theo died and she has taken to her bed. She’s devastated.”

  “Now there will be the publicity of a murder in the family. Poor woman.” I felt truly sorry for Lord Theodore’s mother. To be made a victim of curiosity and ridicule in the press as well as to lose a son.

  “Can we not disguise her cause of death?” Lady Kaldaire asked me as well as the constables.

  The bobbies and I said “No” in unison. Someone had tried to disguise the cut across her neck with a scarf, but it wasn’t sufficient to hide the wound or the blood stains.

  “Please, do not give the newspapers a reason to look into this death,” Lady Kaldaire asked.