by C. S. Harris
She nodded. “I’m meeting the director of the Foundling Hospital at eleven.” She tipped her head to one side, her gaze on his face. “Why? I don’t think anyone would describe Bloomsbury as dangerous territory, if that’s why you asked.”
“No. But it might be a good idea to take a couple of footmen with you, just in case.”
He thought she might be annoyed with him for worrying about her, even though she knew he admired what she did and would never try to stand in her way. But she only smiled and said, “I’ll be fine. I promise.”
He grunted and reached to pull her into his arms.
Chapter 13
Monday, 10 October
All the depositions of evidence taken before the Shadwell magistrates at the time of the 1811 murders have disappeared—as have the records of Williams’s pretrial hearing,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy the next morning when he and Sebastian met in a coffeehouse overlooking the crowded, noisy chaos of Covent Garden Market.
Sebastian paused with his steaming coffee raised halfway to his lips. “How can that be?”
“The Home Secretary ordered them sent to his office in January of 1812. According to Sidmouth’s clerk, everything was returned to Shadwell the following month, but the clerk at the Shadwell office insists they were never received.”
“And no one followed up on it?”
Lovejoy shook his head. “The Shadwell clerk says they assumed the Home Office had decided to keep them—which frankly beggars belief. I understand that at one point the Home Secretary asked Aaron Graham, one of Bow Street’s former magistrates, to handle the investigation. But his health has been failing for several years now and he’s currently taking the waters in Bath. I’ve written to ask his thoughts on all this, although it’s doubtful I’ll receive an answer. He’s quite aged, and I’m told he’s not well at all.”
“There must be someone who remembers.”
Lovejoy took a tentative sip of his hot chocolate. “Well, there are detailed newspaper accounts of both the investigations and the hearings, which I’ve been reading. No doubt they contain a number of inaccuracies, but I suppose they’re better than nothing.”
“Any reference in the reports to Hugo Reeves?”
“Nothing I’ve found so far. Why?”
“I’m told he was seen arguing a few weeks ago with a seaman named Billy Ablass.”
Lovejoy’s eyes widened at the name. “Interesting. Ablass is mentioned in the newspaper reports as one of the suspects in the Ratcliffe Highway killings, although he was eventually released.”
“I couldn’t find many willing to admit they knew Reeves, but it doesn’t sound as if he was particularly well liked.”
The magistrate took another sip of his chocolate. “I’ll have the lads look into him more. To be frank, everything I’m reading simply reinforces my previous suspicion that the case against John Williams was staggeringly weak. The man returned late to his lodgings on the night of the King’s Arms murders—as he was evidently wont to do most nights. He was friends with the publican and his wife, and acknowledged drinking there that night—but presumably the same could be said of any number of men. And his laundress reported that he’d had blood on one of his shirts around the time the Marrs were killed. He claimed the blood was from a fight—which was a favorite pastime of his, according to his laundress. And the blood was described as ‘splatters’ around the collar—nothing like what one would expect to find on the clothes of the perpetrator of such a massacre.”
“That’s all they had on him?”
“Essentially. Oh, and he had money in his pocket when he was taken up for questioning, whereas he’d earlier told people he was running low on funds. However, since he’d just pawned some of his clothes and had two pawn tickets to back up the claim, that really shouldn’t have been seen as incriminating. He reportedly had a reputation as a natty dresser.”
“Was there anything besides the blood-splattered shirt to link him to the first set of murders?”
“Not initially. But then the bloody maul found in the house on Ratcliffe Highway was traced to a seaman who’d left his tool chest at a mean hostelry called the Pear Tree.”
“And?”
“Williams was staying at the Pear Tree.”
“That’s more damning.”
“It was certainly seen to be. But then, any number of other men also frequented the Pear Tree and its taproom, so it wasn’t nearly as inculpatory as everyone seemed inclined to believe.”
“And then he was found dead?”
“Yes. On the very morning he was scheduled to appear for his pretrial hearing.”
“I thought you said there was a hearing.”
“There was. They held it anyway.”
“With the man dead?”
“Yes. They found him guilty.”
Sebastian stared out the coffeehouse’s foggy front window at the crowded, noisy piazza beyond. “And then they announced that the case was closed?”
“Essentially, yes. What I found particularly troubling is that there was a witness to the King’s Arms killings.”
“There was?”
Lovejoy nodded. “A young journeyman who kept a room in one of the inn’s garrets. He heard strange noises and shouts from below, and crept downstairs to see what was happening.”
“He saw the killings?”
“Not exactly. But he did see the murderer standing over one of the bodies—a large, dark-haired man in a Flushing coat.”
“What did Williams look like? I don’t think I’ve heard anyone say.”
“He was said to be small and slender, with golden hair.”
“Bloody hell. And yet they still pegged him as the killer?”
Lovejoy sighed. “At one point the lodger was himself taken into custody as a suspect—despite the fact he was so terrified he leapt nearly naked from the window of an upstairs room.”
“Who was he?”
“A man named Turner. Jake Turner.”
Chapter 14
Jake Turner was now a journeyman wheelwright employed by a large company on Wapping High Street.
A slim young man of medium height with soft brown hair and a sensitive face, he was not at all anxious to talk about the King’s Arms. But the company’s owner, who held a lucrative contract with His Majesty’s government, had no desire to anger a viscount who was both the son of the Chancellor of the Exchequer and a son-in-law to the King’s powerful cousin Lord Jarvis.
“Go on wit ye, lad,” said the company’s gruff, gray-whiskered, rotund owner. “Don’t want to keep his lordship waiting. Take all the time ye need wit him, yer lordship; never ye fear. All the time ye want.”
Jake Turner pulled off his leather apron and reluctantly tossed it aside.
They sat at the stairs near Execution Dock, with the wind off the river buffeting their faces and the air fresh in their lungs. “I don’t like thinkin’ about them days,” said Turner, his jaw set hard as he stared out over the choppy water.
“Understandable.” Sebastian studied the younger man’s tense profile. “How old were you?”
“Just turned twenty-one, my lord. I’d finished my apprenticeship earlier that year and had only been at the King’s Arms seven or eight months.”
“Can you think of any reason why someone might have wanted to kill the publican and his family?”
“No. Old John and Mrs. Elizabeth were good people. They kept a respectable house—no cockfights or gambling or cock-and-hen dances at the King’s Arms, the way you see at other taverns around here. They always locked up at eleven o’clock sharp—well, unless a friend happened to come by lookin’ for a pot of ale. That’s what happened the night of the killings, you know. A constable who lived a couple houses down stopped in for a beer.”
“What time was that?”
“Maybe ten to eleven. There wasn’t anybody st
ill in the taproom by then, so he and Old John sat in the kitchen by the fire for a minute and talked. Some big fellow with dark hair had been seen hanging around the outside of the house, and with what’d happened to the Marrs on everyone’s mind, Old John was worried. Then the constable went off home with his beer and I went to bed.” Turner sucked in a deep breath that shuddered his chest. “It was a few minutes later I heard the front door bang open.”
“It wasn’t locked by then?”
“I guess not. Must’ve been just on eleven.”
“Then what?”
“I heard loud thumps and shouting and screaming, and then suddenly it went completely quiet. I . . . I’m afraid it took me a minute to screw up my courage and go downstairs to see what had happened.”
“That must have taken courage, indeed.”
Turner glanced over at him, his eyes wide in a pale face. “You’re the only person I’ve ever heard say that. Most folks think I’m a coward because I didn’t rush down there to try and save them.”
“I suspect all you’d have succeeded in doing would have been to get yourself killed.”
“I’m not sure that makes it any better.”
“Discretion is the better part of valor, remember?”
A ghost of a smile touched the younger man’s face, then faded. “I’ve never been as scared in my life as I was creeping down those steps. The door to the kitchen was ajar, and when I got to the bottom of the stairs, I could see a man standing with his back to me. He was leaning over”— Turner had to pause and swallow again before he could go on—“over one of the bodies. There was blood . . . splattered everywhere. You wouldn’t believe the blood. For a moment all I could do was just stand there and stare. Then he straightened and put his hand up, like this—” Turner touched his chest. “Like he was putting something in the inner pocket of his coat.”
“What did he look like?”
“He was big. Must’ve been six feet tall, at least. He had on a dark Flushing coat that hung all the way down to his heels, and I think he had dark hair, but he was wearing a hat, so maybe I’m wrong. I was so shocked, I couldn’t move—couldn’t do anything. Then he started to turn, so I flattened back against the wall and ran up the stairs again as quiet as I could.”
“He didn’t see you?”
“I don’t think so. He didn’t come after me.”
“Was he alone?”
“I don’t know, my lord. He was the only one I saw, but I couldn’t see the whole kitchen from where I was.”
“What did you do then?”
“I thought about hiding under my bed. But I realized he’d surely find me there if he came looking. So I tore the sheets off the mattress, tied them together, and tied one end to a bedpost. Then I climbed out the window. The sheets weren’t long enough, but there was a night watchman passing below, and he caught me when I dropped.”
“Then what happened?”
Turner scrubbed his hands down over his face. “I wasn’t wearing much—just my nightcap and a shirt. I think I must’ve been half-crazy with fear. I started screaming about how there was a murderer loose in the house. The watchman swung his rattle and shouted ‘Murder! Murder!’ and people came pouring out of the neighboring houses. I figure whoever was in the house must’ve heard the racket and run out the back while the men were still trying to break down the tavern’s front door.”
“It was locked?”
“Aye. The killer must’ve locked it behind him when he first went in. A couple of men also broke open the front cellar flap, figuring they could get in that way. That’s where Old John was, you know—in the cellar. Lying headfirst on the stairs where he’d fallen.”
“Did you see him?”
Turner nodded, his lips pressed together and his eyes wide. “His throat was slit from ear to ear so bad the blood was running down the steps. You could hear it dripping.”
My God, thought Sebastian. “And his wife?”
“She was in the middle of the kitchen, not too far from Bridget—Bridget was their maidservant, you see. She was by the hearth.”
“Do you know what was used to kill them?”
The younger man nodded. “A big iron crowbar. It was still lying beside Mrs. Elizabeth.” He swallowed. “I remember I was standing there, just staring at it, when someone sang out, saying the back window was open and there was blood all over the sill. So a bunch of the men from the neighborhood who’d gathered in the house went pouring out the back door, thinkin’ they could maybe catch the killer.”
“Did they see anyone?”
“No, my lord. And then they hauled me off to the watchhouse, so I’ve no idea what happened after that. They let me go the next day, but there’s still lots of folks who look at me sideways, thinkin’ I must’ve had somethin’ to do with the killings after all.”
“Do you know if anything was stolen from the house?”
“They say Old John’s silver watch was missing. I know he had it on that night because I remember seeing him play with the chain while he was sitting by the fire. At first people were thinkin’ that’s what I must’ve seen the man in the Flushing coat put in his pocket. But Old John was lying on the cellar stairs, so it must’ve been Mrs. Elizabeth I seen that big fellow standing over, which means it couldn’t have been the watch.”
“So what do you think he was putting in his pocket?”
“I reckon it must’ve been his knife. I think he must’ve been leaning over her, slittin’ her throat.”
“Their throats were all slit?”
Turner nodded, his cheeks now pale. “And their heads bashed in. I’ve never seen so much blood in my life.” He glanced over at Sebastian. “You think there’s some kinda link between what happened then and these new killings, don’t you?”
“Do you?”
“Seems like there must be.”
“Did you think John Williams was the Ratcliffe Highway killer?”
“Good Lord, no.”
The vehemence of his reply took Sebastian by surprise. “Why not?”
“I knew Williams—knew him well. He was a good friend of Mrs. Elizabeth, so he was at the King’s Arms all the time. She mothered him; that’s the way she was—she liked mothering the lads. I guess she must’ve had children of her own once, but by then she only had a little granddaughter that I knew of. There’s no way Williams could have been the man I saw standing over Mrs. Elizabeth’s body—I’d have recognized him. And even if I hadn’t, Williams was short and slight and fair-haired, whereas the man I saw was big and tall and dark. Apart from which, Williams couldn’t have done something like that. He wasn’t like that at all.”
“Oh? What was he like?”
“He was a friendly, happy-go-lucky fellow, and a real natty dresser. That’s what he spent his money on—clothes. Clothes and going to the cock-and-hen clubs. The girls all liked him. He dressed fine and always treated them well, and he was educated, too. He was always reading all sorts of books.”
“I thought he was a seaman.”
“He was. Never made much sense to me. I figure there must’ve been some secret in his past he was hiding, but he wasn’t a killer. No one’ll ever convince me of that.” Turner was silent for a moment, his troubled gaze on a tall ship making its way up the river, its sails fluttering in the gusty breeze. “I reckon that’s why folks was so mad at me, and why a heap of ’em still are— ’cause they wanted me to say it was Williams I saw that night, and I wouldn’t do it.”
Sebastian studied the younger man’s drawn face. He might have survived the attack on the King’s Arms, but that savage December night had shattered his life in ways Sebastian suspected Turner would never recover from. After six years at war, Sebastian knew only too well that those who witness such bloody carnage are never quite the same again. And on top of the sights and sounds and paralyzing fear of that night, Turner was also living with th
e shame of being labeled a coward. That, plus the never-ending animosity he’d earned by refusing to put his neighbors’ lingering fears to rest and name a dead man a killer.
“Who do you think the murderer was?”
Something leapt in the young man’s eyes, something that looked very much like fear. “I don’t know.”
“No idea?”
“No. None.” He stood up abruptly and looked back toward the workshop. “I know Mr. Cook said I could be gone as long as I like, but I really should be getting back, my lord. I got work I gotta finish.”
“Do you know a man named Billy Ablass?”
Turner sucked in a quick breath. “I know who he is. Why?”
“Could he have been the man you saw that night? He’s big, isn’t he?”
He threw another yearning look at the workshop. “I don’t know. I’m sorry, my lord, but I must get back.”
Then he brushed past Sebastian and walked rapidly away, his head down and his arms wrapped around his waist as if he were desperately trying to hold himself together.
Hold on to the tattered remnants of his sanity.
* * *
The tavern once known as the King’s Arms stood just a few hundred yards from Ratcliffe Highway. It was a tall, narrow brick building flanked by lower, meaner houses. At some point in the last three years someone had changed its name to the Queen’s Head. But when Sebastian reined in his curricle across the street and gazed up at the garret window from which the young journeyman lodger had made his escape on that blood-soaked night three years before, he found himself wondering how much business the public house did these days. A palpable aura of horror clung to the place; it seemed unlikely to attract anyone eager to drown his sorrows in liquid good cheer.
The narrow road known as New Gravel Lane marked the boundary between St. Paul’s Parish to the east and St. George’s Parish to the west. It was one of the things that had hampered the investigations into the two sets of 1811 killings, for despite their proximity, the murders had taken place in two different parishes. Thus, two vestries were involved, and both had jealously guarded their ancient prerogatives, each printing their own handbills announcing a reward and refusing to share information with either the neighboring parish or the Thames Police. Then the Thames police were ordered by the Home Office to stop operating outside their jurisdiction, while the magistrates at the Shadwell Public Office essentially sat back and waited for information to be brought to them.
