by Anne Perry
“Better!” yelled at least a dozen voices.
“Of course you do,” he agreed with enthusiasm. “You want money in your pockets, food on your tables, and you want to be able to walk the streets of your city in safety.” He gave a meaningful gesture towards the green expanse of the park behind him and there was a murmur of agreement from the crowd.
“How’s he going to manage the money?” Emily whispered to Jack. “Ask him.”
“No point,” he whispered back. “The poor don’t have votes anyway.”
Emily gave a grunt of irritation.
“Never mind the street!”
“What about the parks?” a fat man in a coster’s apron called out. “Can we walk them in safety too?”
There was a bellow of laughter from the crowd and someone whistled.
“Not now!” Uttley looked at him. “Not now, my friend. But you ought to be able to—if the police were doing their job!”
There were one or two cries of agreement.
“Do you want patrols in the park?” Jack asked loudly.
“Good idea, Mr. Radley,” Uttley answered, pointing his finger at him to draw everyone’s attention. “Why didn’t you say that in your last address? You didn’t, you know—not a word!”
Everyone turned to stare at Jack.
Jack surveyed the faces now looking at him.
“Do you want police patrols through the park?” he asked innocently.
“Yeah!” a couple called out, but most were silent. No one spoke against.
“What should they do?” Jack pursued. “Stop you—ask you what your business is? Who it is you are with?” There was a rumble of denial.
“Search you for weapons?” he went on. “Take your name and address?”
“How about stop you from being attacked, robbed or murdered?” Uttley asked. The crowd gave a shout of approval and then a quick burst of laughter.
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that,” Jack said, still with bland innocence. “Follow you. Of course. And then when someone approaches, they should come close enough to prevent any sudden blow or lunge. And if the person should prove to be merely an acquaintance …” He stopped amid a few murmurs of anger and glowing faces. “Oh no—that wouldn’t do—because we don’t know that it wasn’t an acquaintance that killed Captain Winthrop and Mr. Arledge. Whoever it is, the policemen had better remain close enough to intervene if it should seem necessary.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Uttley began, but he was drowned out by catcalls and laughter.
“Wouldn’t that require an awful lot of policemen?” Jack asked. “In fact, roughly one each for every person who wanted to take a stroll. Perhaps we should call up the police station and wait for an escort. It would be terribly expensive. Taxes would double or triple.”
There were calls of disapproval and derision, and one man laughed uproariously.
“This is ridiculous!” Uttley shouted above the melee. “You have reduced it to an absurdity! There are perfectly sensible ways of doing it.”
“Then tell us,” Jack invited him, holding his hands wide.
“Yeah,” the crowd called, turning their faces from one to the other. “Go on—tell us!”
Uttley struggled to define them, but it became obvious he had thought only in generalities, and when it came to a specific solution he could not name one. The crowd whistled and catcalled, and Jack had no need to aid in his rival’s undoing. Eventually, red-faced and furious, Uttley turned on him.
“What will you do that’s better, Radley? Give us your answer!”
As one the crowd swiveled to look at Jack, their eyes keen, their jeering as ready to strip him.
“I blame the Irish!” one woman called out, her face red with fury. “That’s who it is—you’ll see!”
“Rubbish!” a black-haired man contradicted her with contempt. “It’s them Jews!”
“Hang ’em!” a man in green shouted, raising his arm. “Hang ’em all!”
“Bring back deportation!” someone else called. “Let Orstralia ’ave ’em! Should never ’ave got rid o’ deportation—that’s wot’s wrong.”
“Can’t do anything until you catch them,” Jack pointed out. “I say get more professional police, men who are trained to do the job, not gentlemen who speak nicely and have good clothes but couldn’t catch a thief if they were locked in a room with him.”
“Yeah! Yeah, that’s right!” someone called out. A thin woman in gray waved her hand approvingly. A stout man with waxed mustaches jeered and whistled. “What you got agin’ gentlemen? You an anarchist, eh? You one o’ them wot wants ter get rid o’ the Queen, are yer?”
“Certainly not,” Jack replied, keeping his equanimity with difficulty. “I’m a loyal subject of Her Majesty. And I like gentlemen—some of my best friends are gentlemen. In fact, at times I am one myself.”
There was a roar of laughter.
“But I’m not a policeman,” he went on. “I don’t have that skill—and I know it. Neither do most other gentlemen.”
“Even some o’ our policemen don’t, an’ all!” the pie seller shouted, to more laughter. “ ’Oo’s the ’Yde Park ’Eadsman, then? Why don’t they catch ’im?”
“They will do!” Jack called out impulsively. “There’s a first-class professional policeman on the case—and if the Home Office helps instead of curbing him, he’ll catch the Headsman!” As soon as he had said it, Emily knew he regretted it, but the words were out.
There was a roar of skepticism from the crowd, and one or two turned to look at Uttley.
“Superintendent Pitt,” Uttley said with a jeering smile. “A gamekeeper’s son. I know why Mr. Radley has such confidence in him—they are brothers-in-law! Do you know something the public have not been told, Radley? Something secret, perhaps? What are the police doing? What is Pitt doing?”
Now the crowd was looking at Jack with suspicion, and an ugliness shadowed their faces. The mood had changed again.
“I know he’s a brilliant policeman, working as hard as any man can,” Jack shouted back. “And if he isn’t hobbled by the powers in the Home Office and the government, trying to protect their own, then he’ll catch the Headsman.”
There was a low, angry rumble and again the mood swung right around and directed the anger at Uttley.
“Yeah!” a fat man said loudly. “Give us real police, not some bleedin’ toff in fancy clothes wot won’t get his ’ands dirty.”
“That’s right,” the woman with the peppermint drinks added. “Get rid of them wot’s protecting their own. The ’Eadsman maybe ain’t a poor lunatic at all. Maybe ’e’s one o’ them fancy gents wot’s got something personal agin’ other gents.”
“Maybe they was perverts wot picked up women an’ got done by their pimps for something real nasty?”
Uttley opened his mouth to deny it, then saw their faces and changed his mind.
“They are our police, and it’s our city,” Jack said finally. “Let’s give them our support and they’ll catch this monster—whoever he is: gentleman or lunatic—or both.”
There was a cheer from the crowd, and one by one they began to drift away.
Uttley jumped down from the carriage steps where he had been standing and walked over to Jack and Emily, his eyes hard and narrow, the small muscle in his jaw pinched. “A little cheap laughter,” he said between his teeth. “Half a dozen men who can vote—maybe. The rest is dross.”
“If they were no use, what were you doing here?” Emily said before she thought.
Uttley glared at her. “There are issues here, madam, you know nothing about.” He looked at Jack with a steady, unblinking stare. “But you do, Radley. You know who is on my side … and who on yours.” His lips parted in a very slight smile. “You made a bad mistake last time, and it will tell against you. You’ve made enemies. It will be enough—you’ll see.” And with that he turned on his heel, strode back to his carriage and swung himself up into it in a single movement. He shouted at his coachman and with
out hesitation the horses threw themselves forward as the whip lashed over their backs.
“He means the Inner Circle, doesn’t he?” Emily said with a shiver as though the sun had gone in, although actually it was as bright as the moment before. “Can it really make so much difference?”
“I don’t know,” Jack answered honestly. “But if it can, it’s a very black day for England.”
Charlotte was in the kitchen after Pitt had left for the day, and the breakfast dishes were cleared away. Daniel and Jemima were preparing to leave for school, and Gracie was at the sink.
Five-year-old Daniel coughed dramatically, then as no one paid him any attention, Charlotte being busy with seven-year-old Jemima’s hair, he did it again.
“Daniel has a cough,” Jemima said helpfully.
“Yes I have,” Daniel agreed immediately, and went into a paroxysm to demonstrate it.
“Don’t do that anymore, or you’ll have a real sore throat,” Charlotte said unsympathetically.
“I have,” he agreed, nodding his head, his eyes on hers, bright and clear.
She smiled at him. “Yes, my dear, and it is my considered deduction that you also have arithmetic today, yes?”
He was too young to have learned successful evasion.
“I don’t think I’m well enough for arithmetic,” he said candidly. The sun through the windows shone on his bright hair, gleaming with the same auburn as hers.
“You’ll get better,” she said cheerfully.
His face fell.
“Or on the other hand,” she went on, finishing Jemima’s hair and tying a ribbon on it. “If you really are ill, then you had better stay at home …”
“Yes!” he said with instant enthusiasm.
“In bed,” she concluded. “We’ll see if you are well enough to get up tomorrow. Gracie can make you some eel broth, and maybe a little light gruel.”
Daniel’s face filled with dismay.
“Then you can catch up with your arithmetic when you are well again,” Charlotte added heartlessly. “Jemima will help you.”
“Yes I will,” Jemima cut in. “I know how to do sums.”
“I think maybe I’ll be all right,” Daniel said slowly, giving Jemima a filthy look. “I’ll try hard.”
Charlotte gave him a radiant smile and touched his head gently, feeling the soft hair under her fingers.
“I thought you would.”
When they were gone and Gracie had finished the dishes Charlotte turned her attention to the duties of the day. There were various garments that needed special cleaning, in particular a shirt of Pitt’s which had a couple of fine bloodstains where he had nicked himself shaving and even afterwards a drop had fallen and made a mark. A little paste of starch, put on and left to dry before being brushed off, would see to that. Strong alcohol saturated in camphor would take out the oil stain on his jacket sleeve. Chloroform was better for grease. She would have to ascertain which it was.
And the black lace from the dress she had worn for the memorial service looked a little mildewed, and she must attend to that before returning it. She would use alcohol and borax. She refused to send to the butcher for bullock’s gall to put in warm water, which she had been advised was actually the best. There were also feathers to be recurled, which was a disaster done with curling tongs. It was far better to do them over an ivory knife handle. It was a tedious job, but necessary if she were to continue to borrow her relatives’ expensive and highly fashionable clothes. And of course she should not forget the black leather gloves which should be rubbed over with orange slice, then salad oil.
“Gracie,” she began, then realized that Gracie was not listening to her. “Gracie?”
“Yes, ma’am?” Gracie turned slowly from where she had been staring at the dresser, her face pink.
“What’s the matter?” Charlotte asked.
“Nothing, ma’am,” Gracie said quickly.
“Good. Then will you heat the irons and I’ll start on the lace. I think you could do the master’s shirts and attend to those little blood spots—you know how.”
“Yes, ma’am.” And Gracie began obediently to pull out the flatirons and set them on the hob.
Charlotte went upstairs to fetch the feathers, and on her return, took out an ivory-handled knife. She only had two, one a butter knife and too small, the other a cake knife and just right
“Ma’am?” Gracie started.
“Yes?”
“Uh—oh—no, it doesn’t matter.” And she splashed out a liberal helping of alcohol to begin her task.
Charlotte started very carefully curling the feathers, then realized that Gracie was putting the alcohol on the bloodstains, not the grease, and had forgotten the camphor altogether.
“Gracie! What is the matter this morning? Something is wrong. Tell me what it is before you cause a disaster!”
Gracie’s cheeks were bright pink and her eyes were full of fear, her whole face pinched with urgency. Still she could not find the words.
Charlotte felt a lurch of fear herself. She was extraordinarily fond of Gracie, perhaps she had not realized how much until this moment.
“What is it?” she said with more sharpness than she intended. “Are you ill?”
“No!” Gracie bit her lip. “I know summat about the gennelman wot goes inter the park arter girls.” She swallowed hard. “I got ter talkin’ ter one o’ them tarts in there one day.” Her eyes were brimming with misery. She was lying, at least in part, and she hated it “An’ she said as there was one gent wot liked ter beat women, beat ’em really ’ard, ’urt ’em bad. I reckon as mebbe that were Captain Winthrop. She said as ’e were big. An’ mebbe it were a pimp as done fer ’im. An’ the other gent knew it. Mebbe ’e saw it, or summat, an’ that’s why ’e got done too.”
For a moment Charlotte could think only of the likelihood of what Gracie said, and her spirits soared upwards.
“It could be,” she agreed quickly. “It could very well be!”
Gracie gave a sickly smile.
Then the further meaning struck Charlotte.
“Gracie! You’ve been out detecting again! Haven’t you?”
Gracie’s eyes lowered and she stared in silent misery at the floor, waiting for the blow to fall.
“You went to the park at night to find one of those women, didn’t you?”
Gracie did not deny it.
“You stupid child!” Charlotte exploded. “Don’t you realize what could have happened to you?”
“They’re goin’ ter throw the book at the master if ’e don’t catch the ’Eadsman.” Gracie still did not look up.
Charlotte felt a stab of alarm, if what Gracie said were true, and then of guilt for her own so frequent absences.
“I could beat you myself for taking such a risk,” she said furiously, swallowing hard. “And I will do, I swear, if you ever do anything like it again! And how on earth am I going to tell the master what you know without telling him how you found out? Can you answer me that?”
Gracie shook her head.
“I shall have to think of something very clever indeed.” Gracie nodded.
“Don’t just stand there waggling your head. You’d better try to think as well. And get those grease stains out of his sleeve while you’re doing it. We’d better at least have his clothes clean for him.”
“Yes ma’am!” Gracie lifted her head and gave her a tiny smile.
Charlotte smiled back. She intended it to be tiny also, but it ended up being a wide, conspiratorial grin.
Charlotte spent the afternoon in the new house. Every day it seemed to be some new disaster had been discovered or some major decision must be made. The builder wore a permanent expression of anxiety and shook his head in doubt, biting his lip, before she had even finished framing her questions to him.
However, with the purchase of an excellent catalog from Young & Marten, Builders Merchants and Suppliers, she was able to counter most of his arguments quite specifically, and very slowly w
as earning his exceedingly grudging respect.
The principal problem was that she was racing against time. The Bloomsbury house was sold, and they must leave it within four weeks, and the new house was very far from ready to move into. Most of the major work was accomplished. Aunt Vespasia’s instructions had been followed to the letter, and there was now an immaculate plaster cornice where the old one had been. There was even a flawless new ceiling rose as well. But it was all innocent of paint or paper, and the whole question of carpets was not even touched upon. Decisions crowded in from every quarter.
When talking to Emily about it she had thought she knew precisely what color she wished for each room, but when it came to the details of purchasing paper and paint, she was not at all certain. And if she were honest, her attention was not totally upon the matter. She could not help but be aware of the newspaper headlines and the tone of the articles beneath them criticizing the police in general—and the man in charge of the Hyde Park case in particular. It was grossly unfair. Pitt was reaping the whirlwind sown by the Whitechapel murders and the Fenian outrages and a dozen other things. There was also the general unrest in terms of political change, teeming poverty, ideas of anarchy come over from Europe as well as native-bred dissension, the instability of the throne with an old, sour queen shut away in perpetual mourning, and an heir who squandered his time and money on cards, racehorses and women. Headless corpses in Hyde Park were simply the focus for the anger and the fear.
It ought to be some ease of conscience to know that, but it was no use whatsoever as a defense. Thomas was so new in his promotion. Micah Drummond would have understood it; he was a gentleman, a member of the Inner Circle, until he broke from them with all the risk that that entailed, and a personal friend of many of his equals and superiors. Thomas was none of these things, and would never be. He would have to earn every step of his way—and prove himself again and again.
She stared around the room, her mind refusing to concentrate. Would it really be a good idea to have it green? Or would it be too cold after all? Whose opinion could she ask? Caroline was busy with Joshua, and anyway Charlotte did not want to see her and be reminded of that particular problem.
