The Fire in the Glass

by Jacquelyn Benson

  They moved on, the tight-waistcoated baron grumbling about knicking an apple from the dining room.

  “Strangford!” someone shouted nearby. She turned.

  He was there, just a few feet away from her. His eyes were on a sheaf of papers in his hand. He looked tired, a darkness she hadn’t seen an hour before noticeable under his eyes.

  She slipped behind a corpulent marquess. The man who had called found his way to Strangford. As she risked a glimpse over the marquess’s shoulder, she noted that the gentleman had to take Strangford by the arm before he noticed him.

  They were moving slowly toward the door to the chamber.

  No—not that, she begged silently. He couldn’t enter yet.

  A peer at the door turned, exclaiming at the sight of Strangford’s companion. Vigorous handshakes ensued and to Lily’s relief Strangford was pulled into a niche for some further exchange.

  She moved quickly. Abandoning the cover of the marquess, she wove over to the stairs and climbed up the dark, twisting way.

  The gallery wound around the entirety of the room. It was narrow, making her wonder how the women of fifty years before, with their hoop skirts and crinolines, would have managed to navigate it. But then, perhaps it had never been intended that women should invade the sacred precincts of the Lords, even as remote observers.

  The handful who had braved their way to perch here eyed her thoughtfully as she came in, the quick chatter of their voices lowering as she made her way along the length of the chamber.

  She ignored the looks and stopped as she reached the part of the gallery closest to where Lord Torrington stood on the chamber floor, not far from the gilded throne.

  She waited.

  The men below paid her no heed. It was as though the gallery, and the women upon it, existed on some other plane.

  She tried a loud cough. It earned her a few more looks from the ladies but no notice from the peers.

  Somewhere over her head, a very large clock was ticking.

  She took the brass head of her walking stick and rapped it sharply against the rail of the gallery.

  Heads turned. Her father’s was late in joining them, but his eyes locked onto her directly with clear and instant recognition.

  He nodded toward the stair.

  As she moved back along the gallery, she wondered if the gesture hadn’t meant simply “get out of here.” At any rate, she could hardly do anything else, unless she planned to start shouting and have herself carried out of the room.

  As she neared the end of the gallery, Strangford stepped into the chamber.

  For a moment, she was frozen, startled into paralysis, but he did not look up. She pulled herself out of it and quickly left for the safety of the dark stairwell.

  Her father was waiting in the lobby. He offered his arm as she emerged. She accepted it and he guided her out of the cacophonous chatter of that high space and into the relative quiet of the hall.

  They left behind the splendor of the official rooms, passing tiny offices where clerks shuffled mountains of paper, a startlingly mundane sight between all the paintings and marble statues.

  At the end of the hall, he opened a plain wooden door and motioned her inside.

  It was a room of more regular proportions, though the view was extraordinary. Gothic windows framed the Thames in a manner that made Lily feel as though she must be floating over the dull, gray river.

  The walls were papered in crimson and gold, richly contrasting with the dark, carved wood of the wainscoting. The space was simply furnished with long wooden tables, chairs, and a few leather benches.

  “Committee room,” Lord Torrington explained, shutting the door. “We won’t be disturbed here. Though I haven’t much time. I must be back in the chamber before the session commences.”

  “I only need a minute. It’s about Lord Deveral.”

  “I’m listening.”

  He was. She could see that. The full force of his attention was on her. He was a man whose attention carried weight.

  Against her will, her mind fluttered back to that night in Deveral’s house, to the words he threw at her like a weapon.

  Father wanted to foist you off on us like some lost puppy . . .

  He had wanted to acknowledge her. To make her part of his family.

  But he hadn’t, she reminded herself forcefully.

  “I know who killed Annalise Boyden.” She paused, then played her card. “It was Dr. Joseph Hartwell.”

  “Dr. Joseph Hartwell was with me the night of Mrs. Boyden’s death,” her father countered evenly.

  “What?” Lily was unable to hide her shock.

  “His society is advocating for amendments to a marriage bill we’re debating. Some . . . restrictions on matrimonial unions. He managed to get an appointment with the prime minister. Loreburn begged off so I went to represent—unofficially—the position of the Lords in the matter. He was closeted up with Asquith, Lloyd George, and myself for most of the night.”

  “Till when?”

  “Three in the morning.”

  The revelation shook her, shifting the landscape of the case she had begun to build from under her feet. She struggled to catch up, moving other pieces into place.

  “He didn’t do it himself. He has an accomplice—I believe it to be former army doctor by the name of Waddington. But it was done under his orders.”

  Her father crossed to the window. He was quiet, but Lily could see his powerful mind working behind that haughty facade.

  “This is not a man to be lightly accused.”

  “You think I do this lightly?” she retorted.

  “What evidence do you have?”

  “There is a clinic in Southwark. Burned now, but he was conducting experiments there on charity patients. Attempting human blood transfusion. One of the women he had locked in there was a medium.”

  “What has any of that to do with Mrs. Boyden?”

  She was going too fast. She caught herself, forced herself to slow, despite the urgency firing through her.

  “He’s been killing mediums. Draining them of their blood. There are at least three other victims that I’ve identified. Mrs. Boyden was holding séances. Privately, but Hartwell must have learned about it.”

  “I was under the impression the lady’s throat was cut.”

  “There was less blood than there ought to have been. I’m sure you have managed by now to get your hands on the medical examiner’s report.”

  “I have seen it,” he admitted.

  She moved closer, pressing her case.

  “Your son’s arraignment is in a week. Give them the real killer and save him from that ordeal.”

  “I would gladly do so. But Dr. Hartwell is one of the most respected intellectuals in Britain.”

  “Respected men have been guilty of foul deeds before.”

  He was silent. Time was slipping away from her. She had to convince him to act. Feeling desperation rise, she played another card, this one with a more trembling hand.

  “He will do it again,” she said quietly. “I swear to you, a woman will die if something is not done to stop him.”

  “How do you know that?”

  She lifted her chin, forced out the answer.

  “You know how.”

  He crossed the room to a painting of some long-dead king leading a troop of men and wild-eyed horses.

  He was not a man who showed his agitation, but Lily could see it in the tap of his finger against his leg. She waited, biting back further arguments, knowing that he must have his time to think.

  He shook his head.

  “I cannot accuse such a man on nothing but hearsay.”

  It was as though he had struck her.

  “What?” she said quietly, stepping back.

  “There is nothing you have given me that directly connects him to Mrs. Boyden or any of these other victims.”

  “It is there. But it must be looked for to be found.”

  “You think the powers of t
he law leap simply because I point my finger?”

  “Wouldn’t they?” Lily demanded.

  “It is not so simple. There are other concerns at play.”

  “More important than the life of your child? Or do you find all of us expendable?”

  It was a low blow. She knew it and half expected him to lash out at her for it.

  He did not. He was all the earl once again, cold and imposing, immobile as stone.

  “He was the last man to be seen with her alive. It is established that they argued. The murder weapon belonged to him. Did I not know him so well I could easily credit the accusation.”

  “But you do know him.”

  He looked tired.

  “Yes. I do. And that is why I cannot speak on this matter. It is well known that the case against him is strong. Any action on my part to shift the blame to another would only be viewed as a father’s desperate appeal to save his heir.”

  “You won’t do it.”

  “I am telling you it would have no impact if I did.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “You have no evidence.”

  It should not feel like betrayal, she told herself. She had no right to expect anything from him. He had never given her any reason to think otherwise. She had come here out of desperation, and it had proved as futile as most desperate moves were.

  She stepped back, mustering her own front of cold indifference.

  “I see. I am sorry to have troubled you, my lord.”

  “Lilith . . .”

  “I believe your session is about to start. You needn’t worry, I can find my own way out.”

  She left.

  She had to fight her way through the lobby, which was thick with the last rush of peers making their way into the chamber. She collected her coat and hurried out into the street, where the cold cut at her in welcome.

  She strode down the building to the Commons entrance and waved to a hackney that had just deposited a late-arriving MP.

  “March Place, Bloomsbury,” she ordered.

  The sky overhead weighed dark and heavy as the cab lurched along Whitehall. A few spiraling flakes fell, dying against the glass of the window.

  It tore at her, the desperation, the feeling of complete powerlessness. Torrington had been her last card. She had played it out and failed.

  She should have known how that would go. She should never have allowed herself to expect anything more from him. It had been a mistake, hoping that he might surprise her—that perhaps Deveral’s revelation about his attempt to bring her into his family had meant something.

  This was a futile line of thought. She needed to act, not stew over old wounds.

  What could she do?

  She could warn Estelle. It was another desperate move, one that failed her time and again in the past. But this time she had names, descriptions. She could make Estelle understand the seriousness of the threat. Perhaps she and Miss Bard could go away, leave the city tonight for someplace no one would expect to find them. Scotland. Bermuda. Lily would convince them it was necessary, that there was simply no other way.

  At March Place, she paid the fare and hurried inside. She knocked at Estelle’s door.

  No answer.

  She knocked again, more forcefully.

  “They’ve gone out,” Mrs. Bramble barked from the hall floor below.

  “Where?” Lily demanded.

  “How should I know? Miss Bard departed earlier this morning. Miss Deneuve left a few hours ago. She just said she’d not be back for dinner and to go ahead and lock the door as she’d bring her key.”

  That meant she would be late, Lily thought as she slumped down to sit on the steps outside Estelle’s door. There was no telling how late. She could wait here, of course, and catch her as soon as she returned.

  No. There had to be more she could do than wait. There was no time to sit here in the dark.

  Her father’s voice resounded through her mind.

  You have no evidence.

  He was right. It was all as thin as a spiderweb, connections drawn of inference and intuition. True, of course. Lily believed that now with her entire being. But without some concrete proof she could show to the world, no one would risk acting on it.

  She needed something real. Something even the most skeptical person could not possibly deny.

  There was one place she might stand a chance of acquiring that.

  The audacity of what she was considering shook her—but her encounter with her father had proved to her that she could not depend on his assistance.

  She didn’t need it. She didn’t need anyone. The risk was her own, along with the fight, and she would see it through.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  IT WAS DARK. TWILIGHT had come prematurely, hurried by the cloak of thick clouds that obscured the sky over the city.

  The cold bit at her cheeks above the scarf she had wrapped around her neck and mouth. The Triumph bounced over the uneven paving stones.

  A few snowflakes spun past her, isolated, vanishing as soon as they struck the ground.

  Lily opened the throttle, racing along the dark expanse of Hyde Park. She turned the heads of the few travelers she passed. The city was quieter than usual, most of its residents reading the promise of the sky and opting to stay home, close to the warmth of the coal fire.

  The wide streets of Kensington, which lay to the southwest of the park, were even quieter. The buildings were tall and elegant, marble and limestone gleaming in the light of the gas lamps as though immune to the soot that pervaded the rest of the city. Everything here was new, bigger than it felt like it ought to be. The district was full of squares and gardens, undoubtedly lush and peaceful in the light of a summer day but dark and secret now, marked by the twisted branches of trees laid bare by winter.

  Lily slowed the Triumph to a stop. She hopped off and jogged beside the bike for a few streets, ducking into an alley when a lone carriage rolled past.

  She turned into one of the shadowy parks that lay between the rows of sprawling townhouses.

  Children were playing somewhere nearby, their shouts echoing through the garden. She caught glimpses of life through the lit windows of the surrounding houses—servants hurrying back and forth in kitchens, elegantly dressed women gliding through well-appointed dining rooms.

  The house she was looking for was in the middle of the row. It was easily three times the size of her own, all glittering windows and gables.

  Even for a physician, Dr. Joseph Hartwell was clearly doing quite well for himself.

  She concealed the Triumph behind a yew hedge on the far side of the park. Grabbing the low-hanging branch of an oak next to Hartwell’s home, she pulled herself up.

  Perched in the tree, shadowed by its branches, Lily watched the house.

  The bright windows on the ground floor revealed the location of the kitchen, where Hartwell’s staff were busy preparing his supper. Above, slivers of light gleaming at the edges of the windows indicated life behind thick curtains, drawn against the winter chill.

  The same chill crept through her trousers and the jacket she pulled tight over the layers of wool she’d donned beneath.

  She got as comfortable as she could and waited.

  The clock of some nearby church had tolled nine when her chance came.

  The back door opened and a kitchen boy jogged out, carrying a bucket of scraps. He turned around the corner of the house, toward the alley with its dustbins.

  He had not locked up behind him.

  Lily swung down, dropping silently to the ground, the cold in her bones protesting at the movement. She ignored the ache, running on light feet up to the house.

  She felt naked without her walking stick, vulnerable. But it would only be a liability on tonight’s errand.

  She put her hand on the knob and it turned.

  Without giving herself a chance to question the madness of this endeavor, she stepped inside.

  A blast of warm air enveloped her, emanat
ing from the kitchen, which lay at the end of the dark hall to her right. She could smell baked apples, cinnamon and ginger.

  To her left was a narrow staircase, likely the servants’ way up to the family rooms on the floor above.

  Move.

  The instinct was clear. Lily heeded it, yanking open the nearest door and ducking inside. She found herself crammed into a tightly-packed pantry.

  She held herself still and silent as a footman hurried past, carrying a massive roast on a silver platter. The scent of it made her stomach rumble. When was the last time she had eaten? She couldn’t remember.

  Someone shouted from the kitchen.

  “You’d better have brought that bucket all the way out, Thomas, not left it in the garden like last time.”

  The boy. He would be back any moment.

  If she was caught in here, an obvious house-breaker . . . but there was no time to indulge the fear.

  She stepped out of the pantry and climbed the stair.

  It was narrow and twisting, as though added to the house as an afterthought. She knew she must be only a turn behind the footman with the roast, but he would also be clearing the way ahead of her, giving her warning of anyone trying to make their way back down.

  She reached the top.

  At the end of the hallway, light spilled from the dining room as the footman opened the door to go inside. Lily glimpsed the full table, glittering with crystal and fine china. Elegantly clad women circled it, bright with jewels, alongside a younger man in evening dress—an adult son, perhaps? A burst of cheerful laughter echoed down the hall. It was a warm scene, a glimpse of comfortable family life—the sort of life Lily had never known. In the midst of it, just beyond where she could see, sat a murderer.

  Well, he would not be so comfortable for much longer.

  As more footsteps echoed up the stairs behind her, she slipped across the hall, ducking into the first dark doorway.

  It was a water closet, smelling of bleach and lavender.

  Over her head, the ceiling shook with the pounding of young feet. A high squeal of delight filtered down to where she stood beside the great claw-foot tub. She must be beneath a nursery.

  She stepped back from the cracked door as the footman returned, carrying a load of dirty plates.