“You should encourage them to find another line of work,” Barrett says. “Look what happened to you at Newgate.”
But our unconventional job suits my friends and me. No matter that I’m deeply in love with Barrett, I wouldn’t be content to keep house; nor can I picture Hugh working in an office. I can picture Mick returning to his old life as a street urchin and petty criminal. And our inclinations go deeper than an urge to solve murders. I’ve always had an affinity for danger. When I come across someone or something that frightens me, I feel an urge to draw nearer, as if it’s a sleeping wolf that I can’t resist poking and waking up. That’s one reason I keep searching for my father, no matter what I might discover. And I’ve learned that there’s no exhilaration like facing death and surviving. I think that our investigations have taught Hugh and Mick the same lesson. Our deal with Sir Gerald isn’t the only reason we’ll continue pursuing Harry Warbrick’s killer, and justice for the hangman isn’t the only reason we won’t stop. We tempt fate because it’s become a habit that’s hard to break. But that seems too perverse to admit to Barrett, and it’s not going to convince him that my friends and I should continue working for Sir Gerald.
“The attack at Newgate suggests that we’re getting closer to the truth about Harry Warbrick’s murder,” I say.
Barrett frowns, skeptical. “Reid questioned the governor, the matron, the surgeon, and the chaplain today. They kept mum about Amelia Carlisle’s execution and said they didn’t tell you and Hugh anything either. You got yourselves hurt for nothing.”
I shake my head. “I’m sure there is a connection.”
“As far as Reid and I could see, not one of the witnesses had any motive for murdering Harry Warbrick.”
Although I hate keeping Barrett in the dark, I can’t tell him about the affair between Dr. Davies and Mrs. Warbrick—or the Reverend Starling, his grievance against Harry Warbrick, and his visit to The Ropemaker’s Daughter on the night of the murder—until the information is published in the Daily World. Guilt, regret, and conflicting loyalties aggravate my temper.
“You’re ruling out my theory just because you’re angry with me,” I say.
“Yes, I am angry, but I’m not stupid enough to let my feelings dictate which theories to rule out or accept,” Barrett retorts. “Give me some credit, why don’t you?” Then the anger in his expression changes to sadness. “I don’t want this case to come between us, Sarah. I don’t want us to be on opposite sides of a contest.” He looks into my eyes. “I love you. I want us to be together—in everything, all the time.”
His sincerity disarms me. My heart brims with love for him, and I feel my gaze soften. Barrett cautiously reaches his hand toward my cheek. I lean into his touch. Then we’re kissing passionately, our lust as hot as the first time. Deprived for so long, too aroused to care about privacy, we stumble to the parlor. Barrett sits on the sofa, and I straddle his lap. His hands caress my breasts, grasp my hips. We’ve never completed the carnal act—I’m too afraid of getting with child—but we’ve found other ways to satisfy our need. Our kisses stifle our moans as we move in quickening rhythm.
The sound of footsteps descending the stairs freezes us. Then I scramble off Barrett and push my skirts down. He tugs the jacket of his uniform over his lap. We sit side by side, breathing hard. My heart is still pounding when Fitzmorris walks into the room seconds later.
“Oh. I’m sorry. Mr. Barrett, I didn’t know you were still here,” Fitzmorris says. I can tell that he knows what we were doing. He and Hugh and Mick probably know that we do it whenever we’re in the house and they’re not. I look at the floor, embarrassed.
Barrett clears his throat, stands, and says, “I’d better go.”
With our desire still unsatisfied, I don’t want him to leave, but I say, “I’ll see you out,” and accompany him downstairs to the studio, where we steal one last, long, fervent kiss. Our lovemaking has defused our tempers and postponed our quarrel about Sir Gerald, his contest, and the murder investigation for the moment.
“I’ll stop by for you at six o’clock tomorrow night,” Barrett says.
“Tomorrow night?” I don’t know what he’s talking about.
“We’re having dinner with my parents.” Barrett pauses. “Aren’t we?”
Trepidation is cold water dashed on my lust. I still don’t want to go, but I’ve already upset Barrett enough, and I can’t disappoint him and his parents again. “Yes,” I say.
CHAPTER 13
The next morning is so dark with fog that when Hugh, Mick, and I emerge from the studio, the man loitering by the front door is a mere blurry shape crowned with a bowler hat. We don’t realize that he’s waiting for us until he says, “Hey, you!”
I’m surprised to recognize his tweed overcoat, puffy features, and curly strawberry-blond hair. “Charlie Sullivan?”
The reporter from the Telegraph draws back his fist and punches Hugh in the face. Hugh cries, “Ow!” and reels against the door. Mick and I exclaim in dismay.
“Good morning to you too, Mr. Sullivan.” Indignant, Hugh rubs his cheek. “Why did you do that?”
“Don’t play dumb. You stole my story about Harry Warbrick’s murder and Amelia Carlisle’s execution!” Fists clenched, panting like an angry bulldog, Sullivan lunges at Hugh.
Mick and I grab Sullivan. He turns on me and yells, “You thieving bitch!”
I let go and scramble away, lest he hit me too.
“If you don’t want your stories stolen, you shouldn’t blab them to strangers,” Hugh says.
Sullivan curses as he strains toward Hugh, trying to break free of Mick’s grasp.
“How did you know where we live?” I say.
“I have my sources. I’m not telling you another goddamn thing!” Sullivan slips on a patch of ice on the sidewalk.
Mick shoves him. He falls on his buttocks and slides into a puddle of dirty slush. Picking himself up, he says, “Bugger you and Sir Gerald’s contest.” He trudges off.
As my friends and I gape at one another, stunned by the turn of events, a newsboy’s cry rises above the racket of wagon wheels and factory machinery. “Amelia Carlisle and her hangman! Read all about their shocking connection!” Proprietors and customers gather outside the shops, reading newspapers, talking in excited voices.
“I’ll get one for us.” Hugh disappears into the fog and returns with a copy of the Daily World.
The front-page headline reads, “WHO HANGED THE HANGMAN?” The illustration shows the inside of the execution shed at Newgate. Five men and a woman stand by the gallows, a hooded female figure dangles from a noose, and a sixth man poses with his hand on the lever of the trap door. The faces are indistinct, but one of the men wears a physician’s white coat, another a priest’s collar. They represent Harry Warbrick, Ernie Leach, Governor Piercy, Dr. Davies, Matron Fry, the Reverend Starling, and Sir Lionel Hargreaves, sheriff of London.
I read tidbits from the article under Malcolm Cross’s byline: “What happened at the Baby Butcher’s execution? Did it incite someone to murder her hangman? What dangerous secrets did Amelia take to her grave?”
“The story doesn’t name the witnesses or accuse them of murder, but Sir Gerald is treading too close to libel for my comfort,” Hugh says. “Although he must be happy that the story is a sensation. He’ll want a new episode to keep the public on tenterhooks.”
“We better hurry to Old Bailey,” Mick says.
* * *
Old Bailey, the courthouse where criminals are tried and verdicts rendered, is conveniently situated adjacent to Newgate Prison. The ground floor of the massive building is surfaced with masonry blocks. A stone wall topped with a high, spiked iron fence surrounds the front courtyard. Fog shrouds the men and women queued up by the gate, where police constables ask them what their business is before letting them in or turning them away. Hugh, Mick, and I join the queue. Eavesdropping, we learn that some of the folks are solicitors or barristers coming to defend or prosecute clients; oth
ers are spectators.
“I’ve met Sir Lionel Hargreaves,” Hugh says.
“Oh?” I’m not surprised. When Hugh was a popular man-about-high-society, he rubbed shoulders with London’s most prominent citizens. “Where?”
“At the Metropolis Theater. He’s the owner. He hosts parties after the performances. His guests get to mingle with the stars.”
“The sheriff owns a theater?” Mick says. “How come?”
“He started out as a bit-part actor with a theater troupe that toured the provinces,” Hugh says. “He became the star and married the producer’s daughter. He had a flair for writing, directing, and producing plays too. When he brought the troupe to London, it was a smash hit. He made wealthy friends in high places, and they invested in his new project—the Metropolis. Now it’s the biggest moneymaker in the West End. Melodramas, Shakespeare, musicals, and Christmas pantomimes—something for everybody. Sir Lionel retired from acting and hired big stars to perform. He was knighted for his achievements.”
“How did he get to be sheriff?” I say. A journey from the stage to the government seems improbable.
“He took an interest in politics, and he won a seat on the London County Council. His influential friends got him elected sheriff. Now his people run the Metropolis while he assists the Lord Mayor and officiates at Old Bailey. Rumor says he’ll be the next Lord Mayor.”
“He won’t be if we find out he killed the hangman,” Mick says.
“That would wreck a political career,” Hugh agrees.
When we reach the gate, we give the constables our names. Hugh says, “We’re with the Daily World. Sir Gerald Mariner sent us to call on Sheriff Hargreaves.”
Sir Gerald’s name is like a magic password. Soon an official whisks us through the gate and the courtyard and beyond the semicircular brick wall that barricades the entrance to Old Bailey. Inside the cold, dank hall, we cross a stone floor worn down from centuries of footsteps. The smell of cesspools and unwashed human bodies seems soaked into the scarred, soot-stained walls. Voices resound from two big courtrooms already filled with people gathering for trials. A staircase leads us to the top floor, a different world that the public never sees. Gas sconces in the passages shine on gilt red wallpaper and polished parquet floors. White-wigged judges stride past us. Our escort shows us into a large office with paneled walls, a brown Turkish carpet, and glass-fronted bookcases. Heavy chairs upholstered with leather stand in front of the fire burning in a hearth beneath a marble mantelpiece. Windows overlook a courtyard where carriages and horses wait. Above the courtyard, rooftops spread to the great dome of St. Paul’s. A closed door leads to an inner chamber. The air smells richly of expensive coffee and tobacco. Hugh takes it all in stride, accustomed to such elegance, while Mick glances around with bright-eyed curiosity. Old Bailey’s inner sanctum may be safer than Newgate, but I feel uneasy, out of place.
Three gentlemen stand conversing by a large mahogany desk. Two are in their fifties, dressed in ordinary business attire, their voices a civilized murmur directed at the third man. He’s a decade younger, tall and broad-shouldered. He wears a long scarlet robe trimmed with dark fur over a black velvet coat, waistcoat, and breeches, and black stockings and buckled black shoes. An ornate jeweled brooch hangs from gold chains across the ruffled white lace jabot at his throat. He breaks off the conversation, dismisses his two subordinates and our escort with a nod, and strides toward my friends and me.
“Miss Bain. Lord Hugh Staunton. Mr. Mick O’Reilly.” His voice is a pleasant baritone, cultured but not haughty. “Sir Gerald let me know that you would be calling on me. It’s good that you came before I’m due in court. I’m Lionel Hargreaves.”
I’ve seen officials look puny and uncomfortable in their archaic garb, as if it’s wearing them. Sheriff Hargreaves carries his with nonchalant dash. In figure he resembles portraits of the young Henry the Eighth, but his face is strikingly individual—less like the lion that his name and mane of fair hair suggest and more like a fox, with its narrow shape, pointed chin, and neatly trimmed reddish-brown mustache and beard. I recognize him as the man I saw posing in the photograph with Governor Piercy.
“Honored to meet you, Sir Lionel. Thank you for making time to see us.” Hugh speaks with his usual, confident good manners, but I know he’s wondering, as he’s told me he always does when he meets someone from his old life, whether the sheriff knows about his scandal.
“It’s my pleasure.” If Sheriff Hargreaves knows, he’s too polite to let on. When he shakes hands with me, he smiles. His lips are full and sensual, his eyes a pale, glinting blue circled by a ring of gray, like aquamarine gems set in steel.
I’m not immune to his charm, even though he could be a murderer.
Mick looks impressed in spite of himself, and when it’s his turn to shake hands with the sheriff, he gulps before he says, “Sir.”
“Let me take your coats.” Sheriff Hargreaves hangs them on a brass coat tree, then says, “Would you like some coffee?” He gestures at a cart laden with an urn, cups, and a tray of assorted pastries.
“Sure,” Mick says, never one to pass up free refreshments.
I move toward the cart, anticipating that I, the only woman present, will be asked to serve, but Sheriff Hargreaves says, “Please allow me.”
Soon we’re seated in the chairs by the fire, cups in hand, plates on our laps. The coffee is delicious, and so is my lemon-filled puff pastry. Mick smacks his lips, then looks embarrassed by his bad manners. Hugh says, “This is very kind of you, Sir Lionel.” It’s a far cry from the treatment we received at Newgate.
Sheriff Hargreaves takes his seat. “I’m always glad to cooperate with the press. However, you must understand that I can’t talk about Amelia Carlisle’s execution. My lips are sealed by the Official Secrets Act.” He speaks with what seems like genuine regret.
I wonder if he deliberately buttered us up before letting us down. Still, I’m not surprised by his refusal to talk.
“We do understand.” Hugh’s tone implies that of course a high official who’s a candidate for Lord Mayor can’t break the law.
“I’m ready to be of service to you in any other way I can.”
I think of the Thames when the sun shines on it, when I know that dark, unsavory things are submerged beneath the brilliance. I wonder what, if anything, the sheriff’s charm hides. “Have you any idea who killed Harry Warbrick?” I ask.
Sheriff Hargreaves, unlike Governor Piercy, answers me instead of ignoring me. “I haven’t, Miss Bain. But the crime seemed quite personal. That suggests a grudge on the part of someone close to Harry.”
“Were you close to him?” I ask. Then I want to bite my tongue; the sheriff might perceive my question as an accusation, take umbrage, and throw us out.
“I hardly knew the man.” Sheriff Hargreaves seems unoffended and sincere.
“Could it have been someone at Newgate?” Hugh asks. “What about Governor Piercy, Dr. Davies, Mrs. Fry, or the chaplain?”
Mick nods in approval at the question. I too hope that even if Sheriff Hargreaves won’t incriminate himself, he’ll dish dirt on the other suspects.
“I doubt that they knew Harry well enough to have a personal motive for murder. Executions are hardly occasions for getting acquainted.”
If a conspiracy of silence unites the execution witnesses, they all have to keep mum to sustain it. I remember that there’s another suspect besides those Hugh mentioned. “How about Ernie Leach?” I say.
“The assistant hangman? An odd little fellow. I’ve never heard any ill of him, but I know he and Harry worked together often.”
Although Sheriff Hargreaves speaks in casual manner, I wonder if he’s trying to direct suspicion onto Leach and away from himself. I also wonder if my experiences have made me so suspicious of everybody that I see guilt where there is none. Or perhaps Sheriff Hargreaves’s good looks and charm have biased me in his favor and caused me to doubt myself.
“By the way, I heard
about your trouble at Newgate. I apologize for Governor Piercy. He ought to take better measures to prevent accidents.” Before we can say that the attacks were no accident, Sheriff Hargreaves says, “Maybe you need a police escort to keep you safe while you’re investigating Harry’s murder. I’ll be happy to lend you a pair of constables.”
Hugh and I glance at each other. We never expected this kind of assistance, but does Sheriff Hargreaves intend for the constables to protect us or to report our every move to him?
“We don’t trust coppers,” Mick says.
Amusement crinkles the sheriff’s eyes. “Spoken like a man of experience. Has any particular one done you wrong?”
Mick shifts in his seat, nervous at being put on the spot, unsure whether Sheriff Hargreaves is making fun of him. “Inspector Reid gives ’em all a bad name.”
“Edmund Reid can be difficult. He’s heading up the Warbrick murder investigation, isn’t he? Suppose I tell him to leave the three of you alone?”
“Can you really do that?” Mick sounds awed.
Sheriff Hargreaves smiles. “I really can.”
Hugh frowns, and I can tell that he’s thinking what I’m thinking: What does the man expect in return for the favor? Is it a bribe to get us to leave him out of our investigation and the Daily World to omit his name from stories about the Warbrick murder?
“That’s very generous of you,” Hugh begins, “but—”
The door to the inner chamber opens, and a young, drowsy female voice says, “Lionel? Who’s there?” The voice is familiar and so unexpected that I start. I turn to see the young woman who stands at the threshold. Her pale blonde hair hangs in long, disheveled ringlets. She wears a blue wool dressing gown that’s too big for her, the sleeves covering her hands and the sash loosely tied around her slim waist. The gap at the front shows the top of her bare bosom. Her lovely face is dazed with sleep; her cerulean-blue eyes blink at Hugh, Mick, and me. We jump to our feet, staring at her in shock.
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