“Catherine?” Mick blurts.
It’s Catherine Price, the actress with whom Mick is desperately, unrequitedly in love.
“I thought I recognized your voices.” She looks as disconcerted to see us as we are to see her. “What on earth are you doing here?”
It’s obvious what she’s doing here naked under a dressing gown that must belong to Sheriff Hargreaves. She’s his mistress.
Hugh recovers his manners and speaks with forced gaiety. “Good morning, Catherine. How nice to see you. We’re on an investigation.”
“So you know one another?” Sheriff Hargreaves rises, studying the four of us with keen interest.
“Yes. We’re old friends,” I say.
I’ve known Catherine for four years, since the day she came to London from her country village to make her fortune on the stage. I was at Euston Station, taking photographs, when I saw her on the platform. I rescued her from a shady character who was about to carry her off to a house of ill repute. Hugh and Mick have known Catherine for less than two years, but the events associated with the Ripper case have bound us all together with a strength that other relationships of longer duration can’t match. Now my protective instinct toward Catherine revives.
She flushes with embarrassment and casts a guilty look at Mick. Although she doesn’t share his feelings, she’s not heartless, and he once saved her life. He glares at her, angry and betrayed. Hugh regards Mick with somber sympathy.
“What a coincidence.” Sheriff Hargreaves smiles as though glad to discover a mutual acquaintance.
I sense that his actual thoughts are more complicated. Is he calculating how to exploit the situation for his benefit? Maybe I only think so because I’ve taken a sudden dislike to him on Catherine’s account.
Sheriff Hargreaves gestures for Catherine to take the empty seat between his and mine. The gold wedding ring gleams on his finger. “Come and join us, my dear.” He seems proud to flaunt his beautiful mistress who’s more than twenty years younger than himself, unashamed of his adultery.
“I’ll get dressed first.” Catherine backs into the bedroom and shuts the door.
We all sit down. Sheriff Hargreaves is the only one of us who’s at ease. His benign gaze studies us, lingering on Mick. Mick scowls. Hugh breaks the silence. “How did you and Catherine meet?”
“I saw her perform at the Oxford Music Hall,” Sheriff Hargreaves says. “I’m always on the lookout for new talent for the Metropolis.”
Maybe Catherine is sleeping with him in hopes of a star role. The possibility doesn’t lessen my concern for her, and Sheriff Hargreaves’s charm has worn thin for me. Suspicion makes me bold. “Are you taking advantage of Catherine?”
“Let’s just say that my arrangement with her is mutually beneficial.” His jovial manner has an edge that warns me that I don’t want him for an enemy.
Hugh puts his hand on mine to calm me as I say, “What are your intentions toward her?” I must sound like a mother interrogating her daughter’s suitor.
Sheriff Hargreaves chuckles. “I thought you were covering crime for the Daily World, not my personal affairs.”
Catherine returns, having dressed so fast that her hair is pinned crooked atop her head, and when she sits beside me I see gaps on the back of her mint-green silk frock where she’s missed the buttons. She smells of lavender-and-rose perfume. Pretending that nothing is amiss, she smiles at my friends and me. “So, what are you investigating?”
“The murder of Harry Warbrick, the hangman,” Hugh says.
“Oh, I heard about that. Wasn’t it gruesome?” Catherine giggles, her habit when she’s nervous.
“Yeah,” Mick says, suddenly belligerent. “And he’s a suspect.” He points at Sheriff Hargreaves.
Catherine’s mouth drops. “What?” She says to Hugh and me, “You can’t be serious.” When we remain somberly silent, dismay clouds her expression. I myself am dismayed because Mick as good as accused Sheriff Hargreaves of murder.
The sheriff’s manner is calm but a shade less jovial than a moment ago. “I thought you wanted to talk to me because I witnessed Amelia Carlisle’s execution. It’s a big leap from witness to murder suspect.”
“Big leaps are our specialty,” Hugh says with a cheeriness that doesn’t relieve the tension in the atmosphere. “But don’t take it personally. As far as we’re concerned, everyone who knew Harry Warbrick is guilty until proven innocent.”
Sheriff Hargreaves’s smile doesn’t reach his narrowed eyes.
“Lionel can’t have done it!” Catherine says.
“What makes you so sure?” Mick demands.
“I know him.”
“Oh?” Jealousy blazes in Mick’s blue eyes. “For how long?”
“Since October.”
Even though he knows she regularly sees other men, Mick looks stricken because this affair has been going on behind his back all that time. His thoughts are heart-wrenchingly transparent: Sheriff Hargreaves is rich, knighted, and powerful—everything that Mick himself is not. “Three months, eh?” Mick takes refuge in contempt. “An’ you think you know everything about the bloke.”
“Lionel isn’t a killer.” Flustered, Catherine glances at Hugh and me, uncomfortable about siding against us.
“Thank you for your faith in me, Catherine.” Sheriff Hargreaves gives her a warm smile, then addresses the rest of us. “I don’t have a motive for the murder.”
“That we know of yet,” Mick says.
I recall that of the other execution witnesses, only Dr. Davies, Ernie Leach, and the Reverend Starling have any apparent motive—which puts Sheriff Hargreaves in the same boat as Governor Piercy and Mrs. Fry.
“So where were you when Harry Warbrick was murdered?” Mick says.
“He was with me.” Catherine stares at us with nervous defiance. Sheriff Hargreaves nods.
“All night?” Mick asks.
“Yes,” Catherine says.
“Where?”
“Here.” She glances toward the closed door.
“What were you doing?” Mick says.
Catherine sputters, angry and embarrassed.
“Couldn’t he have left after he were finished, while you was sleepin’?”
Indignation sparks in Catherine’s eyes. “How dare you!”
Sheriff Hargreaves says, “Catherine and I were here together the whole night. She’s my alibi. That’s all you need to know.”
“You did it!” Mick lunges out of his chair, at the sheriff.
My heart seizes. “Mick, don’t!”
“Whoa!” Hugh snatches at Mick and misses.
Catherine jumps up. She stands in front of Sheriff Hargreaves, her arms spread to shield him from Mick. “What’s the matter with you? Have you lost your mind?”
Sheriff Hargreaves rises, puts his arm around Catherine, and draws her to him. “Why don’t we all settle down?”
“Take your hands off her!” Mick grabs Sheriff Hargreaves by the fur-trimmed lapels of his cloak.
I rush to Mick and pry his hands loose. Hugh propels Mick out of the room, calling to Sheriff Hargreaves, “We’ll be on our way. Thank you for the coffee.”
As I follow Hugh and Mick, I snatch our coats from the stand and look over my shoulder. Catherine clings to Sheriff Hargreaves. The look she gives me is at once smug and defensive. He wears an enigmatic smile. If forced to hazard a guess as to what’s on his mind, I would say he’s not sorry about the drama that just occurred.
CHAPTER 14
Mick runs out of the building ahead of Hugh and me. We don our coats and spot him leaning against the wall that surrounds Old Bailey, almost invisible in the dense fog, a picture of utter dejection. I hand him his coat. He jams his arms into the sleeves and mumbles, “Sorry.”
Hugh and I don’t have the heart to scold him. “It’s all right,” I say.
“No it ain’t.” Mick says in a tone filled with self-reproach, “If not for me, you mighta got somethin’ out of the sheriff.”
&
nbsp; “He wouldn’t have told us anything that would incriminate him,” Hugh says. “He’s too smart.”
“Yeah. Smarter than me.” The doleful look on his face says that Mick is aware of all the other ways in which the sheriff is superior to himself. “I really cocked it up.”
As we walk toward the train station, Hugh says, “Catherine has made a mistake by hitching her wagon to Sir Lionel. I know he picks up actresses, uses them, and then throws them away as if they’re dirty handkerchiefs. She must have seen him do it. If she thinks she’ll be any different than the others, she’s a fool.”
“She’s not a fool! She’s just innocent.” Mick always leaps to Catherine’s defense.
I could tell him that Catherine is far from innocent and doesn’t deserve his loyalty, but he stubbornly clings to his belief that she’s perfect and brooks no criticism of her. And he remembers, as we all do, that she risked her life to help us catch Jack the Ripper.
“I didn’t mean to insult Catherine,” Hugh says gently. “I just wish she weren’t involved with Sir Lionel. Aside from the fact that he’s a murder suspect, he’s married. I once met his wife at a ball. Lady Anne is an attractive, sweet person, if a little too earnest. She devotes herself to noble causes, and she’s chairwoman of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. She bent my ear for half an hour, talking about her efforts to rescue neglected and mistreated children. She’s a big political asset for Sir Lionel, knows the wives, sisters, and mothers of all the most important men. Word around town says he’ll never leave her. Maybe I should have a word with Catherine.”
“Yeah,” Mick says. “Tell her he done it. He killed the hangman.”
“But we don’t know that,” I say.
“I know.”
“Then you must be a mind reader,” Hugh says. “I didn’t see any evidence.”
“I don’t need no evidence.” Mick is adamant. “I just know he’s guilty as sin.”
I’m sad to see the past repeating itself. I don’t want to make Mick feel worse, but I have to say, “You thought you knew who kidnapped Robin Mariner.”
“So I was wrong then. I got a gut feeling I’m right this time.”
“I’m all for gut feelings,” Hugh says. “I place great reliance on them myself. But they’re not enough to convict Sir Lionel.”
“We need proof,” I say.
“Then we’ll get proof.” Mick spots an empty beer bottle in a heap of trash and kicks it along as he walks.
I know what he’s thinking: if Sheriff Hargreaves is convicted, he’ll be marched off to the gallows and out of Catherine’s life. “He has an alibi.”
Mick scowls at my unspoken reminder that Catherine was the one to provide the alibi.
“I’d take it with a grain of salt,” Hugh says. “Catherine is trying to protect him. She may be lying because she believes he’s not a killer even if she knows she faked his alibi.”
Now Mick looks torn between hoping the alibi is false and not wanting to believe Catherine is a liar. I say, “One of the other witnesses to Amelia Carlisle’s execution could be the killer. And there may be other suspects we haven’t run across yet. It’s too soon to make up our minds.”
“My mind’s made up.” Mick gives the beer bottle a final violent kick. It flies through the fog and shatters somewhere out of sight. “I’m gonna get the bastard.” He runs off.
“Let’s give him time to sort himself out,” Hugh says. “He’ll come around.”
“We have to find out whether Sheriff Hargreaves is guilty.” I feel more pressure than ever to solve the murder. The idea of Catherine at the mercy of a man who hanged and decapitated Harry Warbrick sends a stab of dread through me.
“If he is, we’d better prove it and get him behind bars fast,” Hugh says. “Because if Catherine knows his alibi is fake, her life is in danger.”
* * *
Hugh and I spend the rest of the morning and the afternoon in the neighborhood around The Ropemaker’s Daughter, looking for witnesses who can place any of the suspects there at the time of the murder. We dodge police who are also investigating the crime. Once I glimpse Mick on the street, talking to passersby. He’s broken his promise to go to school in his eagerness to pin the crime on Sheriff Hargreaves. At five o’clock, Hugh keeps at the search while I go to the Daily World to tell Sir Gerald the latest.
I’m hurrying up Fleet Street when a woman calls, “Miss Bain?”
Her voice barely audible above the racket of carriages, printing presses, and crowds, she hovers by the Daily World building. In the thick fog and the dim light of the streetlamps, it takes me a moment to recognize the matron of Newgate Prison. She wears a plain black coat instead of the blue plaid, and a veiled black bonnet hides her hair.
“Good evening, Mrs. Fry.” I’m surprised that she’s apparently been waiting for me.
She hunches her shoulders and puts a finger to her lips, bereft of the calm indifference she displayed at Newgate. She beckons, and when I move close, whispers, “I gotta talk to you.”
“About what?”
Mrs. Fry glances around. “Not here.”
Curious to know what she has to say, I lead her a few blocks down the street to Peele’s Coffee House, a popular haunt of reporters, but not crowded at the moment. When we’re seated at a back table, with steaming cups of coffee at hand, Mrs. Fry pulls the veil on her hat lower over her face and her coat collar up to her double chin. She speaks in a low, furtive tone.
“It’s about Amelia Carlisle’s hanging.”
Excitement and suspicion mingle in me. “You refused to talk about it yesterday. Why are you willing now?”
“Because something wrong happened at it.” Her deep Cockney voice trembles. “Last night I went to church and prayed to the Blessed Virgin, and she said I had to tell.”
Thank heaven for divine intervention. “What happened?”
Mrs. Fry fidgets with her cup and sips the scalding liquid, as if for courage. I wait in suspense, unable to imagine what I’m about to hear.
“There weren’t no hanging,” Mrs. Fry says.
Startled and confused, I laugh. “How could there not have been a hanging? Amelia was sentenced to death.”
“She got away with it.” Rancor sours Mrs. Fry’s voice.
“But the hanging was announced in the newspapers. Everybody thinks she’s dead.”
“Everybody but us who was there that day.” Now Mrs. Fry looks wise and smug. “We knows better.”
I’m astounded by the idea that there is indeed a conspiracy of silence, and this is what the witnesses to Amelia’s execution are hiding. “So you’re telling me that Amelia isn’t dead?”
“Yeah. I am.”
Even more suspicious now, I say, “Why should I believe you?”
Mrs. Fry looks me straight in the eye. “Because it’s true. Because I could get in a heap o’ trouble for sayin’ it, and I’m sayin’ it anyway.”
Although unconvinced, I’m willing to give her the benefit of the doubt for the moment. “Then what happened the day of Amelia’s supposed hanging?”
Mrs. Fry gathers her breath, drinks more coffee, then leans across the table. I lean toward her so that I can hear her whisper, “I fetched Amelia from her cell. She were acting mighty odd—smiling as if she hadn’t a care in the world. I never seen a condemned prisoner act like that. I asked her why she seemed so happy. She just laughed. I thought she’d gone out of her mind. When we got to the execution shed, the others were waiting there—Harry Warbrick and Ernie Leach, Governor Piercy, Dr. Davies, Reverend Starling, and Sheriff Hargreaves. Harry was holding the noose. He looked at his watch. He always timed his hangings.”
She pauses. I envision the solemn men, the incongruously cheerful Amelia.
“Then Governor Piercy said, ‘There’s not going to be an execution.’ ”
I picture the surprise on all the faces except Amelia’s. Mrs. Fry says, “Well, that explained why she was so happy. She knew she wasn’t gonna die.”
“You coulda knocked me over with a feather,” Mrs. Fry says. “She killed those babies, she was caught red-handed, and she was getting off. Reverend Starling said, ‘Has she been reprieved?’ Governor Piercy just repeated, ‘There’s not going to be an execution.’ Then Harry Warbrick said, ‘But I’m supposed to hang her. I was chosen over all the other hangmen in England.’ He seemed madder about losing the job than about her getting off.”
I remember the rope that he’d supposedly used to hang Amelia, the prize souvenir that had been stolen from his pub the night of his murder.
“Governor Piercy didn’t look no happier than Harry, but he said, ‘The hanging is canceled.’ Harry said, ‘Will I not be paid?’ ” Mrs. Fry chuckles. “That was Harry—always lookin’ out for himself. Governor Piercy said, ‘You and Mr. Leach will be paid.’ Ernie just stood there blinking, like usual.”
“How did the others react?” I say.
“Someone said, ‘This is an outrage!’ I don’t remember who. And I didn’t see the looks on anybody else’s faces. I was too busy watching Amelia. She looked like the cat that drank the cream.” Mrs. Fry says, “Governor Piercy said we weren’t to tell anybody, because it was an official secret. If we told, we would lose our jobs and go to prison.”
Incredulity makes me skeptical. “But why would he do such a thing? Why spare Amelia’s life?”
Mrs. Fry shakes her head, bewildered. “I don’t think he wanted to. An order must’ve come from higher up.”
Governor Piercy might have been coerced, but who would have wanted to rescue the infamous Baby Butcher, and why? I ask another crucial question: “If Amelia is alive, where is she?”
Mrs. Fry looks out the window, as if she expects to see Amelia walk by. “I don’t know. Governor Piercy sent me back to work. The others stayed.”
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