If her story is true, there’s a conspiracy within a conspiracy. All of the witnesses knew that the hanging didn’t happen, but only the men were privy to what became of Amelia. Mrs. Fry says, “They musta smuggled her out of Newgate. After I finished my shift, I looked all over the place for her, and she were nowhere to be found.”
And Harry Warbrick had been murdered less than two months later.
“I think they killed Harry because they were afraid he would talk,” Mrs. Fry says. “He had a big mouth, Harry did.”
My friends and I had believed that one of the suspects was the killer; now they could all be partners in the crime. But I challenge Mrs. Fry. “Your story removes you from the list of suspects who supposedly know what became of Amelia. Did you make it up to protect yourself so that I won’t think you killed Harry to keep it secret?”
“I didn’t make it up!” Mrs. Fry answers so vehemently that I lean back from her hot, coffee-smelling breath. “And I didn’t kill Harry. I told you because I’m scared that I’ll be next.”
We had considered the possibility that the other witnesses’ lives were in danger, but I’m not ready to believe Mrs. Fry. “Why did you come to me about this?”
“Because you seem like a good lady. Because I don’t know who else to trust.”
My skepticism persists even though she seems sincere. “You only met me yesterday. Why not the police?”
“They might be in on it, and if I tell, then they’ll know I’m a blabbermouth, and I’m dead for sure.”
If there is indeed a conspiracy, it could reach far outside the circle of witnesses at the execution. “What do you expect me to do with your information?”
“You work for Sir Gerald Mariner. He’s a big, important man. Couldn’t he do something?”
“Perhaps. Come with me and tell him your story.”
“You mean, now? To his face?” Mrs. Fry shrinks down in her seat.
“Yes.” And let Sir Gerald, with his sharp instincts about people, be the judge of whether she’s telling the truth.
“Will he put it in the newspaper?” Mrs. Fry doesn’t seem to have considered the fact that Sir Gerald is in the newspaper business to make money, and hers is the kind of story that would sell many, many copies.
“Probably,” I say.
“I can’t have my name in the paper. I’ll get in trouble.”
“If your story about Amelia is true and you really are in danger, the best way to protect yourself is to get the secret out in the open. Then it won’t do the killer any good to kill again.”
Mrs. Fry kneads her hands. “I—I don’t know.” If her story is a lie, perhaps that’s the real reason she doesn’t want to tell it to Sir Gerald—she’s afraid that she can’t pull the wool over his eyes, afraid of what he’ll do to her when he finds out he’s been deceived.
“I thought you came to me because it was wrong that Amelia Carlisle got away with murdering babies and you wanted to set things right,” I say. “Have you changed your mind?”
“This is too much.” Mrs. Fry seems upset because things are moving too fast, beyond her control. “Just forget I said anything.” She gets up to leave.
Indignant, I grab her arm. “You tell me Amelia Carlisle is alive, and you expect me to keep quiet?”
“Please! If you’ve a heart, you won’t tell.” Mrs. Fry wrenches free of my grip and runs out of the coffeehouse.
* * *
There’s a moment when I debate with myself whether to tell Sir Gerald about the tip, tell Barrett instead, or tell neither. The tip seems like a hot potato that could burn the hands into which it drops. In the end, I decide I must tell Sir Gerald because he’s paying me for this investigation.
At the Daily World, after I relate Mrs. Fry’s story to Sir Gerald, Malcolm Cross, and Mr. Palmer, they behold me with dumbfounded stares. The rumble of the printing presses fills the silence in the conference room. Cross and Mr. Palmer look to Sir Gerald, to see how he reacts, before they say anything.
Sir Gerald chuckles. “Mrs. Fry’s having a joke on you, Miss Bain.”
Cross and Palmer burst out laughing—they’re relieved because that’s what they thought, and Sir Gerald agrees.
“The very idea that Amelia Cross walked away from her own hanging!” Palmer wipes his eyes.
“And that Sheriff Hargreaves, Governor Piercy, and the others were in on it.” Cross shoots a disdainful gaze at me. “She must have thought you were an idiot to fall for such a load of crap.”
“I didn’t say I believed her.” I should have known Cross would seize the opportunity to ridicule me. “But I don’t think it was a joke.”
Sir Gerald frowns, displeased because I’ve contradicted his judgment. “Why not? How could it be anything else?”
“Mrs. Fry was afraid,” I say.
Cross sneers. “Afraid her trick wouldn’t work, you mean.”
“That wasn’t it.” I’m certain.
“She wouldn’t have tried it on a man.” Cross’s tone implies that men are too sharp to be duped, himself in particular.
Perhaps Mrs. Fry did approach me because I’m a woman and she thought I would be more sympathetic than sharp. After all, she could have brought her story to Hugh. I hasten to defend the opinion that’s taken root in my mind. “Even if she lied when she said Amelia Carlisle wasn’t hanged, I think there’s something to her story.”
Sir Gerald listens silently, chin in hand, his eyes narrowed in speculation. Mr. Palmer says, “What could it be?”
“A conspiracy between the witnesses,” I say.
Cross regards me with unabated scorn. “A conspiracy for what purpose?”
I’m forced to admit, “I don’t know.” I still think the witnesses are hiding a secret, and one of them killed Harry Warbrick to prevent him from blabbing it. But if the secret isn’t Amelia’s escape from justice, then I can’t imagine what it is.
“I think the conspiracy is all in Miss Bain’s head,” Cross announces.
I compress my lips to prevent myself from saying that his head is so stuffed with pride, there’s no room for new ideas. It would do me no good to lose my temper.
“Thanks for the levity, Miss Bain,” Mr. Palmer says. “Now, have you any news we can publish?”
Stung by the dismissal, I say, “Lord Hugh, Mick, and I met with Sheriff Hargreaves. He refused to talk about the hanging, and he has an alibi for the night of Harry Warbrick’s murder.” I leave out the part about Catherine, keeping yet another secret from Sir Gerald.
Sir Gerald nods as if he’s checking Hargreaves off his mental list of items to take into account. “Who says we’re not publishing Mrs. Fry’s story?”
Cross and Palmer gape at him in disbelief. I stifle a laugh. I’m used to surprises from Sir Gerald and not as unprepared for this one as they are.
“But it’s just hearsay,” Cross says.
“And entirely unsubstantiated,” Mr. Palmer says.
Sir Gerald’s eyes glint with amusement at their dismay. “So?”
Everybody knows that newspapers are full of rumors and speculations, which are often more interesting than facts, but I’m as dismayed as Cross and Mr. Palmer.
“This is big news whether it’s true or not,” Sir Gerald says.
“Wouldn’t it be a crime to set a murderess free after the court sentenced her to death?” I say. “Mrs. Fry’s story says Governor Piercy and the other witnesses did exactly that and covered it up. That’s a serious accusation.”
“The Daily World could become party to a libel suit,” Cross says.
“Not only the Daily World but us as individuals,” Mr. Palmer says.
I imagine Hugh, Mick, and myself on trial in court, and our worldly goods seized. For once I’m in agreement with Cross and Mr. Palmer. Now the hot potato seems like a bomb with a burning fuse. “We mustn’t run the story.”
“Of course we won’t run it verbatim.” Impatient, Sir Gerald says to Cross and Palmer, “Word it so that it doesn’t sound like an accus
ation. Say it came from an anonymous source.”
They exchange a glance and shrug in defeat. We all realize that Sir Gerald has made up his mind, but my intuition warns me that running the story is a mistake whose consequences none of us can predict. “At least let me investigate Mrs. Fry’s story,” I say.
“Of course,” Sir Gerald says, “but the story runs tomorrow morning.”
The deadline for the morning edition is midnight. “But I have to ask Sheriff Hargreaves, Dr. Davies, Ernie Leach, and the Reverend Starling about Mrs. Fry’s story and hear what they have to say.” Cross and Mr. Palmer nod, backing me up for once.
“Then you’d better get to work.” Sir Gerald’s impatience is like a spear prodding me. “Light a fire under those people. Make one of them tell you what the hell really happened at that execution and who the hell killed Harry Warbrick.”
Here’s more evidence that the kidnapping of his son has permanently affected Sir Gerald. A man obsessed with vengeance in whatever form attainable, willing to risk the reputation of the Daily World, has replaced the shrewd businessman of yesteryear. Winning the contest with the police is beside the point.
I can read those thoughts on Cross’s and Palmer’s faces, but none of us dares to voice it.
Now I have less than six hours to corroborate or debunk Mrs. Fry’s claims.
Then I remember: I’m having dinner with Barrett’s parents tonight. And I’m already late.
CHAPTER 15
I rush home to find Barrett loitering in the cold fog outside the studio. He’s wearing his good wool overcoat, trousers, and felt derby instead of his uniform, stamping his feet to keep warm. “You’re late.” His expression mixes annoyance and relief.
“I know. I’m sorry,” I say, breathless because I ran all the way from the station.
“I thought you were going to cancel again.”
“Why didn’t you wait inside the house?”
“I rang the bell. Nobody answered.”
Fitzmorris must have gone out, and Hugh and Mick must be still searching for witnesses near The Ropemaker’s Daughter. I haven’t time to find them, tell them what’s happened, and ask them to investigate Mrs. Fry’s story. “Just a minute.”
I unlock the door, run inside, scribble a note to them, and prop it on the stairway. When I run back to Barrett, he says, “What’s up?”
“I had to remind them where I’m going.” I feel guilty because I just lied to him, but if I told him Mrs. Fry’s story about Amelia Carlisle, he would want to know where I heard it. My reluctance to expose a frightened woman to the police dovetails with my duty to keep Sir Gerald’s confidence and my habit of secrecy.
“We’d better hurry,” I say.
* * *
Barrett’s family lives in Bethnal Green, not far from Whitechapel. I haven’t been to the area recently, but my mother lived there when I was twelve and at boarding school. She had a tiny flat in one of the new tenements built for the poor, near the Club Row Market, where live animals are still sold on Sundays. Walking through the crowd during holidays, looking at the dogs, cats, birds, snakes, and monkeys in cages stacked along the street, is among my few good memories from the bleak time after my father disappeared. On this cold winter evening, Barrett takes me to Cambridge Heath, a more affluent area near the shops along Columbia Road. His parents’ home is in a clean, well-maintained terrace of narrow, two-story brick houses. It’s similar to the house where I grew up in Clerkenwell, and I feel a pang of nostalgia. For the first time, I think that marriage with Barrett could be a sort of coming home to a situation where I’m loved and secure, after years of lonely, precarious wandering. I realize how lucky I am to have him, but I’m still deathly nervous, fearful of making a bad impression tonight.
Barrett’s parents, gray-haired and in their sixties, greet us at the door. “Hello, Mum and Dad,” Barrett says, all smiles. “Here’s Sarah.”
“It’s a pleasure,” his father says. He leans on a cane but seems in good health; he has Barrett’s average height and tough handsomeness.
“Miss Bain, at last!” His mother is small, slender, and pretty, with Barrett’s keen gray eyes. She and her husband seem dressed in their Sunday best—she in a mauve-and-indigo-striped frock, her hair curled in a fringe across her forehead; he in a brown jacket with matching trousers, tie, and starched white shirt. They obviously view this dinner as an important occasion, but although their welcome is sincere, they can’t hide their unflattering surprise. I can tell that my looks haven’t met with their approval.
“Thank you so much for having me.” As we shake hands, I glance at Barrett. He doesn’t seem to notice anything wrong.
“Let me take your coat. Come in and sit down,” Mrs. Barrett says.
The parlor is modest but comfortable, with a braided rug, striped wallpaper, and framed prints of landscape paintings. A fire crackles in the hearth, and the savory smell of food issues from the kitchen. Barrett and I sit on the flowered divan, his parents opposite us in matching armchairs. A vase on the table holds fresh pink hothouse roses.
“Your home is lovely,” I say, touched because his family went to some trouble for my visit.
His mother smiles, pleased. “Oh, it’s not much, but we’re happy here.” Barrett smiles too, glad that we’re getting along.
“Would you like some sherry?” his father asks.
“Yes, thank you.” I need a drink to help me get through this.
Mr. Barrett pours full glasses. “A toast to our honored guest.” We drink. The sherry is good quality, smooth and not too sweet. I like his parents, and I want them to like me.
“Thomas tells me you’re a photographer,” Mrs. Barrett says.
“Yes. I work for the Daily World.”
“How interesting! What sort of pictures do you take?”
Barrett evidently hasn’t told his parents that I photograph crime scenes. He shoots me a glance that warns me not to say so.
“I photograph places, mostly,” I say.
“We read the Daily World,” Mrs. Barrett says. “Which pictures were yours?”
My image of the Harry Warbrick murder scene flashes through my mind. “Well, uh, you probably wouldn’t have seen mine. I’m new at the paper, and they don’t get published very often.” I used to be sorry that my name wasn’t printed alongside my work, but now I’m glad.
“Oh. I see.” Mrs. Barrett seems puzzled by my evasiveness. I begin to feel irate toward Barrett, who looks relieved that I’ve managed to sidestep troublesome issues.
“How did you two meet?” his father says. “The lad’s been a bit close-mouthed on the subject.”
Barrett grimaces; this subject is another danger zone. He once told me that his father is a retired police officer whose beat was the Nichol—the slum in east Bethnal Green, one of London’s worst. Before he went lame, Mr. Barrett spent his career rousting hardened criminals. The story of how his son and I met—when we crossed paths during the Ripper investigation—wouldn’t delight him.
“Sarah lives in Whitechapel,” Barrett says. “That’s on my beat, you know.”
Why didn’t he prepare for these questions? I suspect it’s because he’s not used to keeping secrets from his family and inventing cover-up stories.
“Whitechapel!” His mother speaks in the tone of horror and fascination that many people use when they mention Jack the Ripper’s stalking ground. “Those horrible murders.”
“Wish I were still on the force,” Mr. Barrett says. “I’d help you boys catch the Ripper.”
Barrett and I avoid looking at each other, knowing we can never tell his family that the Ripper is gone.
“Thomas said you’re an orphan, Miss Bain,” his mother says. At least he’s told his parents that much, although I would wager he’s kept them in the dark about my father. “Do you live on your own?”
Barrett’s eyes pop in alarm. We can’t tell his parents that my housemates are three men, including a famous homosexual and a former street urchin. “I live w
ith friends,” I say.
“Uh, why don’t we go in to dinner,” Barrett says.
In the dining room, at a table set with a lace-trimmed cloth, flowered china, and polished silverware, we eat split pea soup flavored with onion and bacon. The conversation turns to the big news of the week—the hangman’s murder.
“I heard about the contest between the police and the Daily World. So now reporters are in the crime-solving business?” Indignation raises Mr. Barrett’s voice.
“Yes,” Barrett says with a pointed glance at me.
The tension between us constricts my throat. I put down my spoon.
“Well, you go beat them at their game.” Mr. Barrett is oblivious to the fact that his son and I are on opposite sides of the contest. “Show them who the real detectives are. Make them eat crow on the front page of their own paper.”
“We will,” Barrett says.
“That’s my boy. Now tell me what’s going on with the case.”
Father and son discuss the Amelia Carlisle angle. Mr. Barrett says, “I don’t believe there’s a connection between her hanging and Warbrick’s murder. I think the reporters made it up, to send you on a wild goose chase so they can get the jump on you.”
“Maybe so.” Barrett avoids my gaze.
“It’s always shop talk with those two,” Mrs. Barrett says to me, exasperated but proud. “I stay out of it. Best leave crime solving to the men, don’t you think?”
“Yes.” I squirm with guilt.
“Any new developments today?” Mr. Barrett asks his son.
“Not that I’m allowed to talk about.”
“Come on, you can tell your old dad,” Mr. Barrett says. “Once a policeman, always a policeman, that’s me.”
If the police have discovered anything new, Barrett won’t talk about it in front of me, the competition. “You know Inspector Reid will have my head,” he says in a falsely jovial tone.
Mr. Barrett nods but can’t hide his disappointment. Now I feel bad because I’ve driven a wedge between father and son.
“Any luck with the promotion?” Mr. Barrett says.
“It’s still in the works.”
“If only I’d stayed on the force long enough to get promoted myself, I might’ve had friends in high places who could give you a boost,” Mr. Barrett says with regret. “You’re our hope of making a name for ourselves in the police service. ‘Chief Inspector Barrett.’ ” He smiles. “That would do us proud.”
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