“Would you like some whisky, my dear? I hated not to offer any to you, but thought it best in the circumstances. I had the impression you wanted Mr. Hancock to see you as a very earnest and very naïve sort of wife.”
“I did, indeed,” I said. “Was it not what you counseled me to do? But no whisky for me, thank you. I’d prefer port if anything, but need a clear head at the moment. I still worry that we ought to have warned him about the possible threat to whoever is running the King’s Boys.”
“I don’t see how we could have done that without revealing more than we wanted to.” He crouched in front of the settee upon which I was sitting and took my hands in his. “If Hancock is involved in the gang, he is dangerous and deceitful. As I’ve said before, a warning of any sort might alert him to you not being entirely honest about your own role in this mess. And that, my dear, could put you in an intolerable amount of danger.”
“But not having done so could prove fatal to him.”
“There are times when one must accept that risk as part of the job. It is unpleasant—surprisingly so when the individuals involved are the worst sort of reprobates—yet unavoidable. A decent man, or woman, does not take anyone’s life lightly. Sometimes the only comfort one has is knowing that one’s actions, in the end, do more good than harm.” Still in front of me, he opened my hands, turned them over, and kissed each of their palms.
“I am most grateful for your wise words,” I said. “I realize you have far more experience than I.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What exactly are you planning to do that spurs you to take advance action to soothe my ego?”
“Nothing at all,” I said. “Although I cannot help feeling that we are missing something. Given that all of the clues in your scavenger hunt have to do with Henry V, is there some connection between him and the Battle of Hastings? Did he admire William the Conqueror above all other kings or show signs of fascination with his military tactics? There is, after all, a sword drawn on the note you found at the museum.”
“Not that I can think of.” He stood up and poured himself another whisky. “I do see what you’re getting at, though. If the murders and the letters are related, discovering how might help us prevent more violence. You’ve ordered Pickering to find out everything he can from the constables who cover the area where the King’s Boys are active?”
“Yes. He thought it unlikely they’d have anything to say beyond what we’ve already read in reports, but it’s worth a try. And I assume the wretched Inspector Gale is still convinced it’s all a plot to assassinate Bertie, er, the king?”
“Naturally. He’s a stubborn buffoon, but that doesn’t mean he’s wrong,” Colin said. “The king’s safety must be my primary concern, even if I’m beginning to come around to your idea that this may be more about revenge and gangs than the monarchy.”
Now I raised an eyebrow. “And what, pray tell, are you planning that spurs you to take advance action to soothe my ego?”
“I’ve not the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” he said. “Come, let’s go see the boys. I haven’t heard a peep from them in hours and I’m rather concerned Henry may have taken the others, Nanny included, prisoner.”
* * *
Jeremy collected me in the motorcar the following morning, shockingly early as I requested, a sin he was not likely to forgive anytime soon. “I have a reputation, Em,” he said, passing me his spare set of goggles. “I can’t be seen zipping around town before noon. What will people say?”
“Tell them it’s only because you haven’t yet gone home from the night before,” I suggested.
“Darling, if I’m out all night, it would be due to a romantic encounter, and I would never motor to those. First, because the motorcar is rather conspicuous and I wouldn’t dare draw attention to my presence in such a circumstance. Second, the speed at which it travels has a rather deleterious effect on one’s appearance, don’t you think? And I would never want to disappoint a lady.”
“If you’re trying to shock me, it won’t work,” I said. “I asked Colin about your habit of kissing married ladies and he only laughed.”
“Good man, Hargreaves,” Jeremy said. “Perhaps I’ve underrated him all these years.” We lurched forward before I could reply and once in motion found that it was all I could do to keep my hat on my head, despite having secured it with a scandalous number of pins and tied the whole thing round with a long, filmy scarf. Clearly Jeremy had no intention of letting me question him further about his romantic dalliances, and that was fine by me. I had other things to ponder.
We were headed back to the East End, where I hoped the motorcar—and my friend’s habit of flinging coins to the boys who vied to keep an eye on it—would provide illumination on several matters. I had asked Jeremy to park near the Black Swan, thereby giving us the opportunity to see what we could get out of the boys as well as enabling me to check in on Mary, from whom I’d heard nothing since Lizzie’s funeral. I did not want Jeremy to accompany me inside, knowing that he was likely to provoke a fight with Mr. Brown—an outcome I might welcome at another time, but that would prove inconvenient to my accomplishing what I hoped to—so I suggested, in my most magnanimous tone, that he was better suited to questioning the boys than I.
They swarmed around the vehicle before he had finished parking it, and I gave them a cheery wave. The tallest, whom I recognized from our previous visit, shook his head when he saw me.
“She don’t mind trouble, does she, sir? Can’t keep her in hand, can you?”
“My dear boy, I would never dare try,” Jeremy said. I could tell from his tone that he was on the verge of offering a load of highly inappropriate advice on the subject of ladies to the lad, so I hastened to my destination, knowing that nothing good could come from my hearing what he said.
Mr. Brown, the proprietor of the Black Swan since Mr. Casby’s death, managed to hide most of his chagrin upon seeing me once again cross his threshold. I had brought a sturdy parasol with me, emulating a lady about whom I had read in the newspapers. She had, on numerous occasions, wielded a similar accessory as a weapon, and I recognized the wisdom of this at once. Not that I expected to come to blows with Mr. Brown, but I could well envision drawing great satisfaction from poking him with a pointed ferrule.
“Aw, blimey, Lady Emily, what have I done now to draw your attention? Can’t you let a fellow run a legitimate business?”
“We are both all too well aware that you are doing nothing of the sort,” I said. “Where is Mary Skypton? I need to speak with her.”
“I suppose you might as well. She’s ill and of no use to me. I won’t even charge you for her time. You can go up to her room. It’s the third door on the left.”
I narrowed my eyes but didn’t bother to point out that his comment about charging for her time proved just how illegitimate his business was, contenting myself with throwing him a searing glare and giving him a swift jab with my parasol. The action was even more pleasurable than I had anticipated and I decided to write a brief note of thanks to the lady from whom I had borrowed the idea.
Worn carpet that emitted a moldy odor when trod upon covered the stairs to the first floor. The poky corridor at the top was dimly lit by one flickering gaslight. I rapped on Mary’s door and turned the handle to open it without waiting for a reply. Her small room was dark, its single window covered with a thick curtain that might once have been velvet. Now it looked as if it had been gnawed on by any number of unpleasant creatures.
“Come to check on your charity case?” came a voice from the narrow bed that filled most of the room. She had a grotty blanket pulled up to her chin.
“What are you playing at?” I asked. “You don’t look ill.” Enough light made its way in from the corridor for me to see that her face was bright and clear and her eyes were flashing.
“Close the door, will you?” She was whispering. “I don’t want him to hear.”
I did as she asked but only after opening the curtain to reveal a fi
lthy window and turning on the one small light in the room. “Why are you hiding up here?”
“Don’t get excited and think I’ve decided to reform myself,” she said, sitting up and swinging her legs around so they hung off the side of the bed. “I will admit that you have shown me a different sort of life, but I don’t want to be no one’s servant. I might, however, be able to go out on my own and have a better place than this. Attract a higher class of client, if you catch my meaning.”
I preferred not to discuss her clients, higher class or otherwise. “I think you could do far better than that, but I shan’t try to convince you at the moment. I came to ask you about the King’s Boys. What do you know about them?”
“You think they had something to do with Casby’s murder?” she asked. “It don’t seem their style. They may fight brutally, but they don’t generally kill anyone but their own members, and then only when they’ve betrayed the gang. Casby paid for protection, naturally, he had no choice, but he had nothing else to do with them.”
“Several of Lizzie’s friends were members of the King’s Boys. Do you know if any of them—Ned Traddles, for example, or Gilbert Barton—got into trouble?”
“I already told you I didn’t know Ned. Gil, well, I do remember him a bit. Decent-seeming bloke, quite good-looking. Always wished I could land him as a client. He seems the sort who would know what to do with a—”
“Please don’t elaborate,” I said. “There was another man, called Rodney, who Lizzie may have—”
“Oh, Rodney, yeah, I know him quite, quite well.” She grinned and I could see she was enjoying this. “He’s a real operator, that one. Don’t take nonsense from anyone and will protect a girl like anything. I’ve spent many nights—”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“I wouldn’t have thought he’s your type, Lady Emily.”
I sighed. “Mary, I am perfectly well aware of what your chosen profession requires, so there is no point in your trying to shock me. Where can I find Rodney?”
“In the morgue, I suppose. He died in a fight last night.”
1419
40
William had told Cecily that King Henry had given him some of the prettiest acres in England, and even now, four years after she had first laid eyes on the land he had granted her husband, she could not help but gasp at their beauty. Rolling hills covered with thick forests gave way to deep green dales, and the peaks of the Pennines were never out of sight. Their stone manor house, now complete, was situated to take advantage of the sweeping views. Cecily had designed the tapestries hanging in the solar and William had overseen the construction of the immense great hall, with its tall, timbered ceiling and enormous fireplace.
Private rooms surrounded the courtyard, and the gatehouse was more for show than safety. There was little danger of being attacked, not now that England was so stable; war was limited to France. The money William received from the families of the prisoners he had ransomed at Agincourt paid for the house and the beautiful chapel that stood near it and left the family coffers still overflowing. He had already ordered alabaster effigies of himself and his wife, so that they might be buried together, never forgotten by their descendants. Father Simon, horrified by the truth about Adeline’s behavior, had come with them to Derbyshire and lived in a small rectory next to the church. Hugh de Morland visited them frequently, the three men the closest of friends.
William was a good landlord, and when the king summoned him to join his latest campaign in France, his tenants lined the road outside the house at Anglemore to bid him farewell. They would all pray for his safe return, but none could match Cecily’s fervor. She had come to view him not only as her lord and husband, but as her closest confidant and the other half of her soul.
After he had left, she retreated to the chapel, where she knelt before the altarpiece, fashioned after the diptych he had given her on the day they wed. She was no longer haunted by guilt over her mother’s death; she had come to terms with that, spurred on by the birth of her own child, a boy they named Nicholas after the saint in whose church King Henry had given thanks after his victory at Agincourt. The moment Alys had put the tiny infant, so helpless and vulnerable, into her arms, Cecily was consumed with peace and clarity. This little baby, nicknamed Colin, could harm no one, just as she could not have harmed anyone on the day she was born. God had answered her mother’s prayers and brought her home, and Cecily ought never have thought she bore the responsibility for any of it.
Two days later, when she was busily picking herbs in the kitchen garden, she was interrupted by one of her servants, a young girl who showed great aptitude for learning. Cecily was teaching her to read, and expected she had come to ask when her next lesson would be. Instead, she brought news.
“An old friend of yours has arrived, my lady,” she said. “The Baroness Esterby.”
1901
41
I am not certain I am capable of adequately describing the emotions that coursed through me after Mary told me Rodney was dead. First came a blow of shock, hard and cold, but then something more sinister and unsettling began to brew. Had I not, just the day before, drawn Mr. Hancock’s attention to him? Could I believe that the timing of his death was mere coincidence?
Of course I could not. Guilt and horror mingled deep in my abdomen and ran through my veins. I drew a long breath and did my best to keep my composure as I asked Mary for more details. She said she supposed it was an ordinary sort of fight, the kind gangs get into all the time, but that she didn’t know anything else. I took my leave from her, not even having the presence of mind to again offer her assistance should she desire a different sort of life, and rushed to find Jeremy.
He was still conversing with the boys surrounding his motorcar. I hung back for a moment, watching them, surprised by the easy manner in which he handled them, teasing and goading. When he saw me, he waved, and the boys scattered, as if they had been warned to avoid confrontation with ladies.
“You look a fright, Em,” he said. “I guess Mary wasn’t helpful.”
“Too helpful, rather,” I said and told him about Rodney. “I think we’d better go to Scotland Yard. No, perhaps to the morgue. I’m not sure.”
His eyebrows shot up. “It’s not like you to be so indecisive. Look, Em, you can’t blame yourself. Even if Father Christmas did order him killed—”
“Don’t call him that.”
“Hancock, whatever. If he’s the one behind it, it’s still his fault, not yours. But don’t dismiss the possibility that this was nothing more than an ordinary fight between violent ruffians.” He took me by the hand and helped me into the motorcar. “I’m taking you home.”
We had not driven more than two miles when I managed to master my emotions and was once more thinking rationally. I ordered him to the coroner’s mortuary. He started to balk, but knew better than to argue. Needless to say, the coroner’s assistants were less than eager to let us view the body, but, once again, Jeremy’s title proved its worth. Ducal command eliminated all of their objections and after a short wait, a thin, nervous-looking man led us into a well-lit room that contained three slab tables, two of which were empty.
On the third, beneath a sheet, lay Rodney Dawkins, as we now knew him to be. Jeremy nodded at the man, who then pulled back the sheet. Bile caught in my throat and I covered my mouth with my hand. His face was all but pulverized. I turned away, nearly regretting my decision to come, but pulled myself together.
“The cause of death?” I asked.
“Multiple internal injuries, madam,” the man said. “He was in a fight, you see. Not much need for an inquest, but it’s scheduled for tomorrow.”
“Was anyone else killed in this fight?”
“No, madam. The police would be better able to give you further details should you require them, as they’re the ones who brought the body in.”
“When is the funeral?” I asked.
“Three days from now,” he said. “His sister i
s handling the arrangements.”
I did not envy her the task. Jeremy took me firmly by the arm and guided me out of the awful place. I was trembling and upset, but glad that I had come. I thought about what Colin had told me, that one of the risks of this sort of work was that people would be killed. How could I not take at least some responsibility for what had happened to this poor man? In the end, I might be working for the greater good, but that did not mean I could accept with ease the heavy cost paid to achieve it.
Jeremy and I were silent on the drive back to Park Lane. Colin was not at home, and my friend insisted on bringing me inside. He tried to ply me with whisky, as he had done on a previous occasion, some years ago, when we had faced the hideous aftermath of another violent death, but I rejected his attempt. Instead, I asked him to telephone Inspector Pickering.
An hour later, the young man was sitting with us. “I understand that you feel responsible, Lady Emily,” he said, “but I assure you nothing could be further from the truth, regardless of what you said to Hancock. Dawkins was killed because he chose to live his life in a criminal gang. Two constables heard sounds of a struggle last night around three o’clock in the morning, and came upon what looked to them like a gang fight. It turned out to be an internal argument of sorts, as there were only members of the King’s Boys present. Dawkins took the brunt of the beating, but those present insisted that the fight had started as the result of an argument about a girl. The constables thought it looked more like a planned attack, as no one else bore injuries even close to those suffered by Dawkins. He was still alive when they found him, but was not conscious, and died shortly thereafter.”
I swallowed hard and ignored the burning sensation in my stomach. “Now that we know his surname, were you able to learn anything further about him?”
“He has the arrest record one would expect to find for someone affiliated with a gang,” Inspector Pickering said. “Nothing out of the ordinary, except when viewed through our current lens. He was twice arrested with Gilbert Barton. I’ve already been to the address he gave—if he ever did live in the place, he’s long gone—and no one I questioned admitted even the slightest acquaintance with either of them. Beyond that, I’ve found no sign of Barton. Perhaps he’s moved up high enough in the organization to have gone underground.”
Uneasy Lies the Crown Page 23
