Ghost of the Thames

by May McGoldrick

  “Warren is keeping her prisoner?”

  “She is a servant. But I don’t know if this is by choice or not.”

  As the two men strode along Bishops Walk past Lambeth Palace, Edward gazed vacantly at a boat builder’s raw timber and sawed planks stacked up along the riverbank. Four men were sweating, in spite of the biting cold wind, as they silently loaded wood onto a cart. Edward had just caught up with the novelist a few minutes earlier and given him the name Sophy had mentioned last night.

  “How do you know so much about her?” he asked.

  “I still have friends in the newspaper business,” Dickens replied as they worked their way around the cart. “A court reporter I know has been investigating to write a story on the Warren heiress. He has stymied at every turn, he says, trying to speak to this woman. She’s the last one who saw Sophy, apparently, before she fell into the river.”

  “Has he gone by the Warren house?” Edward wanted to know.

  “Everything but knocked at the door. He has even posted of a letter to John Warren, asking his permission to speak with her. No response.”

  As he spoke, Edward saw that Dickens was watching two bent-backed river men just offshore, leaning on their oars and exchanging words. One was pointing upriver as the two boats drifted along.

  “So for the past couple of days,” the novelist continued, “my acquaintance has been waylaying some of the other Warren servants at the market and paying them for information. And what I told you is what he has learned.”

  “Does he have any knowledge of the kind of schedule Warren follows? Is there a certain time of the day that he is, perhaps, not at home?”

  “Indeed, we are thinking along the same lines, Captain,” Dickens replied. “I have already instructed my reporter friend to get just exactly that information. I intend to accompany him and call on the Bengali woman the next time that we are certain Mr. Warren will be absent for any length of time.”

  The lane narrowed as they reached a row of shops and houses that now lined the riverbank on their left.

  “Before you ask,” Dickens continued, “I do not believe you should be joining us for the visit.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because Captain Edward Seymour would attract too much attention. I will simply accompany the reporter and stand back. Having you along would raise a red flag for Warren and possibly expose Sophy.”

  Dickens was right. The last thing he wanted to do was to expose her whereabouts to John Warren right now.

  “Don’t worry, Captain. I’ll be most careful to not give any indication that we are acquainted with the young heiress. I will do nothing that will endanger her.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Peter Hodgson knew that the world was a place where only the fittest survived. In the past, fitness was a matter of strength—the strongest warrior, the strongest castle wall. In this modern age of industry and finance, though, fitness was a matter of wit and intelligence, and the willingness to gut an opponent of his financial and social power when the opportunity arose.

  And the survivors, the fittest, kept their eyes open for that opportunity.

  Peter had long ago cast aside any weakness or timidity when it came to bending rules and going down illicit paths. In recent months, especially, he’d found himself throwing caution to the wind many times to better himself and his place in the world.

  Still, for all his desire to establish himself, there was a voice inside him that he could not completely silence. It was a voice that he tried to quell, that reminded him of where he had come from, of those who had striven so hard to raise him. There were days when he could not put off the burning sensation in the pit of his stomach that told him he was going too far, venturing too deeply into a place of darkness, into a place from which a man might not find redemption.

  For Peter Hodgson, today was such a day.

  Since his school days, he’d heard tales of the underworld king named Shill. The man was more than just a butcher or a mastermind. Shill was the very devil himself. Today, Peter had received an order from John Warren that he was to make use of several men connected to Shill.

  This would go badly, he knew. One does not deal with the devil.

  But John Warren wanted answers.

  Two gentlemen, referring to themselves as members of the press but offering no calling cards, had shown up at Warren’s residence while he was away from the house. One had introduced himself as Mr. More, a reporter for the Times. The other had not given a name. After asking to speak with Priya, they were rebuffed by the butler. Apparently, they had even offered a bribe to gain access to the Bengali woman. Still finding no success, they had gone away in a huff.

  And even though the second man had not identified himself, Warren’s butler had recognized him. He was Charles Dickens, the novelist.

  There were intelligent and aboveboard ways of dealing with this, Peter had thought. He would have gladly gone to the Times office and spoken to Mr. More about the visit. But Warren wouldn’t have it. Instead, he had brooded for several hours and then sent a footman off with a message to one of his employees down by the river.

  And now, Hodgson found himself at a private table in a squalid hole of an oyster house in which the smell of fetid fish battled with that of stale beer. Keeping his gloves and cane in his lap, he looked around the scarred wood table at the three men he was meeting with, men notorious for being among the most dangerous cutthroats in London.

  “My employer says that you are to follow the novelist wherever he goes. You are to take notice of whomever he sees and you are to bring back report of it back to me. We are interested in a specific person the novelist might communicate with.”

  Two of the men exchanged glances of amusement, while the third stared at his hands. Regardless of the generous offer of compensation, the nature of the job didn’t seem to excite any of them.

  “Who is the person ye’ll be wantin’?” one of the thugs wanted to know.

  “A woman. A young woman of quality approximately twenty years of age.”

  “A woman, ye say?” The other two were now interested.

  “Indeed. Brown hair. Medium height. Attractive . . . no, beautiful actually. Quite easy on the eyes. No pockmarks or scars. Well-proportioned face.” Hodgson was surprised how clearly he remembered Catherine Warren’s face, though they had only met once. He’d been too tongue-tied by her beauty to say much during the dinner they’d shared on board of the ship.

  “Don’t much help us, now,” the thug sitting across from him said. “What’s ‘er name?”

  “Catherine.” Hodgson didn’t know if it was wise to provide a last name, considering all that had been written up in the newspapers. He looked at the three men. Plenty of muscle, but he wondered if any one of them could read. “Her name is Catherine Sophia. No need to know more.”

  “And what do we do if we came across such a jewel?”

  Hodgson’s discussion with his employer had not gone into great detail. But he had no trouble understanding what John Warren’s wishes were.

  “Kill her.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Sophy was tired of socializing.

  Tired of being dragged by Mr. and Mrs. Dickens to dinner parties and luncheons. Tired of lying to gawking strangers about a life she supposedly lived in Boston. It was tiresome. And none of this helped to spur any more of her lost memory. She was finding herself distracted wherever she went, finding it difficult to focus on whomever she spoke with. She only wanted to see one person. Talk to one person. Captain Seymour.

  Always there, Edward was polite but distant. Accommodating but aloof. He was playing the role of 'friend' to perfection. At the same time, she felt an underlying tension whenever Lord Latham showered her with attention.

  The clock downstairs chimed two, and Sophy ran a nervous hand down the front of her riding habit. The offer to take her riding today at Hyde Park was Lord Latham's, but thankfully, her aloof friend had stepped in and taken over the arrangement.

/>   There was a knock on her door. Sophy grabbed her veil and rushed to meet Captain Seymour.

  *

  Located on the south side of the park, between Hyde Park Corner and Kensington, ‘Rotten Row’ was used only for saddle horses. In the months of May, June, and part of July, between the hours of five and seven in the evening, the broad, packed sand path was crowded with hundreds of equestrians. The reputation of the Row was that, during the Season, all the youth, beauty, celebrity, and wealth in London may be seen on horseback here, including the queen and her stiff necked German husband. Now, with the sun setting early, and cold wet weather always a threat, fewer riders could be seen exercising their mounts in the evening.

  Edward had suggested they arrive at about three, when only serious equestrians would be on the Row. Later, as darkness began to creep across the park and the lamplighters began to make their rounds, the number of riders would increase as the London set would arrive to socialize, show off their finery, and compare invitations for the evening’s entertainments.

  Edward turned and watched Sophy as she handled the chestnut thoroughbred expertly. The animal’s proud neck arched as they loped side by side, her speed matching his. Her blue veil fluttered in the breeze, and her fashionable gray riding habit drew considerable attention from those they passed. He knew that many would be wondering who she was.

  A wisp of hair had torn free of her riding hat, and he smiled as she glanced happily at him. None of the hardships she’d endured had dampened her spirit of independence, her joie de vivre, in the slightest. She was irrepressible.

  “Come on,” she said with a laugh, nudging her mount into a gallop, with Edward right after her.

  His attempts at keeping his distance were becoming a torment. At the same time, he understood how important it was that Sophy understand exactly who she was. He had no right to complicate her life further. Edward knew he could have just told her. But after talking to some experts, Dickens didn't agree. And there was also the matter of the circumstances of her injury, and the people who might have caused it. There was a great deal that she had to remember on her own.

  As he drew alongside her, he looked at her again. She was so clearly elated by the speed and power of the steed he’d chosen for her. Like everything else, prior to today, she couldn’t remember if she was a competent horsewoman or not. She had no clue of her level of expertise.

  Edward had taken a chance that she would be an expert rider, but he made certain that the mount he’d chosen for her—a strong and powerful mare—responded well to commands. Still, his conjecture had been correct; she had been well trained in all things young women of her age in this country were taught and much more.

  A bit of searching on Dickens’s part had revealed that Catherine Sophia Warren was Arthur Warren’s only child. Marrying late in life and having been widowed for over a decade prior to his sudden death, he had doted on and treated his daughter with the same passion as if she had been a son. Warren, acting with curiously liberal thinking, had clearly wanted his daughter to be an independent woman.

  He had succeeded.

  Sophy smiled at him, and Edward felt the warmth of it in his heart.

  “Guv’ner!”

  He could see a man coming out from the wooded space between the Row and the South Carriage Drive. He was waving his arms at them and coming onto the track.

  “Wait, sir!”

  Instinctively, Edward put himself between Sophy and the man. Walkers were generally not so far out into the park this time of year, and the track had been laid out for the sole purpose of riding.

  Edward looked past the man. Sophy was ahead of him. He could see, near the top of a slight incline, two other hulking figures standing along the edge of the Row.

  “Wait! Stop a moment,” the man shouted as they rode by.

  Edward reined his horse in, but as he turned, a cloaked rider flashed past him. Before he could spur his stallion after the newcomer, however, the man on foot reached him and grabbed at his mount’s bridle.

  Furious, Edward slashed at his hand with his riding crop, forcing him to release his grip. As he whirled and kicked his horse into a gallop, he could see the other rider was forcing Sophy toward the two men at the top of the rise. Everything happened too quickly.

  Ahead of him, the mounted man struck Sophy with a short club. She slumped in the saddle, and he veered off. As he did, one of the men at the side of the track stepped forward, raised a pistol, and fired directly at Sophy as they passed.

  Edward saw the puff of smoke, heard the crack of gunfire. He called out. Seeing him bearing down on them, the two men turned and ran for the woods. The other rider went through a break in the black iron fence that bordered the far side of the track and quickly disappeared along a wooded path toward the Serpentine.

  Edward wasn’t interested in the attackers right now, though, and he dug his heels hard into the sides of his stallion. Sophy was bent low over her horse’s neck. The shot had startled her mount, and they were still going at a full gallop ahead of him.

  He feared that she had been hit; the man had been only a few feet from her when he fired.

  They were quickly approaching the West Carriage Drive at the end of the Row, and Edward could see the drive was crowded with open and closed vehicles, as well as equestrians.

  There was no clear path for the terrified animal, but the horse was too spooked to slow down. Sophy did not appear conscious. Edward was some twenty lengths behind her and closing fast when they reached the intersecting path. Her chestnut steed cut through the crossing traffic, weaving between a half dozen carriages and riders to the sound of curses, shouts of warning, and screams. Edward followed hard on her heels.

  He realized with a flash of panic that the mare was not turning. Her only option at the far side of the drive was to attempt to jump the spiked iron fence that divided Hyde Park from Kensington Gardens. The rails, about six feet high on that side, had points as sharp as lances at the top. They were impossible for a horse and rider to clear.

  He saw her stir, attempting to raise herself in her saddle.

  “Sophy!” Edward’s shout was lost in the wind.

  He saw her sit up and struggle to regain control of the mare even as she tried to free herself from the side saddle.

  Low bushes and clumps of trees preceded the rail. The same obstacles covered the Kensington side of the fence. Even if she could clear the jump, there was no landing space beyond.

  Helplessly, Edward watched Sophy pitch to the side, tumbling through the air toward the spiked fence as the horse leaped high.

  CHAPTER 25

  Edward stood by the door with the doctor.

  The young serving woman who had helped strip Sophy out of the riding outfit before the doctor arrived, remained with her charge, hovering silently by the bed.

  “It is a miracle, Captain,” the doctor was saying, folding his spectacles and slipping them into his coat pocket. They both looked back at her before going out.

  No broken bones. No gunshot wound. She was scratched, badly bruised, and she had a small egg-shaped lump behind her ear, but she would recover. What she needed now was plenty of rest, the doctor had said. The medicine she had been given tasted horrible, but she was told it would make her sleep.

  Sophy didn’t want to be brought here to his house on Berkeley Square, but in her dazed condition after the fall, Edward had given her no choice.

  As she lay in the bed, she ran through the events of the attack in the park. She had been feeling on top of the world riding the chestnut mare. She was truly happy to be out in the bracing air with Edward. And as they rode along the wide equestrian track, she had been daydreaming that perhaps, one day, she’d be clear of her ethereal friend. She would remember who she was, and there would be no secrets to keep away from Edward. Perhaps, then, they would come together. As friends. As lovers. She'd dared to dream even more.

  Then, suddenly, there were faces, a cloaked ruffian on horseback, strangers coming at her from n
owhere. The blow to the head had stunned her, but she hadn’t lost consciousness before seeing a pistol fired directly at her chest. She didn’t know how was it that she’d been able to duck and avoid the bullet. But if the shock of that wasn’t enough, her horse had proceeded to go mad with fear. Holding on to the mare’s neck and trying to stay conscious and in the saddle was the best she had been able to do. And then she had seen the fence.

  Afterwards, Sophy remembered opening her eyes and seeing bushes rising around toward a gray sky, and the cold black iron of the fence spike pressing against one side of her body. A half dozen heads were bent over her. Edward’s arms were already around her.

  Sophy’s first concern was the horse. Edward told her that the animal had somehow cleared the fence, crashing through the shrubs on the far side. The last anyone had seen of her, the mare was still running in the direction of the Round Pond.

  There was a soft knock at the door and Mrs. Perkins, Edward’s housekeeper, came in carrying a tray. The young servant took it from the older woman and placed it next to the bed.

  “I will be staying with Miss Sophy,” Mrs. Perkins told the young woman. “I’ll call you if I need you."

  The servant curtsied and went out as Mrs. Perkins turned back to the bed.

  “Captain Seymour had to leave for a short while. A policeman has been waiting downstairs, but the Captain wasn’t about to go until he’d spoken to the doctor.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Perkins.”

  “I thought a bowl of savory turtle soup and cup of hot tea might warm you, my dear, before the medicine starts to take affect.” She tucked extra pillows gently behind her patient as Sophy tried to sit up in bed.

  “I am truly well, now. I should be going back.”

  “You are not going anywhere, miss. The Captain has instructed everyone at the house not to allow anyone in or out while he is gone. In fact, there are two footman positioned at each of the doors. And Mr. Reeves has organized all the other servants, as well. Everyone is at their place, guarding doors and windows from inside. And I am to sit by you in this room until he gets back. We are a fortress under siege, my dear.”