Katherine started to smile at the thought, but then it faded as she worked through the ramifications. “Who did it? Anyone we know?”
Mickey shook his head. “I shook down everyone this morning. They all deny it and you know none of them would even think about lying to me. This is not a local crew. And none of the fences have been offered the stones.”
“This will be bad for business,” Katherine said slowly. “Very, very bad. The king was due to wear those jewels next month when he came over from London.”
“He’s already taken a personal interest in the case,” Mickey said. “My sources tell me that Scotland Yard is sending an Inspector Kane to investigate. He’s got a fearsome reputation.”
“The police will be after every fence and jewel thief in the city. Sooner or later one of them will mention me.”
“No secret that Madam Kitten likes her jewelry,” Tilly said, “and will pay a good price for them.”
Katherine sat back into the pillows and drew her knees up to her chest, then wrapped her arms around her shins and dropped her chin onto her kneecaps. In that moment, she looked at least a decade younger than her twenty-seven years. “You know I’ve often thought about snatching them,” she said softly. She glanced over at Mickey. “We looked into it a couple of years ago.”
“We did. Would have been a piece of piss, too.”
“Why didn’t you?” Tilly wondered.
“I have nicer pieces—certainly much more valuable pieces—although the thought of wearing the Crown Jewels of Ireland really appealed to me. But I knew that something like this would put us under a spotlight.” She smiled, and her entire face lit up. “And we do prefer the shadows.”
Mickey suddenly turned and padded silently across the room, then snatched the door open to reveal a startled-looking housemaid, with her hand raised to knock. She ignored the huge man and looked across to the woman in the bed. “Begging your pardon ma’am, but you’ve a visitor.”
Katherine and Tilly looked at one another. Visitors to the four-story house on Gloucester Street were strictly by appointment, and always under cover of darkness.
“He asked for Madam Kitten by name,” the housemaid said a little breathlessly.
“And did he give you a name in return?” Katherine asked.
The housemaid handed a card to Mickey, who carried it over to Katherine. She turned it over in her hands. “Unexceptional paper.” She brought it to her nose and breathed in. “No smell of tobacco or snuff and just a hint of carbolic soap. God, I hope it’s not one of the Legion of Mary again!” The staunchly Catholic organization had recently moved into the brothel-lined street and begun a campaign to save the fallen women. Katherine held the card up and tilted it to the light. “Dermot Corcoran, Esq.,” she read. “A rather conventional font on medium paper stock. Interesting: there is neither title nor address.” She turned it over. “Ah. Our visitor has added something in a neat copperplate hand. Insp. DMP.”
Mickey started. “Inspector, Dublin Metropolitan Police.”
“One of ours?” Katherine asked.
Tilly shook her head. “No one by that name on our payroll.”
Katherine looked at the maid. “And he asked for me by name?”
“He did, ma’am. I gave him all the usual excuses, but he simply stepped into the Morning Room and said he’d wait.”
“Did he come in a cab?” Mickey asked.
“I looked,” the maid said, “but there was no one waiting outside.”
Katherine nodded and threw back the covers. “Tell Mr. Corcoran that Madam Kitten will see him shortly. Offer him tea and the morning papers.” The maid bobbed a quick curtsey and disappeared.
Katherine stood by the side of the bed and peered through the lace curtains. Her bedroom was at the rear of the house with an uninspiring view across the backs of the neighboring gardens to the streets beyond. “A visit from a police inspector on the morning the jewels are stolen: that’s not a coincidence.”
Tilly and Mickey nodded in agreement.
“Mickey, check the area. Make sure we’re not about to be raided. Tilly, find out what you can about this Inspector Corcoran.” She looked over the small ormolu clock on the marble mantelpiece. “Let him wait awhile. I will see him in an hour.”
She would make him wait, he knew that. An hour, maybe an hour and a half, but she would see him: her curiosity would ensure that. Ignoring the morning papers, Dermot Corcoran sipped tea from a wafer-thin china cup, sitting in a room that would not have looked out of place in any of the great houses in Merrion Square—not that he had actually sat in one of those drawing rooms. Lowly police inspectors did not investigate the crimes of the wealthy. The furniture was new and in good taste, showing no wear, the heavy flocked wallpaper was unmarked and the carpet pristine. Even though the room evidently saw no use, a low fire crackled in the grate and he was sure if he ran his finger across the white marble mantelpiece, he would find no trace of ash or dust. Curiously, no art hung on the wall, and the trinkets on the occasional tables and mantelpiece were surprisingly tawdry. Crudely painted figurines, pieces of glass and pottery: they looked like gifts a child would bring back from a journey. But as far as he knew, there were no children in this house.
Dermot Corcoran stood and peered through fine lace curtains onto the street. Georgian houses lined both sides of Gloucester Street. At the top of the street, when it curved onto the main thoroughfare of Sackville Street, the houses retained all of their former glory and elegance, but as the street dipped, so too did the quality, until the once-grand houses at the bottom of the street were little better than slums. And every house was a brothel. Some, like Madam Kitten’s, were the flash houses, catering to the wealthy, where the very finest food, wines, and opiates were available, along with exquisite and guaranteed disease-free girls. The houses at the very bottom of the street and in the surrounding warren of alleyways and lanes were the kips and stews, where the alcohol was watered if you were lucky and poisonous if you were not. There, girls and boys were bought for pennies and a tryst—a knee-trembler—might last only a few minutes.
This once-elegant street was now the cancer at the heart of Dublin, the second city of the British Empire. Crime, perversion, and disease were rampant and it was ruled by a series of terrifying women: Bella Cohen, Mrs. Mack, Long Liz, and, of course, the mysterious Madam Kitten. All of Dublin, from the Viceroy in the Park to the urchin on the wharves, knew her name, but no one knew the woman. He knew a little more than most, and none of what he knew made sense. She was an enigma.
The door behind him opened and he turned, expecting the maid, but a huge shaven-headed middle-aged man stepped into the room. Dermot knew him by reputation: this was Mickey—never Michael—Woods. Former soldier, former boxer, and now Madam Kitten’s Bully. Her enforcer. The big man closed the door, folded his arms, and lay back against it, then slowly looked the police inspector up and down.
Dermot felt his heart quicken.
Mickey’s voice was a terrifying whisper. “I’m to check you for weapons—guns, knives, sticks.”
The young inspector started to shake his head.
“No one gets to see the Madam without being checked out,” Mickey continued, “and if I find they’re carrying anything they shouldn’t be, then they don’t get to see the Madam. Plus, they get their legs broken,” he added with a gap-toothed smile.
Dermot Corcoran drew himself up to his full height and shrugged out of his wool jacket. “I assure you I am unarmed.” He was pleased that his voice remained steady. “This is a courtesy call,” he said, turning in a complete circle.
Suddenly Mickey was towering over him, and Dermot found his eyes on a level with the man’s scarred throat. “No disrespect,” the bully whispered, “but I’ve found that coppers often lie.” With quick practiced movements, he ran his hands across Dermot’s arms, around his chest and then up and down both sides of his legs. Satisfied, he stepped back, picked up the inspector’s discarded coat, and checked the pockets befo
re holding it by the shoulders for the younger man to slip into. “Madam Kitten will see you now,” he said. He stepped back to open the door, and a woman stepped into the room.
Dermot Corcoran was expecting an old crone: most of the women who ran the Dublin brothels were ex-working girls who wore their life of dissipation and excess on their faces and bodies, but he was shocked to discover that the figure in the doorway was tall and slender, elegant in a high-necked, long-sleeved widow’s black traced with hundreds of pearls around the throat and sleeves. Her face was concealed behind a thick black lace veil.
“Thank you Mickey.”
There was a second surprise when she spoke. He was expecting to hear a Dublin accent roughened by the rasp of whiskey and cigarettes; instead the voice was elegant, educated, and English.
“I’ll be outside,” the big man whispered, glaring at the inspector.
Madam laid a black gloved hand on the bully’s arm. “I am sure I will be perfectly safe with the inspector. If one cannot trust the police, then who can be trusted?”
Katherine Lundy perched on the edge of a high back Chippendale. “Please sit, Inspector. Or would you prefer ‘Mister’?”
“Either. Miss . . . Misses . . . Madam. What do I call you?” The young man returned to his chair and sank back into it, then pulled himself forward when he discovered that the woman was looking down on him.
“Madam Kitten will suffice.” Katherine folded her hands in her lap, resting them lightly atop a black clutch bag. It held a silver-plated, pearl-handled Derringer, and the back of the bag was slit to allow her to pull the gun free without opening the purse. “How may I help you, Inspector?”
Dermot opened his mouth to reply, but Katherine held up her right hand.
“And is this an official or an unofficial call?”
He hesitated just a fraction too long.
“Unofficial then,” she said evenly. “I gathered as much since you did not arrive in a police wagon, or even by public cab. That suggested you did not wish to leave a record of this visit. And since I can see dried red mud on your shoes, and the eternal road works on Marlborough Street are of that distinctive color, then I must conclude that you walked.”
Dermot glanced down at his highly polished shoes; there was a rim of hard red dirt on the soles. “You are very perceptive.”
“It comes with my unusual profession. My sex are naturally observant, but women in my business need to be even more so. It keeps us alive.”
“I take it you’ve had me checked out in the hour I was waiting?”
Katherine nodded, silk whispering across her face. “Of course. We would not be meeting if you had not passed muster.”
“Then you will know that I take no bribes and am not in the pocket of any of the madams on this street. I am a good police officer, with a tolerable arrest record.”
“You specialize in smuggling and contraband. And yet you have come about the theft of the Crown Jewels.” She saw his blink of surprise. “Come, come, Inspector: what else could bring you here this afternoon? It is the talk of the city. But surely, jewelry thefts are outside your remit?”
“Yes . . . and no,” he said.
Katherine cocked her head to one side. “Which is it?”
“It is a little outside my specialty, but every available officer has been tasked with finding the jewels. The king is sailing into Kingstown in a few weeks. He is due to wear the jewels when he invests some Irish knights. They must be found before then . . . and I want to find those jewels,” he added vehemently.
“You must be desperate indeed to come to me. Why is that, I wonder?” she asked, and then, beneath the veil, she smiled. “You are a brilliant police officer—you must be to have reached the rank of inspector while still not yet thirty. Your accent is Dublin and is neither refined nor overeducated, so you do not come from money or have a sponsor within the force.”
The inspector blinked in surprise and then nodded. “I have made my own way.”
“And you are a Catholic in a predominantly Protestant and Masonic organization.”
The inspector straightened. “Your researchers have been busy.”
“Not so. I saw the impression of a silver crucifix beneath your shirt when you sat forward. You are not yet engaged but there is a young woman in your life. And before you can ask for her hand, you need to advance in your career.”
Corcoran sat back, startled. “No one in the force knows that I am seeing a young lady; that cannot be in my file.”
“The skin on your upper lip is a lighter shade than the rest of your flesh, suggesting that you had worn a mustache for a very long time. The only reason a gentleman shaves off his mustache is if a lady requests it. And only a man in love would do so.”
Color flooded the inspector’s cheeks and he raised his thumb and index finger to smooth down the nonexistent mustaches. “You are correct. There was a mustache and there is a lady. She thought the mustache made me look old . . . and it reminded her of her father.”
“It might also have left a rash upon her skin,” Katherine added gently.
The inspector blinked in surprise. “I did not think of that.”
“Your lady friend did. You might think about asking her how she knew that a beard could cause a rash. That sort of knowledge only comes with experience.”
Katherine watched the thought flicker behind his eyes and a quick tracery of emotions ran across his face. It appeared that the young inspector was already suspicious about his lady friend.
“Thank you for your insights, Madam Kitten. I will consider them carefully. And you are once again correct: I am a Catholic in a Protestant force. I have reached my present position at least a decade too early. And now I have nowhere to go. But if I were to solve this case, then it would bring my name to the attention of my superiors and even the king himself. My advancement would be guaranteed, and my lady friend’s father could not refuse me when I ask for her hand.”
“And you believe I stole the jewels?” Katherine asked bluntly.
Dermot blinked in surprise. “You are the obvious suspect.”
“Not that obvious if only you have come to that conclusion.”
“I suspected that you had paid off the others.”
“Slipping a constable a few shillings or a free ride with the girl of his choice is very different to what you are suggesting, which is bribery on an industrial scale. And, may I remind you, the jewels are both ugly and really not that valuable: Brazilian stones, rose diamonds, some emeralds, rubies, and enamel. Recently valued at just over thirty thousand pounds and worth a lot less than that if they were broken apart for the individual stones. Allow me to be definitive, Inspector: I did not take the jewels. You have my word upon it—though I am sure that the word of a woman like me carries no weight.” She watched color touch his cheeks again and wondered why.
“I understand that not all women who enter your business do so voluntarily . . .”
“None,” she snapped. “This life is not only the last resort, it is often the only resort. At least I can offer the women in my employ a roof over their heads, clean food and water, medical care and protection.” Her gloved hand waved in the direction of the street. “Practically every house in this street and those adjoining are brothels; we give employment to hundreds of girls, but there are many hundreds more on the streets who do not have the protection of a house. And why? Because the Government in Whitehall allows us to exist. It needs us.”
The inspector started to shake his head. “I cannot believe—”
“Mr. Corcoran, there are more whores in this city than in London and Manchester combined. That is because we are a garrison city, a port city. We have English regiments training in the Royal Barracks and on the Curragh, and the quays are busy with British warships and merchantmen from around the world. All those soldiers and sailors are looking for relief. It is much easier to contain them in this triangle of streets than to have them wander the city, or have the working girls mixing with the women o
f quality.”
The inspector sat back in the chair and licked suddenly dry lips. “I never thought . . .”
Katherine’s laugh was bitter. “Our existence suits the establishment. They may rail against us in Parliament or from the pulpit, but they come here in the evening. Would you be shocked to learn that when our present king was undergoing his military training in this city, he often visited these houses? Do you want me to show you the presents he left the girls, or the receipts he signed?”
Dermot shook his head.
“I am many things, Inspector: a madam, a thief, a liar, but I am not a hypocrite. If you have done any research on me, then you will know that my word is my bond.”
He nodded. “I heard you were to be trusted.”
Beneath the veil, Katherine smiled. “And what else did you hear?”
“I heard that you have few enemies—”
“I am sure there are a few.”
“—few enemies left alive,” he finished.
Katherine stood and crossed to the window. Through the fine lace curtains, she watched the scattering of people—mostly women and children—moving up and down the quiet street. An occasional carriage or dray moved down the dung-scattered cobbles. When darkness fell, everything would change. The street would be lined with carriages with blacked-out crests and all the houses would be ablaze with lights. “What will the police do?” she asked suddenly.
Dermot heaved out of the low chair and joined the veiled woman at the window. Standing so close to her, he could almost make out her features through the lace. Her eyes, he decided, were bright green. “Given that this area is the heart of crime in the city, I would imagine that they will flood the streets with officers. They will go house to house, interviewing everyone. There will be arrests; men like Mickey have form. He will be taken in for questioning. Doesn’t matter who you’ve paid off, this crime is too big, too public. The police will need to be seen to be doing something.”
“And how long will that last?” she asked.
Echoes of Sherlock Holmes Page 20
