Carolyn pointed up the street toward the bare trees of Soho Square. “Thomas and I often begged up there at the park.”
“And along Oxford Street with Ann. Do you remember Ann?” Father asked Carolyn.
“How could I forget her? We were like a family. The three of us couldn’t have survived without one another.”
“So long ago.” Father’s voice broke. “Ann.”
The most vivid passage in Father’s Confessions describes Ann, the fifteen-year-old girl of the streets who was Father’s first love. The two of them had walked hand in hand among the heartless crowd, sometimes pausing to watch a man play a barrel organ while they imagined a better life. On one occasion, when Father collapsed from hunger on the steps of a house in Soho Square, Ann had saved his life by racing to Oxford Street and using some of her meager coins to buy spiced wine, the only substance that his stomach could tolerate. If not for fate, Father would have married Ann before he ever met my mother.
“Carolyn, what happened to you back then?” Father asked with sudden intensity. “I told you that a friend of my mother recognized me begging in the street. He knew that she and I had argued and that I’d run away rather than let a schoolmaster mistreat me. He gave me money to travel to Eton, where another family friend lived, one with more influence on my mother. There was a chance that he could persuade her to let me go to another school.”
“I could never forget,” Carolyn said, clutching her cape in the bitter wind.
“I brought you the ingredients for the phosphorus rat poison, hoping that its glow would make you feel less lonely in the dark, and I promised that I’d see you again in five days,” Father continued with great emotion. “But when I returned to this house, there wasn’t any sign of you. The place had a terrible odor. It was emptier than before. Even Brunell’s legal documents were gone from the back room.”
“The stench was from all the dead rats,” Carolyn explained. “But that wasn’t why we left. Something happened that made Brunell more afraid, something about the man he was always trying to elude. He forced me to go with him to Bristol. I begged him to let me stay and wait for you, but he was too frightened to agree. All I could do was make him promise to write a note saying where we’d gone so that you could follow me. But you never came.”
“A note?” Father shook his head, devastated. “Where did he say he left it?”
“On the floor where we used to sleep.”
“I never saw it.”
“Maybe Brunell didn’t leave the note,” Carolyn said, sounding betrayed. “Damn him.”
The wind made a whistling sound through the chasm. Low gray clouds swept over us. Because of the worsening weather, few people were in the street.
“Father, you’ll catch your death. Please, let’s go back to Lord Palmerston’s house,” I said.
But he persisted with the conversation, asking Carolyn, “Do you know what happened to Ann?”
“What happened to Ann? After you left, she kept me company here for a couple of nights. Then Brunell took me away. As I grew up, I assumed that you and Ann went on as before. How I wished I could have been with the two of you. But then, years later, I read in your Confessions that she’d disappeared.”
Father drank from his laudanum bottle. He stared at the emptiness where the house had stood. He shivered, but I doubted that it was because of the wind.
“The night I boarded the mail coach for Eton, I told Ann the same thing that I told you—that I’d return in five days. I promised to meet her in Great Titchfield Street at six o’clock in the evening, but when I arrived, she wasn’t there. I came the next night, and the night after that. But she still wasn’t there. She’d been sick with a cough. I worried that perhaps her illness had become worse. But when I went to the street where she lived, no one knew what had become of her. Again and again I returned to Great Titchfield Street—and to this house, looking for you, in case you knew what had happened to her. As the years lengthened, whenever I chanced to be in London, I continued my search, but I often feared that in the city’s labyrinth, Ann and I might pass within a few feet of each other and not know it in the teeming crowd. Carolyn, do you ever think that there was one particular moment in your life that changed everything—that if something hadn’t happened or if something else had happened, your life might have taken a different course, and it might have turned out better? Is there a moment you wish you could change?”
“Not at all,” she answered. “If my life hadn’t followed the course it did, I wouldn’t be enjoying the good fortune I’ve achieved. Instead, I might be in the gutter—or in the grave.”
Father stared at his laudanum bottle. “If I hadn’t gone to Eton to try to regain my mother’s graces, if I’d accepted a destiny as a beggar and stayed in London with Ann and you, perhaps my life would have been happier.”
“Thomas, how do you imagine your daughter feels when you talk like this?”
Father looked confused.
“If you hadn’t gone to Eton, if you’d stayed with Ann and me, you wouldn’t eventually have met the woman who became your wife,” Carolyn told him. “I read about her in your various writings. You seem to have loved her.”
“Wordsworth belittled me for marrying what he called ‘a milkmaid.’ But Margaret had more value and dignity than he ever did. Margaret and I were husband and wife for twenty years—far too short a time before she died. I miss her every day.” Father’s voice dropped. “Yes, I loved her.”
“But if you’d stayed with Ann and me, you would never have met her, and Emily would never have been born.”
Father’s eyes glistened as he turned toward me. “Emily, you’re the one thing in my life I would never wish to change. I’m sorry if I said anything just now that might have hurt you. I love you as much as it’s possible for a father to love his daughter. With all my heart, I promise to try to do better.”
“Thomas, perhaps I can help you to do better,” Carolyn said.
“Oh?” He sounded puzzled. “In what way?”
“Tomorrow, I plan to travel to see my daughter. Her husband is so infirm that they can’t come to London. I visit their country house each Sunday. Would you and Emily care to accompany me? Your presence would be a diversion for my daughter. We could spend the night, and the next morning, I’d like you to meet a doctor who manages a nearby clinic.”
“A doctor?” Father asked.
“His name is Dr. Wainwright. The clinic is a hydropathy retreat. He tells me that a water cure is very effective for a number of ailments—gout and rheumatism, of course, but also melancholy and a dependence on alcohol.”
“Perhaps also a dependence on opium?” Father asked.
“Indeed.”
Father considered Carolyn’s statement and shook his head. “As much as I welcome the invitation to meet your daughter, it’s important for me to remain in London. I need to assist with the murder investigation, which gives me all the distraction from laudanum that I require.”
“Then why did you appear to need laudanum so intensely during our visit to the chophouse?” Carolyn asked.
Father evaded the question. “I’m confident that my need for the drug will lessen as the investigation intensifies. Really, I would feel uneasy being separated from Scotland Yard’s detectives at this critical time in the hunt for the killer.”
“Father, a day might not matter,” I said.
“Or it might make all the difference in finding the murderer,” he responded.
“Thomas, would it help if I told you that my daughter lives near Sedwick Hill?” Carolyn asked.
“Sedwick Hill?” Father repeated.
I felt something in him come to attention at the reference to the village to which the murdered man had been traveling.
“Carolyn, is the clinic near Sedwick Hill also?” I asked.
“It is.”
“In that case, Father would get what he wants, and so would you and I.” Without giving him a chance to object any further, I said, “He accept
s your invitation.”
Ryan hurried up the rumbling stairs to Daniel Harcourt’s office, pleased to find two business-district constables guarding the door.
His good feeling didn’t last long, changing abruptly to suspicion when a well-dressed man stepped out of the office. The man carried a leather document case that appeared to be heavy. In the brief time that the door was open, Ryan heard voices, some of which he recognized. Then the man closed the door and descended the stairs.
Ryan showed his badge to the constables.
“You’re out of your jurisdiction,” one of them noted.
“I have an appointment with your captain.”
“They said not to disturb them.”
“They?”
Footsteps made Ryan turn toward another well-dressed man, this one climbing the stairs. He too carried a document case. When he showed his card to the constables, one of them said, “Yes, sir. Please go in.”
The man entered and shut the door behind him.
“I thought you said the people in there didn’t want to be disturbed,” Ryan told the constables.
“He was expected.”
“But I’m expected also.”
“You’re not on this list.” The constable showed him names on a sheet of paper, none of which was Ryan’s. “Why don’t you step away and we’ll sort this out when they finish inside?”
The door opened again. This time, the man who emerged was Harcourt’s thin-lipped secretary; he looked over the spectacles on his slender nose, surprised to see Ryan.
Before the secretary could say anything, Ryan slipped past him and entered the room.
“Hey!” a constable objected.
The men in the office looked startled. Ryan had expected to see the captain of this district’s police force, but not Commissioner Mayne, who didn’t have jurisdiction here any more than Ryan did. And he certainly hadn’t expected to see a rigid-looking man he recognized as the home secretary, Sir George Grey, the official who controlled both of London’s police districts as well as law enforcement everywhere in Britain.
The man who’d entered the office was removing a thick folder from the cabinet. Ryan’s sudden entrance made him look sharply over his shoulder.
“What’s the meaning of this?” the home secretary demanded.
“Sir George, this is one of my detective inspectors,” the commissioner explained.
“But what’s he doing here? He can’t just barge in and—”
Ryan pointed toward the cabinet. “Why is this man removing evidence?”
“Evidence?” the home secretary asked.
“Daniel Harcourt’s killer wanted something in those folders,” Ryan said.
“And no doubt removed it when he came to this office last night,” the home secretary told him.
“But we don’t know that, sir. The killer might have missed something. These folders might contain information that will help us find—”
The home secretary cut him off. “What they contain are private documents that Mr. Harcourt’s clients wish to retrieve before they too are stolen and their confidential details become public knowledge. Do you have what you need?” he asked the man at the cabinet.
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
Another man entered, carrying a document case.
“Half of that drawer is empty,” Ryan objected. “How many other people are going to take—”
“What’s your name?” the home secretary demanded.
“Ryan, sir. Detective Inspector Sean Ryan.”
“Perhaps not a detective inspector for much longer. The name comes to me. Ryan. Are you the man who has Mr. Harcourt’s gold chronometer?”
“It was found at the location of the murder,” Ryan said.
“And needs to be returned to his estate,” the home secretary insisted.
“Returned? But it’s valuable evidence, sir.”
“It’s definitely valuable. Where is it?”
“At Scotland Yard headquarters,” Ryan lied, conscious of the weight of it in his coat pocket.
“Wait outside, Ryan,” Commissioner Mayne ordered.
“But sir, the information in this cabinet is—”
“Outside,” the commissioner repeated in a stronger tone.
Feeling heat in his face, Ryan took a moment to control his emotions. He breathed deeply. With his hands at his side, he dug his fingernails into his palms. “Yes, sir.”
“Such insubordination,” he heard the home secretary complain as he turned toward the open door. “Commissioner, I’m surprised you haven’t dismissed him.”
“That would be difficult, sir. Her Majesty and His Royal Highness are fond of him. In fact, Inspector Ryan saved the queen’s life when John Francis shot at her thirteen years ago.”
The home secretary muttered something. Then the door was closed behind Ryan, and the voices became muffled.
As Ryan waited, Harcourt’s secretary sat stiffly at his desk, making notes and trying strenuously not to look at him. The two men carried their crammed document cases from the office. Another man arrived, and then another. Finally Commissioner Mayne stepped from the room, gave Ryan an unhappy look, and descended the stairs, gesturing for him to follow.
“In the chaotic street, the commissioner glared angrily at him.
“Sir, I apologize for being disruptive,” Ryan said, “but how can we investigate if possible evidence is being removed from—”
“Not here,” the commissioner said sharply.
Impatient, Mayne led the way through a tangle of cabs, carts, and complaining drivers to a tavern on the opposite side of the street. A sign, THE LUCKY CROWN, had a painting not of the kind of crown that royalty might wear but of a shiny coin.
Inside the smoke-filled establishment, the noise of conversations was almost as loud as the din in the street. Passing crowded tables, Ryan saw four men stepping from a booth. He quickly commandeered it. Mayne sat across from him, and some of the wealthy-looking patrons seemed puzzled that an obvious gentleman would sit with a commonly dressed man who had Irish red hair peeking from beneath his newsboy’s cap. Perhaps concluding that Ryan was the foreman of a work crew to whom Mayne needed to give instructions, the patrons returned to the important financial matters they were discussing.
“Sir, really, my intentions were only for the good of the investigation. I—”
Mayne surprised Ryan by leaning toward him and lowering his voice. “First thing this morning, I received a summons from the home secretary. When I arrived at Harcourt’s office and saw what was happening, I realized that my purpose in being there was to ensure that members of the Metropolitan Police Force—particularly you—understood that those files were out of their jurisdiction and didn’t concern them.”
“Even if the files might help to solve these killings?” Ryan asked, speaking more quietly and tensely than the commissioner did. “If people believe that murderous thieves, madmen, and Russians are lurking aboard trains, there’ll be chaos. Surely the home secretary doesn’t want us to stop investigating Harcourt’s murder.”
“To the contrary, I get the impression that numerous powerful people would like Harcourt’s murder solved as quickly as possible. But they wish to make clear that certain areas don’t concern us. You told me about the names you saw on the folders in Harcourt’s cabinet.”
“Peers and politicians,” Ryan said. Uneasy, he scanned the tavern’s patrons, trying to determine if anyone watched them.
“When I reported to the prime minister and the home secretary last night, they were upset that anyone knew who Harcourt’s clients were,” Mayne told him. “Harcourt was no doubt privy to the kind of secrets—lawsuits against his clients, gambling debts, money paid to scorned women, indiscretions committed by sons, and similar private matters—that would be devastating if they became public.”
“You think this is about blackmail?” Ryan asked.
“Clearly that’s what they’re afraid of,” the commissioner replied. “But who would get th
e most benefit from using blackmail as a weapon? Suppose the objective was to make these powerful people afraid rather than to extort money from them?”
“Then once again, in the worst case, we come back to the Russians,” Ryan said.
“Whatever the motive,” Mayne told him, “I’m certain that when we apprehend the killer, Harcourt’s former clients will use their power to make certain that very few people are permitted to talk with the murderer and that he’s hanged as soon as possible.”
As church bells rang twelve times, a stooped man entered Waterloo Station. One of the nine railway stations that encircled London, it was located south of the Thames, a short walk from the bridge that provided its name.
The man wore a thick greatcoat and a cap pulled low over his forehead. The bottom part of his face was wrapped with a scarf against the cold. But despite all this, he shivered as he bought a second-class ticket to Portsmouth. Now that London’s newspapers had confirmed the rumors about the first murder ever to occur on a train, fewer travelers (all of them nervous) passed through the station on what should have been a busy Saturday, and the guard who examined tickets before allowing passengers onto the platform had time to notice that the man was trembling.
“Are you feeling all right, sir?” the guard asked.
Instead of replying, the man trudged toward a waiting train. But then he faltered, set down his canvas travel bag, and leaned unsteadily against an iron pole.
When he coughed, other travelers looked at him with concern, keeping their distance as they passed.
The man coughed more deeply. Abruptly he leaned over the platform’s edge and vomited onto the tracks.
“Guard!” someone yelled.
The man vomited again. What he ejected had the crimson of blood.
“Guard, hurry! This man needs help!” someone else shouted. None of the well-dressed people were so bold as to help the man themselves.
When he reversed direction and staggered toward the gate through which he’d come, people saw the crimson liquid on his coat and lurched away.
“A doctor,” he murmured to the guard who’d examined his ticket. “I need a…”
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