“Is that smoke coming from the water-cure clinic?” Mayne asked the ticket agent.
“Worst trouble we ever had. Most of the jobs in town are lost.”
“I need a carriage to take me there.”
“You won’t find one. Every vehicle has been hired.”
“It appears that they’re returning.”
Wagons and carriages rattled toward the station. Dozens of men and women—several without travel bags and wearing overcoats that appeared to cover nightclothes—hurried from the vehicles, surprising the ticket agent with demands to reach London or Manchester or wherever without delay.
Mayne hired a wagon driver to take him to the origin of the smoke, where he discovered that there were plenty of other angry, impatient people who wanted immediate transportation to the railway station.
The destruction was shocking. Flames had totally consumed the largest of three buildings. Smoldering timbers lay in a huge, wide tangle, the grass scorched around them. The bitter taste of the smoke hung everywhere.
He asked the people climbing into the wagon if they could direct him to Scotland Yard detectives Ryan and Becker, but no one knew anything about detectives being in the area, although they added that the man in charge of the clinic ought to be put in jail for operating a firetrap.
“Commissioner!” someone yelled.
Mayne turned and saw Ryan hurrying toward him from the building on the left. Ryan’s face was pinched with fatigue, his cheeks streaked with soot. Puzzlingly, he wore a white coat and trousers, as if he were a medical attendant.
“The only dry clothes available,” Ryan explained.
Mayne soon learned about the alarming events of the night before: Lord Cavendale’s murder, the attack on Emily, and the fire.
“The world has gone insane,” the commissioner said. “Where is Lady Cavendale?”
“She and her mother returned to Lord Cavendale’s house,” Ryan told him. “They’re preparing to go to London to arrange the funeral. Lady Cavendale indicated that she intends to spend her year of mourning at her mother’s Park Lane residence.”
As they spoke, Ryan led Mayne toward the large structure on the left. Numerous agitated people hurried from it, carrying travel bags.
“Stop!” Ryan showed them his badge. “We need to speak with all of you in case you noticed anything that will help us investigate the—”
Ryan might as well have been speaking to a windstorm. They swept past him with relentless force.
In the lobby, Mayne saw De Quincey and Emily.
“I’m very sorry, Emily,” the commissioner told her, shaking his head forlornly at the stitches on her cheek. “Indeed, the world has gone insane.”
Becker joined them, he too wearing the white trousers and jacket of a medical attendant. “I asked all the guests if they knew how the fire started. Most of them merely said, ‘Do you realize who I am?’ and shoved past me.”
“I think we probably know how the fire started,” Ryan said.
“Yes, the man who was hiding here,” De Quincey agreed.
“Someone was hiding here?” Mayne asked.
The conversation stopped as four men carried a coffin through the lobby.
“A beggar,” Ryan answered. “It appears he sneaked inside to protect himself from last night’s storm. The smoke killed him. The doctor in charge of the clinic doesn’t recognize him, and everyone on the guest list has been accounted for. We suspect he lit a candle and knocked it over, starting the fire.”
“There’ll need to be an inquest,” the commissioner said.
“Of course. But like so many beggars, he’ll probably never be identified.”
“You’re not usually this quick to give up on something, Ryan.”
“It was a tiring night, sir.”
“Evidently.”
Becker interrupted the conversation and changed the subject. “Commissioner, if you didn’t know about the fire, why did you come here?”
“Lord Palmerston wants the two of you to return to London and report to him at once.”
“At once? But we’re not finished here,” Becker said. “Did he tell you why he wants us to report to him?”
“He seemed very angry that you two are here.”
“Another avenue of the investigation that he doesn’t want explored?” De Quincey asked. “Perhaps I can resolve the problem if I speak with His Lordship alone.”
“Without question, the funeral must occur at Westminster Abbey,” Carolyn told Stella. “Lord Cavendale’s family name and his government service merit it. Afterward, a train will transport him back here, where his coffin can be placed in the family mausoleum next to his parents and sweet little Jennifer.”
They were alone in Stella’s chambers in the dismal, cold house. Assisted by Carolyn rather than a servant, Stella put on a mourning dress of the darkest crepe.
“I promise that the funeral will be exemplary.” Despite her fatigue, Carolyn mustered the energy to remain in motion, fastening the stays at the back of Stella’s dress. “No member of the peerage will be able to find fault. We’ll prove that we’re as distinguished as they are.”
Carolyn’s left knee buckled. She regained her balance and put a mourning cap on Stella’s head, then lowered the dark veil over Stella’s pale, radiant features.
“Always hate them,” Carolyn said. “Never weaken. It’s in their nature to look down on us, but apart from the accident of their breeding, they aren’t any better than we are. Hate will give us the strength to raise ourselves until only the queen and the prince will dare to look down on us.”
Again, Carolyn’s left leg faltered.
“You’re exhausted,” Stella told her. “You ought to rest.”
“You haven’t rested either.”
“But I’m not in my sixties.”
“We’ll rest when we reach Park Lane this afternoon. Meanwhile, my telegram should have arrived there. Edward will waste no time informing Harold’s creditors that I’ll no longer pay his debts. By day’s end, wagons will arrive to seize every stick of furniture in this house and every implement in the barns and the fields. Harold will learn what it feels like to be penniless.”
“Truly, you ought to sit down.”
Carolyn considered Stella’s mourning costume and shook her head. “It will do only until we reach Park Lane. Lord Cavendale’s friends in the peerage will criticize you for wearing a bereavement dress that they recognize from Jennifer’s funeral two years ago. I’ll send for the best dressmaker in London. He’ll arrive in the darkest of coaches with the blackest of horses. None of your neighbors will be able to complain that the proper observances weren’t made. Your bereavement costume will be the most remarkable that anyone in the peerage has ever seen, because none of them has the resources to afford it.”
A knock on the door distracted her. “Yes? What is it?”
“Little Jeremy has wakened,” a servant’s voice informed them.
Stella quickly opened the door.
The servant did her best not to react to the gloom of Stella’s dress.
“Is he ill?” Stella asked. “Is he coughing? Does he have a fever? Last night’s storm nearly killed him.”
“No, Lady Cavendale. Little Jeremy wakened in the finest of health.”
“Did he accept the wet nurse?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Carolyn watched Stella disappear along the hallway. Only then did she allow herself to move toward a chair near a window. Beyond the glass, she saw the bleak smoke hovering over the remnants of the water-cure clinic. It was a serious setback, but she reminded herself that her life had been filled with setbacks. They made her only more determined.
Before she could sit, a male servant arrived. “The local undertaker is here, Mrs. Richmond. He brought his best coffin. He’s in the parlor.”
Carolyn nodded and left the room. His best? she thought. I’ll purchase it to transport Lord Cavendale’s body to London. But for the funeral, I’ll buy the most expensive co
ffin from the most respected undertaker in the entire city. No—in the entire nation.
The servant followed her down the staircase, adding, “And there’s someone here to speak with Lady Cavendale.”
“Who?”
“Someone from the water-cure clinic.”
“Dr. Wainwright?”
“No, madam. I’ve never seen him before.”
“Tell the undertaker I’ll speak with him in a moment.”
“Very good, Mrs. Richmond.”
As the servant walked toward the parlor, Carolyn proceeded to the entrance hall and did her best to keep her left leg steady.
She told the footman at the door, “You may go to the kitchen and take some refreshment.”
“Thank you, madam.”
When the footman was no longer visible, Carolyn opened the door.
The man who stood there wore the white trousers and coat of a medical attendant. “I need to speak to you and Stella.”
“You’re insane to have come here.”
“It’s my only chance.”
“Midnight,” Carolyn said. “At the Bloomsbury house.”
“Third class?” Harold asked.
“Be glad I’m not making you walk,” Ryan said.
Harold gasped when he peered into the third-class train carriage, which didn’t have compartments but was instead a large open area that resembled a livestock enclosure.
Normally, only laborers stood in it, but this morning, so many guests from the clinic wanted to return to London that, after the first- and second-class compartments had been taken, the numerous remaining passengers grudgingly shared these close quarters, enduring the gross indignity of touching one another.
They might have grumbled less if they’d been allowed to receive newspapers at the clinic. Then they’d have known about Daniel Harcourt’s murder and the other incidents involving trains. They’d have perhaps decided that they weren’t so eager to board a train after all. Rather than fear for their lives twice in so short a time, they might gladly have paid for wagons to take them where they wished to go.
Becker stood next to Ryan, scanning the crowd.
He watched a coffin being loaded onto the freight carriage. Presumably one of the Russians watched it also.
Becker turned his attention toward the many passengers boarding the second-class carriages. Because he knew what to look for, he noticed a stooped, elderly woman wearing a veil. She needed assistance climbing into a compartment.
The man who was kind enough to help her wore a shapeless tradesman’s coat and a plain hat. Without his silvery mustache and his aloof manner, Wainwright was difficult to identify.
Becker again looked at Ryan. “There’s room in the commissioner’s compartment.”
“I wouldn’t dream of making Emily sit near the man who whipped her,” Ryan said.
“The police commissioner?” Harold brightened. “Take me to him. He’ll insist that you remove these handcuffs.”
“Get on the blasted train, Harold.”
As Ryan shoved him into the congestion of the third-class carriage, Becker walked toward the front of the train. He entered a compartment where Emily, her father, and Commissioner Mayne waited. Despite the demand for seats, the commissioner had used his authority to make certain that no one else joined them.
“All of you look exhausted. After everything you’ve been through, I won’t be offended if you sleep on the way to London,” Mayne said.
“We have too much to discuss,” De Quincey told him, fingering his laudanum bottle. “Emily, did you remain in the telegraph office and make certain that the operator sent all our messages?”
“When have I ever not been thorough, Father?”
“Good. Responses ought to arrive at Lord Palmerston’s house by this evening. Commissioner, I need the help of a half a dozen constables who wear street clothes instead of uniforms.”
“Street clothes?”
“And Sergeant Becker, I need you to tell me about the fire on the train Saturday night,” De Quincey said.
Lord Palmerston sat at his breakfast table and considered the tea, toast, butter, marmalade, bacon, and soft-boiled egg before him.
“My lord, is the preparation of the food not acceptable?” a servant asked.
“I don’t seem to have an appetite,” he replied. He attempted a sip of tea but had difficulty swallowing.
“Perhaps some porridge would be more to your liking,” the servant suggested.
“No. Please take everything away.”
Another servant entered. “My lord, the person you sent for has arrived.”
Finally, Lord Palmerston thought.
He set his embroidered napkin on the table, waited for the servant to pull back his chair, and stood. He straightened his shoulders and expanded his chest, trying to give the impression of youth.
But when he walked along a corridor and reached the entrance hall, he found only Edward Richmond waiting for him, not Carolyn. Richmond’s suit, goatee, and walking stick looked as elegant as usual.
But Edward didn’t offer his customary winning smile. “Good morning, Prime Minister.”
“Richmond?” Lord Palmerston tried not to sound disappointed. “I thought that perhaps Carolyn would join you.”
“She has yet to return from Sedwick Hill. In fact, she sent me a telegram with unfortunate news.”
Lord Palmerston braced himself. After the near explosion of the railway trestle the previous night, the last thing he needed was additional bad news.
“I regret to say that Lord Cavendale was murdered last night,” Edward said.
“Murdered?”
“By his son.”
Lord Palmerston felt as though he’d been struck. He hadn’t been close to Lord Cavendale, but that didn’t matter. The death of any peer was a blow to every other peer, a reminder that despite the lofty position with which God had provided them, all were finally indeed mortal.
“Surely I didn’t hear you correctly. His son killed him?”
“To inherit his father’s estate and pay his gambling debts,” Edward replied. “I’m afraid that Carolyn sent another piece of unhappy news.”
“Another?”
“Dr. Wainwright’s hydropathy clinic was destroyed in a fire last night.”
Lord Palmerston tried to retain the appearance of steadiness. Dr. Mandt, he thought. What happened to Dr. Mandt?
“My lord, do you feel ill?” Edward asked.
“Over the weekend, the war required me to attend many late-night strategy meetings.”
“I’m certain that your responsibilities are extremely stressful. If you’ll kindly explain why you sent for me, I’ll leave you to your demanding schedule.”
“Let’s talk upstairs.”
As they climbed, Edward said, “Your messenger indicated that there were important reasons for me to enter your house through the servants’ door at the back. I confess that I’m curious about the motive for the subterfuge.”
“Given the damage to the economy because of the attacks on the railways, I didn’t think it wise for you to be seen visiting me publicly here or at Downing Street or for me to be seen visiting you in Park Lane. The world might wonder why I’m consulting a financial expert who isn’t associated with the government when my chancellor of the Exchequer is readily available. It might suggest a lack of confidence in him.”
“The person to consult about financial matters is indeed your chancellor of the Exchequer,” Edward noted.
“Unless the financial matters I wish to discuss aren’t related to the government.”
They reached the next level. Opposite the ballroom, the library beckoned. After Lord Palmerston closed the door behind them, they sat, facing each other.
“Please tell me the problem,” Edward said.
“Although the Stock Exchange hasn’t yet opened this morning, I’m curious whether you’ve heard any predictions about the railway shares,” Lord Palmerston began.
“The consensus is that th
ere’ll be a further twenty percent decline in prices. Not only for railway stocks but for those in related areas such as mining, manufacturing, and shipping.”
Lord Palmerston wasn’t able to speak.
“It was inevitable,” Edward said. “These are new conditions. The market needs time to adjust.”
“How long will that take?”
“There’s no way to anticipate, but I assure you the market will absorb the recent shocks. It always does. If anything, this is an opportunity.”
“I don’t understand.”
“To buy,” Edward explained.
“My intention was the opposite.”
Edward frowned. “Are you telling me you have financial pressures that require you to sell stocks?”
“After the uncommonly harsh winter in Ireland, the farmers on my properties there aren’t able to pay their rents. Without that income…”
“How urgent are your debts?”
“A mortgage payment for this house is due in three days. Normally that wouldn’t be a problem, even without the rents. But the social duties of being prime minister are greater than I anticipated. The past six weeks, since I assumed office, have drained my reserves. Today, I planned to sell some of my railway stocks, but I made that plan before everything happened. With the value of the stocks sharply reduced…”
“I can’t recommend selling those stocks.”
“But I don’t have an alternative.”
“A short-term loan is a better solution,” Edward told him. “When the railway stocks rebound, as they certainly will, you can sell them without penalizing yourself. The interest on the loan would be considerably less than the pain you would feel if you sold your stocks for a fraction of their value. What is the size of your obligations?”
“Ten thousand pounds.”
Edward paused at the gravity of the amount. “If I go immediately to the City, I can make arrangements for the loan by the end of the day.”
“But the lenders can’t know who receives the money,” Lord Palmerston warned. “If rumors spread that the prime minister has financial difficulties, the Stock Exchange will interpret that as a further sign the nation is in peril.”
Ruler of the Night Page 27
