Ruler of the Night

by David Morrell

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Suppose I told the newspapers. Suppose I waited outside the Parliament buildings and told every peer who emerged from the House of Lords. What would be the harm to me? Mere embarrassment. But you,” he said to Stella, “and you,” he said to Carolyn, “would lose your chance to have a family member who’s a peer and who can pass his title to his oldest son. When Harold is hanged for killing his father, little Jeremy will become the next Lord Cavendale. Isn’t that the success you wanted, Carolyn? To rise so high that no one can look down on you. To know that Stella’s male descendants will be lords. What a triumph. But if you don’t agree to my terms, I can take it all away from you just when you’re on the verge of grasping it.”

  “We’ll give you fifty thousand pounds,” Edward said.

  It was an immense amount, but all Rick did was shake his head. “When I marry Stella, I’ll have both her and access to the fifty thousand pounds. In fact, to more than that. Why are you reluctant? Are you afraid that I’ll embarrass you? Don’t you agree that I look respectable in the fine clothes you provided for me? When I come to London, I enjoy the best theaters and restaurants and no one is the wiser that I’m not as proper as any of them. The waiters even call me sir. When I marry Stella, I too will belong to a family in the peerage—a stepfather to a lord, although of course I’m his actual father.”

  The coals sparked in the fireplace.

  “Stella, I think your mother’s suggestion is a good one. Let’s discuss this alone,” Rick said. Again, he pointed toward the other half of the drawing room.

  Stella looked at Carolyn and then at Rick.

  “Very well,” she said. “We shall settle this once and for all.”

  As she stepped into the back part of the room, Rick struck a match and lit a gas lamp. Partitions were recessed into the wall on each side of the entrance. He drew them shut.

  “Stella, am I so repugnant to you?” Rick asked when they were alone. “You didn’t act this way when we shared a bed upstairs on numerous occasions.”

  Stella shuddered. “I needed to make you happy.”

  “You succeeded. And as my wife, you’ll continue to do so, I’m certain.”

  “This is not a topic for decent conversation.”

  “Suddenly you’re shy after what we experienced many times?” Rick asked.

  “My mother told me that a child conceived when a male is in full passion will be stronger and healthier.”

  “You make it sound like two animals being matched for breeding purposes,” Rick objected. “It was more than that. I proved that I’m worthy to be your husband. You have no idea what I’ve done to save you.”

  When Rick tried to grasp her hand, she stepped back, asking sharply, “What do you mean that you proved you’re worthy?”

  “Last week, you came to me in this house,” Rick said.

  “You left me no choice. When I brought my husband for therapy at the clinic, you acted so blatantly familiar with me that, to make you stop, I was forced to promise to come here.”

  “After you did, as you departed in your carriage, I looked out the window and noticed a man watching you from the shadows,” Rick said. “The man was solidly built. His ordinary clothes suggested that he didn’t belong in this neighborhood. Even though he was a stranger, I suddenly realized that I’d seen him before. At the hydropathy clinic and at train stations and in London streets. He was following you or me or both of us. I shut off the lamps, stepped from the house, and locked it. Then I walked south past the quiet of the British Museum, hearing him behind me in the darkness. I was raised in the streets. I know every dodge there is. When we reached the distraction of the noise and traffic in Oxford Street, I turned a corner, veered into a lane, ran to the end of it, and returned to the street that I’d just left, but now I was behind the man, not in front of him. Now I was the one doing the following.

  “When he realized that I’d evaded him, he tried to find me as best he could and finally gave up. I continued to follow him until he arrived at what I discovered was his lodging in Southwark. I found a public house that could rent me a room for the night, one that had a window with a view of the street where the man’s lodging was located. In the morning when he reemerged, I continued to follow him. That evening, he led me to Lombard Street. At that hour, the area was almost deserted. Because I wore a gentleman’s clothes, a constable didn’t even ask me what I was doing there. I mounted the stairs that the stranger had used. I listened outside an office door and heard the stranger address someone as Mr. Harcourt. I got the impression that the office belonged to a solicitor.”

  “Daniel Harcourt?” Stella pressed her hands against the mourning veil that covered her face.

  “I heard the stranger tell Harcourt everything about us. The stranger was a private-inquiry agent, I learned. He referred to a sketch that he’d hired a street artist to make of me. As they ended their meeting, I crept back down the stairs to the dark street. Soon the stranger departed. Soon also, the man who I assumed was Harcourt came down the stairs and hurried toward a cabstand. He clutched a document case as though its contents were precious. I followed him to Euston Station. When he bought a first-class ticket to Sedwick Hill, I could reach no other conclusion than that he was on his way to your husband’s country house, where he planned to show your stepson the proof of your infidelity to his father. The lawyer was alone in a compartment when I joined him.”

  “You murdered Daniel Harcourt?” Stella asked in shock.

  “There were many other times when I proved that I’m worthy. The private-inquiry agent knew about your infidelity, of course, as did his wife, who’d prepared the documents that he gave to Harcourt.”

  “You killed them too?”

  “And a cabdriver and a turnpike gatekeeper, both of whom could have identified me.”

  “Good God, all of them?”

  “Stella, why do you sound surprised? Do you think I doubt for a moment that you’re the one who killed your husband? Harold doesn’t have the imagination to plan a murder.”

  “I had nothing to do with it! Harold owes huge gambling debts! He wearied of waiting to inherit his father’s estate!”

  “I’m sure the police believe the story I heard you tell them at the water-cure clinic, but don’t insult me by expecting me to believe it. You stole some of Harold’s snuff and placed it on your husband’s chest after you smothered him, making it seem that Harold was the one who’d leaned over him with a pillow.”

  “No!”

  “You depended on the Opium-Eater to confirm the discovery of the snuff and agree with your accusation that Harold had killed him.”

  “You’re wrong!”

  “It was a risk to involve the Opium-Eater and his daughter, but your daring appears to have succeeded. Those two detectives respect their opinions. After Harold is hanged, your son will become the next Lord Cavendale. It’s brilliant. You found a way for a hangman to commit murder for you just as surely as you murdered your husband. You might not be steeped in death to the extent that I am, but it’s a difference only in numbers. You and I are two of a kind, Stella. We deserve to be together.”

  “Don’t you dare to compare us!” she said. “You’re nothing more than a common—”

  “You risked doing whatever was necessary to achieve what you dreamed of, and I risked doing what was necessary to help you. Oh yes, we’re alike. Could anyone else possibly love you more than I do?”

  Again he reached for her hand.

  “Don’t.”

  “You never objected when I touched you before.”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “And you don’t have a choice now.”

  “Stop. Truly. I can’t bear this. You—”

  “I what?”

  “Disgust me. If it hadn’t been absolutely necessary, do you think I’d ever have allowed you to paw me the way I saw men pawing my mother when I was a child?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Stella push
ed him away. “You’re as loathsome as every other man! I hated every instant I endured beneath you, feeling your weight crush the breath from my lungs, feeling you press into me.”

  “What you really mean is that you were disgusted with yourself,” Rick said.

  “I have no idea what you’re—”

  “Raise your veil. Let me see your eyes. Look at me directly and tell me that in making me happy, as you put it a moment ago, you didn’t make yourself happy. In spite of yourself, you enjoyed it. That’s why you’re disgusted.”

  “This is not a proper topic.”

  “Do you think I’m so naive that I can’t tell the difference between a woman who enjoys my affections and one who only pretends to?” Rick demanded.

  “Well, I certainly tricked you. You were an animal engaged to perform a breeding service. Now take the money you were offered and go!”

  “Yes.”

  “What? You actually agree?”

  “I’ll take the money and leave.” Rick paused. “On one condition.”

  “What’s the condition?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Raise your veil.”

  “So you can see my eyes? That’s what you wanted a moment ago.”

  “No. So that I may kiss you. Prove to me that you don’t enjoy it.”

  When he stepped toward her, Stella again moved away. But then she bumped against a table and couldn’t put any more space between them.

  “Convince me,” Rick said. “Prove that all those afternoons and evenings we spent upstairs were only to make certain that you conceived a male heir. When you came here a week ago, it wasn’t to produce a child.”

  “I told you it was because you threatened to cause a public scandal if I didn’t comply.”

  “Make me believe that was your motive. Let me kiss you. Prove that you don’t enjoy it. If I’m wrong, I’ll walk away, and you’ll never see me again.”

  Stella seemed paralyzed.

  Rick stepped closer. He touched her veil. Slowly he pulled it above her face and set it on her black bonnet, exposing her lustrous green eyes.

  “So lovely.”

  With his right hand, he stroked her exquisite cheek.

  “Don’t hate yourself for what you’re feeling,” he said.

  She shuddered.

  “It’s the most natural thing in the world,” he assured her.

  He put his left hand on her other cheek, gently framing her face. He leaned forward and touched his lips ever so softly against hers, the kiss of a butterfly.

  He leaned back and admired her.

  Again he kissed her, again softly, barely brushing her lips, feeling a tingle come from her to him.

  “So lovely,” he said again.

  The next time he kissed her, he felt her lips part.

  Whimpering, she leaned into him.

  The scream was so loud, so filled with pain and terror, that Carolyn flinched as she and Edward listened at the partition. Accompanied by muffled, pounding sounds, the scream became so agonized that Carolyn and Edward hurriedly slid the doors aside.

  Rick lay on the floor, Stella crouched over him, thrusting a jagged shard of something repeatedly into his mangled face. Pieces of an object lay around him. One of the fragments had a ceramic handle, and Carolyn abruptly realized that it was a broken vase, the other handle of which Stella clutched as she continued to drive the spiked remnant into the crimson pulp of Rick’s features.

  “Stella!” Carolyn shouted.

  “Stop!” Edward yelled, reaching for her arm.

  Stella swung with the weapon, forcing Edward to lurch back, but not soon enough. His outstretched hand erupted with blood.

  Groaning, he stumbled against a chair, lost his balance, and fell.

  “Don’t touch me!” Stella screamed. “I won’t let a man touch me again! Ever!”

  Her veil hung to the side of her head. It was splattered with blood. So were her cheeks. So was her black crepe mourning dress.

  “I won’t let a man paw me the way you let men paw you!” she shrieked at Carolyn.

  Something walloped against the front door. As Carolyn whirled toward the drawing room’s entrance and the hallway beyond it, the front door shuddered.

  It crashed open. Two men charged inside. As they rushed toward the lamplight of the drawing room, Carolyn recognized the two detectives she’d met at the clinic. Two other figures hurried behind them.

  “Thomas! Emily!”

  From the Journal of Emily De Quincey

  On the train to London, Father had asked Commissioner Mayne to make six constables dressed in street clothes available to us. In shifts, they’d watched Carolyn’s Park Lane address. After a day of asking questions at various shops, Father and I had finally rested at Lord Palmerston’s house, along with Sean and Joseph, who joined us after their own long day of asking questions.

  We waited for something that Father said he was certain would happen—that at least one member of Carolyn’s house would depart after nightfall. By half past eleven, we’d begun to doubt him. But indeed one of the constables, having run the short distance around the corner from Park Lane to Piccadilly, suddenly pounded on Lord Palmerston’s door, alerting us that not one but three people from the Park Lane address had gotten into a carriage.

  A police van waited in Lord Palmerston’s driveway. We hurried north along Park Lane to the other watcher, who shouted, “The carriage turned right into Oxford Street!” In the fog of London’s half a million chimneys, we sped after it as best we could. A vehicle traveling at so late an hour was unusual, attracting the notice of patrolling constables, who directed us farther along Oxford Street until other constables shouted that the carriage had gone north along Tottenham Court Road and then eastward along Francis Street. In the darkness, the passing carriage had been the only thing of interest for the constables to observe.

  While we had a reason to rush, the carriage’s occupants apparently did not. In Francis Street, we caught up to it, hearing its clatter. But there was considerably less chance of our quarry hearing us, because Father had recommended a highwayman’s tactic that he’d written about in one of his murder essays: the hooves of our horses were muffled with padded burlap bags.

  When the carriage made the sounds of stopping, our driver stopped also. We descended into the cold fog, and as the carriage ahead of us resumed its clatter, we walked quietly along the street, finally discovering the only lit windows in the area, behind the draperies of a detached house that had a squat tower on each corner.

  We separated and listened at various windows in front and back.

  After the horrid scream sent Sean and Joseph crashing into the house, we encountered a frenzy that I shall never be able to purge from my memory. The combined effect was overwhelming: the pulped face of the motionless man on the floor, the crimson on Stella’s black bereavement dress, the blood that dripped from the shattered vase that she clutched, the blood that gushed from Edward’s slashed hand, and the look of terror on Carolyn’s face.

  Sean moved toward Stella, reaching for her weapon.

  “Keep away! Don’t touch me!”

  Sean said something so softly that I couldn’t hear it.

  “Speak up!” Stella said.

  “Be calm,” Sean whispered.

  I realized that he wanted her to strain to hear him, to lean forward, giving him a chance to yank the jagged vase from her grasp.

  But when he took a further step, she swung at him. Sean jerked back a moment before his hand would have been gashed as Edward’s had been.

  I never removed my gaze from Stella’s gleaming eyes while I shifted toward Edward and tore off his cravat. “Press it on your wound. Press it firmly,” I told him. All the while, I focused on Stella’s shockingly contorted features.

  “This is all her fault,” Stella said, pointing hatefully at Carolyn.

  “Be calm,” Sean repeated in a soothing voice.

  Joseph shifted slowly to the side, obviously hoping to grab her while Sean distracted
her.

  “She made me do it,” Stella said.

  “Your mother made you do what?” Father asked, moving forward.

  “Stay away!” Stella yelled to Joseph.

  “I need to find out if the man on the floor is alive,” Joseph said. “Let me go past you so that I can try to help him.”

  “He’s in hell. Nobody can help him.”

  “Stella, what did your mother make you do?” Father repeated.

  “Don’t,” Carolyn begged. “Please.”

  “She made me allow this man to paw me, just as she allowed so many men to put their filthy hands on her,” Stella said.

  “Enough,” I told everyone. “This poor woman is the one who needs help.”

  Stella looked at me with desperation.

  I stepped toward her.

  “Will you let a woman touch you?” I asked.

  Her expression changed to bafflement.

  “These men can’t possibly understand,” I said. “Let me help.”

  “Never understand,” Stella murmured.

  I took another step. She jabbed at me with the porcelain fragment, but it didn’t quite reach me, and I didn’t retreat.

  “There’s a sofa against the front window,” I said. “You’re tired. Come with me and rest.”

  Another step brought me to her. Slowly I reached out and touched the arm that didn’t hold the broken shard.

  “Come with me,” I said, leading her toward the front part of the drawing room.

  “You cut yourself,” I said. I eased her onto the sofa and sat next to her.

  “Cut?”

  “Look at your other hand. Give me the remnant of the vase. No one will hurt you.”

  As softly as I could, I took it away. Her knuckles were gashed. I pulled an embroidered cover from the arm of a nearby chair and put it on the injury. Then I moved Stella’s other hand and pressed it onto the cloth.

  While I did this, Sean and Joseph went to the back part of the drawing room and knelt beside the man on the floor, checking to see if he was alive.