Ruler of the Night

by David Morrell

  “How did you meet Edward?”

  “Brunell died from typhus. Edward—that’s not his actual name—was one of Brunell’s acquaintances. Edward was a sometime actor. He had a gift for assuming genteel airs, and I decided that he’d be perfect for the role of the man who offered the young girls to gentlemen. He looked like someone whom the gentlemen he approached could trust.”

  “Eventually you married him.”

  “After what I just told you? Heaven help me, I would never submit myself to marriage,” Carolyn replied in horror.

  “Then who is Stella’s father?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea. She was one of the babies I used in my various schemes. Unlike the rest of the babies, somehow Stella knew how to play her role. I told her that I was her mother. I raised her. I trained her. Sometimes the role required her to be in a cradle behind a curtain when the gentlemen visited me and the angry man burst into the room, claiming to be my husband. Stella was perfect. She always wailed on cue, further surprising the gentlemen.”

  “That’s how she saw men pawing you.”

  Yet again Carolyn looked toward the partition that hid the corpse.

  “Truly, I don’t hear anything behind there,” De Quincey said. “Tell me about 1848.”

  Carolyn sighed in exhaustion. “By then, I lived in wonderful houses on splendid estates in the various cities where Edward and I and Stella worked our schemes. But it was obvious to me that the wealthy displayed such arrogance that the poor would soon revolt. Before Europe exploded, I sold everything I owned. The prices I offered were so tempting that I had no difficulty enticing fools to buy my houses and estates. Three months later, those properties were in flames. But by then, Edward and I and Stella were in London, posing as a respectable family who’d managed to escape the chaos. I thought that the name I invented—Richmond—was brilliant, combining the concept of wealth with the French word for ‘world.’ London was so fearful over the possibility of a revolution that no one questioned our story. Even if someone had suspected that our story wasn’t true, he couldn’t have investigated us, given the chaos that had seized the Continent. Edward opened an office in the business district, at first as a lender and then as an investment adviser. Owning a house in Park Lane establishes immense credibility. An increasing number of people trusted us, including the prime minister and various cabinet members. All the business decisions were mine, of course. Edward might seem elegant, but he isn’t very clever. Even so, I needed him because investors won’t trust a woman the way they do a man.”

  “Wainwright told me that you and he were in league together and that you owned the hydropathy clinic.”

  Carolyn hesitated. “Everything’s ruined now. Why not tell you? Wainwright was another of my associates in Europe. It took me a while to find a use for him. Wainwright listened as the wealthy clients at the clinic talked among themselves about investment opportunities, and then he reported their conversations to us.”

  “Lord Palmerston told me he trusted you so much that he enlisted your help in clandestine government matters. You arranged for Dr. Mandt to hide at the clinic, for example.”

  Carolyn gave De Quincey a mournful look. “So you asked questions of the prime minister also?”

  “He and I have an unusual relationship.”

  “I thought that my relationship with him was unusual too. But no longer.” Yet again, Carolyn turned toward the partition that hid the corpse. “I spent a lifetime clawing my way to an unimaginable status. I almost rose even higher. Having a grandson who’s a lord—can there be anything more wonderful than that? And I lost it all in one night.”

  They heard the rattle of a vehicle approaching along the street; it stopped in front of the house.

  “That’s our transportation,” De Quincey said. “I’ll escort you back to Park Lane.”

  “Thomas, what made you distrust me?”

  “From the start, I was bothered by your sudden appearance at Lord Palmerston’s house on Saturday morning. You’d followed my career and knew all the books that I’d published. You knew many of the details of my life, which you’d gleaned from reading my work. But you’d never bothered to contact me, even though it would not have been difficult to send inquiries to the magazines for which I wrote and to the publishers who released my books.”

  De Quincey studied his laudanum bottle. “You see, I care so little about myself that I don’t expect anyone to care for me either. Emily’s devotion to me at the expense of her own happiness astonishes me. So I couldn’t help wondering about your sudden determination to see me face to face. Did you want something? I wondered.”

  With hollow-sounding footsteps, a constable walked through the house and stopped at the drawing-room door. “The carriage is ready whenever you are, Mr. De Quincey.”

  “In a moment,” De Quincey told him. “Could you please wait outside?”

  “Of course.”

  “Carolyn, what did you want from me?” De Quincey asked.

  “As you noted, Dr. Mandt was hiding at the hydropathy clinic. Daniel Harcourt’s murder while he was en route to Sedwick Hill attracted the attention of the newspapers and the police—and perhaps the Russians. I thought that if I took you to the clinic, the presence of so famous a personality would provide a distraction so that Dr. Mandt would be able to get away unnoticed.”

  “In the end, your plan succeeded. Wainwright is escorting him to safety. Carolyn, are you certain that you didn’t wish me to go with you to Sedwick Hill so that I could be present when Stella killed her husband and so that I could acknowledge the evidence that made it seem Harold had killed his father?”

  “I knew nothing about any of it.”

  De Quincey considered this reply, nodded, and stood. “Allow me to escort you to the carriage. Please lean on me to compensate for your weak leg.”

  She accepted his offered hand and rose from the chair with the aid of her cane. She was so tall that he felt even smaller. Nonetheless, he was able to support her.

  “Thomas, on Saturday, you asked me if there was any moment in my life that I wish I could change.”

  “Yes, a moment when if something hadn’t happened or if something else had happened, our lives might have taken a different course. Perhaps a better one.”

  Carolyn leaned harder on him. “I wish you’d never gone to Eton to visit the family friend who had the power to save you from being a beggar. I wish you’d stayed with me in that terrible house in Greek Street. When Brunell rushed inside and announced fearfully that he and I had to hurry away, you could have told him I wasn’t going with him and that you intended to take care of me.”

  “Yes. We could have been a family. You and I and Ann,” De Quincey said.

  With De Quincey’s support and that of her cane, Carolyn limped toward the door. “How different things could have been,” she said.

  “Too different. I wouldn’t have had Emily,” De Quincey told her.

  As Ryan tugged Edward Richmond along the murky jail corridor, Harold stood from the cot in his cell.

  “Edward!” he exclaimed. “Thank heaven, you’ve come to get me out of here!”

  “He’s taking your place,” Ryan said.

  “What?”

  Keys jangling, the grizzled jailer unlocked the barred door, saying, “Busy, busy. Out, out. Make room for your cell’s new guest.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Harold said, exiting the cell.

  Ryan removed the handcuffs from Edward and pushed him into the cell.

  “It’s the best we have,” the jailer told Edward, twisting the key. “No drafts ’cause there ain’t a window. I hope you’re not afraid of the dark.”

  “I won’t be here for long! Carolyn will soon bring lawyers!” Edward shouted.

  “You’ll need many of them!” Ryan called over his shoulder as he took Harold along the corridor.

  Outside in the cold fog of Whitehall, Harold hugged his arms around his chest. “What’s this all about?” he asked.

&nb
sp; “Lord Cavendale, you’re free to go.”

  “You’re using my title?” The lamp above the jail’s entrance revealed Harold’s look of surprise. “You’re no longer accusing me of killing my father?”

  “We know who did it. I apologize for arresting you, my lord.”

  “You’re actually addressing me as my lord? Who are you accusing now?” Harold sounded astonished.

  “Your stepmother.”

  “I kept telling you she did it!”

  “Yes, but all the evidence was against you.”

  “What in blazes changed?”

  “We heard her admit to it.”

  The reference to we included Becker, who stood in the background.

  “Admit to it?” Harold repeated, stunned.

  “My lord, as I indicated, you’re free to go.”

  “To where? I don’t have the money for a cab, let alone a room.”

  “I’m sure the jailer will let you sleep in an unlocked cell until morning.”

  “Sleep in a cell? I’ve seen more than enough of that place!” Harold walked toward a streetlamp. “Perhaps my club will let me stay there, even though I haven’t paid my dues.”

  “Lord Cavendale?” Ryan called to him.

  Harold turned. “What is it?”

  “If I ever hear that you struck another woman…”

  Harold considered him for several seconds. “I understand. You have my word that I never shall.”

  Harold disappeared into the fog.

  Ryan turned to Becker. “You weren’t as certain about his guilt as I was. That’s why you sent someone to contact lawyers on his behalf.”

  “The evidence was definitely against him.”

  “Then what was your difficulty?” Ryan asked.

  “Because of what he did to Emily, we were rushing him to the gallows,” Becker replied. “In fact, you nearly killed him the night we arrested him.”

  “Again, I thank you for stopping me.”

  “It’s for a judge and jury to decide if he should hang,” Becker said. “If you hadn’t been furious about what he did to Emily, you might have seen the evidence in a different way.”

  Ryan considered what Becker had said. After several seconds, he peered down at the cobblestones and nodded. “It could be that I’ve taught you as much as I can.”

  The carriage emerged from the fog and arrived at Carolyn’s Park Lane house. De Quincey stepped down and escorted her through the darkness up the stone steps to the large double doors.

  “Tomorrow, you need to ask Dr. Snow about your limp,” he advised.

  “He’ll probably tell me I should rest.”

  “An excellent idea,” De Quincey said. “I hope that you manage to sleep. In the morning, I’ll come back and see if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  “Help?” Carolyn seemed to find the concept incomprehensible. “Thank you, Thomas.” She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. “If only we’d never parted.”

  She watched him go back to the street and tell the carriage driver to proceed without him. He turned to the left, the fog enveloping him. She heard the sound of his footsteps diminish as he walked toward Piccadilly and Lord Palmerston’s house.

  She withdrew a key from a pocket and freed the lock. After she limped into the entrance hall and bolted the door behind her, the echoes seemed more reverberant than usual. She noted that the servants had, as always, placed a saucer of the phosphorus paste at the bottom of the curved staircase.

  She moved to an ornate side table, where she struck a match and applied it to the wick in a silver lamp. The entrance hall had never seemed vaster, its crystal chandelier never more elegant, its black-and-white marble squares never more grand, its paintings, pedestals, and ancient Roman sculptures never more sublime.

  How far I have come from that horror of a rat-and-ghost-filled house in Greek Street, she thought.

  Holding the lamp, she limped past the green-glowing paste. After tucking her walking stick under a sash on her dress, she used her free hand to grip the polished brass railing of the staircase and climbed, although pulled herself upward might have been a more accurate description. She admired the railing’s outward curve, designed to provide space for the widest of hoop dresses. She thought of the many glorious dinners and receptions that had awaited guests at the top of the staircase.

  There, another green-glowing saucer lit the way. Carolyn entered the large room on the left and set the lamp on the long table where, only a few days earlier, exotic teas and confections had been arranged for one of her twice-monthly whist parties, invitations to which were coveted by the wives of the rich and powerful, all of them eager for her opinions about the latest trends and investment opportunities.

  She made her way across the deep reds and greens in the intricate pattern of the much-admired Persian rug. She reached the French doors that led to the enormous balcony outside. While most households kept their draperies closed so that outsiders couldn’t see the private activities within, Carolyn told her servants not to shield the windows, proud of the luxurious life she’d attained, happy for anyone in the lesser world to see it.

  Tonight, as usual, the fog prevented her from seeing Hyde Park across the way, the trees and horseback-riding trails that created the illusion of the countryside. But staring toward the fog, she had no difficulty imagining the incomparable vista that the night concealed. When she was a starving ten-year-old in Greek Street, if a fortune-teller had told her that this would be her destiny, she would have assumed that the fortune-teller was not only a charlatan but also a lunatic.

  The lamp revealed Carolyn’s reflection on one of the glass doors. For a moment, she tensed, not recognizing the wan woman in front of her. Then it seemed to her that the figure was a ghost, one that was all too familiar.

  She thrust her apprehension aside and turned to scan the room where the very best of English society had delighted in her company. She heard her guests saying, Oh, Mrs. Richmond, how clever of you. Oh, Mrs. Richmond, where on earth did you find that lovely dress? Oh, Mrs. Richmond, who designed this remarkable set of china? Oh, Mrs. Richmond. Mrs. Richmond.

  Then she heard Thomas asking if there had ever been a moment in her life that she’d wished she could change.

  Scrittle-scrattle.

  She raised her walking stick, ready to defend herself against the rats.

  Where are they? Not on the floor, Carolyn decided. The carpet won’t allow their claws to make that sharp sound.

  They’re in the walls.

  She listened harder, but now all she heard was the ticking of the clock in the entrance hall, so huge and lonely did the house seem.

  She picked up the lamp, limped into the corridor, and reached another green-glowing saucer of paste, this one on the next tier of the staircase. Again she put her walking stick under the sash of her dress, gripped the railing, and pulled herself up the steps.

  She reached a door next to her bedroom and opened it. Curtains encircled a child’s bed. When she parted them, she saw little Jeremy sleeping between the metal bars that prevented him from falling out.

  A figure rose from the shadows.

  Carolyn raised the walking stick, preparing to strike at the ghost.

  “Who’s there?” the figure murmured sleepily. “Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Richmond.”

  Carolyn lowered the walking stick.

  “I’m just checking on little Jeremy,” she whispered to the servant.

  She tilted her head to indicate that they should retreat to the corridor.

  Outside, the servant frowned. “Forgive me for asking, Mrs. Richmond, but are you ill? You look pale.”

  “Merely tired. But thank you for your concern, Marybeth. Did little Jeremy accept the wet nurse I sent for?”

  “He was very hungry,” Marybeth replied with a smile.

  “Good. We want him to grow up to be big and strong.”

  “Indeed, ma’am.”

  “Do you enjoy attending to infants? It may be that his mother ne
eds to take a journey.”

  “A journey, ma’am?”

  “Yes, a very long one. Are you comfortable with an infant?”

  “I cared for my baby brother when I was only ten and my baby sister when I was fourteen,” Marybeth answered with another smile.

  “Then at nineteen, you shouldn’t have any difficulty.”

  “Not at all, Mrs. Richmond. Why is Jeremy’s mother taking a long journey?”

  “You’ll know soon enough. Go back to sleep. I want you to feel rested. From now on, little Jeremy will be your sole duty.”

  “I feel honored. Thank you for trusting me.”

  Scrittle-scrattle.

  Carolyn whirled.

  “What’s wrong, Mrs. Richmond?”

  “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  Scrittle-scrattle.

  “They’re under the floor.”

  “They, Mrs. Richmond?”

  “Rats. Don’t you hear them?”

  Scrittle-scrattle.

  “No, ma’am. I don’t hear anything.”

  Scrittle-scrattle.

  Carolyn pounded her walking stick against the carpet on the floor.

  “Go away, damn you! Go away!”

  She struck the floor harder.

  In the bedroom, little Jeremy whimpered.

  “Please, Mrs. Richmond. You’re scaring him.”

  “What?”

  “You’re scaring little Jeremy.”

  “Scaring…” Carolyn raised the walking stick in her hand and stared at it. She directed her attention toward the half-open bedroom door, beyond which Jeremy whimpered.

  The noises stopped.

  “Well, we can’t have that. We don’t want him frightened,” Carolyn agreed.

  She lowered the walking stick. The candles of two servants appeared on the staircase that led down from the topmost level.

  “Is everything all right, Mrs. Richmond?” a footman asked.

  “You need to put out more saucers of the paste,” she said.