by Kim Wright
“Your hair,” Gwynette murmured, smoothing back her own. Although they both were blonde, Leanna did not have the delicate beauty of her mother, but rather the rosy, vibrant coloring of the Bainbridges. Normally it would have been difficult for her to sit still during a two-hour carriage ride, but behind the wall of her veil she had realized that invisibility granted a certain freedom; since they couldn’t see her face, her family had quite bizarrely seemed to conclude that she didn’t exist, or at least that she gone deaf. They had talked about subjects she was normally not privy to hearing, and Leanna had held herself immobile, pretending to sleep, but really mulling over the implications of the conversations, and the deeper implications of her brothers’ anger.
This is what Tom has been trying to warn me about, she thought, when he says the money is passing into less benevolent hands. The power will go straight to William’s head, that’s a given. And things appear to be far worse than Mother knows. Cecil’s been gambling – daily and probably heavily, and probably with that man they call Edmund Solmes. He’s been cornered enough to consider marriage to a woman he doesn’t love, and Tom’s terrified too, frightened that William won’t see him through medical school. But the biggest shock of all had been the realization that William simply wasn’t as smart as the rest of them. He seemed to think every problem in the world could be solved with money, an opinion Leanna knew was only held by the most foolish of men.
As a child she had always looked up to her eldest brother. They had wandered the halls of Rosemoral together and she had let him press her into service in any number of tasks. She’d been his lieutenant in arms, a princess in a tower, his nurse, his valet, his pupil, his adversary in a duel fought with willow branches. Leanna had played whatever role William had wished her to play, happily, and with pride that he would notice a younger sister, that he would single her out – even if he was singling her out to die an ignoble death in their grandfather’s flower gardens.
But a new and uncomfortable truth was beginning to dawn. William may not be the quickest in wit, but, due to the fluke of birth order, he would shortly be lord of them all. Cecil would try to weedle, Tom would try to argue, and her mother would pretend they were the Bainbridges of fifty years ago and not sad remnants of an unraveling family cloth. And meanwhile she, Leanna, was both young and female and thus the most vulnerable of all. Once her grandfather had taken her out on horseback and they had ridden the perimeters of the estate. He’d talked about how the house and grounds were large, and how it took a great deal of money to sustain them. Looking back, she supposed it was Leonard’s attempt to explain the difference between genteel wealth and cash in hand. She had been no more than fourteen. She had not grasped the full implications of his lecture.
Now she did. Rosemoral, while impressive to the eye, did not necessarily provide the sort of endless income that an outsider might imagine. Leonard had been trying to explain why the estate could not be cut up as easily as a pie at dinner, why he had not bailed his own son out from his debts, why William might not be able to rescue Cecil, why what seemed like family coldness was sometimes family survival.
Her grandfather had been warning her that, appearances aside, there might not be enough to go around.
An elderly man was waiting for them under the portico of the south wing and as the carriage rolled to a stop, he stepped forward, peering up with an anxious squint. Leanna recognized him as Charles Galloway, her grandfather’s barrister, and she smiled as he lifted a shaky hand to help her down the steps.
“Mr. Galloway, I’m so glad you’re here. I was afraid you’d send one of your aides.”
“For the reading of Leonard Bainbridge’s will? You wound me, child. Your grandfather was my dearest friend. Tom, William, it’s a fine thing to see you both again. I wish it could be under better circumstances, of course, and last week at the funeral I tried to… Ah, and you of course are….” As the rest of the family climbed out of the carriage, the barrister fumbled for a moment, despite the fact he must have prepared for this meeting. Tom finished the introductions. Galloway had obviously never met Cecil, proof of how rarely Leonard’s middle grandson had visited Rosemoral, and he seemed utterly flummoxed by Gwynette who, even in mourning, could still stop a man in his tracks.
William brushed by the old man, as if determined to be the first to enter the house. He and Galloway would have regular dealings from now on, Tom thought. Presuming, of course, William had no plans for throwing Leonard’s best friend aside in favor of a barrister his own age.
“Um, yes, yes, let’s step in,” Galloway said, following William into the main hall where a young maid collected the canes, hats, and gloves. “Tillie here can bring tea to Leonard’s study and I thought that afterwards – “
“We can hear the will now, in my opinion,” Cecil said. “We only brought bags for one evening and our plan is to be underway early tomorrow morning. I have pressing social engagements and I don’t think any of us see the point in dragging things out.”
“Ah yes,” said Galloway. “Yes, we must send a boy for your things. The rooms have been prepared, of course, but I thought perhaps…” He broke off, as if he were unaccountably disappointed they wouldn’t be staying longer, and nervously fingered the leather portfolio in his hand.
Leanna reached over to grab the maid’s arm as she sped by. “Tillie,” she whispered. “If it’s no trouble, can I have the pink room with the French doors?”
“Of course, Miss, just as it’s planned. Mr. Leonard always called that ‘Miss Leanna’s room.’” She bobbed an uncertain curtsey and it occurred to Leanna that this must be hard for the staff as well, the death of a much-loved master and an abrupt change of the guard. William watched this exchange silently, then turned to Galloway.
“I agree with my brother,” he said. “Let’s get on with it. I can’t imagine it’s a particularly complex document.”
“No,” Galloway said evenly, pushing open the double doors of Leonard’s study. “Mr. Bainbridge had only one child, who predeceased him, so the people in this room represent his entire issue. Are you sure you won’t take tea?”
“It’s almost four,” William said, a slow flush of anger beginning at his neck. How dare the man offer him tea in his own house? “I presume some sort of dinner has been arranged, so we’ll be eating soon enough. We’ve had an exhausting journey, and just as Cecil said, we’ll be going home tomorrow to begin the arrangements.”
“Arrangements?” questioned Galloway.
“Arrangements to move,” said Cecil.
“Move?”
“Move from Winter Garden to Rosemoral,” William said, in complete exasperation, thinking he’d send this old fool packing as soon as he could. “As you said, the eldest son of the only son is in this room.”
“I believe I said the issue – “
“Quite. So let’s begin. As you can see, my mother is exhausted.”
Gwynette had already settled into a chair and she looked anything but exhausted. When she turned her gaze on Galloway, he flinched, thinking that her eyes were so light that the blue looked eerie, otherworldy. He wondered why only minutes ago he had thought of her as beautiful.
“I believe I would like tea,” Gwynette said, and Tillie went scrambling toward the door.
Galloway took his position behind the desk. Leanna was hit with a painful wave of nostalgia, remembering how many times she had seen her grandfather in that very chair, pouring over his journals. No, she thought, pressing her eyes closed, I won’t cry again. She was relieved when Tillie promptly returned with the tea tray and they were all able to busy themselves with the familiar rituals of napkins and cups. She was not the only one upset, she saw, for Tom’s hand trembled as he took a saucer and, for once in his life, William refused food.
“There’s a good deal of talk in the opening about sound mind and all that,” Galloway began. “And I can assure you Leonard was of sound mind. The will was witnessed by four barristers and one of his doctors who had just performed
a most through examination.” Galloway grunted and picked up his spectacles. “He begins by leaving bequests to his household staff and to his alma mater, Cambridge. He also leaves the university his scientific papers and any proceeds which might be realized from the publication of these papers. I could spell out the particulars, if you – “
“Spare us,” William said. “The dons can come tomorrow and cart out every skeleton and test tube in the place for all I care. Tell them to do so, in fact. Anything that’s left when we move in will go directly to the trash heap.”
“Indeed” said Galloway, thinking that genetics was a funny business. Neither Leonard’s son nor his two eldest grandsons had shared his love of learning. The peculiarities of the will were now beginning to make more sense. He’d tried to dissuade Leonard from the arrangement himself, fearing the terms would be contested, but Leonard had gone to great lengths to render the document unbreakable. Now, looking at the solemn faces of Tom and Leanna, Galloway understood for the first time why his friend had been so tenacious.
“Indeed,” he said again, turning back to the papers and beginning to read aloud. “I leave a thousand pounds in trust for the medical school expenses of my grandson Thomas. If my grandsons William and Cecil should decide to attend university in view of obtaining professional status in any field, a like amount shall be drawn from the general coffers and put in trust for them.” William and Cecil both frowned, but remained silent and after a pause, Galloway continued. “Four hundred pounds a year will be transferred from the general coffers into a fund for the maintenance of Rosemoral. This will allow all presently employed servants to keep their positions, whether or not the house is occupied.”
That’s odd, Leanna thought, looking up from her tea. Occupied or not? She tried to catch Tom’s eye but he was slumped his armchair, hand to his mouth, deep in thought.
“To my daughter-in-law, Gwynette Bainbridge, and to each of my three grandsons, William, Cecil, and Thomas, I leave a monthly allowance of fifty pounds, also to be drawn from the general coffers…”
Everyone was frowning now.
It isn’t what he’s saying, it’s what he isn’t saying, Tom thought. Where does Leanna come into all this?
“The Bainbridge family emeralds and the Gainsborough portrait of our mother, I entrust to my beloved sister Geraldine,” Galloway droned on. “Since she benefited from our father’s estate, I leave her no other funds and believe she will understand my reasoning …”
Suddenly an idea began to dawn in Tom’s head and he glanced quickly around the seated circle, trying to gauge if the same thought had occurred to anyone else. The reminder that his own father had left money to a daughter, the reminder of a family tradition of heiresses, Tom thought, his heart beginning to beat faster. The confident look had left William’s eyes and Cecil was bent forward, staring at a single flower on the Oriental rug.
“The estate of Rosemoral and all surrounding properties,” Galloway was reading, “along with the stocks, bonds, and monies on deposit at the Leeds Trust which constitute the general coffers….”
Galloway had everyone’s attention now. A clock struck in a distant hall and Tom jumped. One. Two. Three. Four. The chimes reverberated, trembling in the air. It’s four o’clock, Tom thought. Four o’clock and the end of the world.
“…I leave to my granddaughter, Leanna Bainbridge.”
In the weeks and months to come, Tom would lie in his dormitory room at Cambridge and try to reconstruct that moment, wondering whose face had borne the most appalled expression. Most nights he would decide it had been Leanna’s. She went absolutely white, as pale as the paper in Galloway’s hand, and beside her, both Cecil and William sat literally open-mouthed. Gywnette, a master at hiding her emotions after years of practice, gazed down into her tea cup as if she were trying to divine the future. Galloway rushed on to the last sentence of the document, nearly stammering as he read.
“My grandson Thomas is named executor of the estate.”
That said, he looked up, and wiped his brow. This final statement seemed to have stunned the listeners fully as much as the announcement of primary heir, for it was at least thirty seconds – measured by the tormenting beat of the clock – before William rose shakily to his feet.
“He was mad, obviously mad…”
Galloway gazed at the younger, stronger man with no expression. “He knew you would say as much, which is why he went to such pains to make sure the document is beyond reproach.”
“Beyond reproach, my –“
“We’ll fight it, you must know that,” Cecil said, moving to stand beside William. “To leave a fortune of this size to an nineteen-year-old girl –“
“Twenty.” The voice seemed to come from nowhere.
“I’m twenty,” Leanna repeated slowly, also rising to her feet.
“Well, I beg your pardon,” Cecil snapped. “That puts an entirely new face on everything. And naming this boy as the executor is surely the final joke of a man gone mad from inhaling too much formaldehyde.”
“I’m not a boy, and Grandfather named me executor for a reason,” Tom said. “He knew I’d protect Leanna, that I wouldn’t let you break the will…”
“Protect her?” Cecil flopped back into his seat with an ugly laugh. “Well I’m sure our sister will sleep better in her room tonight knowing that you’re her designated guardian. Oh, but they’re all your rooms now, aren’t they, darling? Tell me, can mother and William and I stay the evening, or do you plan to put us in the barn with the livestock?”
“You must know that I never…” Leanna stopped and tried to take a breath, struggling to inhale against the tight ribcage of her corset.
“Leanna?” Tom said, extending an arm. She was very pale.
“Perhaps you should rest, Miss Bainbridge,” Galloway said. “There’s a couch – “
Tom was moving towards her, but he was too late. Leanna made one last attempt to speak and then the floor rose up and slapped her in the face.
CHAPTER TWO
September 9
4:05 PM
It may have been high tea in the more civilized neighborhoods of London, but there was little time for ceremony at Scotland Yard. As had been the case for days, the front lawn was overrun with reporters, eyewitnesses, whores, lunatics, preachers, and politicians, all demanding to know what the police were going to do about the East End murders.
Trevor Welles cut through the crowd with a speed which belied his size. He was of a body type often called portly, a term he detested, for he was proud of the fact his back and shoulders were dense with muscles. Besides, years on the force had taught him that a long low stride covered ground as well as a run, and there were few men in the Yard who could outdistance him when it mattered.
As he entered the building, a desk sergeant jerked a thumb to indicate he should take the stairs. Trevor bounded up three flights to the meeting room where at least two dozen plainclothes detectives sat waiting. At the front of the room stood a slate and a small table with several items littered about the surface. Trevor picked his way to the front row. Inspector Arthur Eatwell was sitting behind the table staring at the bare wall in front of him and he failed to acknowledge Trevor’s greeting.
“You may smoke, gentlemen,” the Inspector said, without moving, and all the detectives pulled out their pipes. There were a few coughs, a scraping of chairs, and then a variety of aromas, from cherry to leather, began to fill the air.
The door behind Eatwell opened and a small, gray haired man entered carrying a black leather bag. “Thank you for joining us, Dr. Phillips,” Inspector Eatwell said, finally turning from the wall. “Gentlemen, I’m sure you’ll all recognize our chief coroner. Begin anywhere you wish. ”
The doctor nodded toward the men, and sat his bag on the table. “Then I’ll start by saying to date Scotland Yard has completely bungled the investigation of these two murders.”
A murmur swept through the room and Eatwell’s ears reddened, although he kept his look of
rapt attention.
“Don’t you mean three murders, sir?” Trevor asked, raising one hand, and leafing through his journal with the other. “What about Martha Tabram, found August seventh?”
“And there have been other knifings of women in the East End this year,” came a voice from the back. “Annie Millwood in February, Ada Wilson in March, Emma Smith in April…”
Trevor turned to see that this last speaker was Rayley Abrams, who was leaning against the far wall of the room. Abrams had come on the force a year before Trevor and his solemn demeanor, coupled with his almost ludicrously thick spectacles, had earned him the nickname “professor” around the Yard. But unlike Trevor, Abrams knew how to outthink his superiors without annoying them, how to make a suggestion without it sounding more like an accusation. Some predicted he’d make the rank of Chief Detective by the close of the year, at least if he managed to attach himself to a high profile case. And no case in the Yard was drawing more attention than this one.
The doctor glanced at Eatwell, as if looking for guidance.
“Tabrum was stabbed thirty-nine times,” Trevor blurted out, aware that he was repeating information well known to everyone in the room, but still determined to make his point. “That indicates a killer in a frenzy, exactly the sort of man we’re looking for.”
“Our inquiry only concerns these two women,” Eatwell said. “If we included every unfortunate in the East End we’d fill up the walls.” He stood to flip over the slate. It read:
Mary Ann “Pretty Polly” Nichols
Age: 42
Killed August 31, Shoreditch
Anne “Dark Annie” Chapman
Age: 47
Killed September 8, Hanbury Street
“Now, Doctor,” Eatwell said, “would you care to specify your findings?”
Phillips advanced to the podium. “My efforts were hampered by the fact the bobbies who originally found the bodies were rather, shall we say, overzealous. Nichols was moved to a workhouse mortuary, cleaned and washed before a doctor was even called in. Who can say how many vital clues were literally swept down the drain?” Eatwell looked at his fingernails with sudden interest as the coroner went on. “Things were not much better with Chapman. Her body was carried to a shed before it could be properly examined and again, by the time I arrived, a good bit of evidence had been destroyed. It’s been said before but must be repeated. A body should not be lifted and moved.”
