by Kim Wright
Their conversation might have seemed casual to an observer like Leanna, but Emma was shaken by the exchange, just as she always was whenever Tom appeared. And he appeared so regularly - could it just be filial devotion to Geraldine, or was it something else which drew him to Mayfair on his free afternoons? Her hands were unsteady as she went about laying out the tea and cakes, and as she sloshed a bit over the lip of one of the cups Tom glanced up and winked at her, which promptly caused her to slosh even more over the lip of the next.
He was certainly different form the other men she knew, Emma thought, watching him from the corner of her eye as he leaned over in a near-prone position and resumed his conversation with his sister. Not that she had known so many men, but those dull ones who’d blush and nod at the grocer’s or on the afternoon drives with Geraldine – they all lacked Tom’s easy manner and quick laugh. They’re like me, she thought. Grim and determined and always thinking of what’s to be done next. It’s the working class expression and I’m a fine one to say it isn’t good enough. Nonetheless, an evening spent strolling with a young man who felt constantly weary and whose time was never his own would be quite different from an afternoon with Tom, who could take her to the theatre, for a ride, to the cafes.
“What am I thinking of?” Emma scolded herself, pulling her thoughts back to the reality of the present situation. She was no more likely to be invited out by Tom than she was to receive a summons to the palace. Flirting with the help in the confines of his aunt’s home was one thing; taking a serving girl out on the town was something else again, and Emma knew that deep down Tom was far too prudent a man to risk censure by doing so. “I won’t think of him,” she said to herself. “It isn’t going to be, so I won’t think of him.” Then she pulled off her apron and slipped up the back stairs to the privacy of her room where - just a few steps above the door of Tom’s bedroom - she could have the uninterrupted luxury of plenty of time to think of him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
October 2
3:15 PM
Cecil lit his pipe and a wave of good feeling, as unaccustomed as the autumn sunshine, washed over him. Ever since the ball, he and Hannah were practically engaged, as evidenced by the note which had come three days ago asking Cecil, William, and their mother to attend the annual Wentworth grouse hunt. Such invitations were scarce and much to be valued, for the hunt was very nearly a private family affair. His plan of pretending that William was the heir had succeeded brilliantly. Edmund Solmes had danced an arthritic little jig when Cecil had ridden over specifically to wave the invitation in his face and had barked, “You’re as good as in her bedchamber, my boy!”
Yes, well every silver lining did have its cloud, Cecil reflected, eyeing Hannah as she dismounted from her horse and began the long walk across the brilliant jade lawn toward the portico. She didn’t look so bad from a distance, but he would never be able to claim he’d married a beauty. The long features and bushy brows which sat dashingly upon the father did not look so charming on the daughter. But the man had sired no sons, bless him, and Hannah would someday have this all.
Hannah and her husband, Cecil thought, leaping to his feet as the girl neared. Winter Garden and even Rosemoral were mere hovels in contrast with the Wentworth estate, which boasted twenty bedchambers and a stable the size of most universities. It would take some flowers, some candy, perhaps the promise of a honeymoon in France…
“Cecil,” Hannah greeted him calmly, her face flushed and small beads of perspiration dotting her lip. “The ride was so invigorating. I’m so sorry your back pain prevented you from coming with us.”
“Ah, yes, polo injury,” Cecil lied smoothly, for no force on earth would persuade him to mount one of the Wentworth Arabs. Mounting their daughter would prove challenge enough. Beyond Hannah’s shoulder he could see William shakily lowering his huge frame from a gloriously white stallion and even his mother, who rode sidesaddle with a surprisingly sure hand, looked a bit off-balance as she was helped from a dark mare. “But the hunt was a success, I take it?”
“Very much so, although none of us eat grouse, of course. But the servants shall be happy tonight,” answered Hannah, flopping down gracelessly in the chair beside him and indicating with one gloved hand that he was also free to sit. “It’s a strange world we live in, is it not? We ride far out in the field and dismount, trekking through the muddy woods in search of grouse for the servants to eat. And all the while they remain here at the estate butchering lamb for our dinner.”
“It’s sport, darling. ‘Tisn’t meant to make sense.”
“Daddy took in seven fowl himself.”
“Daddy must have quite the steady aim. I shall remember that,” Cecil said, smiling.
“You should,” she answered, with no smile at all.
A young maid was circulating with refreshment for the riders and Cecil did not let his sedentary morning prevent him from trying a bit of triffle. The girl gave him a saucy smirk as she passed, not the first of the day, and Cecil returned the favor. It truly wouldn’t be so bad, he thought. Once he managed to get Hannah with child a great deal of pressure should fall from his shoulders and he would be free to do as he pleased, either with this bold little wench or another. Hannah was of a social class to understand and perhaps even appreciate a man’s need to sow freely, just so long as he was discreet and squired his wedded wife about the county with proper respect. Cecil fully intended to play by the rules.
“I must bathe,” said Hannah, not at all self-consciously, and the other ladies were also filing upstairs in giggling groups of two or three to change into day dresses. “Cousin Marguarite plans to play her violin in the south parlor for our amusement, and amusement is indeed the right term because she’s dreadful. Should I expect you to wait for me?”
“Eternally,” Cecil said fervently.
Hannah turned steady grey eyes upon him.
“Half an hour should be enough,” she said, rising. He was certainly handsome, she thought fleetingly, and he said the right things, but did she really want to look at him across the breakfast table for the next forty years? Hannah sighed, dreading the moment she would have to exchange riding gear for the constrictions of a corset and stays. Dreading the moment she would have to trade girlhood for the constrictions of wifedom and motherhood. But the day was coming soon enough, for she was past twenty and she had faced the fact long ago that any man who married her would be doing so for her money. She was rich and she was plain and there was no reason to pretend otherwise. If not Cecil, it would be some other suitor, equally poor and handsome and eager, and her father made it clear that the one thing he expected from his cherished daughter was a brood of grandchildren. Perhaps Cecil would at least have the prudence to get her with child and then leave her alone. He seemed a sensible sort, beneath all that lace and velvet.
The remainder of the riders straggled off to change, the servants darting off behind them to provide basins, water, and towels. Cecil was left alone once again in the portico. He took up his sherry and looked around for the yellow-haired maid.
“Thought you was to marry Miss Hannah,” whispered the girl, squirming a bit as Cecil worked his hands beneath the tight ribcage of her bodice.
“Who told you that?” he answered breathlessly, finally managing to pull her down beside him. These rosebushes clustered in back of the stables provided a safe hiding place. He would have to remember.
“Slow down and do it proper,” said the girl, as arrogant as Hannah in her way. “You’re going to rip it,” she added primly, rising back to her knees and beginning to unhook the miniscule buttons with swift, sure hands. “There, we can loosen it up a bit, but I daren’t take it all off here in the daylight. And everyone knows about you and Miss Hannah, even the deaf girl who does the mending.”
“I don’t care for her,” Cecil said, watching the girl daintily lift up her black cotton skirt to expose two ivory garters. “It’s a business arrangement, pure and simple.”
“Who do you care for
?”
“No one. You. I care for you. What did you say your name was?”
The girl giggled, letting him pull her back down on top of him. “I’m June,” she said. “Remember that name when you’re master of the house, won’t you, love?”
Cecil mumbled something incoherent and then they both were silent. The heat of Indian summer mixed with the nearly overpowering scent of the roses and the surprising sureness of the girl was too much for him. She seemed to sense this.
“Lie back,” she said throatily. “I’ll take care of it.”
Ah, yes, Cecil thought, letting his head roll to the grass with an inelegant thud. This is how it should be. The master of the house should lie back and let the serving girl take care of it.
“Hush,” said the girl, her face suddenly frozen in fear.
“Hmm,” murmured Cecil. He hadn’t said anything.
“Hush,” June whispered. “I hear someone. Bloody Bob, he works in the stable and he thinks he owns me.”
Cecil froze too, for there were unmistakably the sound of footsteps approaching, soft in the grass but distinct.
“There,” Silas Wentworth was saying. “These are the rosebushes I wanted you to see. We keep them out back where the sun is a bit better, but they are Hannah’s pride, aren’t they, darling?”
“Yes,” answered the familiar voice, calm and self-assured.
“Oh God,” Cecil thought, the blood suddenly deserting the lower limbs of his body and rushing back to his head with such veracity the thought it would explode. June was lying immobile beside him, her eyes and legs wide.
“My grandfather grew roses,” William said. “He took several prizes, didn’t he, mother?”
“Indeed,” Gwynette said, although Leonard Bainbridge’s horticulture experiments had never been quite such a social asset before. “You must come with us sometime to Rosemoral, Hannah, and gather cuttings for your own gardens…”
The voices faded and for a dizzying moment Cecil thought he was safe. Then he heard his brother - fat, wretched, stupid, hopeless William - say mildly “I do like that peach colored variety over there. I say, Miss Wentworth, is that one of your specialties?”
“The color is nothing compared to the scent,” Silas Wentworth said proudly. “I shall pluck you a sample…”
And then the bushes parted as the gates of hell and four startled faces looked down at the couple sprawled beneath them. With a muffled shriek June leapt up and sprinted toward the stables, buttoning her dress as she ran, but Cecil could do little more than gape up at the expressions of his accusers. Wentworth speechless with fury, his mother ashen with shock, William unaccountably amused, and finally Hannah. Her face, as always, was difficult to read and Cecil was in no condition to be perceptive.
Drat it all, Hannah was thinking. I shall have to go through this tedious courtship process yet again.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
2:50 PM
Eager to inform Davy of his unofficial promotion, Trevor scoured the Yard for the lad and finally found him having a smoke with some other bobbies at the back entrance. Praise youth, Trevor thought wryly. Davy looked none the worse for his grisly early morning experience and he snapped to attention when Trevor motioned him over.
"Davy, I don’t know if I expressed my gratitude adequately to you last night. Securing the area, keeping back the mob, the bit about the chalk message. It all adds up to good police work.”
“Just my job, Sir.”
“And now I have one more request. That you go to your flat this instant, change out of that uniform, and be back here in one hour in plainclothes. You've been assigned to me for the rest of the investigation."
Davy's face went from puzzled to shocked as he stammered for something to say. He lacked at least two years of being qualified to work in plainclothes and this would certainly make him the envy of all the other bobbies. "I hardly deserve it, Sir, it was just a matter of being in the right place at the right time..."
"And doing all the right things. Don't sell yourself short, Madley, there are plenty of people willing to do that chore for you."
"Thank you, Welles, I mean Sir. I...I..."
"Don't just stand there, boy, be off. Report to the interrogation room at four. We’ll be questioning people the rest of the afternoon. Not suspects, mind you, just witnesses. God only knows how valid their observations are, but Eatwell wants them duly noted, every one. "
As Davy took off like a man possessed, Trevor was hit with a sudden wave of exhaustion. The two shallow hours of sleep he’d snatched at dawn wouldn’t see him through this day, he suspected, and he wondered if he might grab a quick nap in his office before the interviews began. He glanced at the members of the press milling about the lawn and they looked back at him hungrily. The rule was they couldn’t come within twenty feet of the doorways of the Yard, but there had been few details in the morning paper. With two murders, nice and fresh, they wanted more gore for the next day’s editions. Trevor watched them with narrowed eyes and decided that yes, perhaps there was time for at least twenty minutes of a nap. The center square clock was striking three.
Forty-five minutes later, a red-faced Davy Madley was walking down the corridor in his Sunday best suit - his only suit for that matter - and manfully trying to ignore the shrill whistles of his fellow bobbies. Although his cheeks flamed, Davy took it all in good spirits because he too would have made fun if any of them had enjoyed such a dramatic twist of fortune. As he approached the interrogation room he noticed some of the witnesses had been assembled outside on a bench. It was a motley crew to be sure.
Trevor, mercifully, did not tease him at all, but simply pointed out his first desk. A regulation issued brown box, but Davy ascended to it as if it were a throne.
"Here are some blank reports and pencils, Davy. Just listen to what each has to say. If you feel it pertains even remotely to the facts in the case, then write the statement down and get their names, address, and where they work. Don't write down everything everyone says, for a good part of our job is the ability to distinguish the crackpots from those who look like crackpots but who have useful information. No matter how daft they seem, be polite."
"Aye, Sir. Be polite."
“My desk is in that corner, so I’m close at hand if anything unusual arises. Gad, what am I saying, it will all be unusual. I mean unusually unusual.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Davy and motioned to the sergeant stationed at the door to send in the first witness. She entered, clearly a lady of the evening who was translating none too well to full daylight. She smiled a slack-mouthed grin at Davy, and Trevor was pleased to see he greeted her in a professional manner.
Trevor's first interview was with a shabbily-dressed man with a pronounced limp and the smell of urine about him. Nevertheless, Trevor sat the poor, small creature down in the chair beside him with grave dignity, and leaned back as far as possible.
"I did it, Guv'ner! I did!" said the little man, grinning broadly and not bothering to wait for a question.
"You did what, my good man?"
"Killed 'em. Murdered each ‘un in cold blood!"
"Who?" asked Trevor, his face still suitably serious although he doubted this man could hurt a flea.
"Why, ‘ose bitches from Whitechapel, of course." he said, spraying Trevor's papers with spittle. "Did 'em all in. Two last night."
"And how, may I ask, did you kill the two last night? Excuse me, I didn't get your name."
"Why, Hoppy! Hoppy Darby, of course! Oh, it was bloody, Guv'ner, bloody indeed. The first one, I snuck up behind 'er and slit 'er throat 'fore she knew it. Then I stayed and serenaded ‘er on me mouth harp while she bleeded to death. But she went too quick and that wasn't ‘nough for me. Hadn't finished me song. That' why I went for the other one."
"And how did this second poor girl go?"
"Pulled ‘er arm off with me bare hands. Then I beat ‘er over the head with it til she passed out, I did."
"Indeed?" said Trevor. "Dreadful."
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"Aye, dreadful," Hoppy said happily.
"And then, Hoppy, what did you do with the woman's arm?"
A brief pause. A wrinkled brow.
"I took it home, cooked it up, and ate me fill, I did. I even fed the bones to me dog. So Guv'ner, you'd better lock me up and throw away the key. I’m no good at all, ye see?"
"Lock you up!" Trevor shouted, slapping a palm to his desk and rising so forcefully that even Davy from across the room drew back a bit. "Hoppy, you have been very naughty indeed! We hang people for crimes like these, hang them as soon as possible." Trevor started leafing through his calendar on his desk.
"Hang me!" Hoppy gasped, clutching his throat in retreat. "Who'll feed me dog? Why canna you just put the both of us away for the rest of our born days?"
"I'm sorry Hoppy, for your crime it's hanging. Are you ready? We can hang you and your dog this afternoon."
"Hang me mutt, too? Why, 'e's done nothing."
"You said it yourself, the dog ate the evidence. So we'll string him up there alongside you. Where is this criminal canine anyway?"
Hoppy got up from his chair and took a few shaky steps backward. "I made it all up, Guv'nor, didn't kill anyone. Please don't 'ang us. Didn't do it, was a story."
"And now you're saying you're a liar too? Hoppy, I'm so disappointed in you. Well you'd better be out of my sight or I'll hang you and that damn dog both, just for lying.”
Hoppy could barely get the door open in his haste. Trevor followed and laughed as he watched the tattered figure jerking down the corridor. The people on the bench observed the exit with impassive eyes and once Hoppy was out of sight they turned back to Trevor, whose expression had changed from smiling to sternness again as he shouted, "Next!"
By the time Trevor had returned to his desk Davy was interviewing another witness, Robert Spicer, a constable Davy knew from the East End.
