“Perhaps, but I’m not sure how she’ll react to it. She only knows me as a brother. I’d rather she never learns just what a cad I can be.”
“Hardly that!” Sinclair declared. “You may not have loved Della’s mother, but you never denied your child. Had Cozette told you before you left Paris, I’m sure you’d have done well by her.”
“We’ll never know, will we?” Aubrey asked, his tone strange. “Still, though I try to maintain the actions of a brother, it gets evermore difficult to keep my protective streak in check. Your cousin, for instance. That pompous baronet at the wedding. It was all I could do to keep from strangling him by his scrawny throat!”
“You won’t find me stopping you,” Sinclair told him as their hansom turned west onto Little Alie Street. “Albert Wendaway’s been a thorn in my side for a very long time. Keep him away from Della. He will only bring her to ruin, and I’ll not have that. I’ve grown to love her dearly.”
“Della loves you, too. Tory may have told you this, but whilst you lay unconscious, Della sat beside you each morning and afternoon. Emerson taught her a few basic nursing duties, and my beautiful daughter performed each with efficiency and tender care. She would talk to you, and whenever I’d happen to catch her, I could see the despair on her face, Charles. The last time she looked like that, my father lay dying. She feared you might die, too. She truly loves you.”
He smiled. “Della is the brightest star in England—second to Beth, of course. I’m very glad that bright star is now found. Where is Romanov, I wonder? It’s very odd that he’s not yet appeared. After taking such care of Elizabeth, why would he disappear just hours before the castle is attacked?”
“That is a riddle we must solve, Charles. I never thought I’d say this, but I’d actually feel relief if that Russian mystery walked through our door. When Beth is able to bear it, we’ll need to ask her about last Sunday’s events and all that happened afterward.”
“I’d like to postpone that for as long as possible. I prefer she have a long rest first.”
They arrived at the police station, and a young constable rushed to help the superintendent from the hansom’s interior. The driver put out his hand for payment, but recognising the marquess, offered a bow instead. “No charge, my lord. Not fer you.”
Regardless, Charles handed the man half a crown and thanked him. Four constables and a sergeant sat upon wooden chairs, enjoying cups of coffee and sunshine on a cold day. The sergeant stood and offered a salute. Sinclair waved it off. “This isn’t a military unit, Sergeant Brookman. However, I appreciate the respect.”
“Much more ‘n respect, my lord. Much more.”
The two cousins entered the station, Sinclair still puzzling out the odd behaviour. The lobby of the station house teemed with activity. Most of the cells held collections of pickpockets, vagrants, drunks, and various belligerents. The booking sergeant, Alfred Williams, busily scratched entries into a ledger, asking questions of a burly man in a patched greatcoat and a middle-aged woman wearing a velvet cape over expensive, but rumpled, evening clothes. The two made a strange pair, and Aubrey nudged his cousin.
“I know that woman, Charles.”
“Personally or socially?”
“Both, actually. She’s Lord Finchley’s sister.”
“Finchley?”
“A lifetime title. He’s a businessman who helped to secure British trade in South America. Why would Gemma Finchley be here? And with such a scruffy looking fellow.” Intending to find out, the earl walked up to the desk. “Good morning, Sergeant Williams. How’s the wife?”
The officer’s copper moustache upturned along with the corners of his fleshy mouth. “Lord Aubrey, sir. It’s always a pleasure. Mrs. Williams is doing quite well, my lord. Thank you for askin’.”
The well-dressed woman gasped at hearing Aubrey’s name, and she sheepishly turned her face away, trying not to be seen. The earl refused to allow it. “Gemma? Is that you?”
“Lord Aubrey!” she gasped. “Whatever brings you to Whitechapel? Oh, I see you’re with Lord Haimsbury. Do forgive my appearance. I’ve just come from an overnight stay with a friend.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Paul answered with a raised eyebrow. “Gemma, is everything all right?”
The burly man at her side pushed forward to answer for the woman. “I reckon she’s just fine. Ain’t ya, Miss?”
“Yes, yes, of course, I am,” the woman chittered nervously.
The earl took Finchley’s arm and directed her away from the desk. He then stepped towards the man. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“No, you didn’, and ain’ tellin’ ya!” the brute shouted.
“It’s George Malcolm, Lord Aubrey,” the sergeant interrupted. “Superintendent Sinclair, sir, shall I inform the earl as to the charges against both or just Malcolm?”
Now Charles became involved. “Charges? Williams, are you saying there are charges against Miss Finchley?”
“Ain’t none o’ yer business, so clear off afore I belt ya good!” Malcolm shouted. The stench of gin exuding from the man’s non-hygienic mouth caused Sinclair to push betwixt his cousin and the brute.
“Mr. Malcolm, I believe we’ve seen you before at Leman Street. Public drunkenness and procurement, if memory serves. Are you so fond of our cells that you wish to extend the current charges to assaulting an officer of the law?”
“What officer o’ the law?” the intoxicated man dared to ask. “I don’t see nobody but a toff what’s about ta kiss the floor!”
The brute’s right arm swung, but to the earl’s surprise and delight, Sinclair neatly ducked the punch and produced a quick uppercut to the chin, followed by a left jab and a powerful right hook that knocked the huge man clean off his feet.
“Put that mess into a cell, Constable Andrews,” he told a fresh-faced youth standing nearby. “Miss Finchley, if you’ll come with us, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Sergeant Williams looked as though he’d swallowed a crescent moon, for the grin upon his bearded face stretched from ear to ear. “Nice ta see you’ve not forgotten your trainin’, sir. I’ve not had the pleasure o’ watchin’ you take down a man since last year’s police championship. That right hook never fails.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. It felt quite good, actually.”
“Cup o’ coffee, sir?” Williams offered.
“Yes, thank you. Is Inspector Reid here?”
“He’s not returned yet from the London, sir. How is the duchess?”
“Improving hourly, Sergeant. Thank you for asking. We’ll be in Mr. Reid’s interview room if needed.”
Aubrey kept his arm around Finchley as they walked, and he wore a smile not unlike that of Williams. “Police championship? Charles, have you been keeping secrets?”
“I may box now and then,” the detective answered with a wry smile. “And won.”
The earl laughed. “How often?”
“Always.”
Aubrey continued to laugh as he and his cousin led the flummoxed woman up the main staircase to a small, rectangular interview room. Inside, stood a square oak table and four wooden chairs. The partition wall, shared with the corridor, was solid to four feet, and then proceeded upwards to the plastered ceiling with blinds over mullioned windows. A single door provided the only entrance.
“Please, Miss Finchley, take a seat,” Sinclair said, holding the chair. Paul sat opposite and Charles beside him. “You know my cousin, I take it. I’m Detective Superintendent Charles Sinclair.”
“You’re Lord Haimsbury,” she whispered shyly. “I’ve seen your photograph.”
“Yes, that’s right, but in this station, I represent Scotland Yard. Do you understand?”
Finchley had the furtive look of a woman with secrets. Her pale skin revealed fresh cuts over the left eye, caking face powder, and traces of lip rouge
. Her copper hair hung in disarray, and the silk clothing had a wrinkled appearance. She seldom looked directly into the men’s eyes, and she consistently chewed her lower lip.
“Yes, sir. I understand. Why am I here?”
Before Sinclair could answer, a boy named Johnny Twitcham knocked on the door. The ten-year-old’s father operated the police mews across the way, and Johnny ran for meals, operated the telegraph, and delivered notes within the building.
“Superintendent, sir? Sorry to interrupt, but Sergeant Williams sent this up for you.”
Charles took the form and placed it on the table. “Thank you, Master Twitcham. I wonder if you’d run to the Bear and ask Danny to prepare sandwiches for myself and Lord Aubrey? Have him add anything you want to the order.” He handed the boy five pounds. “Keep whatever’s left.”
“Thank you, sir!” Twitcham exclaimed. “I won’t be long, sir.”
The youth shut the door, and Charles examined the booking form. “Miss Finchley, I see here that your companion is charged with a litany of serious crimes, including public drunkenness, lewd behaviour, procurement, gambling on illegal boxing, and incitement to riot, of all things. With Mr. Malcolm’s previous record, it’s doubtful he’ll see the outside of a prison for a decade or more. May I ask just why you arrived in his company?”
The woman’s lower lip trembled, and her upper teeth showed stains of rouge along their edges. “I cannot remember. Really, I can’t. The last I recall with any clarity is talking with a few friends at a music hall. We’d gone there to see a magician.”
“A magician?” he asked, thinking of the Tarot cards. Can you tell me the establishment’s name? Is it in Whitechapel?”
“Yes. It’s called the Copper Penny. Over near Bishopsgate.”
“I know this place, Charles,” Paul whispered to his cousin. “I fear it has a dark reputation. Gemma, why did you go to such a crime-ridden place as the Copper Penny? Surely, you know better.”
“I’d no idea that’s where we would go,” she explained. “My brother’s friend said we would see a magic act and have a few drinks. That’s all. I thought it would be great fun, but...” She grew quiet, and her thin hands shook like brittle leaves in a gale. “But it wasn’t fun at all!”
Charles reached for her hands to help the woman calm. “Are you injured, Miss Finchley?”
She shook her head, and it struck Charles that she reminded him of Elizabeth whenever the duchess struggled to recall troublesome events. “I hope you’ll excuse me,” he said, leaving the room without explanation.
Whilst his cousin was absent, the earl took over. “Gemma, are you hurt? Did that fellow harm you?”
“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “Paul, I don’t know, because I cannot remember! I awoke sometime after five o’clock this morning in a sort of fog. I was at a disgusting table filled with even more disgusting people in some awful hole of a place. They stank of gin and cigars and made great sport of my condition.”
“Your condition?”
“My clothing was torn, as you can see, and my hair had come down from its combs. I felt thoroughly out of place, and when I tried to leave, that Malcolm person chased after me. A few of the other people there began to call me a slag, whatever that is, and I tried again to leave. Malcolm stole my handbag, and I shouted for the police. I remember music, strangely enough, but also men’s voices. There was sawdust on the floor, and a tall wooden post stood in the middle. Paul, a man hung from it! I don’t know if he was even alive, but his face looked as though someone had taken a meat mallet to it!”
“What happened then? Did this man hurt you?”
She began to cry. “Paul, I tell you truly, I cannot remember! There was a slightly built fellow with a moustache who tried to intercede, but he changed his mind when Malcolm pushed him. The entire place erupted into shouts and flying fists, and before I knew it, the police were arresting everyone.”
“And the officers brought you and Malcolm here? Who else?”
“Dozens of others. The rest had already been locked into cells by the time you and Lord Haimsbury arrived. That awful man told the desk sergeant that he and I spent the entire night together, but I tell you that is patently untrue! Wouldn’t I remember it? My head pounds like a demon with a hammer lives inside it, and I’ve a terrible roaring in my stomach, as though an entire legion of hammer demons have taken up lodging. Paul, I did nothing wrong. It was meant to be an enjoyable night at a music hall. If you don’t believe me, you can ask Cordelia Wychwright. She was with us, along with the fellow I mentioned. The one with the moustache. I can’t recall his name, but I’m sure one of them could explain it.”
Paul’s face lengthened in surprise. “Delia Wychwright? The baron’s daughter. She was with you at a disreputable place like the Copper Penny and then this fight ring? Why on earth would either of you go to such places?”
Charles returned, and he’d brought Sunders along. “Miss Finchley, this gentleman is our surgeon, Dr. Thomas Sunders. I’d like for him to assess your health before we proceed any further. If it makes you more comfortable, I’ll ask a matron to sit with you whilst the doctor examines you. Does that meet with your approval?”
“Must I? May I not send for my lawyer?”
“Do you need a lawyer?” Charles asked gently.
“I don’t know. Yes, yes, of course, proceed with your examination, if you think it necessary, but I’d like a matron to be present.”
“Certainly,” Sinclair answered kindly. “Paul? Let’s close these blinds and allow Sunders to work in private. Dr. Sunders, will this room suffice, or would you prefer we move to your surgery?”
“This will do for the present, Superintendent. Mrs. Williams was here earlier to fetch the laundry. If she’s still about, I’d be happy to work with her. She has nursing experience.”
“Of course. Miss Finchley, I’ll return in about an hour. When all is done, Mrs. Williams will show you to a room where you may lie down and rest.”
“Not a cell, sir, please!”
“Not a cell. A room with a very comfortable sofa. Use the detectives’ lounge, Doctor, and place a ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door.”
“Yes, sir. I will.”
Sinclair and the earl left the interview room. They climbed a second set of steps to a large, open area dotted with desks and filing cabinets. Near one end, stood a telegraph room and beside it a private room marked ‘Detectives’ Lounge’. Just past the lounge, stood Edmund Reid’s cramped office.
“Did she tell you anything in my absence?” Sinclair asked his cousin as they entered and closed the door.
“Nothing that makes any sense. From Gemma’s description, I think she awoke at a makeshift table in one of those illegal boxing rings we were discussing earlier.”
“Good heavens! What’s a woman from Westminster doing in a rough place like that?”
“Hard to say, but she may have been drugged. Sunders should take a sample of her blood to test for morphine. But there’s another wrinkle to this mess. Gemma mentioned that others were present at the fracas, including Cordelia Wychwright! Charles, I’d like to send a telegram to Galton at Whitehall and ask him to look into this from the other side of the city.”
“You want him to call on the baron?”
Paul nodded. “At the very least, Delia’s testimony could help provide clarity to poor Gemma’s situation. But I’d also like to know how a thug like Malcolm is involved. It’s quite vexing, to be honest. I realise that Cordelia is young, but a pretty face and a foolish mind can be a dangerous mix.”
“Did you just say her face is pretty?” his cousin asked with a grin.
“Modestly pretty,” the earl replied, fiddling with a paper knife on Reid’s desk. A stack of files lay scattered across the oak surface, and the earl began to glance through them.
“Only modestly? Admit it, Paul. You’re fond of Cordelia
Wychwright.”
“I’m no more fond of Cordelia than I am of any other young woman in our society. She’s annoying, if you must know. What’s this?” he asked, holding up a list. “Where did Edmund get this?”
“You’re intentionally deflecting, Lord Aubrey. How is it the young woman annoys you? Might it be your feelings towards her are the true source of this annoyance?”
“No,” he answered with conviction. “Charles, this is a copy of the list Ida Ross sent to you, but Reid’s crossed through four of the names and added this notation: Deceased. Hemsfield is included.”
“Four? I only knew of Hemsfield’s death. Who else is crossed through?”
“Susanna Morgan, but he’s now put a question mark beside her name,” Aubrey said. “William Trent, of course, Lewis Merriweather, and Sir Christopher Holding. I’d no idea Holding was dead. Reid has a date by each entry, and it seems Sir Christopher died only last night!”
“I’m not familiar with him.”
“He ran an ironworks company that contracted with the British Army. Charles, someone is targeting the people on Ida’s list. You’re right. Redwing has gone to war.”
The boy knocked on the office door to deliver their meals, and Charles gave the youth half a crown for his speed and efficiency. “You’ll make a fine detective one day, Master Twitcham.”
“Thank you, sir. There’s a note for you, as well, Superintendent. It come on the wire a few minutes ago. Mr. Williams asked me to deliver it.”
He passed Sinclair a quarter sheet of paper, overwritten in a quick, neat hand. Charles read the message and took to his feet, his manner serious.
“It’s from Reid. He says Cordelia Wychwright’s been admitted to the London in very serious condition. Grab the sandwiches, Paul. We’ll be eating on the way.”
In another part of London, at the castle known as Istseleniye House, a carriage drew close to the ruins. Contessa di Specchio wore a black lace mantilla over her head and face and a silk cape of claret red velvet. Her companion, a handsome man of modest height and light eyes, helped her from the coach and onto the gravel drive.
Realms of Stone Page 34
