The Hellfire Conspiracy

by Will Thomas

  At the Egyptian Hall, I looked about for some time before I saw her. I assumed she would be seated toward the back, where any sensible person would be at a public lecture, with the opportunity to slip out the door at the soonest possible instant, but, no. She and Miss Levy were seated near the front.

  The placard announced that Vernon Lee was going to lecture on the subject of the supernatural and aesthetics. I had never heard of the fellow, but I had to congratulate him on connecting two of the most popular topics of the day. Mr. Wilde, whom I noted was in the audience, had been causing a stir in society with his own artistic discourses; while the spiritualists had been thrilling fashionable London with the claims of past lives and communication with the dead. I would sooner shoot my own foot than attend a public lecture, but this seemed slightly more tolerable than most. Then, of course, there was the company.

  “Good evening, Miss Potter, Miss Levy,” I said, coming up to them. “Is this seat taken?”

  They unfolded like a fan in the stalls there, first Beatrice, who looked beautiful in a blue jacket and straw boater, then Amy Levy, leaning forward and fixing me with a sardonic eye. Then Zangwill beyond, waving a long-fingered hand in my direction.

  “Hello, Israel,” I said over the noise of the crowd. “What are you up to?”

  “I’m keeping these two young ladies safe,” he called back. “I heard there was a masher about. I see the rumors were not unfounded.”

  I sat down in the seat next to Beatrice and could not help but catch the scent of gardenia she wore. I think it is my nose that gets me in trouble most. Nothing turns my head like a fine scent.

  “You came,” Miss Potter said, looking pleased.

  “As you see,” I responded with a bow.

  “I wasn’t certain we could expect you.”

  “I am delighted to attend. I enjoyed our conversation in the zoological gardens very much.”

  “I hope you don’t think badly of us for coming here on the day of the funeral. Amy is awfully keen to see Vernon Lee, and tonight is the only lecture. I’m afraid you must think us the most forward girls in London.”

  “In fact, I don’t,” I told her, “but then I suppose it would be better to be thought forward than backward. At least it is progressive.”

  Beatrice was going to respond, but suddenly Miss Levy seized her wrist and leaned forward. There was a faint flush in her cheeks.

  “She’s arrived!” she announced.

  I wondered who she meant. Just then, a tall, thin woman mounted the platform. She wore pince-nez and her hair was cut so short that she looked mannish. She was a girl, really, not much older than we. She wore a man’s collar and a black cape like a university gown. This was Vernon Lee. Miss Vernon Lee.

  “So, what is she?” I asked Beatrice. “Socialist? Aesthetic? Medium?”

  “All of them at once. She is Vernon.”

  Miss Lee spoke for a good hour. I recall enjoying myself, but I don’t remember the substance of her speech. Perhaps it was more the company I was with. The speaker made Beatrice laugh once or twice, and I liked the sound of her laughter. It would be easy, I thought, to fall under Miss Potter’s spell.

  Afterward, Miss Levy was all atwitter, having had a brief moment to speak with the Amazon herself. Israel suggested an ABC tearoom, which was respectable enough for young men and women to converse freely. They agreed to accompany us, though I imagine, if pressed by their families why they were late, they would merely say that the traffic had been heavy.

  As we waited for the lobby to clear, I noticed a middle-aged gentleman staring at us. He was of medium height, impeccably dressed, with gray at the temples and a monocle, looking so intently at us I thought for a minute he might be Beatrice’s father. Then he noticed my stare, turned, and walked into the crowd. I debated whether to follow him, whoever he was, but didn’t know what I would say. Knowing it was the quickest way to be told to mind one’s own business or go to blazes, I resisted the impulse. Besides, I had ladies to attend to.

  “Will you help me on with my wrap, Thomas?” Miss Potter asked.

  “Certainly,” I said, and all thought of the man was shelved as I settled the thin material over delicate shoulders.

  We found a cab and took it to a nearby tearoom. In a very brief time, dainty saucers holding thimblefuls of coffee were brought out, along with cream and sugar, which I noticed the ladies partook of liberally.

  “What did you think of this evening’s speaker, Mr. Llewelyn?” Miss Levy asked.

  “She was certainly…” What? I thought. Abstruse? Bizarre? “Thought provoking.”

  “Miss Lee is a visionary,” Israel stated. “She sees things as they should be, as they must be. Dare I say, as they shall be?”

  I knew Israel well. He was quoting someone, himself perhaps, his own column the following morning, which no doubt he had already written before attending the lecture. Zangwill knows who to flatter and when.

  “I must say,” Amy Levy put in, “that you are quite a surprise as a detective, Mr. Llewelyn. I thought you all had shoes the size of boats and were carved out of granite, like your Mr. Barker.”

  “I hadn’t noticed his shoes before, Miss Levy, but I can attest to the granite.”

  “So, do you really think he shall find Gwendolyn’s killer?” she pressed.

  “If anyone can, Mr. Barker can,” I said. “Did you know Miss DeVere well?”

  “Oh, yes. I was sometimes left to entertain her while her mother was occupied with her duties.”

  “That must have been somewhat demeaning, considering that you volunteer often while she only comes occasionally. I’m sure you have duties of your own.”

  “He is astute,” she said to Beatrice Potter. “Yes, Hypatia was given preferential treatment, being the wife of a major.”

  “So, you two ladies are best placed to answer a question I have, and you must be truthful. What kind of child was Gwendolyn DeVere?”

  The women locked eyes with each other for a moment. It was Beatrice who spoke, and she did it cautiously. “Miss DeVere came from a very good home and was inclined to be proud.”

  “What Beatrice means,” Miss Levy explained, “is that she was something of a brat. Don’t give me that look, Beatrice. You know it’s true. She resented being dragged into the East End. Hypatia hoped to give the girl an understanding of the poor, but between my lips and your ear, she was going the other way. She shrunk before any homeless alien and complained of the smell.”

  “Interesting,” I noted. “Did Mrs. DeVere speak of her husband much?”

  “Oh, yes,” Miss Levy said. “Every other sentence began with ‘My Trevor,’ but what she said of him didn’t strike me as singularly impressive.”

  “It doesn’t sound as if Mrs. DeVere had the ideal life she wished to present to the world,” I said.

  “That is hitting the nail on the head,” Miss Potter replied. “She was rather high-strung. Her daughter was, too. I didn’t envy the major living among such nervous females. Oh, dear! Now they are dead. I am terrible.”

  “No,” Israel said gallantly. “You merely said what everyone is thinking.”

  “What do you ladies think of Miss Hill? Is she a competent directress?”

  “Most certainly,” Beatrice said, sitting up in her seat.

  “Why, yes, the very idea,” Miss Levy added, knitting her fine dark brows together. “She is a dear. That is a typical male response.”

  I put up both hands in defense. “It was a question, not a statement. I am not casting aspersions upon her character, which I am certain is above reproach.”

  “She is very competent, and you will not find a keener mind in the East End,” Beatrice added.

  “I can imagine,” Israel put in, “that this girl’s disappearance would affect the charity negatively, especially if some connection is made to it.”

  “So far, Octavia has been able to keep the details out of the newspapers, but Stead came into the office this morning and I think the two of them had words.
He was upset because she hadn’t told him.”

  “They know each other, then,” I said.

  “Oh, of course,” Miss Levy replied. “We’re all Fabians. It’s a socialist organization. We’re working to create reform.”

  “All of you?” I asked, looking across the table at Israel. He suddenly grew quite interested in what was going on in the kitchen.

  “So,” I commented, “my best friend is a socialist and has neglected to tell me.”

  “You know me,” Israel said, trying to make a joke of it. “A man of mystery.”

  I looked at him carefully. Sometimes even one’s best friends have things about them they’d rather one didn’t find out.

  “How long has Dr. Fitzhugh been working at the C.O.S.?” I asked, changing the subject tactfully.

  “Five or six months now,” Miss Levy answered.

  “And what kind of fellow is he?” I prompted. “What opinion have you formed?”

  Both girls looked at each other then, and Beatrice shrugged slightly.

  “He keeps to himself,” Amy Levy said. “He’s a rather diffident fellow. He seems to carry an air of tragedy about him. I’d even say shame. He’ll hardly talk to us, which is rather strange. Being unwed and a rising young surgeon, one would think he’d be glad to make our acquaintance.”

  “It’s very important for a young doctor to marry,” Beatrice added. “It gives him respectability. No woman would visit a physician who wasn’t married.”

  “He is not unattractive,” I noted.

  “He needs to shave his beard or grow it out more,” Miss Levy stated. “And he needs to be more cheerful and far less furtive.”

  “I see.”

  “So, Mr. Llewelyn,” she continued, resting her forearms on the table and leaning forward, so that the light from the candle was reflected in her black eyes. “You must tell us, are we suspects?”

  “Of course,” I answered.

  Both girls smiled. Perhaps it was a delicious feeling to be suspected as a criminal when one knows one is innocent, though having been in such a circumstance, I can state quite the opposite. I remembered Lord Hesketh’s assertion that the socialists might have sacrificed the girl in order to bring attention to the white slave trade. If that were true, what exactly had happened? How had she gotten into Miacca’s hands?

  “Even me?” Zangwill asked. “I’m a suspect, too?”

  “Even you, Israel. Mr. Barker casts a wide net. So what do you think of Rose Carrick?”

  “She is a good worker. She and her husband, Stephen, make an odd pair, however. They’re like mismatched book-ends.”

  “Stephen comes from a merchant family,” Miss Potter said. “I believe they make soap—Carrick’s Fine Glycerine Soap or something like that. Rose is a bailiff’s daughter. When they met, they fell in love on the spot, to hear her tell it. Stephen’s parents didn’t approve, of course. They threatened to disinherit him; he stood up to them; and when the smoke cleared, he was left without a penny, never to darken the Carrick door again.”

  “Tragic,” Zangwill said.

  “Yes, but I don’t believe it at all,” Amy Levy said. “We’re only getting Rose’s side of the story. I wonder what old Mr. and Mrs. Carrick have to say about the events.”

  “It cannot be easy to keep company with someone of a different class,” Beatrice said, and it seemed to me she was trying hard not to look my way.

  “Does Stead come often to the C.O.S.?” I asked, casting about for something more to ask.

  “Just occasionally,” Miss Levy replied. “He and Miss Hill have worked on many campaigns together and are old friends.”

  “I hear the most disparate things about him. Some call him a saint and others wish to tar and feather him.”

  “He has that effect on people,” Beatrice said. “He’ll either win you to his cause, which changes day to day, or make an enemy of you. I think he was born in the wrong century. He would have preferred living as an apostle in the late first century, winning Rome or Corinth to Christ at great danger to himself.”

  The proprietor of the tearoom kept the ladies’ cups replenished. I was almost about to tell him to join the conversation or leave. Unfortunately, I should have been paying more attention to Miss Potter and Miss Levy. I let them slip through my fingers.

  “We should go,” Miss Levy said to Beatrice. “Your papa will wonder what is keeping you.”

  “Yes, of course. You are right.”

  “Unless,” Amy Levy said, “you are not done questioning us, Mr. Llewelyn. Would you prefer to escort us to Scotland Yard and clap us in irons, perhaps?”

  “It is a thought,” I said, rising from my seat. “Perhaps I shall hold it in reserve for another time.”

  We saw the two young ladies into the street and were able to hail a passing cab.

  Beatrice Potter held out a gloved hand to me. “Thank you for coming to the lecture, Mr. Llewelyn. It was good of you to remember.”

  “Not at all,” I answered, helping her into the cab. When she let go of my hand, there was a folded slip of paper in it, which I quickly thrust into my pocket.

  Israel and I watched the hansom roll away. I turned and looked at my friend. “So, what did you really think of tonight’s lecture? I want your true opinion, not the one for publication.”

  “My foot fell asleep halfway through that interminable lecture. I have never been envious of my own foot before.”

  “Ah, but, Israel,” I said as we put on our gloves and raised our sticks for another cab, “it is the price one pays for female companionship.”

  22

  THE NEXT MORNING WE WERE OUT EARLY, FOR Barker wanted to investigate the addresses Beatrice Potter had tracked down for us at the Charity Organization Society. She was more than the charming companion of the evening before.

  “The first,” Barker said, “was a girl named Ruth Scoggins, adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Dodsworth of Twenty-two Saint Stephen’s Road. If we hurry, we might catch him.”

  For once, luck was with us. Our knock upon the door of number 22 brought a large, uncouth man to the door, a serviette tucked into his shirt and his mouth still full.

  “Wotcher want?” he demanded, still chewing his breakfast.

  “To speak with you and your wife, Mr. Dodsworth, upon a very serious matter, the murder of your adopted daughter.”

  The man swallowed, perhaps a trifle too quickly. He coughed several times. “Police?” he finally choked out.

  “My name is Cyrus Barker. We are private enquiry agents, hired by another parent who lost a child.”

  “Stay ’ere,” he said. “I’ll arsk the missus. She weren’t expecting company.”

  We waited on the doorstep a good five minutes before the door opened and the woman of the house ushered us in. She looked like him, perhaps because married couples, through living together, take on the same shape and mannerisms. Mrs. Dodsworth was round and buxom and unkempt, but I suspected she had a good heart. She drew us into the kitchen that smelled of pie crust and almost belligerently tried to feed us. It took several protests and the acceptance of a cup of tea each before she relented and we were able to get to the matter at hand.

  “It is no longer a secret that there is a man in the area that has been taking young girls and killing them,” my employer said. “I’m afraid your daughter was one of them. Scotland Yard has withheld the names of some of them from us, and yours was the first we uncovered. Would you be able to speak about it? It’s possible that even the most wee bit of information might offer a clue that will help us.”

  Dodsworth looked at his wife and after she nodded, he did the same.

  “It were a bad experience, sirs, I can tell you,” the man said. “She was a tough nut, was our Ruthie, and it came as no surprise she came to a bad end. Emmy and me, sir, we was never blessed with little ones, and one day she says, ‘Let’s go to the Poplar Orphanage and see about adopting a girl.’ She gets lonely when I’m at work, you see, and a girl would liven up the place. We went
there, expecting to get a child of five or six, but Emmy clapped eye upon ten-year-old Ruthie and that was it. She wouldn’t be happy until Ruthie was home in our kitchen. She had the face of an angel, but the devil of a time during her early days. Blackguard of a father beat and half starved her. She walked to London all the way from Bristol, I ’ear, after he died o’ drink. Came to the orphanage by way of the Charity Organization Society.”

  He sipped noisily from his cup. His wife, standing by the sink, had kneaded her apron in a bunch and was sniffing.

  “It weren’t hard to adopt her. Most don’t want the older children ’cept as farm workers. Within a few days we had her in this very kitchen and Emmy promising to make her all manner of dresses. But the child were distant like and distrustful, not that I blame her. She weren’t in the house a fortnight ’fore she slipped anchor and took the best Sunday china with her.”

  “She didn’t mean to do it,” Mrs. Dodsworth explained. “She weren’t happy and needed money to live on.”

  “Now, don’t take on, Emmy, in front o’ the nice gentlemen.”

  “Did you ever see her again?” my employer asked.

  “I should say I did, and a sorry sight it was. I was coming home from the ’bacconist with a new twist one day, when I all but run into her in Cambridge Road, all dressed up like a dollymop with a swell on her arm. I laid into her, I can tell you, for breaking my Em’s heart. Almost got into it with her fancy man, as well, I were that angry.

  “Didn’t see her after that, not alive, anyway. Three months later the River Police called me in to identify the body. A sorrier sight I’ve never seen and ne’er shall again. Her face, well, I’d rather not describe it, with Emmy in the room.”

  Mrs. Dodsworth was crying now but doing it soundlessly. This poor couple, I thought. They didn’t deserve such grief.