by Will Thomas
Barker was awake in the center of his old cabinet bed, with the curtains all drawn back. He was not the most handsome of men, but I hoped for his sake he would heal quickly.
“Sir,” I said. “Mac and I were wondering when you first suspected Carrick.”
“The second I saw him,” he replied.
My brows went up.
“Don’t think me a genius, yet, lad. I thought the same thing about Dr. Fitzhugh and William Stead. Detection is not about finding someone and fashioning a charge that will stick to him. It’s more like a footrace. One knows the winner is among the runners, but only when the others have dropped out and the race is finished will you know who it is. In this case, I began with a couple of assumptions.
“My first was that Miacca was mad. He worked from a compulsion to kill young girls, but his madness was not patently obvious or he would have been arrested by Scotland Yard immediately. They are not simpletons, and they have great resources. Dunham is a good man, but Swanson is a first-rate detective. It was a challenge to work against him in this case.
“My second assumption was that Miacca was educated, for only an educated person would quote Blake or parrot your Mr. Lear. The problem was that so many of our suspects were well educated. Carrick, Miss Levy, Dr. Fitzhugh, William Stead, Mr. Clay, Lord Hesketh, and Dashwood had seen time at university. My assumption has been proven false. I now believe that Rose Carrick worked in collaboration with her husband in writing the taunting notes. She’s the one who chose the victims.”
“Now wait,” I said. “Are you claiming Rose Carrick helped her husband? That implies that she knew what he was and what he did.”
“More than that, it implies that she did not care. Her own husband assaulted and murdered children, and she helped him do so. I believe it was her task to get rid of the bodies when he was done with them. He would not have cared what became of the corpses. She was the organized one, the planner sitting in the British Museum, cribbing poems to use in taunting letters. She was his helpmeet and protector. She would have done anything for him, suffered anything. In fact, she did.”
“But why?” I asked. “Who would put up with that?”
“Do you recall how Stephen Carrick ran into trouble at university and ended up losing his inheritance?”
“Yes, he was consorting with a fallen woman.”
“That fallen woman, I believe, was Rose Carrick. Her life had reached the point where she was living as a prostitute in Oxford. The senior Carrick found that they had taken up together and demanded he give her up. Carrick refused, not because he was in love with her but because he would not be dictated to by his father. Rose may have interpreted it as such, and no doubt, she persuaded herself she was in love. She molded her life around him and defended him fully. In her mind, she had somehow won the prize, the handsomest, most intelligent, wealthy gentleman she’d ever met. By the time she discovered that he was less than perfect, that in fact, he was a monster, it was too late. She had committed herself and would do so unto death. She loved him fully, while he, in turn, was incapable of love but knew a good thing when he saw it. I believe she even selected candidates for his abductions. It is perhaps the reason she volunteered at the Charity Organization Society in the first place.”
“That’s like another kind of madness,” I said.
Barker raised a bandaged finger. “No, not quite. Not in the eyes of the law. It was why she locked herself in the darkroom and set it ablaze. Had they both been captured, he would like have gone to the asylum, for it is probable that he is mad, but she would have been hanged as an accessory to many murders. It was a long, dangerous journey for the two of them, but she must have known it would eventually come to a bad end. He would never willingly stop adding specimens to his jar.”
“What kind of husband—”
“Husband!” Barker scoffed. “I doubt he understood the meaning of the word. A husband tries to shelter and protect his wife. He wants what’s best for her and reveres and admires her all of his days. The Carricks’ relationship was as twisted and unstable as Stephen’s mind.”
I recalled Barker’s earlier mention of marriage. I still could not quite believe he might have been married, but had he been so, I had no doubt he would have performed his duties with the steadiness he showed in all other ways. What of me? I wondered. Had I been all the husband I could have been?
“I think,” Barker went on, “that Carrick’s time at Oxford was worse than we have taken it to be. Consorting with a woman of the streets, even vowing never to give her up, is hardly a rare occurrence among undergraduates, but I believe Carrick committed his first murder there. The Carrick fortune was able to cover up the affair, but Stephen’s father saw the serious defects in his son’s character and gave him up, cutting him off without a penny. It was good that he did so. Can you imagine what deviltry he’d have gotten into with funds and plenty of leisure time?”
“How did you know it was not the Hellfire Club, sir?”
“I do not believe London so debased just yet that one could assemble a group of men together in one room willing to watch a young girl be murdered. It would be easy, on the other hand, to find a number of men like Palmister Clay, young hedonists willing to meet together, to drink and carouse in the name of an old and infamous group and to watch a young and almost naked girl being ‘sacrificed’ in a satanic ritual, providing they know it was a magician’s trick and that she was in no real danger. They weren’t men on Carrick’s level and did not know how corrupt he really was. At some point, he must have met Dashwood, using his former connections, and offered to provide not only some chilling entertainment but also the young girl to go with it. They had no idea what he did with the girls afterward and probably did not think to question him about it. I also believe he provided another service for them.”
“What is that?”
“When Rose Carrick ferried young girls into new homes or institutions, she told some that if they were not satisfied with their new surroundings, she could help set them up with young gentlemen as mistresses.”
“Clay,” I stated.
“Aye, Clay, and whoever occupies the other nests along Cambridge Road. I imagine Carrick got paid for brokering the little arrangements. He was in need of money constantly for his photographic emporium.”
“Very well,” I said. “I understand why you did not suspect the Hellfire Club, but why not Clay in particular?”
Barker gave a faint smile. “Clay was married, kept a mistress, and without doubt was a member with his father of the Hellfire Club. Do you think he still had enough stamina left to outrage a new girl every Friday? He’s leading a dissipated life. I doubt personally that he has the prowess.”
“Much as I would like to connect the murders to him, I suppose you are correct. I don’t believe Clay was involved…much.”
“I am glad to hear it. Is honor still not satisfied? You drubbed him well.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know that I can ever forgive him.”
“If revenge is what you seek, you need do nothing. I’m certain his wife suspects his dalliance. His way of life shall surely catch up with him in the fullness of time.”
“Of course you are right. But tell me, why did you not suspect Dr. Fitzhugh?”
“I did, for a time, but let us say you were a young physician in need of money as well as a malevolent killer of children. What would you have done to get rid of several perfectly good corpses? Would you have thrown them in the river?”
“No,” I said. “I would have sold them to London Hospital or St. Bart’s for vivisection.”
“Exactly. It was all over those false certificates of virginity and the health records he provided. Would Miacca have suffered guilt? Not according to those letters or the souvenirs he took. He was proud of what he did. When the Carricks sent the notes to us and to Scotland Yard, they were thumbing their noses at Carrick’s father and society in general. I have no doubt it was a delicious feeling until this evening when it all caught up wi
th them.”
“And it couldn’t have been Stead because he was busy trying to force the bill through the House of Commons.”
“Yes, but I must say you gave me a turn when you informed me he had purchased a child. I was guilty, lad, of thinking that the Fabians were incapable of producing men as high-minded as Stead. I disapprove of his actions, but I misjudged his motives and am glad to learn otherwise. It is a good thing to find someone of better character than one believed.”
“What of Miss Hill, and Hesketh’s belief that the socialists were involved in a conspiracy?”
“It went up in smoke, but it was not completely unfounded. As it happened, Stead did steal a child and had her conveyed to France. Hesketh did not know Gwendolyn DeVere was a part of a larger scheme involving the murders of many children.”
“To what extent were the Masons tied up in all this?”
“Hesketh is a Freemason and I’m certain Dashwood is as well. It’s possible that they recruited members from the organization to join the Hellfire Club, but generally speaking the Masons attract high-minded individuals. Of course, there is rotten fruit in every barrel, and men like Hesketh join for the influence it gives them as well as for family tradition. I am certain he will sponsor his son in time. It is possible that Carrick himself may be a Mason. Joining would have been a good way to improve his business prospects. You would be surprised at how many members of the brotherhood there are in the British Empire. Aside from the police, there is the law and the military. Many towns have a lodge; but for the most part, they are benign, although I do not care for their theology.”
“So you yourself are not a member, then.”
Barker gave one of his wintry smiles, despite the sticking plaster on his face. “The question is moot. The first rule of any secret society is to deny being a member of one.”
That wasn’t an answer, I thought, but I let the matter rest. “Do you suppose Major DeVere will consider the case settled? That is, will he pay us? You did capture his daughter’s killer, but she is dead and so is his wife.”
“That is for DeVere to decide. We can but abide by whatever decision he makes.”
“Speaking of services,” I said, “I had better go to the C.O.S. and inform Miss Potter that hers are no longer required.” I paused. “Wait. What about Joseph Chamberlain? How was he mixed up in all this? Was he a member of the Hellfire Club? As you pointed out, he, like the original founder, is a member of Parliament.”
“To be truthful, lad, I’m not certain. He’s not a libertine, so I doubt he was a Hellfire member. He’s leader of the radical party, but not a socialist. I sent word to Pollock Forbes, asking if he would tell me whether the man was a Freemason, and he was not. He is a politician, of course, and shall have something to say about the new bill raising the age of consent, but he was not highborn, so I doubt he is one of Hesketh’s cronies. The only connection he seems to have at all with the case is Miss Potter herself. Perhaps he is smitten with her. She is an attractive young lady and he a notable bachelor in town.”
“But he must be twice her age.”
“Some do not think that a liability. He is well established and popular. He may be prime minister one day. She could do worse.”
I shivered. Just the thought of her married to the man with his gimlet stare, monocle, and sharp manner made my flesh crawl. It seemed like a sentence of death.
Just then there was a sound on the stair and a streak of black shot into the room. Barker’s dog, Harm, had returned from his sojourn in the north of England. He ran circles about the room, between and around table legs and stuffed chairs, his black fur rippling. When he had gained enough momentum, he launched himself onto the high bed, walking up his master’s limbs until he sat on the Guv’s chest, sniffing at the iodine and plaster on his face.
“Nee hau, Da Mo.” He greeted the creature in Mandarin, the language in which the dog had been trained, and roughly patted him on the head with his bandaged fingers. The dog, like Barker himself, generally eschewed displays of affection, but had no trouble displaying them now. He rolled over onto his back in Barker’s lap and began kicking his paws and gurgling like a baby.
The big man with his little dog looked about the room with its books stacked in piles and its furnishings and the red walls bristling with all manner of weapons and spoke. “It is good to be home, Thomas.”
33
THE NEXT DAY, BETWEEN US, MAC AND I CONVINCED the Guv not to go to service. I told him he must heal, that his body had suffered a shock, and that he didn’t realize how close he’d come to death, but it was only when Mac told him his appearance would frighten visitors away from the Baptist Tabernacle that he agreed not to go.
I went downstairs to my own bed. I’d had a most irregular schedule since the case had begun and needed rest myself. When one has been sleeping on a hard mattress on the floor for a week or so, a bed with crisp sheets, soft pillows, and a down counterpane is the closest thing to floating on a cloud. I tried reading MacDonald but fell asleep after the first few pages and dozed through lunch.
After another dinner brought in from the Elephant and Castle, I sat down at my small table and got out pencil and paper. I had a solemn duty ahead of me, one for which I did not feel equipped. I had decided to track down my late wife’s resting place to give her a proper burial. I had a satisfactory bank balance now and could afford to give her the funeral she had deserved. The cost meant nothing to me, but finding her was another story. I didn’t quite know where to begin other than to explore every cemetery in Oxford-shire. I would also have to go to Oxford, the place of my former disgrace, and speak with the very court system that had been responsible for my incarceration, as well as to hire a solicitor to search for Jenny’s mother. She was an avaricious creature, and smelling the money, would place hazards and injunctions in my path until she was bought off. Who knew how long that would take? Then there was the coffin to buy, the exhumation that I would not be there to oversee, and the service. A simple Methodist service was what I would prefer, and I hoped her mother would not cause a tempest over that. There was so much to do and so little hope it would all go as planned, but that didn’t matter. I would do it for Jenny. It was my duty. I only hoped Barker would not mind my taking a few days off.
After breakfast the next morning, I went upstairs, for Barker was not in his garden as usual. I found him at one of the tables in his garret with an open copy of the Pall Mall Gazette in his hand. This was the day Stead fired his salvo at the House of Commons. “The Maiden Tribute of Modern Babylon” screamed the headline. When I entered, the Guv motioned me into the chair and put the article into my hand before charging his thimble cup with another spoonful of tea.
I read. Stead admitted everything, which was the only way, really. He gave names of everyone involved, explained the depth to which the government had allowed this to go, and the numbers of the girls involved. He turned “white slave trade” into a phrase that everyone would use for the next several years and then forced it onto every breakfast table in the land between the toast rack and the Dundee marmalade.
“Good heavens,” I said when I finally finished. “The government shall not be able to sidestep this or play it down.”
“Precisely,” Barker said. “Stead knows how to provoke people as well as any sermon writer in England, but Hesketh’s people shall retaliate, you may be sure.”
Barker and I went to our chambers that morning, but my employer spent his time in the office receiving messages and telephone calls about the coming crisis. It appeared all of London was in an uproar over the special edition. Some were calling Stead a monster, and others naming him a hero. The Gazette editor had pulled back the grate on a stinking cesspool, and now London would have to acknowledge it and clean it up. The children of the East End owed much to William T. Stead, but I had learned enough in Barker’s employ to know what happened to those who pointed out the government’s faults. They usually received nothing but punishment.
The Guv sent me off
to the charity to have a private word with Miss Potter. I was going to tell her that the case was over and her services were no longer required but that she had acted admirably. I also had things to discuss with her of a more private nature.
She was not at the charity, as it turned out. Some of the volunteers were away, for it appeared the government was going to speak upon the matter of the white slave trade, convened by Chamberlain himself, at a building in Whitechapel in Commercial Street. If I hurried, I could just make it. I sprinted out the door, thinking that perhaps now I could finally make sense of the connection between Beatrice Potter and Chamberlain.
When I arrived at the building, the meeting was already under way. The meeting hall was packed full of lower-class parents who had been upset by the morning’s article, which must have been dispersed and read far and wide. Her Majesty’s government must have been very concerned about Stead’s article to convene a hasty meeting just hours after publication. Joseph Chamberlain had been dispatched to clamp a lid down on the problem.
“The dangers in the Gazette have been exaggerated,” he told the crowd. “It was an incendiary headline produced solely to sell newspapers. The number of white slavers in England is very small, and they have always been caught and prosecuted.”
“Then why has Mr. Stead barricaded himself in his offices?” a man asked from the audience.
“No doubt because the scandalmonger fears arrest from Scotland Yard.”
I had to admire Chamberlain’s fearlessness. The crowd could quite easily turn into a mob.
“Why hasn’t there been a successful bill to raise the age of consent?” a woman asked. Her daughter was sitting beside her, obviously close to that age.
“We hope the bill will not be forced upon us,” Chamberlain explained. “It is not that Her Majesty’s government finds this unimportant. No one finds the slave trade more reprehensible than we. However, you must understand that there is a queue, and that bringing forward this bill shall push back badly needed funding or reform in other quarters.”
