The Matchmaker's Lonely Heart

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  But Alexander had surprised him and Clarissa both, when, after Stanley’s death, Alexander had proclaimed he would move into Clarissa’s house to guard her and the baby. Michael had objected initially, until Clarissa had privately expressed to him that Alexander’s presence in her too-quiet home would be a blessing.

  Michael leaned against his desk as he fastened his cuffs. He looked at the empty desk and hoped he would do his friend proud, that he would reach the end of his life knowing he had carried Stanley’s responsibilities to the very last.

  Stanley had been the lighter of the two of them, the happier. He’d always teased Michael for being too serious, and he’d been one of the few who made him truly laugh. Michael’s serious nature had settled in with a vengeance after Stanley died, and while he was aware of it, he was at a loss about how to fix it. He wasn’t sure he wanted it to be fixed. If he kept the lightness at bay, the darkness wasn’t nearly so noticeable when it descended.

  As he straightened and shrugged into his jacket, he looked at the open file on his desk with Nathaniel Winston’s sketch inside. After hours of work, Michael believed the victim’s name was Marie Verite Radcliffe; her husband had reported her missing the day before. When Winston arrived, the two of them would go to the address provided and speak with Mr. Radcliffe. They would show him a photograph of the deceased woman that had been taken earlier at the morgue and then quickly developed. He would watch the man’s reaction and gauge the showing of shock and grief. He hoped it would be genuine. Everyone grieved differently, but sometimes . . . sometimes it rang false, and Michael simply knew.

  He heard Winston’s chuckle in the outer room and glanced up to see him through the glass in the door. Michael had been irrationally resentful when Winston transferred from another division to fill the vacancy left by Stanley’s death. But, while the bond with Winston would never be the same as the one he’d had with Stanley, they got on well, and Winston had been wise enough to ease his way into the department with subtlety.

  Winston entered the office and nodded. “Quite the crowd out there today.”

  “Indeed. Not so strange for a Friday, however.”

  Winston started to shrug out of his greatcoat but paused, motioning toward the paperwork on Michael’s desk. “The new victim’s file?”

  “Yes. Not much in it, but I believe we might have a name. Have you time for a visit?”

  “Absolutely.” He settled his greatcoat back on his shoulders with a smile. “Have we received word from the coroner’s office?”

  “Just the photo of the deceased taken this morning. I believe Neville is beginning his examination. Which gives us time to call on”—Michael consulted the file with the husband’s information—“Mr. Harold Radcliffe, solicitor.” He donned his coat and hat and gathered the slim file in one hand.

  As they crossed through the common area, he glanced over at the division director’s office. John Ellis was a shrewd and exacting man in his mid-thirties. He was also the youngest Investigative Director of record and had proven himself worthy of the job, despite the naysayers who’d suggested his position was only because of the far-reaching influence of his titled and prominent father. Behind the glass in his door, Director Ellis was playing host to a pair of minor dignities from Paris.

  Winston gave Michael a grin as they passed. “Third consecutive day the director has performed the duties of a diplomat. I see the commissioner has delegated his responsibilities beautifully.”

  “They arrived for their appointment thirty minutes early.” Michael pushed the door open, and they stepped out into a drizzly rain. “We’re sure to hear the details later.”

  “I certainly hope so. I’ve an aunt who writes romantic novels, and she is ever looking for fresh anecdotes regarding the prestigious and well-to-do.”

  They hurried through the rain to a CID carriage, which was different than customary cabs only in the discreet lettering on the side of its otherwise bland appearance. Michael gave the driver the address, and he and Winston settled in for the short ride.

  “Bloomsbury, is it?” Winston said. “Respectable, upper middle class—one might think such folk are immune to disasters such as this.”

  “We both know disasters do not favor one over another. Our work might be a sight simpler if death restricted itself to one class.”

  They rode in silence for a time until Winston spoke again. “I must ask, and hope I do not irritate you with it, but some of the lads at the Yard mentioned your undercover assignment last year. From what I could gather, you played the part of a tailor very well.” Winston’s lips twitched. “A noble enough profession, to be sure, but I’d have thought a cover as a pugilist, perhaps, might have been more readily convincing.”

  Michael smiled. “Perhaps my secret personae shall be written in future policing manuals and held up as a shining example.” He sighed. “The long and short of it is my mother was a seamstress and my father was a constable. He died when I was young, and although my mother was accomplished, she was often behind on orders and needed help. I learned quickly.”

  Michael managed a smile despite the heaviness of the memories. Plenty of men were tailors, but when neighborhood bullies had realized Michael was aiding his mother, the seamstress, the beatings and harassment had been harsh. He had known the last laugh, though, as he’d continued growing while the rest of them eventually stopped. He’d grown taller than the others in his early teens and then filled into his broadening frame.

  Winston laughed. “I have gone undercover but once, and it was an experience I’d rather not repeat.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was obliged to travel with a circus caravan.”

  Michael chuckled. “Did you throw knives? Tame lions?”

  Winston shook his head, and a smile crept onto the corners of his mouth. “I was a fortune-teller.”

  Michael’s laugh grew as the carriage bumped along the busy road. “You must read my tea leaves soon.”

  “I was not a very good fortune-teller.” Winston’s smile broadened, and he added, “I was only just able to stay ahead of angry customers who sought my head on a platter.”

  “Perhaps you were too specific. Better to stick with generalities, I should think.”

  “All well and good until the one sitting across the table demands more detail.” Winston shook his head, his smile rueful. “I did not pretend to speak to loved ones who had passed, though. My scruples occasionally made their way to the fore.”

  “I suppose the bigger question is whether or not your ruse was successful overall.” Michael settled back into his seat and withdrew from his pocket a fountain pen that had been Stanley’s favorite. He absently twirled the pen along his fingers.

  “Mostly. Arrests were made, but one criminal escaped. A minor player, but sometimes those resurface.”

  Michael nodded. “One hopes. There is little joy to be found in a case that is concluded but never fully closed.”

  They rode in silence, and Michael thought again of Stanley, who had been doing just that when he’d been killed—wrapping up loose ends, chasing the one member of a small thieving operation who had gotten away. Michael rubbed his finger along a stain on the dark green barrel of the pen. If only Michael had accompanied him that night, if only Stanley had waited to be certain Michael had received his message. If only, if only . . . It was a constant litany, and Michael sometimes heard Stanley’s voice in his head telling him to stop the self-recrimination and get on with life.

  At length, the carriage stopped at the door of a picturesque townhome on a tidy street. Michael braced himself for whatever he and Winston might encounter on the other side of the door. He was still learning the ins and outs of Winston’s methods, but the man was both trustworthy and capable, with a good amount of policing experience under his belt.

  After instructing the driver to wait, the men approached the door, and Michael firmly struck the do
or knocker against its metal rest. Before long, a housekeeper answered, and when Michael opened his coat to reveal the detective badge pinned to his vest, her eyes widened. She stood back to let them in.

  “Me employer, ’e’s a late sleeper, he is. If ya tell me yer business, I’ll relay the message.”

  Michael smiled at the woman, stifling a retort about being unwilling to provide fodder for servant gossip. “We must speak with Mr. Radcliffe. It is a matter of some urgency, and I would ask that you rouse him from his sleep.”

  “Perhaps, before you retrieve him, you might be of some help, miss?” Winston smiled warmly, and Michael was impressed with the man’s ability to charm.

  “Mrs. Pickleford.” The housekeeper straightened her thin shoulders.

  “Excellent,” Winston continued. “Mrs. Pickleford, what news have you of Mrs. Radcliffe? Is she currently in residence?”

  Mrs. Pickleford frowned and shook her head. “I am new ’ere, so I do not know much. Presume she’s visiting family in Marseilles. She took nofing with her, though, which is strange. ’Er personal belongings is all still here.”

  “And what has Mr. Radcliffe to say about this?” Winston continued.

  Mrs. Pickleford lifted her shoulders. “She goes to ’er family often, but he wired ’em and they’ve not seen ’er either. ’E talked to the police yesterday morning.”

  Michael flipped open the pocketbook he used for note taking. “How long had she been missing by that time?”

  Mrs. Pickleford scrunched her forehead. “Mmm, two days?”

  “Mrs. Pickleford?” A male voice carried down the front steps. “Who is here?”

  “Detectives, Mr. Radcliffe, sir. ’Ere to ask about Mrs. Radcliffe, I s’pect.”

  “Show them to the parlor immediately. I shall be but another moment.”

  Mrs. Pickleford nodded toward the open door to their left. “Ye heard ’im.”

  “Thank you, kind madam,” Winston said.

  Michael followed Winston into the parlor, where he noted several small pieces of statuary, some broken into multiple pieces, sitting on a mahogany hutch near the small fireplace.

  “Fancies himself an archaeologist,” Winston murmured as he looked at the collection. “One must have hobbies, I suppose.”

  “You do not approve?” Michael asked.

  “There are certain pieces that do no harm in a private collection, but all too often, greed sets in. Rather than donating extraordinary finds to a museum where all can admire, we are left to imagine.”

  Michael looked again at the pieces carefully showcased on the hutch. “I admit to having no eye for extraordinary finds, but I am rather taken with the craftsmanship of this mahogany piece that holds them.”

  Winston lifted a brow and nodded. “Beautiful. I wonder if it is a commissioned piece.”

  “It was indeed a commissioned piece,” a voice said from the doorway.

  “Mr. Radcliffe?” Michael asked.

  “The very same. Dare I hope you’ve come with news of my wife?” Radcliffe was classically handsome. He wore his clothing well, and his dark hair was neatly styled. Michael imagined those ice-blue eyes had won—or broken—their fair share of hearts.

  “We may come bearing unfortunate news, and I must apologize in advance for it,” Michael said. “A woman was found last night in the Thames, and she now lies in the morgue. We are not certain she is your wife, but she bears a gold locket around her neck that is inscribed ‘To my dearest Marie.’”

  Radcliffe lost all color in his face, and he swayed, bracing himself against a side table.

  “Perhaps we should sit?” Winston offered.

  Radcliffe swallowed and nodded, settling onto the sofa. The detectives took the two chairs near the hearth.

  “You are familiar with the locket, then?” Michael continued.

  “I . . . I . . .” Radcliffe cleared his throat. “I gave my wife just such a locket a few months ago on our wedding day.” He looked first at Winston, and then at Michael. “Could there be two such lockets in existence? Perhaps . . . perhaps somebody admired Marie’s locket and had another made? Surely there are many women named Marie.”

  Michael felt a twinge of sympathy. The man’s shock seemed genuine. “Yet just yesterday you reported your wife missing,” he said gently. “I have a post-mortem photo of the woman we found; will you look at it?”

  Radcliffe nodded.

  Michael handed over the photo, and Radcliffe stared at the image, his mouth slack. A dramatic shudder wracked his whole body, then he closed his eyes and handed back the photo. “That is my Marie.”

  “Are you comfortable accompanying us to the morgue for formal identification of the body? Or perhaps another family member could perform the task?” Michael asked. His initial feeling of trust toward Radcliffe was beginning to waver.

  Radcliffe shook his head. “They are in Marseilles. Marie left them behind in France when we married and returned to London. I had hoped—” He shook his head. “I’ve held to the hope she had simply decided to return to France for a visit; she has done so twice in recent months. When I realized she’d left behind all of her belongings, everything she normally takes with her in the past, I just knew—” He stood and paced behind the sofa.

  “How do you suppose she might have ended up in the river?” Winston asked, and then paused. “Would she have had reason to be walking on the promenade with friends, or perhaps an admirer?”

  Radcliffe stopped pacing and glared at Winston. “You’re asking if my wife cuckolded me? Most emphatically not.” He took a breath and released a sigh, his brows pulling tightly into a frown. “I fear she may have done something . . . illegal.”

  “What do you suspect?” Michael pressed.

  Radcliffe’s pause stretched interminably. “I suspect she may have injured herself.”

  A heavy silence filled the air. “Had she mentioned anything, or acted in a way that supports your theory?” Winston asked.

  Radcliffe gripped the back of the sofa, and his head drooped. “I cannot bear to tarnish her good name.” He cleared his throat. “She was an angel.”

  “Perhaps we have put the cart before the horse,” Michael said, his instinct warning him to doubt Radcliffe’s performance. “We’ve still to visit the morgue. Then we will know for certain whether the deceased is your wife or perhaps someone else who coincidentally wears a locket similar to Mrs. Radcliffe’s.”

  Radcliffe looked up. “If that photograph is accurate, I’ve no doubt the dead woman is my wife. Let us visit the morgue quickly. I’ve no wish to prolong the suspense.”

  Michael and Winston both stood, and Winston nodded at Radcliffe. “If the victim is not your wife, we shall double our efforts to locate her.”

  “‘Victim’?” Radcliffe repeated, color returning to his face. “You suspect someone of killing her?”

  Winston’s brows inched up in surprise. “Certainly not. I only meant that she was the recipient of intentional or unintentional harm—a victim of circumstance.”

  “Of course, of course.” Radcliffe rubbed a shaky hand across his forehead. “It is only . . . I am just so very . . .”

  Michael nodded. “We understand, sir. The shock of devastating news is never pleasant. Detective Winston and I are going to St. Vincent’s straightaway. Would you prefer to join us in our carriage or take your own?”

  Radcliffe shook his head as though having difficulty processing the question. “I’ll have my carriage readied. If the unfortunate woman at St. Vincent’s is indeed my Marie, I shall have a multitude of details to see to, arrangements to make. Such things will take time.”

  “Surely you would be forgiven for taking a day to yourself,” Winston suggested. “The details will wait.”

  “No, I am at my best when moving, when I’ve a plan. I fear if I rest for even a moment, I’ll go mad.” Radcliffe waited a
t the door while Mrs. Pickleford fetched his jacket. He shrugged into it and tugged on the crisp cuffs of his sleeves.

  The ride to St. Vincent’s was quick, and Michael barely had time to confer with Winston. “Everybody grieves differently, reacts to shocking news differently,” Michael said. “Even so, my inclination is to believe he is not telling the entire truth.”

  “I agree.” Winston nodded, his gaze fixed on the small window behind Michael where Radcliffe’s carriage followed. “He may be perfectly innocent regarding knowledge of his wife’s whereabouts, but I am always suspect of crocodile tears.”

  Michael nodded, pleased that his new partner shared his instincts.

  The carriage rocked to a halt, and Michael and Winston waited for Mr. Radcliffe to join them.

  The morgue boasted high ceilings and gothic architecture, and Dr. Neville’s domain bore all the hallmarks of a well-oiled machine. The ancient stone floor was mopped and scrubbed twice daily, sometimes more, and the white brick walls reflected the light from arched windows.

  Dr. Neville waved the three men over to the two gurneys in the center of the room. Michael provided quick introductions, and the doctor nodded gravely at Mr. Radcliffe. “I am sorry you must do this painful thing.” He carefully lifted the sheet from the young woman’s face, and Radcliffe stared, wide-eyed, first at the dead woman’s face, and then to the detectives.

  “This is my Marie,” he choked out. He looked at Neville and asked, “What happened to her?”

  “I’ve yet to determine cause of death,” the doctor told him quietly. “Once the autopsy is concluded—”

  “Autopsy?” Radcliffe shook his head quickly. “We mustn’t, we cannot. Marie’s family is religious, and they will take exception to cutting apart—” He swallowed convulsively. “It would absolutely destroy her mother. I must take Marie to France immediately. They will want to bury her in the family plot, and I can do none other than honor their wishes.”