by M. J. Tjia
CHAPTER 31
I plunge into the soft cushions of the sofa, so glad to be home. I take in the details of my drawing room – the blue and white porcelain, some of which is for show, some of which is of actual value; the bronze buddha who’s laughing, clad in a blue cloisonné robe; the sumptuous brocade and polished mahogany; the gilt framed portrait of myself above the mantelpiece – trying to calm my mind which is still filled with bombs and bullets, and the way my skin jumped when I thought Somerscale shot me. My thoughts creep even further, to poor Violette. What a terrible waste. I close my eyes, and when I open them, I think of how lucky I am that I have my home to return to, when my travels and adventures are done. If only Amah were home too, though. On returning to South Street, the first thing I did was rush up the stairs to her rooms, but Abigail informed me that she had just left for her afternoon walk. I wait patiently, listening for Amah’s return.
I think of the evening before, how I spent so many hours in Mrs White’s office, a high-ceilinged room, bare of decoration apart from a lovely rosewood desk, and three matching chairs. Over a platter of cold meats and bread, Mrs White told me that most likely Somerscale would have murdered Beveridge anyway, after framing him for the Secretary’s death. Beveridge was to be the one blamed for all the bombings. He was to be the disgruntled citizen, taking his revenge upon the state. I press my eyes shut against the sudden memory of Beveridge; the blossom of red at his throat, the shock in his pale eyes. I feel a bit sad for the man, even though, of course, I realise he was likely intent upon robbing many people of their lives today. What pushes a man to take such evil action? What drives a man to such rage, that he wants to kill others? I have known real bitterness in my life, real demoralisation. And when I think of my lowest days, wrapped in a stifling cloak of pain and hatred, I wonder if perhaps I was pushed one more inch, if hunger, fury, the injustice of it all became too much, if I too could have taken a life.
“It was only your talk of the red and white scarf that tipped me off to Somerscale, you know,” Mrs White had said, sipping on black coffee. “For nothing in the original correspondence mentioned this form of contact. Somerscale could only have known about the red and white scarf if he were involved himself.” She explained that, after that, it hadn’t taken her long to make connections between his finances and a possible target. Hence her rapid manoeuvres to protect the War Secretary.
By the time White finished with me it was well past midnight, so instead of rousing my household, and facing the possibility of interminable questions, I decided to spend a peaceful night at Brown’s. I have only been home again a little over an hour and am glad my house doesn’t reek of fish and mould like the house in Green’s Court. Much better to be surrounded by the scent of lavender and fresh roses.
Bundle opens the drawing room door, says, “Mrs Chancey, a visitor. A Mr Ripley I believe,” and before my poor butler is quite finished speaking, the American strides into my drawing room.
Ripley hooks his thumbs into his coat pockets and gazes about my room, an admiring smile on his face. He whistles. “Well, this is certainly a fancy parlour for a little governess to have.”
I cast my eyes to the ceiling but grin too. “Ripley, how on earth did you find me here?”
He taps his finger to the side of his nose and winks. “You wouldn’t have any bourbon for me to drink, would you? I’m parched after all that excitement yesterday.”
I point to the side board littered with crystal decanters of spirits and wines. “No bourbon, I’m afraid. But plenty of whisky. Bring a large one for me, too, will you.”
He passes me a healthy-sized whisky and takes a seat in the armchair opposite. Lifting his own glass, he says, “Here’s to catching that devil. I always enjoy a good gunfight.”
“It was damned lucky for me you caught us up. Where did you come from?”
“Heard talk of the ruckus on Green’s Court in the bar at the Clover, so I thought I’d have a gander. Found a bunch of constables twirling their noisy rattles, running for the next lane over. That’s where we found that poor policeman, shot through the chest, and lying next to him were your glasses, squashed into the dirt. Turned out the constable was clear-headed enough to tell me in which direction you’d headed.”
“He was alive?”
“Sure. Said he pretended to be dead so that Somerscale didn’t shoot ’im again.”
The whisky sits sweet on my tongue, then burns its way across my throat. I think of what I can do for the constable, perhaps send my surgeon to him, some fruit. I must find out where he is at. Taking another sip, I savour the taste of the amber spirit, so much more pleasant than gin and milk, I think, shuddering.
“You all right? Thinking of yesterday, are you?” Ripley looks concerned.
“Not at all. I’m reliving my stay at the Modestos’.”
A smile widens his mouth again. “You certainly had me bamboozled when I first caught sight of you in Soho, that’s for sure. Thought perhaps you had your eye on me.”
“On you? Why would I be spying on you? I was sure you were trying to murder me!”
Ripley laughed, slapping his leg. “I’m not in the murdering game. I followed you and your maid back to your hotel after we shared those absinthes. Couldn’t work out what your game was. Felt mighty curious. Grateful, too. I’m not one to forget you saved my skin in the bar that night. Paid you back, in fact.”
“Outside La Maison Dorée? It was you that pulled me out of the way?”
“Sure was.” He throws back the rest of his whisky and stands to pour himself another.
“But why did you seem to be everywhere I turned?”
“Pure coincidence, I reckon, apart from the fact that Somerscale dipped into the same murky pool of people I found myself amongst.” He contemplates me for a few seconds. “I think I can trust you to not give me away. Last year, word leaked that a new Fenian faction was purchasing large quantities of arms, heading them towards Canada. Meanwhile some of their men were being sent to Paris for training. It was organised with the General I was serving under that I’d be struck from the American army list so I could follow ’em. Keep an eye on ’em. Spy on ’em, I guess you’d call it. It was in Paris that I heard of a plan to recruit more men and money here in London. Which led me to Soho.”
I remember what he told me of his upbringing, his father, the copper mine. “I thought you were sympathetic to their cause. Or was all you told me a cover, Mr Ripley?”
“Nah. That was all true what I told you. And don’t get me wrong – I do understand what they are agitating for, I am totally on their side with that – but we must make a stand against them taking it with violence.”
I nod, but really, I wonder if it might be the only way Connolly and his fellows will ever find justice: in suffrage, work conditions, independence. By wresting it for themselves in any way they can.
Ripley takes to his feet, placing the glass down on the side-table. “Well, that was a pleasure, Mrs Chancey. I sure hope when this is all over, we can meet up again. You might even want to visit me in America some day soon, when all the dust has settled.”
Looking up into his broad, cheerful face, I realise I’d really like that. “Sounds lovely, Mr Ripley. Keep me apprised of your movements when you are done here in London.” I walk with him to the drawing room door. “And thank you, Mr Ripley, for saving my life that night. I didn’t realise what real danger I was in.”
He winks at me, and shakes my hand. “Well, like I said, I was already in your debt at that time. And I sure hope I can be of assistance again.”
Taking his wide-brimmed hat from Bundle’s hands, he shoves it on his head. A single leaf blows through the door as Bundle sees him out.
“By the way, Mrs Chancey,” says Bundle, “Amah arrived home from her walk while you were with your guest.”
As I climb the stairs, I think of Ripley’s offer. I’ve never been to America, but I’ve heard wonderful things. Rowdy masquerade balls, crocodiles, saloons, iced tea.
“Mama, have you been sick? You are skin and bone.” I lift her wrist. It’s as slender as a bamboo shoot. “Agneau must fatten you up.”
The trace of a smile lifts her lips as she lifts her head from her embroidery. I feel bad, because perhaps she is pleased that I show such care. How I do neglect her, leaving her here, in boring Mayfair, quite alone.
“I think you need a change of air, Mama,” I say as I pour her a cup of tea, stirring in a brimming spoonful of honey. “I will take you to Venice, just as I promised. I’ll look into the arrangements tomorrow.”
“Venice?” Amah replies. “No, Jia Li. No. I think I will just stay at home, if you please.”
We hope you enjoyed The Death of Me as much as we did here at Legend Press. If you want to read more about Heloise Chancey, here’s an excerpt from the first novel in the series, She Be Damned.
I’m surprised to find two men in my drawing room. Sir Thomas Avery I know well. He is a man of maybe forty-five years, a little shorter than me, with thick, frizzled mutton chop sideburns. He steps forward and takes my hand in greeting. He then introduces the stranger standing by one of the windows which overlooks the street below.
“This is Mr Priestly,” he says.
The other man doesn’t approach me but bows his head. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs Chancey,” he says.
His lips widen a little, but he makes no real effort to smile. A thin frame and large ears preclude Mr Priestly from being a handsome man, but he is well, if soberly, dressed and gentlemanly. His eyes flick over my figure and then, with more leisure, he looks around my drawing room.
His gaze follows the pattern of the Oriental rug, the scrollwork on the mahogany side board and the richly damasked sofas with intricately worked legs. He takes in the assortment of Chinese blue and white vases in the dark cabinets and the jade figurines on the mantelpiece. Finally his gaze rests on the large mural that adorns the furthest wall. A painting of a peacock, sat on a sparse tree branch, fills the space. The peacock, a fusion of azure, green and gold leaf with a regal crown of feathers, displays its resplendent train so that the golden eyes of its plumage can be admired. It might be a trick of the light and artistry, but the peacock’s tail feathers seem to quiver.
“How very… exotic,” he says.
He moves towards the fireplace and studies the painting in the gilded frame above it. The portrait is of a young woman dressed in Javanese costume. Her hair is pulled into a low bun, silver earrings decorate her lobes, and she holds a white flower behind her back. Richly decorated batik is wrapped around her breasts, and a tight sarong swathes her lower body.
“Is that you?” he asks me, surprise in his voice.
“Yes.” I stand by him and look up at the portrait. “My friend Charles Cunningham lent me the fabric for the sitting. His father brought the lengths of silk and batik back from Java, after one of his assignments with Raffles. Such beautiful, earthy colours, aren’t they?”
Mr Priestly steps a few feet away from me. “I’m afraid I don’t follow this fashion for aping savages.”
I feel a prick of resentment at the insult to my drawing room and portrait – the insult to me. But I learnt long ago to hold my temper in check, I have learnt to behave with decorum, for I no longer work in a Liverpool back-alley. Smiling sweetly as I lower myself and my wide skirts carefully onto the sofa, I say, “Oh, don’t feel bad. Not everyone can be a la mode, can they?”
Sir Thomas clears his throat loudly. “Maybe we should discuss the purpose of our visit, Mrs Chancey.”
“Yes, let’s,” I answer, patting the sofa cushion next to mine. “Please have a seat.”
Sir Thomas sits down and looks at Mr Priestly expectantly. However, rather than speak himself, Mr Priestly gestures for Sir Thomas to proceed.
“Well, Mrs Chancey,” says Sir Thomas. “I have come to ask you to do a spot of work for us again.”
“Wonderful. Who will I need to be this time?”
Sir Thomas smiles. “Certainly your prior experience as a stage actress has benefitted us, Mrs Chancey. And it is true. We do need you to do some covert investigating for us.”
One of Sir Thomas’ many businesses includes a private detective agency. Although he has a surfeit of male detectives, he has found it very difficult to find females willing or able to sleuth. Having both the willingness and ability, I’ve worked on and off for Sir Thomas over the last eighteen months. I’ve posed as a sewing woman to gain access to a noble house, I’ve rouged and revealed myself as a street prostitute in order to spy on a group of young men and I have even performed as a harem dancer in order to reconnoitre at a foreign embassy.
Sir Thomas clears his throat again. “Yes. Well, maybe the task we ask of you this time will not be so enjoyable, I’m afraid.”
He glances at Mr Priestly, who nods him on.
“As you know, we are investigating the deaths of several women in the Waterloo area.”
“How did they die?” I ask.
Sir Thomas waves his hand. He won’t go on.
Mr Priestly stares hard at me for a few moments. “Sir Thomas assures me I can broach any subject with you, Mrs Chancey.”
“Of course,” I smile. He means because I’m a whore, of course, but I won’t let him think his sting has broken skin.
He turns and gazes out the window as he speaks. “It seems that each of these women – well, really, they were prostitutes – had terminated a pregnancy and died soon after from blood loss and infection.”
“Well, unfortunately that happens far too frequently.”
“That is so, but luckily the body of the last prostitute who died in this manner was taken to the hospital to be used as a specimen, and they found that…” He glances over at me, his eyes appraising.
“What?” I ask.
“They found parts of her body missing.”
“What parts?”
“Her uterus was gone, but so were her other… feminine parts.”
Revulsion curls through my body and I feel the pulse of an old wound between my legs. I glance at Sir Thomas whose eyes fall away from mine.
“What makes you think her death is connected to the other deaths in Waterloo?”
“It was the fourth body they had received in this condition in the last seven weeks.”
“What? And was it not reported to the police?” My voice rises in disbelief.
Mr Priestly shrugs. “Well, they were only prostitutes, after all. At first the hospital staff thought they were the victims of amateur hysterectomies, but when they found that each of the women was also missing…”
“Missing…?” I shake my head a little, hoping I’m not about to hear what I think is coming, although a part of me, tucked away beneath the horror, wonders how he’ll describe it.
Mr Priestly straightens his collar. “Apparently all their sexual organs were missing. Inside and out. I am positive you know to what I am referring, Mrs Chancey.”
I can’t help but press my knees together. I nod.
“Accordingly, it became apparent that there was a pattern to these deaths,” he continues.
“And what do the police think now?”
“Obviously someone in the area is butchering these un-fortunate women, whether accidentally or in spite is uncertain. However – and it’s not surprising – the police don’t want to waste too much time investigating the deaths of prostitutes when the rights of decent, law-abiding Londoners need to be protected.”
Indignation sharpens my thoughts, but I command my body to relax. After all, what else is to be expected? If I’m to mix in polite society I need to mimic their ways. I force a languid smile to my face, eyes narrowed, as I watch Mr Priestly. “So, what on earth do you want to look into these deaths for? If the police are not interested, why should we be?”
“A
friend of mine heard of these cases and has become immensely interested. It is on behalf of my friend that I have engaged Sir Thomas’ services.”
“And why has your friend become so interested?”
Mr Priestly takes his time seating himself in an armchair, crossing one leg over the other. He scrutinises my face for a few moments before answering. “My friend has a special concern. It is for this reason we ask for your assistance.”