‘Faulkner and the victim never married, but they have two grown sons, Alfred and Bernard.’ Riley gave Danforth physical descriptions of both, as well as their addresses and places of work. ‘Can you and your helpers keep an eye on them both for the next couple of days? I am more interested in Bernard. His mother had amassed a small fortune, and he stands to inherit the lot.’
‘Ample motive for murder, one imagines.’
‘Unfortunately, imagination won’t get me a conviction. I need proof, and more precisely I need to know why Mrs Faulkner went to her rival’s business premises at such an early hour—or at all for that matter. Who let her in and who was she expecting to see? I’m hoping that one or both brothers might meet with someone else connected to this sorry mess. Perhaps another woman who works for one of the milliners, or even Madame herself.’
‘I’ll get straight on it,’ Danforth replied, draining his ale. ‘Shall we meet tomorrow afternoon at the usual time? I’ll hopefully have something for you by then.’
‘Fine, but before you go, there’s something else I need you to do for me. And this is for me.’ Riley paused. ‘It’s personal and concerns a lady by the name of Felicity Hopgood. She runs a small pottery in Chichester.’
Danforth finally showed a little animation. ‘All not hearts and flowers in the Rochester dynasty?’ he asked with a hint of sarcasm.
‘We are a family like any other,’ Riley replied, refusing to react to Danforth’s jibe. ‘But the matter is sensitive and I hope I can trust you with it.’
‘I’m surprised you’ve asked me, given our history, but yes, you are assured of my discretion. I’ll handle it myself and no one else in my family will know anything about it.’
‘Thank you,’ Riley replied, feeling as though he had reached a fresh level of understanding with his former commanding officer.
‘What’s this woman done?’
‘I think she’s trying the oldest trick in the book to persuade my brother to divorce his barren wife and marry her instead,’ Riley replied succinctly.
‘Tut, tut! Whatever will they say at White’s?’
‘It doesn’t bear thinking about,’ Riley said, smiling in spite of himself. ‘And when it comes to thinking, my brother isn’t currently doing much of it. At least, not with his brain. I need to know everything you can find out about the woman’s past. I am convinced that Henry won’t be her first victim. She probably honed her skills elsewhere and has now moved into the big time.’
‘Right. I take it the Faulkner case is the priority.’
‘It is. Fit the other business in whenever you can. I will pay you personally and very generously for your time, even if you come up emptyhanded.’
‘Understood.’
The two men stood and Danforth winced as he reached forward to shake Riley’s hand. Clearly, he still indulged in the perverted pleasures that had seen him ridiculed at Scotland Yard and eventually dismissed when his position became untenable.
‘Right, Sergeant,’ Riley said, once he had returned to the Yard. ‘Anything happened that I need to know about?’
‘No, sir, but I have the list of premises you wanted to see. The places that Hatchard regularly calls upon. There’s quite a lot of them. Where do you want to start?’
Riley took the list from Salter’s hand and examined it. ‘Whitechapel,’ he mused, tapping the paper against the fingers of his opposite hand. ‘It keeps cropping up. It’s where Mrs Faulkner first worked and where her son Bernard is now employed. It’s as good a place as any.’
‘You sure?’ Salter looked highly dubious. ‘You know what a vipers’ nest it is.’
‘Vipers can be remarkably forthcoming, Jack. You know that.’
‘Have it your way, guv’nor,’ Salter replied, grimacing.
Riley was absorbed with his own thoughts for the duration of the cab ride to Whitechapel. They alighted from the vehicle, watched by surly individuals hanging around on various corners.
‘It ain’t safe here, not for the likes of us,’ Salter pointed out uneasily, looking at the peeling façade of the premises they were about to enter with a jaundiced eye. ‘Hatchard supplied other stores in better areas. They’d as soon cut your throat for the coat on your back around these parts. Especially your coat,’ he added, glancing at Riley’s pristine tailoring. ‘Not sure what it is that you’re trying to prove to yourself.’
‘The slums around here are probably the worst in the city, I grant you,’ Riley replied, trying to feign indifference to the pervading smell of raw sewage and human poverty, ‘but it doesn’t follow that all the residents are criminals or harlots. A lot of women make ends meet by taking in sewing for ladies who don’t have maids to provide that service for them. It’s a thriving cottage industry in these streets and they have to get their supplies from somewhere.’ He pushed the door to the establishment open. ‘Somewhere cheap that understands the requirements of the local populace.’
‘You think Hatchard’s working some sort of scam?’ Salter shook his head. ‘If he is, no one’ll squeal.’
‘Perhaps not. We’ll see.’
They walked in on an old hag arguing with an assistant about the cost of a length of ribbon.
‘Tuppence is daylight robbery,’ she declared. ‘It ain’t even good quality. You’re passing off second rate goods at top prices. It’s against the law, I reckon, and if it ain’t then it bleedin’ well ought to be.’
Riley sent Salter a significant look as a ha’penny’s discount was agreed upon and the woman left the musty premises with her purchase, still shaking her head over the shocking cost of living.
A shabbily-attired man, presumably the proprietor, emerged from a back room, took one look at Riley, muttered something about damned interfering peelers and then plastered a rictus of a smile on his face.
‘Whatever’s brought you to my door,’ he said, ‘I didn’t do it.’
‘Keep a civil tongue in your head,’ Salter barked, ‘or it will be the worse for you.’
The man folded his arms across his chest, his expression belligerent. ‘What do you want?’
‘You are Nesbitt?’ Riley asked, having seen the faded lettering over the shop’s doorway.
Nesbitt narrowed his eyes in suspicion. ‘What if I am?’
‘You get your supplies from Dobson’s?’
‘Some of ’em.’ A calculating look had crept into his eye. ‘What of it?’
‘What indeed?’
The man smelled strongly of liquor and bad breath. He hadn’t bathed or washed his clothing for some days and the damp, musty aroma in the shop made Riley regret coming to such a rundown area. Salter was right. There were easier places to ask their questions, but they would be less likely to extract answers in establishments where a police presence wasn’t detrimental to trade. Everyone in this area disliked and mistrusted the police, mainly because they had something to hide, and Riley felt a degree of sympathy for their situation. Life was unforgiving and it was every man for himself, doing whatever he had to do to survive. The fact that they were all breaking the law to greater or lesser degrees gave Riley leverage. He wouldn’t pry into their affairs if they answered his questions.
‘You deal with a man called Hatchard?’
Much to Riley’s astonishment, Nesbitt’s face lost all colour and he shook his head decisively. ‘Never heard of ’im. Can’t help yer.’
Salter stepped forward, grabbed Nesbitt by the front of his shirt and slammed him up against the wall. One or two customers left hurriedly. He put his face a few inches from Nesbitt’s and said, ‘See here, sunshine, we’re investigating a murder, so I suggest you don’t tell my guv’nor porkies if you know what’s good for you.’
‘Can’t tell you what I don’t know,’ Nesbitt said, shaking himself free of Salter’s hold.
Riley threatened him with arrest for hampering a police enquiry, but it served no purpose. The man was clearly terrified of Hatchard and nothing he or Salter said or did would persuade Nesbitt even to admit to knowin
g him. They left the premises feeling confused and frustrated.
‘I didn’t have Hatchard down as the intimidatory type,’ Salter said as they moved away, watched by dozens of pairs of resentful eyes, and made their way to another merchant’s establishment. ‘But Nesbitt was scared out of his wits the moment we mentioned his name and his sort don’t scare easily.’
‘Precisely.’
They received flat out denials from several other establishments that they visited and were finally obliged to admit defeat.
Riley’s clothing reeked of destitution and something more fundamental as Salter hailed a cab and they made their way back to Scotland Yard.
‘Whatever Hatchard’s game is,’ Riley said during the course of their journey, ‘one assumes it must be profitable and that Mrs Faulkner was in partnership with him.’
‘You’re thinking that Hatchard decided he didn’t need a partner and would prefer to keep the profits for himself.’
‘The possibly crossed my mind, but once again we come back to the location of the murder. Hatchard doesn’t supply Madame and would have had no means of access to the premises.’
‘Ah, that again.’ Salter sighed.
‘Yes, Jack, that again. Hatchard and Mrs Faulkner were close friends—but not, according to Hatchard, lovers. If Miss Sharp is to be believed he was a frequent visitor to Clapham. Why, if they were not intimately involved? He called far more regularly than necessary just to replenish supplies. Have a gentle word with Maureen about him, Jack. See if anything stands out in her memory.’
‘Will do.’ Salter glanced at a tavern that he and Riley often patronised. ‘It’s past lunchtime, sir,’ he said hopefully.
Riley smiled, thinking of Amelia’s concern for Salter’s stomach the previous evening. He would be able to tell her that her worries were no longer justified.
‘Very well, Sergeant. Let’s see what delights the landlady has for us today.’
Once Salter had been suitably fortified with his own plate of stew and half of Riley’s, the two detectives returned to the Yard and found Stout awaiting their arrival.
‘News already, Stout?’ Riley raised a brow. ‘You have outdone yourself. Come through and tell me what you’ve discovered.’
‘Good afternoon, Sergeant Salter,’ Stout said. ‘I hope your daughter has recovered from her ordeal.’
‘Thank you, Mr Stout. She is with her mother, who is smothering her with affection.’
Stout allowed himself the suggestion of a smile. ‘As mothers are wont to do, I am given to understand.’
Salter rolled his eyes. ‘In Mrs Salter’s case, it’s definitely true. Would that she spared me half as much of her time.’
‘Well, Stout.’ Riley walked into his office and removed his hat and coat, before seating himself. ‘What have you got for me?’
‘Lord Rathbone,’ Stout replied. ‘I have it on the very best authority that he just happens to visit Brown’s on the same nights that Madame Boise favours that establishment with her custom.’ Stout cleared his throat. ‘The more observant of the hotel’s employees have also noticed the coincidence. He tends to arrive late at night, past midnight, and leaves again before dawn.’
‘Rathbone.’ Riley shook his head. ‘Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.’
‘Maybe it would me,’ Salter said, ‘if I had the foggiest who you’re talking about.’
‘He’s a well-known figure in the House of Lords, Jack, who speaks out against loose morals. Wants to see prostitution stamped out and greater punishments brought in for lewd behaviour in general. He’s a self-confessed moralist, but it seems to be a case of do as I say, not as I do.’
‘Ah, one of them. You think he’s involved with Madame?’
‘I doubt whether the hotel’s employees have it wrong. I assume he didn’t reserve a room in his own name, Stout?’
‘No, my lord, but has been observed leaving by the back entrance in the early hours on more than one occasion.’
‘The sort of man who Mrs Faulkner wouldn’t hesitate to blackmail, I assume,’ Salter remarked.
‘Precisely so, Jack. He advocates the sanctity of marriage and family life and has, I think, eight children. You’d approve of him, but for the fact that he doesn’t appear to practise what he preaches.’
‘Will you be speaking with him, sir?’
‘Oh, I think so, when the time is right.’
‘What’s wrong with now?’
‘This requires careful thought. If he was being blackmailed and decided to do away with the blackmailer, he’s hardly going to admit it.’ Riley threw back his head and stared up at the ceiling. ‘A little subtlety is called for. We have the advantage as things stand. Let’s not waste it by showing our hand prematurely.’
‘We need evidence linking him to the killing.’
‘We do, Jack. I doubt whether he did it himself. Stout, see what you can find out from his servants about his movements. His family live in Primrose Hill, I think.’
‘Leave it to me, my lord. I hope I will discover something before the end of the day.’
‘Good man. Collect me here around five. We will return to Bromley again tonight and you can tell me what you’ve discovered on the way home.’
Chapter Eleven
Riley spent the next hour catching up with his paperwork and then re-read all the statements that had thus far been taken with regard to Mrs Faulkner’s murder. He was no nearer to deciding which direction the investigation should take next when Salter put his head round the door.
‘Soames and Carter are back. So too is Peterson.’
‘Wheel them in, Jack. It’s time for a recap.’
‘Afternoon, sir,’ Carter said cheerfully.
‘You look as though you’ve found something out that I’m going to want to hear,’ Riley replied. ‘I would welcome anything that might point us in the right direction.’
‘We found quite a few members of the Butler family in and around Clapham, sir. They haven’t moved away. One sister is married to a docker. She has six kids ranging from fourteen to three and looks worn down by the responsibility. She was the only person willing to talk about Meg. She didn’t have a good word to say about her either. She reckons she’s turned her back on her family and doesn’t want to help any of them, despite her success.’
‘Very willing to dish the dirt, was Mrs Pamela Horton,’ Soames added. ‘Says Meg always had ambition, but then we already knew that. Said she was determined to become a milliner, which also didn’t come as any great surprise. She reckons Meg was the prettiest of the sisters and calculating with it. If Pamela’s being truthful and not just venting her spleen, she’d have us believe that Meg flaunted herself in front of any man with brass in his pockets from the age of twelve onwards.’
‘She sold herself?’ Riley raised a brow.
‘Her sister didn’t go so far as to say that,’ Carter replied. ‘She told us Meg got noticed and was propositioned. She was vague when pressed in that regard. She said she ignored those propositions, but jumped at the chance of an apprenticeship with Mrs Faulkner. But—and here’s the interesting bit—before being apprenticed she did get over-friendly with Pamela’s employer, a Mr Wakefield. Next thing Pamela knew, Meg disappeared off the face of the earth for a couple of months…’
‘She had his child,’ Riley surmised aloud.
‘That’s what Pamela reckons, but Meg refused to talk about her absence, let alone account for it. She was barely fourteen when all this went on. Anyway, she returned like nothing had happened and got in with Mrs Faulkner. Pamela reckoned she’d learned her lesson good and proper and didn’t take up with any of the other men sniffing around her petticoats. The moment she’d served out her indentures she started up on her own account in Whitechapel.’ Soames shrugged. ‘Where did she get the capital? That’s what we’re wondering.’
‘She sold off some of her own designs when she was still an apprentice, but that wouldn’t have been enough. Is Wakefield still alive and living in Claph
am?’ Riley asked. ‘Perhaps he paid for her silence if he did impregnate her.’
‘He is, sir. He’s a justice of the peace, considered to be the epitome of respectability and is known to dish out harsh sentences when serving as a magistrate.’
‘Call and see him on your way home tonight, Jack. Press him in private for the truth. Don’t let him prevaricate.’
‘You can be sure that I won’t let him tell no clankers, if that’s what you mean by prevaricate, sir,’ Salter said, with a cheeky grin.
Riley shook his head, glad to have the irreverent Salter back, and refrained from voicing the chastisement that sprang to his lips.
‘What about you, Peterson? Any signs of life at Madame’s shop?’
‘Nothing out of the ordinary while I was there, sir. More custom that might be usual, I suspect, on account of there having been a murder. Madame was there to greet her customers and presumably reassure them, and unless she went out the back way, she didn’t leave. None of the customers that I observed were well-heeled gentlemen and no one was acting suspiciously. One of Sergeant Barton’s men took over from me a couple of hours back.’
‘Right, fair enough. I didn’t expect anything to come of it.’ Riley sighed. ‘What about Miss Sharp, Carter? Did you dig up anything interesting on her?’
‘No one I spoke to knows anything about her,’ Carter replied. ‘She’s just always been a part of Mrs Faulkner’s establishment for as long as anyone can remember, and no one knows anything about her personal life, if she has one. Short of talking to the apprentices, who probably won’t know anything…’
‘I’ll ask Maureen about her,’ Salter said.
Barton put his head round the door. ‘There’s a scrap of a lass here asking for you, sir. Said you saw her at Nesbitt’s earlier today.’
Riley and Salter shared a perplexed glance.
‘What the devil…’ Salter scratched his chin.
‘Send her in please, Barton. You stay, Jack. The rest of you, go and write up your reports.’
The girl they’d seen haggling with the old lady over a length of ribbon was shown into Riley’s office. She looked tidy enough and showed signs of both fear and defiance. She paused on the threshold, her eyes wide, and Riley thought she might turn tail and run away at any moment. His friendly smile appeared to settle her and she took another step into the room. Riley hadn’t taken much notice of her in the dim shop, but he could see now that she was remarkably pretty and possessed a certain strength of character; a result of having to grow up early and face the grim realities of the life she had been born into, Riley supposed.
Death of a Milliner: Riley Rochester Investigates Book 9 (Riley ~Rochester Investigates) Page 13