“Beth’s butler? I don’t understand,” Sinclair answered.
“Elizabeth’s portfolio of properties includes an 18th century home in upstate New York called Beau Rêve.”
“My French is rather limited,” the marquess admitted. “Beautiful dream?”
“Aye, that’s right. It came into the Branham holdings when Duke George Linnhe married Countess Carlotta d’Oradour. Her father died with no male heir, so Carlotta inherited all. Those properties were subsumed by the Branham estate. The house sits on a cliff overlooking the Hudson River. It’s quite lovely. Beth went there as a little girl, but she was far too young to remember it. Prescott now keeps the house ready, should Beth ever visit, and the Albany branch meets there each month.”
“I’ve much to learn about my fiancée’s life, it seems,” Sinclair said, standing. A series of peculiar sounds had arisen from the hallway, as if someone scratched upon the library doors. “Excuse me, I suspect I know who that is.” He walked to the doors and opened them, finding Bella sitting on the other side. “Hello, girl. Have you a message, or do you require a stroll in your mistress’s garden?”
The dog’s thick black tail wagged, and Charles could hear the patter of quick footsteps from the north end of the hallway. He followed the Labrador into the foyer to find Adele running towards him. “Cousin Charles!” she gasped, nearly out of breath. “I’m to tell you that Elizabeth and Aunt Victoria have gone to the stables. Something’s very wrong with Snowdrop!”
“The mare that’s about to foal?”
“Yes! She’s breathing heavily and lying on her side. Mr. Powers thought her about to deliver, but the baby seems stuck, and poor Snowdrop’s eyes are all pale!”
Duke James and the earl joined the pair. “Has Powers sent for a vet?” Aubrey asked.
“He has. Mr. Marsden, I think his name was. Oh, poor Snowy looks so sick!”
“I’m sure she’s just having a little trouble delivering, Della. She’ll be fine,” he assured his sister. “Charles, I can go, if you want to remain in the meeting.”
Edmund Reid appeared at Sinclair’s elbow. “It sounds as though our meeting might need to adjourn. Charles, if it’s all right with you, France and I shall return to Leman Street and begin questioning O’Brien and Barnett.”
“I’d also like this Parker brought in, Ed. The one who’s been threatening the women at the Lyceum.”
“We’ll see to it right away. Will you be joining us?”
Paul interrupted. “Charles, you should go with them. I’ll tell Beth. She’ll understand. If the mare’s labour becomes difficult, this could last for many hours.”
“Very well,” Sinclair said as he checked his pocket watch. “It’s nearly two now. Tell Beth I’ll try to be back by six.”
“I will, and don’t worry. I’ll remain by her side at all times.”
Miles had already fetched the marquess’s overcoat and hat. “Your gloves are inside your right pocket, sir. Mr. Granger has gone to bring the coach, and there are blankets and umbrellas inside.”
Sinclair donned the coat, turning one last time to speak to Aubrey. “Let her know how much I want to share that picnic, will you? If we must postpone, I’ll make it up to her. I promise.” The earl nodded, and Sinclair left the mansion. Though he knew the choice to be logical, it left his heart heavy.
Reid and France followed close behind, and soon, the trio departed the pleasant avenues of Westminster for the riotous roads of the east.
Chapter Fifteen
Joe Barnett had never felt so alone. He’d spent most of the day sharing a cell with a pit setter named Billy Soames, who’d been arrested for trickery, animal abuse, and hosting illegal ring matches. Soames had a nasty look about him, and he’d made vile threats against Barnett, vowing to break his neck should the fish porter so much as glance his way.
It was nearly four o’clock when a constable arrived to conduct Joe into an interview room, and though he feared the police, he dreaded the dog setter’s actions even more.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Barnett,” Reid began as he entered the tight quarters of the room. “We’ve removed your manacles so that you might sign your confession.”
“Sign a confession?” Barnett repeated, his mental tic persistently causing him to repeat words before answering. “Confess to what, sir?”
“To murder,” a tall man in a fine suit replied. He’d entered in company with Reid. Joe Barnett had never seen the man before, but assumed he was CID.
“Ta murder?! I ain’t done no murder, sir. Iffin you means Mary, I ain’t done it. I don’ know who done it, sir, bu’ it weren’t me!”
“Then why do Miss Kelly’s neighbours all imply that you did, Mr. Barnett?” the well-dressed man pressed.
“Joe, this is Superintendent Sinclair. He’s in charge of this investigation. If you are innocent, we shall do our best to help you, but if you lie, we shall see you hang.”
“See me ‘ang?” Barnett repeated, audibly gulping so that his Adam’s apple slid up and down beneath a knotted kerchief. “Sir, I canno’ tell nuffin bu’ trufe. I go’ no reason ta lie.”
“Joe,” the tall man began, sitting opposite the porter, “numerous witnesses place you outside Mary’s lodgings that evening. Thursday the eighth. You had words with her, didn’t you? You and she argued, and you stormed out of there vowing to see justice done. Isn’t that so?”
“Tha’ so?” he repeated, nervously, his head bent low. “I canno’ say, sir.”
Sinclair took stock of the man, his experienced eyes running over Barnett’s face, his posture, the placement of his hands—any and all ‘tics’ and ‘tells’, including the persistent repetition of questions asked. “How old are you, Mr. Barnett?”
“’ow old am I? I ain’ sure, sir. Firty, I reckon. Mayhap firty-five.”
“Thirty-five?” the marquess repeated, making sense of the dialect. “You’re about my age. I shouldn’t want to spend the rest of my life in prison, much less be hanged for something I didn’t do. When you spoke to Mary, was she alone?”
“Were she alone?” he echoed, nervously scratching at his nose with grease-stained hands. “No, sir. Tha’ womern were wif ‘er. Liz Albrook from number two. Lor’ Almighty! Them womern cleaves ta Mary like she’s a priest, sometimes! Confessin’ their sins an’ beggin’ fer some sorta ‘elp—‘elp wha’ Mary can’t give.”
“Not now, she can’t,” Reid observed. “Not thanks to you. Why did you kill her, Joe?”
“Why’d I kill ‘er?” he parroted blankly. “I never done it! Never! I loved Mary, sirs. Loved ‘er and wanted ‘er ta come back ta me. Ida’s the one wha’ told me ta go. I seen ‘er down by the Custom ‘ouse, an’ she said Mary needed protectin’.”
“Protecting from whom?”
Barnett’s entire face had gone pale. “The letter,” he said, his brain so distracted that he failed to repeat the last words spoken by Reid. “Tha’ letter wha’ she gimme. Tha’s ‘ow I know yer name, sir. Migh’ your full name be Charles Sinclair, Superintendent?”
The detective nodded. “Yes, why?”
Barnett reached into the pocket of the ragged coat he’d won from a Chinese seafarer in a card game three months earlier. When his hand reappeared, it held a stained envelope—once white in colour, now marked in greyish fingerprints and drips of cooking fat. “She gimme this fer you, sir. Down by the docks tha’ nigh’. Ida did.”
“Ida?” Charles asked, not making any connexions, for the name was common enough.
“Ida Ross, sir.”
“Ross?” Sinclair asked, unable to hide his shock. “Why would Miss Ross give you a letter for me?”
“A letter fer you? I go’ no idea, sir, bu’ ‘ere it is.” Barnett passed the letter to the superintendent, who left the room to read it.
When he’d finished, Sinclair tapped on the window to get Reid’s attention. Edmund left a constable i
n charge of the prisoner and joined his superior in the detectives’ lounge. “What is it?”
“Ida,” Charles responded, his face pale. “I think she’s dead.”
“Dead? What do you mean? I thought Ida Ross had been consigned to an asylum for her illness. Sunders admitted her himself.”
“It seems she was released. By William Trent and another person, whom Ida does not name. Edmund, have any bodies washed ashore?”
“You think her drowned?”
“Yes. Look, I want to speak with Paul about this, for the letter is more than a suicide’s last confession. It contains information regarding Redwing.”
Reid’s face opened in surprise. “Yes, of course. Are you returning to Westminster?”
“Yes. I’ll wire Paul to let him know. But first I’ve an errand to run, and if we’ve time I’d like to stop by the docks. If that dear woman is dead, then it’s a pity beyond reckoning, but her valiant final words may help us in ways even she could not imagine. However, if there is any chance that she lives, I want to find her.”
Sinclair handed the letter to Reid. “I offer you this only because you’re a member of the circle. It contains aspects which are quite personal, but I want you to read it. I’ll wire Paul whilst you read.”
Edmund entered his office and shut the door to assure privacy.
8th November, 1888
Supt. Sinclair:
Forgive my cowardice for not telling you in person, but I cannot go on, and I have no right to come to your home. When I finish this letter, I’ll go to the docks and end it all. It is the only way to be free of him.
You’ve asked me over and over to tell you his name, and I kept it back because I was afraid. With me dead, he cannot hurt me anymore, so I’ll tell you all I know. His name is Sir William Trent, and I met him two days before I met you.
When I started working at Mrs. Hansen’s, I thought I’d found a better life. I’d just been there a few days, when she brought a customer who seemed nice at first. He bought me chocolates and a new dress, and he treated me well enough—never demanded anything unusual or hurtful, if you know what I mean. The same day that I met you, he came to see me and told me that a little girl was staying with the policeman across the road. He said the little girl was very important, and that she was in danger from a wolf. This wolf would find her, and she had to stay with the policeman to be safe.
Not more than two hours later, I saw you running out of your house, without a coat or hat, and you said you were looking for a little girl. I’d seen her run out of the house after the local publican, so I knew who you meant. What you didn’t know is that I’d also talked with her—before she left your home, sir. I called at your door, but no one answered for several minutes. I was about to walk away, when the girl answered. She was so sweet, sir. Sweet and kind, and she asked what it was I needed. I told her what Sir William had asked me to say, and it frightened her—I could tell, for her face went all pale. Then, I left, but I kept an eye on the door. A moment later, Mr. MacArthur walked past, and the girl flew out your door after him. I was about to return inside the Empress and fetch my coat, when my friend Irene came out to smoke. She didn’t know about Sir William’s words to me, so I said nothing. Then you rushed out your door and asked if we’d seen the child. I nearly told you all, sir, but with Irene there, I didn’t dare, as Sir William had made me promise.
Over the years since that day, I sometimes heard about the girl, and I learnt who she was. You were kind enough to befriend me, but I feared telling you about Sir William. He often beat me, sir, as you noticed, but he did far worse than that. I got to know his friends, too, and I heard them talk about you and their plans for the little duchess. Evil plans to use her. They talked about a child and how this baby would fulfill those plans.
I knew their threats were real. I’d seen those wolves, sir. When Trent and his friends gathered for parties at Mrs. Hansen’s, they’d sometimes ‘turn’. Can you see why I was afraid to tell you? I know their names—all of them. I’ve written them all down and left the list in a safe place.
Do you remember where you took me once, a few years ago? You introduced me to a kind gentleman with physical problems. He has the list.
It’s funny, but by writing this letter, I feel free now. I’m not worried about dying, sir. The river will be a lovely place to sleep.
It’s been so long since I last slept soundly. Tonight, I will finally find rest.
I’ve never told you, but I do love you, sir. It feels good to finally say it. I love you with all my heart. Thank you.
Ida
Reid’s head lifted, and he wiped his eyes. Sinclair knocked on the office door, entering when Reid waved.
“Poor Ida,” the inspector said, pointing to the letter. “I pray she isn’t in that river, Charles. I’d hate to see her end her days like that. But this mention of a list. Do you know what she means by this ‘kind gentleman’?”
“I do, Edmund. And he’s a man known to you as well. We’ll stop by the London on the way to Billingsgate. Have Barnett returned to his cell for the present, but don’t release him. I don’t think him guilty of Kelly’s death, but he may know more than he’s telling. As to O’Brien, his interview will have to wait until tomorrow.”
The west gardens of Istseleniye House provided solace and serenity to all, and Ida Ross touched each delicate blossom and leaf as she wandered through its fading flowers. Never before had the former prostitute had the luxury to enjoy a garden, much less visit one attached to a home in which she lived, and the idea of remaining here forever began take root inside her heart. As if summoned by her thoughts, Anatole Romanov appeared beneath an overhanging juniper branch, attired in Russian costume, his unbound hair draping across his shoulders like a raven waterfall.
“I’m pleased to find you outdoors,” he said as he approached. “I do hope my arrival did not alarm you, Ida. Won’t you join me for tea?”
Though she’d not noticed it there before, a table had been set with gilt-edged bone china, crustless sandwiches, cakes, fruit, and a silver samovar, as if he’d expected her. Romanov held the chair as she eased into it, careful not to wrinkle the folds of her new silk gown.
“You treat me much too well, sir,” she told him as the prince sat opposite.
“I treat you as you deserve. Did you sleep more soundly last night?”
She nodded. “I did, my lord. Much better, thank you. I met Mr. Stanley at breakfast this morning. He is quite nice; in his normal state, that is.”
Anatole smiled. “Believe me, when I say, Ida, that he regrets his behaviour. Tell me, was the contessa also at breakfast?”
“No, sir, she was not. In fact, I haven’t seen her since last evening. Has she left us?”
Romanov began to laugh as he poured her a cup of tea. “I seriously doubt that I would be so lucky as that! I see from your expression that you find the comment surprising. My history with di Specchio is slozhno, what you English call complicated. Like the workings of a watch—the complications—our partnership relies upon one gear moving effortlessly in cooperation with the next. The contessa begins to rust, I think. Her usefulness and even her loyalties are in doubt. I’m told she had a visitor yesterday. Did you see him? A tall man, who somewhat resembles me?”
“I did, sir. I thought he might be your son, or some other kin. He never came into the house, though. Just sat inside his coach. Is he your son?”
“In a manner of speaking, Rasha is my nephew. One of my brothers has adopted him.”
“Have you many brothers?” she asked innocently.
His light eyes twinkled. “Far too many to count, but I once knew every name amongst that host. Raziel is the one to whom I refer. He hopes to find immortality through paternity. I prefer other ways to eternal reward.”
She placed a monogrammed serviette against her lap, a light breeze playing in her strawberry locks. “I’m s
urprised to find it so pleasant here, sir. Usually this time of the year, the air is cold, and it even snows, but here—in your garden—it feels almost like spring.”
“This house and its gardens lie beyond the reach of seasons.”
“Does it?” she asked, puzzling through the curious response. “I find it hard to follow you sometimes, sir. It isn’t because I’m not interested, but my education ended when my mother died. I hope you’ll forgive my ignorance.”
He reached for her hand, stroking it gently. “I speak nonsense at times. Pay me no heed. Are you happy thus far—here, I mean? In my home?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Very happy. Katrina is quite nice, and she’s teaching me how to dress properly. Is she also Russian?”
“She is, yes,” he answered. “I first met Katrina long ago, and she has taught several young ladies the rules of dress and society. But you say that Rasha did not enter the house? Why did he come? Did he speak with anyone?”
“I cannot say why he visited, sir. The countess slipped out the front and spoke with him in the prince’s carriage. That is right, isn’t it? Razarit is a prince?”
“He is. Razarit’s original name at birth was Nicolae, but he changed it six years ago to Razarit, in honour of his adoptive father. Rasha, as he often calls himself, is Romanian and descends from a long line of Carpathian princes. He thinks himself wise and sophisticated, but I find him abrasive and cruel. He has little understanding of how his actions affect the lives of others. I have barred him from my home, but he is persistent, and may find a way to reach you. Therefore, you must tell me if he visits again. You are under my protection, Ida. I will not suffer anyone to harm you. Not anyone. Not even my brother’s so-called child.”
She blushed. “I don’t know why you treat me with such kindness, sir. You’ve already admitted to me that you are in love with another. What makes me special?”
“It is...complicated,” he said, adding milk to his tea. “Have you ever had a dream that came true, Ida?”
“Once or twice, sir.”
“Then you will understand what I’m about to say. I do not sleep, you see, not as you understand sleep. What you call dreams come differently to me. They display inside my waking mind as meandering rivers of possibilities; some brighter, more colourful than others. These are more likely to come true, whilst the less colourful ones are less so. I have foreseen you in many of these bright rivers, and in each, you play an important role in the life of the woman who is so dear to me.”
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