“Cut the crap. You may be in bed with Sir Gerald, but you don’t give me orders, no matter what he says.”
I stare, offended. Behind my sedate facade, I have a temper, and it flares at Cross. “You don’t talk to me that way.” I wonder uneasily how many people think my relationship with Sir Gerald is improper.
Cross laughs, glad he’s gotten a rise out of me. “I’ll talk to you however I please.”
The sound of footsteps echoes up through the stairwell. Hugh and Mick join us. “What’s going on?” Hugh asks.
I tell them about the contest, and they react with exclamations of delight. “What’re we waitin’ for?” Mick says. “Let’s get started.”
“Glad to be working with you.” Hugh extends his hand to Cross. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. I’m Hugh Staunton.”
“I know who you are.” Cross eyes him with revulsion. “Get away from me, nancy boy.”
Hugh’s smile fades. I’m troubled to learn that Cross is among those who despise men like Hugh, and I think there’s another reason behind his animosity. Cross’s accent and manners peg him as working class, and Hugh unintentionally makes him feel inferior.
“Hey!” Mick says. “Take that back, or I’ll belt you!” He once reviled Hugh himself; now he’s Hugh’s loyal defender. He grabs Cross by the arm and raises his own fist.
“Let me go, you brat!” Cross says.
They wrestle, stumbling down the stairs. Hugh and I pull Mick off Cross.
Cross smoothes his hair, straightens his clothes, and glares at us. “You don’t belong here. I’m going to solve the murder by myself. And don’t try to take credit for it. I’ll make sure Sir Gerald knows it was all me, and he doesn’t need the lot of you.”
He stomps down the stairs. Mick yells after him, “Rotter!”
Then we look at each other in consternation. “We can’t let him do that,” Hugh says. Sir Gerald’s money pays for our rent, our bread and butter.
“I’m supposed to take Catherine out to supper tonight,” Mick says.
Catherine Price, a friend of ours, is a beautiful young actress, currently performing in London’s West End. Mick is in love with her, no matter that she’s nineteen and he’s fourteen; he’s determined to win her hand someday. He faces serious competition from her many other suitors, some wealthy and distinguished. I know he’s desperate to grow up fast and become a man of means himself before she marries somebody else. For now, Catherine accepts Mick’s company because he’s the one who risked his life and killed for her. That’s a hard act to beat, but wooing Catherine is expensive. Mick can’t keep it up if he loses his employment with Sir Gerald.
Hugh gives Mick a look of sympathy. “You’re not the only one who can’t afford to get on Sir Gerald’s bad side.”
Hugh is engaged in a passionate love affair with Sir Gerald’s son Tristan Mariner, a secret known only to themselves, Mick, Fitzmorris, and me. God only knows what Sir Gerald would do if he learned his son is a homosexual. He might blame Hugh for corrupting Tristan. Hugh has worked hard stockpiling good will with Sir Gerald in case the worst happens.
I state the obvious. “We’d better solve the murder.”
“I’ve an idea where to start looking for the hangman’s hangman,” Hugh says.
Mick and I smile. Hugh always has ideas. That’s one of the things we like about him.
“The murder didn’t seem like a burglary gone wrong,” Hugh says. “A common criminal wouldn’t bother to cover it up by faking a suicide. Odds are, the killer is someone close to Warbrick. His family should be our first stop.”
CHAPTER 3
We collect my photography equipment and return to The Ropemaker’s Daughter to find out where Warbrick lived. Neighbors direct us to Church Street, one block north. Mick carries my camera, Hugh my trunk, and I my satchel, past Christ Church, the landmark that dominates the skyline of Spitalfields and Whitechapel. The snow has stopped, but the church’s tall, pointed steeple looks as insubstantial as if made of the fog that still thickens the air. Beyond the church, the street contains rows of three-story Georgian brick townhouses. They’re of a higher standard than the other houses in the area, once occupied by master weavers in the silk industry. Now the silk industry is defunct, and the houses belong to the neighborhood’s wealthier citizens. We don’t need to see the address to identify which belonged to Harry Warbrick. A crowd loiters outside a house with a front door painted black and decorative red masonry around the windows.
“The grapevine’s been hard at work,” Hugh says. “News of murder spreads fast.”
Drawing near, we hear a man in the crowd say, “I’m a reporter with the Daily World. My readers will want to know what Mrs. Warbrick has to say about her husband’s murder.”
I recognize his young, belligerent voice. “That’s Malcolm Cross.”
“He beat us here,” Mick says with chagrin.
“Well, you can’t talk to Mrs. Warbrick. We have to interview her first.”
This irate voice is familiar too. My heart sinks. My friends and I halt twenty paces away, grimace at one another, and say, “Inspector Reid.”
We ran afoul of Reid during the Ripper investigation as well as the search for Sir Gerald’s kidnapped son. Reid swore to get revenge on us. He thinks we know more than we’re telling about both cases. He also thinks we’re responsible for the fact that the Ripper has never been caught. He’s right on both counts.
“How about letting me sit in on the interview?” Cross says.
“Get lost,” Reid says.
“We’d better go,” Hugh says. Reid swore to get the truth out of us, and if he does, it would be the gallows for us. But we’re curious to see whether Cross gets the better of Reid.
“You haven’t seen the last of me,” Cross says. “The Daily World is challenging the police to a contest.”
“What contest?” demands another man, hidden in the crowd.
It’s Barrett. I murmur, “Oh no.” I wanted to be the one to break the news to him.
“To see who can solve Warbrick’s murder first—you or us?” Cross says.
Reid snorts with disgust. Barrett asks in an ominous tone, “When did this come up?”
“Today,” Cross says.
“I see.” Barrett obviously thinks I was already in on the contest when we met at the murder scene this morning, and deliberately neglected to tell him about it. He must be remembering other times I’ve kept secrets from him. I can almost feel his blood start to boil.
“I won’t have you snooping around, getting in my way.” Indignation raises Reid’s voice.
“Seems like you need some new detectives on the job,” Cross retorts. “You could have used the help while you were hunting the Ripper.”
Laughter bursts from the crowd. I can’t see Reid, but I sense the heat of his temper. The unsolved Ripper case is a sore point with the police, who have been widely criticized by the public and in the press. I can’t see Barrett either, but I know he’s thinking of the night at the slaughterhouse. That night bound us together forever, but it doesn’t mean our love is indestructible.
“Mr. Cross, get off the premises at once or you’ll be arrested,” Reid says.
“Aye, aye, sir.” Cross saunters away.
“The show’s over,” Reid says to the crowd. “Go home.” The crowd scatters, leaving him and Barrett alone. “By the way, PC Barrett, I heard that you applied for a promotion to sergeant.”
“Yes, sir,” Barrett says. I know he wants to be a detective instead of patrolling a beat, to serve justice by solving murders instead of arresting pickpockets. He also wants a higher income, so he can support me in style when—if—we marry.
“Well, I blocked your promotion,” Reid says. There’s bad blood between him and Barrett as well as between Reid and myself. Barrett took my side in a dispute with Reid during the Ripper investigation, and Reid has never forgotten. Reid also suspects that Barrett was involved in some trouble he had with their superiors. H
e’s right.
“That’s not fair,” Barrett protests. “I was due for a promotion two years ago.”
“It’s your own fault you’re stuck in a rut,” Reid says. “You’ll be stuck for good if you help your girlfriend win the contest.”
“Leave Sarah out of this.” Anger tightens Barrett’s voice. He’s paying for his decision to cast his lot with me. His past catches up with him every day on the job with Reid.
Reid laughs. “You’re going to have to pick a side—hers or your fellow police’s. If you want a promotion, you’d better dump Sarah Bain.”
I’m furious that Reid is making an issue of Barrett’s divided loyalties, forcing Barrett to choose between his career and me, seeking revenge on us through destroying our relationship. Hugh tugs my arm. “Let’s go before they spot us.”
We duck around the corner and take refuge in the Queen’s Head public house. “We’ll cool our heels here until the police are gone,” Hugh says.
“I’m hungry,” Mick says. “What’s to eat?”
* * *
After a lunch of bread, cheese, and pickles, Hugh and I return to the Warbrick house, leaving Mick to wait in the Queen’s Head with my equipment. I suspect that if Mrs. Warbrick thinks we’re going to take her picture, she won’t let us in. The street outside the house is now deserted. When I knock at the door, a shrill female voice calls, “Go away. The missus isn’t seeing visitors.”
Hugh speaks in his most aristocratic, pleasant voice. “I’m sorry to bother Mrs. Warbrick at such a bad time, but we’re from the Home Office.”
I raise my eyebrows at Hugh. He shrugs and smiles at his ruse. The door opens to reveal a plain older woman in a housemaid’s gray frock, white apron, and white cap. Hugh tips his hat and smiles. Her eyes widen, dazzled by his good looks.
“Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Hugh Bain. This is my sister, Sarah.” It’s not the first time Hugh has posed as my brother. He avoids using his real name when someone might recognize it from his scandal. “To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
“Mary Jenkins.” She blushes bright red.
Hugh bows. “Enchanté, Miss Jenkins.” He’s an expert at charming women; he’s done it all his life, to disguise his true nature. “If you could just tell Mrs. Warbrick we’re here?”
“All right.” The door closes.
Hugh holds up crossed fingers. A moment later, Miss Jenkins, who only has eyes for him, leads us through the foyer. It smells of the polish that gleams on the paneled walls and carved staircase. It’s so cold that when Miss Jenkins asks for our coats, I reluctantly let her hang mine on the stand. The parlor is barely warmer, despite the fire in the hearth, and so dim with the velvet curtains drawn over the windows and so full of furniture that at first I don’t see Mrs. Warbrick. Dressed in black crepe, she hovers like a ghost. A black snood covers her hair and frames her delicate, pale face. As my eyes adjust to the dimness, I see that hers are red and swollen from crying. After the introductions, she says, “Please be seated.”
Her voice is quiet, gentle. She’s not what I expected. Not that I’ve ever thought about the kind of woman a hangman would marry, but I’ve seen many coarse, buxom, outspoken wives of publicans. She sits in a damask-covered armchair, Hugh and I on a velvet settee. The house, decorated with bouquets of dried flowers, seashells under glass domes, and figurines in curio cabinets, isn’t what I expected either. Then again, what did I expect—a dungeon in a medieval castle? But this is the nineteenth century, not the fourteenth; a hangman is no longer the hooded brute at the village gibbet.
“Thank you for allowing us to speak with you,” Hugh says. “The Home Office sent us to deliver condolences on behalf of Her Majesty’s government. And please allow us to express our personal sympathy for the loss of your husband.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind.” Mrs. Warbrick doesn’t question our identity, and she must be one of few women oblivious to Hugh’s looks. She seems overwhelmed and preoccupied by sorrow. I’m ashamed of intruding on her under false pretenses. She turns to Miss Jenkins, who hovers in the doorway. “Mary, would you please bring some tea for Mr. and Miss Bain?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Miss Jenkins, with a backward glance at Hugh, reluctantly departs.
“I assure you that the police will do everything in their power to apprehend your husband’s killer,” Hugh says.
“Yes … They were just here.”
“It would help if you could answer a few questions,” I say.
Mrs. Warbrick sighs. “All right.”
“Have you any idea who might have wanted your husband dead?” I ask.
“Inspector Reid asked me that. I said no.”
Miss Jenkins bustles into the parlor, carrying a tray laden with cups, saucers, and teapot. She smiles at Hugh as she serves us. I ask Mrs. Warbrick, “How did your husband get along with the people he knew?”
“Fine. He was very well liked.”
“Can you tell us the names of his friends and associates?” Hugh says.
“I’m afraid not. I don’t really know them.”
“May I ask how long you were married?”
“Almost seventeen years.”
After seventeen years together, how could a wife not know her husband’s friends and associates? “Was Mr. Warbrick worried or afraid recently?” I say.
“I couldn’t tell you.”
Although she seems genuinely grief-stricken by his death, she could be talking about a stranger. As I ponder Mrs. Warbrick, I sip my tea, which is weak because Miss Jenkins was in such a hurry to get back to Hugh that she didn’t let it steep long enough.
“Weren’t you concerned when he didn’t come home last night?” Hugh says.
“No. He often didn’t.” Mrs. Warbrick rouses herself to make the explanation that she seems to think is required. “He slept in his rooms above the pub.”
“May I ask why?” Hugh says.
“He worked late. He didn’t want to disturb my sleep.”
Hugh gives her a sympathetic but skeptical look. Perhaps many married couples lead such separate lives, but I think something was amiss between the Warbricks.
“He often traveled,” Mrs. Warbrick says, and I presume she means he went to perform executions. “It was more convenient for him to come and go from the pub.”
I think that so many excuses add up to a lie. Hugh says gently, “Forgive me if I’m being intrusive, but were there problems in your marriage?”
Mrs. Warbrick presses her lips together; then her resistance dissolves in a flood of tears. “We grew apart after he became … after he began working for the government fifteen years ago.” She obviously can’t bring herself to use the word hangman. “But he was a good provider.” Mrs. Warbrick gestures around the ornate room. “And I loved him. I can’t believe he’s dead. I just wish things could have been different.” She covers her face and weeps.
Miss Jenkins pats her shoulder and says regretfully to Hugh, “Perhaps you’d better go.”
“Mrs. Warbrick, have you someone to stay with you? A son or daughter or relative, perhaps?” I’m not just concerned about her; I’m also fishing for names of people who might have information relevant to the murder.
“No. Mr. Warbrick and I weren’t blessed with children. Mary will look after me.”
A sudden intuition tells me why the Warbricks have no children: Mrs. Warbrick couldn’t bear to be touched by the hangman.
Miss Jenkins sees us to the door and hands us our coats. Hugh thanks her, smiles, and says, “I’m so glad to have met you.”
“Yes, sir.” She looks dazed.
After we’re outside the closed door, I whisper, “I don’t think Mrs. Warbrick killed her husband. She’s not strong enough to have hoisted him over the stair railing.”
“I don’t either. And I think she’s genuinely devastated by his death.” Hugh tries the doorknob. The door opens. “Just as I hoped—Miss Jenkins forgot to lock it.” He beckons.
“We shouldn�
�t.” I don’t want to trespass, and we’ve already taken enough advantage of Mrs. Warbrick.
“Harry Warbrick may not have spent much time at home, but there may be clues here, and this is our chance to get them.”
I follow Hugh back into the house. He eases the door shut. We hear Miss Jenkins in the kitchen, clattering dishes and humming a popular love tune. The parlor is vacant. Then Mrs. Warbrick speaks, too softly for us to discern the words. We glance up the stairs, frowning in surprise because she’d implied that she and Miss Jenkins were alone in the house. Hugh steals up the stairs even as I grab at his arm to stop him. Then I hear a male voice answer Mrs. Warbrick. Curiosity outweighs caution. I follow Hugh. The stairs creak under our footsteps; I wince.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Mrs. Warbrick says.
“I can’t leave you alone.” The man’s deep voice is educated, but not upper-class.
Their next words are muffled. Hugh and I reach the second floor. The first door to the right of the passage is ajar. Hugh puts his finger to his lips as we peer inside the room.
Mrs. Warbrick and the man are sitting on the edge of the canopied, four-poster bed with their backs to us, kissing passionately. Hugh’s eyes widen; I stifle a gasp. The bereaved widow isn’t as bereaved as we thought. The man is big and strongly built, wearing a dark coat and trousers and white shirt. Mrs. Warbrick runs her fingers through his wavy brown hair. His silver-rimmed spectacles press against her face as he kisses her. When they break apart to catch their breath, I see that his nose is large, his profile rugged. He looks like a laborer, but his hands, unbuttoning the back of her frock, are clean, long-fingered, and gentle. I feel a sympathy for Harry Warbrick that I didn’t when I saw his decapitated corpse and learned he’d been a hangman. His wife shunned him and cheated on him, and even if he was the best in his profession, his personal life was unhappy.
“We mustn’t,” Mrs. Warbrick says, but she’s working her arms free of her tight black sleeves, shrugging the frock down to her waist, exposing her chemise and corset. She lies back on the bed, skirts and petticoats bunched around her hips; her legs, clad in black stockings, are parted. The man straddles her, pushing his trousers down.
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