The Hangman's Secret

by Laura Joh Rowland

  Inspector Driscoll merely glances at the picture before sliding it back to me. His eyes are cold, hostile; Barrett’s story is holding more water than he likes. “So you’ve some flimsy evidence that Amelia Carlisle is from Leeds. You can go back to London and tell your superior that he wasted the ratepayers’ money sending you up here.”

  I don’t like him, I’m afraid of him, but I can’t help feeling sorry for him. I know what he’s afraid of, and now Barrett says it: “That’s not all. Dr. Friday said Violet Kemp was a baby farmer. She asked him to sign death certificates for babies. He thinks she murdered them.”

  “ ‘He thinks.’ ” Driscoll speaks with scorn, but perspiration glistens on his forehead. “There weren’t any babies murdered in 1873. I was here; I know.” Of course he doesn’t want to believe that the Leeds police let Amelia Carlisle slip through their fingers. He must be imagining the official censure, the public outcry, and the hell to pay if they did.

  “Dr. Friday reported his suspicions to the police,” Barrett says. “As far as he’s aware, nothing came of it, and Violet Kemp, better known as Amelia Carlisle, skipped town.”

  “She didn’t murder any babies here,” Driscoll says, adamant.

  “How do you know?” Barrett says. “Was Dr. Friday’s report ever investigated?”

  “I’m sure it was. We run a tight ship.”

  “I’d like to see the investigating officer’s report.”

  “Oh, you would, would you?” Goaded into fury, Driscoll rises from his chair, leans across the desk. “I know what else you’d like—to pin the blame for the dead babies on us, so your outfit won’t look so bad for taking years to get wise to Amelia Carlisle.”

  Barrett and I stand too, rather than be forced to look up at him. Barrett says, “I just want the whole story.”

  Driscoll shakes his finger at Barrett. “I’m going to report you to Inspector Reid. He’ll be interested to know that you came up here and violated professional courtesy.”

  Although Barrett keeps his head high and his gaze steady, I know he’s afraid that a report from Driscoll is just what Reid needs to get him fired. I also know he’s angry at having his motives misinterpreted. Before he can say something he’ll regret, I say to Driscoll, “The public will be interested to know that you had a chance to stop Amelia Carlisle and you blew it.”

  Driscoll turns his rage on me. “And who are you?”

  Barrett looks dismayed that I’ve jumped into the line of fire.

  “Sarah Bain. I’m a crime photographer and reporter for the Daily World,” I lie. Barrett makes a shushing motion that I ignore. “This story will make the front page.”

  The inspector laughs, but the expression in his eyes is deadly serious. “You won’t make it back to London to print it. I’ll arrest you for soliciting. A word from me to the judge, and he’ll sentence you to two years’ hard labor.”

  Now I’m horrified that my attempt to help Barrett has backfired.

  “Sir, we don’t mean to cause trouble for you,” Barrett says in an attempt to placate Driscoll. “The other reason I came was to alert you so you can get ready for the publicity when the story about Amelia Carlisle comes out.”

  “It won’t. Because I’m going to arrest you for conducting an investigation outside your patch. That should put an end to your police career. Unless, however, you swear to keep your mouth shut.”

  Appalled by the trouble we’ve gotten ourselves into, I want to escape while we still can, but Barrett stands his ground. “It’ll come out no matter what happens to us. Do you really think your boys are going to keep quiet? Cooperate with us and make the best of a bad situation.”

  Driscoll glares as he considers his choices and their possible ramifications. Then he braces himself on the arms of his chair, hobbled by defeat. “Make the best of it how?”

  “Look up your file on Violet Kemp,” Barrett says. “If it shows that Dr. Friday’s complaint was documented and investigated and no evidence of murder was found, then your department will be in the clear—you couldn’t have known she would turn up seventeen years later as the Baby Butcher.”

  “Very well. I’ll have the file brought up from the cellar.” Driscoll regains a semblance of his authority. “Wait outside.”

  In the lobby, Barrett and I sit on a bench and look out the window at some constables gathered on the sidewalk. They’re talking excitedly, and Barrett smiles at me as if to say he was right—they’re spreading the story; it’ll be all over Leeds soon. Forty minutes tick by on the clock before we’re summoned back to Inspector Driscoll’s office.

  The inspector stands behind his desk with two papers in his hand and a smug look on his face. He reads aloud from the first: “ ‘The third of August, 1873. William Friday, Physician, of 27 Waterloo Road, lodged a complaint regarding Mrs. Violet Kemp, baby farmer, of 39 Powell Street. Dr. Friday stated that Mrs. Kemp had asked him to certify the deaths of three babies who were in her care. He suspects foul play.’ ” Inspector Driscoll shuffles the papers, reads from the second: “ ‘The fifth of August. Investigation of the complaint against Mrs. Violet Kemp. I went to Mrs. Kemp’s house and questioned her. She stated that the babies had died of fever. There are two babies currently in her care. They appear healthy. I searched her house and found no sign of foul play.”

  Inspector Driscoll slaps both reports down on the desk, turned so that Barrett and I can read them. They’re yellow with age, the ink faded, and therefore apparently not forged for our benefit.

  “So there.” He gloats with triumph. “Dr. Friday’s complaint was duly recorded and investigated. Even if Violet Kemp really was Amelia Carlisle, there’s no evidence that she killed any babies in Leeds.” He says to Barrett, “So don’t try to blame us for letting her get away with murder.” To me he says, “And don’t print it in the newspaper that we’re the ones who slipped up.”

  I’m staring at the second report, at the line provided for the name of the officer who wrote it. The name, signed in bold, black letters, is “PC Leonard Hargrove.”

  CHAPTER 27

  “Leonard Hargrove is Lionel Hargreaves,” I say.

  After the long trip back to London, I’m seated in the conference room at the Daily World with Sir Gerald. It’s six thirty in the evening, and I’ve just told him about the revelation that shocked Barrett and me in Leeds.

  Contrary to practical expectation, we found the information we’d journeyed there to find, although we never could have foreseen what it would be.

  “Their names are similar,” Sir Gerald says. He looks unhealthy, his rough complexion pale, his eyes bloodshot. Raising the Daily World from the depths of disgrace has taken its toll. “But how do you know they’re the same person?”

  I knew that it seems improbable and after Mrs. Fry’s hoax, he wouldn’t jump to believe anything I said. Maybe somebody in his past once gave him a second chance and he’s only repaying the favor. I pull my notebook out of my satchel. “This is what Inspector Driscoll said when PC Barrett and I asked him about Leonard Hargrove.” I read from my notes:

  “ ‘Len was a handsome devil—a cut above the other constables. He could have risen in the ranks, but Leeds was too small a pond for him. He went to London to make his fortune. We never heard from him again. He’s probably living the high life, counting his piles of money.’ ”

  “It could be a coincidence that the description seems to fit Hargreaves.” Sir Gerald sounds irritated; he rubs his forehead. “Besides, I happen to know he’s from Birmingham, not Leeds.”

  This is news to me, an unpleasant surprise that I ignore while reading the rest of my notes: “ ‘He was good at imitations. All he had to do was hear a person once, and he could imitate their voice and ways. He could talk posh like a duke even though his father was a mill worker and he’d been born and raised in Leeds. When he entertained us over a pint at the pub, he had us laughing our heads off. Everybody told him he should go on stage.’ ”

  Barrett and I started out chasing Amelia Carlisle�
�s past and stumbled onto Sheriff Hargreaves’s.

  Sir Gerald glances at his watch. “Suppose Hargreaves was once Leonard Hargrove, and he changed his name when he went on stage. Suppose he did investigate Amelia Carlisle back then. It doesn’t mean he killed Harry Warbrick. I’m not going out on a limb to accuse him, and I’m not going to make the police reopen the case, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  It’s what I’d hoped for. Uncomfortably aware that Sir Gerald’s patience is running out, I say, “What if Amelia recognized Sheriff Hargreaves when she saw him at her execution? What if she told the others that he’d investigated her in Leeds, he missed seeing evidence that she’d murdered babies, and let her go free to kill hundreds more? I think that’s a secret he would have killed for, to protect his reputation.”

  “That’s two big ‘ifs.’ ”

  “Either he was negligent or Amelia outsmarted him.” I point out, “If the story became public, he would never be Lord Mayor.”

  Sir Gerald frowns at my third big if. “It was seventeen years ago. He was young, inexperienced, he made a mistake. People can forgive that.”

  “He might not have been willing to take the chance that they would.”

  “Why would he have gone to Amelia’s execution, knowing she was a skeleton from his closet? He could have had someone stand in for him. That’s legal.”

  “I don’t think he knew. When he met Amelia in Leeds, her name was Violet Kemp. He wouldn’t have recognized her from the picture in the newspapers. She’d changed considerably. Much more than he has, I daresay. He seems quite well preserved.”

  Sir Gerald strokes his beard. I sit on the edge of my chair. The clatter of the printing presses is loud in the silence before he says, “Miss Bain, thanks for taking it upon yourself to go all the way to Leeds and follow clues from Amelia’s daughter. At your own expense too. I like that—it shows initiative and dedication.”

  His approval warms me despite how he’s treated me, despite the terrible things he’s done. My heart beats faster with hope that he’s ready to believe me.

  “Here’s the big problem—Jacob Aarons has confessed to the murder of Harry Warbrick.”

  Hope dissolves into shock. “That can’t be possible.”

  “I had it straight from Inspector Reid this afternoon.”

  “But he’s innocent! Reid must have forced him to confess.” I can imagine the brutal methods Reid employed.

  Sir Gerald shrugs as if to say this is a battle he’s not going to pick. “The trial is set for next week.”

  Horrified, I protest, “Even if he confessed, he didn’t kill Ernie Leach.”

  “The gas explosion has been ruled an accident,” Sir Gerald says.

  I’m too stubborn and desperate to give up. “Sheriff Hargreaves must have been afraid that Ernie Leach would tell people what Amelia said about him at her execution. He or someone he sent must have turned on the gas while Ernie and his family were asleep.”

  Sir Gerald leans across the desk and regards me with something like sympathy. “Listen, Miss Bain. I like you; you have good instincts.”

  Startled because this is the most personal manner in which he’s ever addressed me, I feel a blush suffuse my cheeks. In spite of everything, I’m not immune to his rare praise.

  “When I hired you to find Robin, you went above and beyond the call of duty,” he says. “You risked your own life. Because of that, I trust you as much as I trust anyone.”

  I’m too flabbergasted to reply. This is the first time he’s mentioned Robin, and he’s expressed a personal regard for me that I didn’t know he had.

  “Just between you and me—I smell a rat too,” Sir Gerald says. “I’m not quite convinced that Aarons is the real killer and the explosion was an accident. But after the fiasco at Newgate, I need to be cautious. Circulation of the Daily World is down. So is investment in the Mariner Bank. I can’t let my businesses suffer.”

  He looks wounded, vulnerable—a man whose shield of wealth and status is cracked. “The power of the press is stronger than I thought.” He sounds surprised and chagrined, as if he can’t believe that he’s no match for words on paper.

  “The truth is stronger.” I believe that despite evidence to the contrary.

  Sir Gerald smiles, rueful. “The truth is whatever the people with the most influence are willing to believe. But I knew that already. I’ve been one of them for a long time. And you can understand why I can’t rehire you and Lord Hugh and Mick O’Reilly.”

  We’re poison that would make him more vulnerable to public opinion. The trip to Leeds was for naught. Exhaustion catches up with me, and the noise from the presses worsens my headache.

  “If you can prove your theory about Sir Lionel,” Sir Gerald says, “I might change my mind.”

  That’s a generous offer from a man who rarely changes his mind, but I can’t imagine what proof or where to look for it. I rise, thank him for his time, and open the door.

  There stands Malcolm Cross. Malcolm Cross, who helped Inspector Reid close the Warbrick murder case with circumstantial evidence against Jacob Aarons, who did everything he could to undermine Hugh, Mick, and me. If he was eavesdropping, he’s unembarrassed, as cocky as ever.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks me. “Trying to worm your way back into a job?”

  My hatred for him revives my spirits, and I grab my chance to wring some value out of this occasion. I say to Sir Gerald, “By the way, I found out who’s responsible for the hoax about Amelia Carlisle. It’s him.” I point at Cross. “Mrs. Fry told me so.”

  Cross is too caught off guard to hide his guilt. His smile vanishes for once; his eyes bulge with horror and fright.

  “If you want proof, just look at his face.” Relishing my vengeful triumph, I walk out of the room.

  * * *

  Peele’s Coffee House, where I left Barrett with our baggage, is full of reporters talking and arguing about the latest news stories. He’s sitting alone at a table, a steaming cup by his hand. When he sees my expression, the hope in his eyes turns to disappointment.

  “So Sir Gerald didn’t buy our story.” He signals the waiter to bring me coffee.

  I collapse in the seat opposite him. “It’s worse than that.” I tell him about Jacob Aarons’s confession.

  Propping his elbows on the table, Barrett presses his hands against his temples and groans.

  “We can’t let an innocent man be hanged,” I say.

  Barrett sits up straight and rubs his tired eyes; he inhales a deep breath as if to brace himself for trouble. “Inspector Reid won’t reopen the Warbrick murder case on our say-so. I’ll have to go over his head to the commissioner.”

  That would be a drastic move, revealing his clandestine investigation. “But what about your job … your parents …”

  “What about them?” Barrett seems resigned to risking his livelihood and family honor.

  I love him for his willingness to go out on a limb for me and for a wrongly accused man, but I can’t bear the cost to him. “It’ll be your word against Sheriff Hargreaves’s. Who are they going to believe? And our tip came from a patient at the Imbeciles Asylum.”

  Barrett hardens his jaw. “It’s the right thing to do.”

  “Wait one more day,” I urge. “Let’s look for more evidence against Hargreaves before you tell.”

  “One more day. That’s enough time to find the fountain of youth too.” Barrett’s forced humor quickly fades. “And to warn Catherine.”

  “I don’t think she’ll believe anything bad I say about Sheriff Hargreaves.” The waiter brings my coffee, and I draw sustenance from the hot, fragrant drink.

  “At least you got Malcolm Cross,” Barrett says.

  It’s small comfort. We think we’ve solved the murders, but we can’t protect Catherine or deliver Lionel Hargreaves to justice. “No matter how angry Sir Gerald is at Mr. Cross, he’s not going to take Hugh, Mick, or me back.”

  Barrett puts his hand over mine. “We’re not giv
ing up. We’ll get Hargreaves.”

  I appreciate Barrett’s attempt to cheer me up, but I gently withdraw my hand, uncomfortable with displaying our affection in public. “We haven’t much time. The curio dealer’s trial starts next week, and because he’s confessed, he’ll likely be hanged soon afterward.”

  Barrett eyes me with concern. “You’re tired. So am I. Things will look better tomorrow after a good night’s sleep. I’ll take you home.”

  “I should stop at the hospital first and see Hugh and Mick. Maybe they’ll have ideas about what to do next.”

  * * *

  The ward is quiet, the lights turned down low, and many of the patients asleep. When Barrett and I arrive, our baggage in hand, we discover an old man with his leg in a cast lying in Hugh’s bed and a young fellow with bandages on his face in Mick’s.

  Alarmed, I ask a nurse, “Where are Lord Hugh Staunton and Mick O’Reilly?”

  “They just discharged themselves.” She frowns. “Against the doctor’s orders.”

  “Why?” I say, concerned despite my relief that they’re alive.

  “They didn’t say. But they were in a big hurry to go.”

  * * *

  Outside the hospital, attendants are unloading a patient on a litter from an ambulance wagon. A cab materializes from the dark fog. “Hugh and Mick probably left because they got bored,” Barrett says, hailing the cab.

  As the driver stows our baggage, I say, “I hope they’re not out investigating the murders. They’re not well yet.” My vision blazes with a sudden, breathtaking memory of the gas explosion. “I’m afraid they’ll get in more trouble.”

  Barrett helps me into the cab. “We’ll probably find them safe at home.”

  I doze off during the short ride and awake when the cab draws up to the studio. Lights in the upstairs windows are a good sign that indicates Hugh and Mick are home; it’s almost nine o’clock, and Fitzmorris goes to bed early. Relief calms my fears. Barrett pays the driver and takes our baggage while I unlock my door.