by Liz Carlyle
Kemble assumed a bored posture. “While you fellows stage your little passion play, I’m going back in the other room,” he interjected, heading for the door. “I seem to have dropped a pick.” But he had no sooner dragged his last boot through the opening than the squeal of hinges could be heard overhead.
“Blister it!” hissed de Rohan. “Someone is coming down. Get out, Kemble!”
At once, Kemble disappeared into the shadows. De Rohan swung shut the wooden door, shooting the small metal bolt.
In a trice, David had put out the lamp and pressed himself against the wall beside the door. On the other side of the entrance, he could hear de Rohan’s soft breathing. There was no place else to hide. They could only pray that Kemble had escaped into the alley, and that whoever was descending had no interest in this room.
Over the pounding rhythm of his own heart, David could hear the clatter of footsteps trammeling down the wooden stairs—more than one person, by the sound of it. Suddenly, a clear, feminine voice could be heard through the door planks.
“Ugh! I ‘ate this bleedin’ cellar,” said Mother Derbin, her voice now edged with strident Cockney. “And it ain’t Monday, so I’ve not got the rent money. Besides, I can’t think why we ‘ave ter come down ‘ere to talk.”
“For this, you ignorant bitch,” a deep, rasping voice growled. Simultaneously, the crack of someone’s palm striking flesh split the darkness, and David heard what sounded like a skull thud back against the makeshift door.
“And that ain’t all yer like ter get if you can’t keep your whores out’er this place,” the voice continued. “Now I’ve got ter contend wi’ that son of a bitch de Rohan and his hell-hound sniffing up and down Wapping Wall, arstin’ questions, God rot you.”
Mother Derbin gave no ground. “Look ‘ere, now,” she said coldly. “I can’t stand watch over these girls all the live-long day! I got me a business ter run, and I told you that from the first.” Through the door, it sounded as if she dragged herself up from the floor and leaned back against the planks. They creaked inward, but de Rohan had rammed the bolt safely home.
“Then keep that pox-riddled bunch o’ sluts upstairs,” the rasping man demanded. “Or move yer business elsewhere. The boss ‘as need of this cellar, and that’s ‘ow it’s ter be. Now, you listen, and you listen good—there’s a ship laid anchor in the Blackwall Reach, just come in from Constantinople.”
David racked his brain. Where had he heard that strange, cold voice before?
“I’ve got no ship on my schedule,” she hotly protested.
“Schedule be damned,” growled the man. “The shipment was ter come in by dray through Covent Garden, but seems I got me a problem. Someone’s set the Bow Street constables ter watchin’ me shop—that bastard de Rohan belike—so if the coast ain’t clear, the shipment’s coming upriver ter you. And you’ll not be whining about it if yer knows what’s smart.”
Mother Derbin was displeased. “Well, this time make bleedin’ sure the seamen you bribe ‘ave got a teaspoon of brains between ‘em,” she demanded, her voice rich with sarcasm.
The man gave a low, wicked laugh. “Aye, I’ve hired us some Chinamen this time—not them witless Frogs what ‘er always thinkin’ with their cocks. Chinamen might ‘appen ter smoke a bit o’ the merchandise, but they won’t drag a couple o’ wide-eyed whores down ‘ere ter keep ‘em company while they do it.”
For a moment, Mother Derbin said nothing. “All right,” she finally snapped. “When do they offload?”
“If ‘n when you needs ter know, I’ll send word,” he said coldly. “You probably won’t, cause the boss means ter handle this one personally.”
“The boss?” she echoed incredulously. “Why?”
“Because o’ the bleedin’ constables ‘oo’er watching us,” he spat. “Not that it’s any o’ yer business. But someone plainly tipped ‘em off. That’s wot I’m trying ter tell yer. We got ter be careful ‘oo we trust. Now, swish yer wide arse back upstairs and fetch me that skinny little black-haired whore I’m partial to. I’m in the mood, and you ain’t my type.”
The planked door gave a little groan as Mother Derbin apparently pulled herself away from it. Suddenly, the man inhaled sharply. “Well, God damn you for a fool,” he bit out. “Look ‘ere, you stupid cow—someone’s gone and left the bleedin’ storage room unbolted.”
Stupid cow.
The cruel phrase finally struck a cord. Covent Garden. Bow Street. By God, he could place that cold voice unmistakably now. It was Grimes. The man who’d beaten—and probably raped—Dot King in Goodwin’s Court.
And Grimes was going to shove open the door any second. In the pitch black, David felt for his pistol. The butt of the weapon felt cool to his touch, and he suddenly found himself eager to blow Grimes’s brains to kingdom come. Yet it was an easier death than a woman-beater deserved.
But the door did not fly inward. Instead, Grimes merely struck Mother Derbin again, then drove the wooden bar home with a harsh scrape. Now they were locked in with no way to escape, unless Kemble was either brave enough or foolish enough to return to the cellar. Through the planks, David could hear footsteps going back up the stairs.
“Christ Jesus!” breathed de Rohan in the darkness. “You just shaved a decade off my life, Delacourt.”
David withdrew his hand from his pocket and felt for the metal bolt, sliding it backward. Not that it would do any good when the door was now braced from the opposite side. “Kemble will think of something,” David said, with more confidence than he felt.
Just then, as if David had willed it, the wooden bar could be heard scraping back from its slot. On silent hinges, the planked door swung inward. “Move!” whispered Kemble urgently. “Get the hell out before they return.”
David felt the valet’s arm thrust through the door to give them a hand up. “How the devil did you get back in?” he asked, pushing de Rohan toward the door.
“I never left,” said Kemble as he helped the police officer crawl through. “I hid in the cupboard. A most enlightening little tète-a-tète, was it not?”
With de Rohan through, David handed Kemble the lantern and scrabbled up next. It took but a few moments to make their exit, with Kemble neatly relocking the door as they departed. With any luck at all, Mother Derbin would never know they had been inside.
As they made their way swiftly through the dark and twisting alleys, David explained just who he believed the raspy-voiced man had been, and de Rohan did not question his judgment. “So Mr. Grimes is right about being scrutinized by the police,” the inspector chuckled. “But not for the reason he thinks!”
“No,” agreed David grimly. “I asked that he be watched because of what he did to Miss King. One look at the fellow told me he was up to no good.”
By the time they reached the carriage, David’s blood-lust had calmed somewhat, and reason was slowly returning. De Rohan, however, was one step ahead of him. “We must prove that Grimes is the mysterious Mr. Smith,” he said pensively. “I do not doubt you, Delacourt, but it mightn’t be enough for a magistrate. We could board the ship he mentioned—there won’t be many lying at anchor answering that description. Still, Grimes is working for someone on shore, and I should sooner reel in a big fish than a small one.”
In the dim light, David studied de Rohan. “Then it seems we must pay a visit on Mother Derbin,” he agreed. “Why do I not meet you in Black Horse Lane after a few hours’ sleep? Say, ten o’clock at the coffee house? From that vantage point, we can observe all who come and go from the brothel. And then we can question her.”
He could sense de Rohan’s hesitation. “And so it is still we, my lord?” he asked sharply. “You mean to continue with this fool’s errand?”
“Oh, yes,” said David softly.
Chapter Seventeen
Hell-Bent to Hampstead
Cecilia was possessed of many fine virtues, but to the frequent frustration of those around her, patience and prudence were rarely among them. And so it
was that by noon of the following day, she had ridden halfway to Hampstead Heath, leaving Jed trailing reluctantly behind and Etta’s dire admonitions floating on the wind somewhere over Marylebone.
As the miles passed, and greater London vanished in her wake, Cecilia was increasingly confident of her mission. Thank God David had done as she’d asked and awakened her in the early hours of the morning. She had looked out into the street below to see him standing on the pavement in a pool of lamplight, his expression grim. He had found something. She could sense the ruthless determination which radiated through the darkness.
And now, like a bloodhound on the scent, he would step up his efforts to flush out a murderer, poking about in dark, treacherous places, in the belief that Bentham Rutledge was behind it. And in so doing, Cecilia was beginning to fear he might be blindsided by a threat which could come from an altogether different quarter.
And it would be all her fault. Yes, from the moment he had set foot in the Daughters of Nazareth Society, she had maligned his integrity and laughed at his sincerity. How wrong she had been! And now she feared he felt compelled to prove just how wrong—and in a most dangerous way.
She had to do something. Throughout her sleepless night, Cecilia had gone over and over her strange conversation with Rutledge. His words, his face, his carefully hidden emotions—they still nagged at her. There were other things, too. Small things, yes. But taken as a whole, they solidified her conviction that he was not the man they sought. And yet, the enmity between Rutledge and David was palpable. Why she could not say, but David’s remark to de Rohan in which he had compared himself to Rutledge had not gone unnoticed by Cecilia. Perhaps David’s hostility was more personal?
Still, if she could confirm her suspicions about Rutledge, perhaps both of them might relent? Or at least be spared a dangerous dawn appointment? Moreover, Cecilia was increasingly certain that Rutledge possessed information which they needed, were they ever to find Meg and Mary’s killer.
From Regent’s Park, the ride to the picturesque village of Hampstead was not long, and even in winter, the scenery was pleasant. Still, Cecilia’s mind was not on the stunning vista which greeted her as she approached Downshire Hill. In front of the church, she pulled Zephyr up, pausing to study the neat arrangement of houses and cottages which stretched out along the heath’s edge.
“What now, my lady?” Jed asked. “We can’t just knock on every door ‘til we find the blighter.”
Cecilia nudged her horse forward. “We will continue on to High Street until we see a place of business,” she said confidently. “Something Rutledge might frequent, such as a greengrocer or a vintner.”
But it wasn’t that simple. Not one shopkeeper had ever heard of a Mr. Bentham Rutledge. How odd it seemed that a notorious rake would live a life of such quiet rustication. Had the young man been as dissolute as David believed, one would have imagined the villagers would have kept their wives and daughters locked up. But instead, the pretty little lanes of Hampstead were filled with them, and not a one of them knew Rutledge.
———
In Black Horse Lane, the morning’s din inside the coffee house had waned until it was now nothing more than the quiet murmur of voices punctuated by the occasional clatter of a teaspoon against porcelain. The aroma of strong coffee and toasting bread lingered as, one by one, the assorted shopkeepers, clerks, and seamen made their way out the door and back into the street to commence the day’s business in earnest.
A man in a brown coat brushed past David’s table, a worn newspaper protruding from his pocket, but David scarcely noticed. Through the sooty glass, he stared blindly out at the short flight of steps which rose up to Mother Derbin’s front door.
“You are thinking of her, are you not?” asked de Rohan softly. Though he sat just across the narrow table, his voice penetrated David’s thoughts as if he spoke from a distance.
Slowly, David tore his gaze from the window and turned to look at the police officer. “Of Mother Derbin?” he asked, vaguely amused.
Almost imperceptibly, de Rohan shook his head. “Ah... no,” he answered, looking very much as if he wished he’d kept his thoughts to himself. “I meant Lady Walrafen.”
Against his better judgment, David smiled wryly. “Yes,” he said softly, dropping his gaze to his empty coffee cup. “Yes, I daresay I am.”
De Rohan cleared his throat delicately. “I understand,” he replied, his voice touched with neither lust nor envy. “She is quite a woman.”
Abruptly, David shoved back his chair with a grating sound. “Let’s overlook my ill-fated love life for the nonce, shall we?” he replied quietly, dropping two coins onto the table. “I, for one, can probably expect better luck dealing with Mother Derbin, so let us go. There is obviously nothing to be seen from here.”
But there was little more to be seen inside Mother Derbin’s. It had taken but two minutes for de Rohan to push his way through the busy street, past Mother Derbin’s burly porter, and into her private office. She recognized them both at once. The look she gave de Rohan was fearful and derisive. But the cutting glance she shot David was still more telling.
De Rohan she knew, in that age-old way by which the unscrupulous innately sense their enemy. But her lordly customer from the West End clearly unsettled her. His rules of engagement were not known to her. Mother Derbin went immediately on guard, eyeing him up and down with something which surpassed suspicion.
Oh, yes! thought David with an inward satisfaction. Better the devil you know, eh, Mrs. Derbin?
Today, the madam wore a tawdry day dress of lavender chintz, her ample arms and breasts lushly oozing from it. David eyed her across a tea table which was marred by water rings and pitted with black scars from at least a dozen forgotten cheroots.
“I’ve said I know nothing at all which might be of help to you, Inspector,” she repeated for the third time, her enunciation far more cultivated than last night. But it was unmistakably the same voice, and David could sense that de Rohan, too, recognized it.
In the back of his throat, the officer made a faint growling noise, sounding very much like the black mastiff he’d left on the pavement outside.
In response, Mother Derbin smiled and lightly lifted her shoulders. “As I’ve said, I merely rent these premises—three floors, at any rate. I know nothing whatsoever about the cellars or the garrets. If you’re looking for Mr. Smith, I fear I have no notion where one might find him.”
“Oh, find him I shall, Mrs. Derbin,” said de Rohan very softly. “You may be sure of that. And I won’t stop there.”
A slightly haunted expression sketched across her face but just as quickly vanished. “To be sure,” she admitted easily. “For if you wish to watch my front door, I can hardly stop you. Sooner or later, I do not doubt that he will show up.”
At once, she stood. Clearly, as far as the madam was concerned, their meeting was at an end. She had deftly evaded all of their questions, sensing that they could prove nothing. David could feel the heat of de Rohan’s frustration. Regrettably, they had little legal recourse, save placing the brothel under constant surveillance. And even that might net no immediate result, particularly if the so-called shipment went instead to Covent Garden. Despite Grimes’s grumbling, there were scarcely enough officers to watch one place, let alone two, and the Garden was far from the River Police’s usual jurisdiction.
So if they had no legal recourse...
Abruptly, David pushed to his feet and picked up his hat. “Understand me, madam,” he said coldly. “Smuggling is one thing, but your business associates made a grievous error when they murdered Mary O’Gavin. Now this has become a very personal matter, so far as I am concerned. If the police cannot resolve this by... shall we say, routine methods, then there are other ways. I daresay you know what I mean.”
In response, much of the color drained from Mother Derbin’s face, leaving only the bright red circles of her rouge standing out starkly against her skin. “Why—you—you cannot threaten me!�
� she hissed, jerking from her sofa.
Lightly, David lifted his brows and tugged a card from the pocket of his coat. “I have not yet threatened anyone,” he said, tossing the card onto her table with a disdainful flick of his wrist. “But when I do, the threat is generally clear and unmistakable. Now, should you think better of your reticence after we’ve gone, you may send word to Mr. de Rohan’s office, or to me at that address.”
“I rather doubt that I shall,” purred the bawd.
De Rohan shook his head. “Let me just ask, Mrs. Derbin, if you’ve ever seen the inside of Bridewell?” he asked very softly. “Or if you have any notion what happens to your sort inside those cold, miserable walls?”
Mother Derbin paused for a heartbeat, and then, as if she’d made up her mind about something, crossed quickly to a small walnut secretary which stood against one wall. Dropping down the desk, she drew a sheet of paper from one of the pigeonholes, scratched out an address, then thrust it at de Rohan. “I leased this place from a counting house in Leadenhall Street,” she said tightly. “Perhaps you will find the man you seek there. Now, please leave.”
It was over—for now. They went out into the surprisingly bright sunshine, de Rohan angrily crumpling the bit of paper into his fist. “The same?” asked David succinctly as they stepped onto the pavement.
“Yes,” answered de Rohan. “And now that I think on it, I believe I shall make another visit to Lead-Leadenhall Street. Do you wish to come?”
David shook his head as they made their way out of the side street and across Black Horse Lane to his waiting carriage. “I cannot,” he said quietly. “I have a little matter to settle with her ladyship yet this morning. Be good enough to let me know what you learn.”
———
Almost two long hours after her arrival in Hampstead, Cecilia found herself near a blacksmith’s shop at the end of the village. Bentham Rutledge had proved a most elusive quarry, and Cecilia was beginning to feel desperate. Perhaps he had good reason not to be found? Or perhaps he was using an assumed name?