“What do we have?” Morehouse mused. “A woman with apparent access to money and a girl who might be related to her or not.” The chief inspector leaned back in his office chair, his dark eyes glancing upward. He puffed on the briar thoughtfully, and tendrils of silver smoke rose to the ceiling as he considered the situation. “I suppose it might be a kidnapping,” he continued, “but it is premature to make such a guess as that, Doctor. However, such crimes have become all too common of late, have they not, St. Clair? Shanghaied businessmen and bankers, ransomed for money and all that.”
Charles couldn’t take his eyes off the girl’s pale cheeks as she breathed rhythmically, sleeping peacefully beneath a happy haze of laudanum, courtesy of the good doctor. He felt a strange connexion to her, which made no sense, but then many things in policing made little sense in this modern age. “Is it possible I know her?” he muttered to himself, then looking to his superior, snapped back to the present. “A kidnapping? I suppose that’s one possibility, sir, but it explains neither the woman on our autopsy table, nor her unspeakable condition. I’ve never seen anything like it—as if a wild animal tore her apart! Yet this child, except for a few stains of blood upon her dress and hair, is untouched so far as I can tell. Mother and child, you think?”
Morehouse tapped his pipe on the desk in irritation. “Damnable place, this borough! Mother? Who can say? The dead woman cannot speak, can she? However, she is fair-haired, and this girl has raven tresses. I’d not pick them out as mother and child if I saw them on the street, would you? A governess, perhaps? St. Clair, since you appear to have taken a shine to her, I’ll leave the girl in your care. You might ask Dr. Limerick to keep watch on her in his clinic. He has a nurse on duty tonight, does he not?”
“I will not leave her there,” St. Clair responded firmly. “That place is a sea of lice and not much better than Bedlam. Amelia can care for her at our home. With your approval, of course, sir.”
Morehouse waved a hand and stood as if to dismiss his officers. “So long as she is watched. Write down anything she may say, and have her back here tomorrow if she can bear questioning.”
“Certainly, sir. If no one objects, I shall take her home now,” he said, bending to lift the child into his long arms.
Her eyelids twitched and flickered open for just a moment. “Paul? Where’s Paul?” she asked, snuggling in close to St. Clair’s chest. “I... I... Mother?”
“Don’t worry, little one,” he assured her. “We’ll contact Paul and your mother.” Then to Morehouse, he observed, “Her accent is certainly not Spitalfields. Far too refined. Little one, what is your name? Can you tell us where you live?”
The girl’s eyelids closed, and she returned to sleep, her head against the young inspector’s shoulder.
“Fair enough,” St. Clair said, stroking her dark curls. “For now, let’s go see if we can find you a place to sleep, all right?”
She nodded, as if dreaming, pulling in close to share his warmth. “She’s shivering,” he remarked, wrapping his overcoat around her shoulders. “Littlefield, would you fetch me a hansom, please? I’d rather not walk with such a precious cargo.”
The sergeant nodded and rushed down the stairs to hail a cab. St. Clair followed slowly and carefully, making sure the child did not awaken as he descended the steps.
Sergeant Liam Taggart waved to the inspector. “Mr. St. Clair, sir. Your hat,” he said, handing the policeman a grey Homburg. “She’s a right sweet nipper, isn’t she, sir?”
“She is at that,” St. Clair said, taking the hat. “Until tomorrow, gentlemen. Should you learn anything more about the dead woman, please, send word to me at my home.”
Outside, in the mist, Sergeant Littlefield opened the folding, wooden doors that protected the interior of the hansom, and then held the girl whilst St. Clair stepped inside. “I’ll take her now, Sergeant. Thank you.” Charles rapped on the trap door above to signal to the driver, who opened the hinged flap and peered down through the opening.
“Yes, Inspector St. Clair? Your home, I take it,” the middle-aged man said. “That your girl, sir?”
“Not mine, Edgar,” he said in return, stroking her cheek. “Just a lost waif. Yes. My home, if you please.”
The child stirred as the hansom jerked forward. The cold night air chilled the interior, and the police detective spread his woolen overcoat across her as a blanket. In a few moments, the carriage sped past Christ Church, and St. Clair noticed several constables and thirty or more locals still wandering the gore-streaked crime scene.
“Little one?” he asked. “Are you awake?”
She reached out and took his hand, her eyes shut, and she turned toward him, moaning in her sleep. “Paul…?”
“I’ll find him for you, darling,” St. Clair promised. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Who are you?” she whispered, her teeth chattering in the biting chill of the dawn.
“A friend,” he said. “Where is your coat? It’s not wise to venture into the night ‘round here without warm clothing.”
Her dark brows furrowed into a frown. “Around here? Where is this? This doesn’t look like... You’re a friend? Do you know Paul?”
“No, darling, but I shall find him, if you can tell me more about him. Is he your brother?”
She began to tremble, and the policeman wondered if her shivers might be more than just the cold. If this girl witnessed the woman’s murder and dismemberment, she might be in shock. “I’m sorry, little one. I shan’t ask anymore questions just now. Sleep, if you wish. We’ve plenty time to learn all about each other, don’t we? For now, let’s get you home.”
It was nearing seven by the time St. Clair carried the small child into the parlour of his red brick, two-storey home. The rent on the house was modest, and the location provided him quick access to most of the H-Division police district whilst still living in relative safety and comfort. Amelia St. Clair had never liked living in the east end quarter, preferring the smarter areas of the London metropolis. In fact, she had pressed Charles to seek placement in D-Division, which would have allowed them to live with her parents in Marylebone, but Charles hadn’t wished to begin life as a married couple indebted to his wife’s snobbish family.
St. Clair’s only servant, a live-in housekeeper and cook bustled into the hallway, carrying a hand-painted coal scuttle. “Mornin’, Mr. St. Clair. The missus is still sleepin’. It’s sure cold, ain’ it? I’ll be ready for spring soon enough.” Then noticing the little girl, she tilted her large head, grey eyes squinting curiously. “An’ who’s this then?”
St. Clair held the girl with one arm and used the other to hang his coat and hat on a wooden rack by the door. “Allow me to break the news to my wife, Mrs. Wilsham. This child is witness to an unspeakable crime in Spitalfields this night. We’ve not yet learnt the victim’s identity or this girl’s name, so she’s nowhere else to go.”
The kind woman smiled. “Poor thing! You’re a lovely man, you are, sir. I’ll say naught, but we should have summat for the wee thing to eat, when she wakes. She’s all mucked, it looks like. Her clothes is bloody, too, an’ Mrs. St. Clair won’t want her leavin’ stains all about. I can help ‘er wash up, if you like, but I don’t reckon we have anythin’ that would fit ‘er.”
“How about one of my old shirts?” he suggested. “She’s been asleep nearly the entire time since we found her, so she may require a bit of rousing.”
The kind-hearted housekeeper nodded and led the way to her modest sleeping quarters, where St. Clair left the dozing child on a small wooden chair, propped up by Mrs. Wilsham. It took half an hour before she called him back, but the detective found the child clean, half awake, and wearing one of his work shirts, taken from the mending basket, over top of her own petticoats and chemise. The blue and white striped shirt reached to the floor on the girl, and St. Clair smiled as he picked her up and carried her into the si
tting room.
“I think my old shirt’s a bit too large for you, little one. That’s much better, don’t you think? Clean and dry, though still very sleepy it seems. Here we go,” he whispered as he carefully laid her into the curve of a velveteen settee and covered her with a knit shawl. “Thank you, Mrs. Wilsham.”
“Shall I wash her little clothes, sir? They’re beautifully made, and the material’s sure expensive. Will you need them as evidence?”
“We might, Mary, so just put them into a safe place for now. No need to wash them. Most likely I’ll need to take them with me when she and I return to the station house. It’s possible that the clothing contains bits of evidence missed by Dollarhide. Did you happen to notice if there’s a maker’s label inside either the dress or the jacket? Or perhaps a laundry mark?”
“The label in the jacket said ‘House o’ Worth’, but I don’t know where that might be. Do you, sir?”
“No idea,” Charles admitted. “I imagine it’s a high end couturier whose prices lie well outside of my budget, Mary. But how did such finery end up on a child in our borough?”
“It’s a right mystery,” the housekeeper remarked. “Oh, but there’s a bit of embroidery inside her petticoats, sir. It’s just the letter E, followed by the word Anjou. You suppose she’s French, Mr. St. Clair?”
“She didn’t sound French to me. Oh, I am tired,” he said, rubbing his eyes.
“I reckon you’re hungry, too. I’ll fetch that tea now, sir,” the woman said, bustling back toward the kitchen.
“Tea sounds divine.” St. Clair dropped wearily into a flower-covered armchair, every muscle in his body screaming for sleep.
In a few moments, the housekeeper returned with a pot of strong black tea and a plate of toast and cold ham with two fried eggs. “You reckon she’d eat, sir?”
“I’ll give her some of this when she awakens, Mary. Thank you.”
The woman whistled to herself as she swept out the grate, then added fresh coals and a few crumpled newspapers before carefully lighting the fire. In minutes, the room cheered and warmed considerably. The mantel clock chimed eight bells, and Charles St. Clair stared into the dancing flames, mentally sifting through the crime scene and what few facts he and Morehouse had been able to discern from the pitiable victim’s remains.
The dead woman had been strangled, or so thought Dr. Dollarhide. Only after death, presumably, had the unthinkable dismembering occurred, but yet there had been blood—lots of blood, as if sprayed. Impossible. How could a dead heart exert the force to cause so much posthumous bleeding? The girl’s clothing had shown a few bloodstains, but had been spared for the most part. Had she witnessed the murder? If so, she may have escaped an even greater crime.
“Captain Nemo,” a small voice whispered softly.
St. Clair turned toward the girl, whose dark eyes now stood open, her gaze fixed upon a tall bookcase in the far corner of the room.
“Captain Nemo?” he asked, leaning toward the girl. All weariness fell away as the young detective prayed for answers.
She continued to look toward the case, her right hand raised as if to point. “Jules Verne,” she explained. “Second shelf down, third from the left. It’s one of my favourites. Captain Nemo is such a lonely man; don’t you think?”
“You know, I’ve never given it a thought, but I suppose he is,” St. Clair replied softly. “Do you know the book?”
“I’ve read it twice. The second time in French. The French is much better.”
Seldom had words so stunned the seasoned policeman. This child could read French? Could Anjou be her name, then?
“Is it? I’ve not read the French version myself,” he answered matter-of-factly. “My French is rather poor, I’m afraid, much to the dismay of my Cambridge don.”
The girl smiled—and the change lit up her entire face. “Cambridge? That is a university, isn’t it? Like Oxford?”
“It is much like Oxford, yes. A rather dull school. Where did you learn French?”
She sighed. “It’s strange. I’m not sure where I learnt it. Shouldn’t I remember that? I think from my governess. Or perhaps my cousin.”
“Your governess?” he repeated. “Do you recall her name? Does she have golden hair?”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t believe so. Her name is… No, it’s Miss...” She sighed. “I am sorry, Captain. I cannot remember.”
“Captain?” he asked.
“You look rather like a Captain, I think. My memory isn’t very good today. Where am I?”
“My home, little one. Can you tell me where you live?”
She nodded. “Yes, of course. No... Wait.” Her dark brows pinched together, and her cheeks flushed with effort. “It is a very large house,” she said at last. “Though, I think there is more than one. I can see the pictures in my mind, but it’s as if all the words have gone.”
“Don’t worry about it now,” he whispered, leaning toward the sofa and touching her small hand. “So, have you read many books in French?” he asked, deciding to use what she could remember as a fulcrum to pry open the rest of her memories.
“A few. Mother says my French needs improvement, but it’s getting better. Paul says I shall go to Paris with him one day when I am older. Do you know Paul? Are you a policeman?”
St. Clair thought for a moment. As a CID detective, he wore no uniform or insignia that identified him as police. Had she been listening at the station? Had she feigned sleep?
“I am. How did you know?” he asked.
“I overheard you talking to another man…and a doctor, I think. I don’t really like pipe smoke, but it seemed impolite to mention it.”
He smiled, wondering how Morehouse might react to such a frank observation from a child. “I’m not mad about it either, to be honest, but I expect Chief Inspector Morehouse would find my mentioning it more than impolite; he might, in fact, consider it impertinent. If I may ask, little one, who is Paul?”
Her face grew soft, and she settled back into the satin cushions, the fire dancing in the deep mirrors of her dark eyes. “He is my cousin, and he is quite handsome, and very kind, and altogether wonderful. You remind me of him. Are you related to Paul?”
“I doubt it. My name is Charles,” he said, noting a small shaking in her hands. “Are you cold?”
“Yes. A little. Did Paul bring me here?”
“No, but I shall contact Paul for you, if you know how I might do that.”
“And this is your home?” she asked, her eyes taking on a somewhat faraway look.
“Yes. You’re in my home. We found you in the streets not far from here.”
She thought about this revelation for a moment, her face growing slightly pale again. “I think... I think something happened. Someone took me. I thought I saw Paul, but now, I don’t know. I cannot remember very well. My head—oh, it hurts,” she said with a pained expression.
Charles left his chair and sat on the edge of the settee to better reach her head. “Dr. Dollarhide may have missed something. Where does your head hurt, little one? Above your eyes?” he asked, touching her gently with one hand, stroking just above her dark brows.
She shook her head. “No, it hurts…here,” she said, indicating the back of her head, just above the neck. He reached behind, deftly feeling beneath the raven curls. She twitched, a sharp moan escaping her lips.
“Sorry!” he cried out, drawing back his hand and finding it stained with dried blood. “Can you sit up for me?” he asked, helping her to do so. Lifting her thick hair, he examined the contusion. She had been struck at least twice with something heavy, but the blood had clotted. He worried about a concussion. No wonder the girl slept, Dollarhide, you old fool! he thought, making a mental note to upbraid the physician later that day. “Can you tell me your name? Is it Anjou?” he asked at last, hoping she might now feel safe enough to share it wi
th a stranger.
She thought about this, opening her small mouth once or twice as if to speak, and then her face grew pale, worried—her eyes widening. “I—I’m not sure. Paul would know. Why don’t I remember, Captain? Am I dreaming?”
Tears played at St. Clair’s sea blue eyes, and he shook his head. “No, darling. You’re not dreaming, but I think the headache you feel and your memory loss may go hand in hand. You’ll remember it all soon. Trust me. Now, Mrs. Wilsham will bring you a cup of tea and perhaps a biscuit, and then you must sleep if you can.”
She nodded and lay back against the pillows. “All right, Captain.”
As the girl fell asleep, the detective kissed her forehead. “I suppose that’s as good a name for me as any,” he said with a smile. “Sleep now, little one. Sleep.”
CHAPTER TWO
Amelia Marie Winstone St. Clair had grown up the youngest child of a large middle-class family, who proudly lauded their distant, if not entirely believable, connexions to the crowned heads of Europe via their second cousin on Margaret Winstone’s side, Sir Albert Wendaway, a practically penniless baronet with a notorious gambling habit. Blood ties outweighed pecuniary shortfalls to the Winstones, and they proudly reminded all who would listen that Sir Albert’s finances were not nearly as dire as many claimed, and besides they were due to reverse at any moment.
Amelia, who refused to be called Amy, had met her husband three years earlier, in 1876, at one of a whirlwind series of spring parties attended by London’s marriageable, middle-class sons and daughters. Having just joined the police force at the age of twenty, fresh from receiving a degree in mathematics, Charles St. Clair’s keen instincts, deductive reasoning, and dogged determination immediately impressed his superiors, and he’d been assigned to act as security at one of these occasions. During a break between dances, Amelia had struck up a conversation with the handsome police constable, bringing him a cup of punch and complaining about the close air inside the ballroom. The pair soon found themselves engrossed in conversation, causing Amelia to forget three of the young gentlemen on her dance card, but by then Charles had lost his heart to the lovely young woman with the dove grey eyes and bright smile.
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