The Winstones had, at first, objected to their daughter’s choice in a husband, but genealogical research had turned up tenuous hints at the St. Clair family name, including a distant, though improbable, connexion to a certain Chief Inspector Hamish St. Clair, a retired Scotland Yard detective who lived in Edinburgh and was rumoured to have the queen’s ‘ear’. Upon making this tantalising discovery, both parents had heartily consented to welcoming Charles into their exclusive family. The couple married that August, and the following year, on the tenth of December, 1877, Amelia had given birth to a perpetually smiling baby boy—the spitting image of his father—whom she named Albert after her game-loving, baronet cousin. When smallpox ravaged through Whitechapel in December of 1878, Albert had been one of the youngest to succumb. Amelia had never forgiven her husband for forcing her to bring up her child in what she perceived as ‘penury and squalor’.
It was past ten when Amelia at last came down for breakfast that morning in March, and she now listened as her husband explained the mysterious child she had found sleeping in their parlour. After being startled by the formidable Mrs. St. Clair, the girl had been removed to Mrs. Wilsham’s tiny room behind the kitchen, so the couple now spoke without fear of being overheard.
“This girl. You say she reads French?” Amelia asked pointedly.
“So she told me,” Charles explained. “She certainly reads English. I suppose she’s older than Dollarhide surmised. He guessed her age to be seven, perhaps eight, but what child reads Jules Verne in French at such an age?”
“Assuming she reads at all,” Amelia replied acerbically, doing little to hide her irritation. She sipped tea—black, no sugar, as she always watched her slender figure—whilst gazing out the parlour window, which looked southward onto Columbia Road. “Charles, how is it we are saddled with this girl?”
“Saddled?” he repeated, his blue eyes turned to hers in shock. “Saddled? Amelia, she needs but a little caring, a day or two of someone watching after her whilst Morehouse and I investigate. It’s possible that whoever murdered the woman in her company may yet wish to do the same to this girl. Frankly, I am appalled by your callous attitude and perplexed by your complete lack of heart!”
“Are you? Then your memory is poor, Charles. My heart died four months ago, or have you forgotten Albert’s death?”
Hearing his son’s name used as a verbal weapon stabbed at St. Clair’s tender soul, and he lowered his head, his hands clenched into tight fists as he tried with all his might to keep his temper. “No, of course, I have not. How can I? I see that empty crib every day and think of him, Amelia. Every day. And I know you do the same. Yet, surely your mother’s heart can find a reason to help a child in need, can it not?”
“No, it cannot,” she replied simply. “Do not look at me with such a face, Charles St. Clair. You’ve no idea how I’ve suffered, so do not pretend you do! Can she not go to a work house?”
“A work house? Amelia, such a place would be her death! This girl is delicate and shows no sign of ever having worked a day in her life.”
Amelia sighed. “She is a street beggar, then, I imagine. Oh, Charles, you are such a fool sometimes, and perhaps a bit too much in love with your Whitechapel citizenry to know when you are being duped. The girl will no doubt rob us blind as soon as our backs are turned.”
St. Clair started to respond angrily, but he paused a few seconds, struggling to regain his composure. Even before their son’s death, Amelia’s stone-cold attitude often bewildered the young detective, but her current obstinacy had opened a floodgate of emotions he had kept dammed up for many months. However, before he could reply, a small voice spoke from the hallway.
“Why should I wish to rob you?”
Mrs. Wilsham appeared, taking the girl’s hand. “I’m so sorry, Mr. St. Clair, she just slipped away as I was dryin’ the dishes. I can take her back. Come wi’ me now, dearie.”
St. Clair jumped to his feet, startled at the girl’s sudden appearance, but infuriated with his wife. “No, she will be fine with us, Mrs. Wilsham.” Then, he turned to the child, his face soft. “Of course, you wouldn’t take anything, little one.” He guided her into the room, his large hand gently holding her dainty fingers. “This is my wife, little one. Mrs. St. Clair.”
The girl gazed into the woman’s cold grey eyes without one word in reply.
“Cat got your tongue?” Amelia asked sharply. “Is it true you can read? Tell the truth. I shall know if you are lying, girl!”
The child’s dark brows knit together, and her lower lip trembled, just a tiny bit, just once, but then her small back straightened, and she pointed to the top row of books on the shelf. “Little Women, Oliver Twist, The King James Bible, Wuthering Heights, Pride and Prejudice, Manners for Women, Manners for Men, France by Night, Capitals of Europe, Crowned Heads of Europe, Debrett’s Guide to Entertaining, Landed Gentry of England, and on the far right Whispers in the Dark by Reginald Greene, though I’ve never heard of that author before.”
Charles laughed and broke into applause. “Well done, oh, very well done, little one! Many grown men could not have read out those titles so swiftly, and all without one mistake. Well done indeed!”
Clearly unimpressed, Amelia St. Clair glared at the child, her cold eyes clouding like a rising storm. “It is a trick, no doubt. Mrs. Wilsham may have taught her the titles by rote—or perhaps you did, Charles! Either way, I’ll not be duped. What is your name, girl?”
The child showed no anger, no fear, but took a deep breath as if to remind herself of something long before taught about dealing with obstinate adults. “I cannot remember. Not now, but the Captain says I shall; therefore, I shall.” She gave Charles a wide smile.
“Captain? Who on earth is that?” Amelia asked with a laugh. “Surely, she doesn’t mean you, Charles! My dear child, this policeman husband of mine is hardly that. He is to be addressed as Detective Inspector, which does have its privileges and burdens, but he has never been on a naval vessel that I can recall, nor has he served in the military—which is to be understood at his age. Why do you call him such?”
The girl winked at St. Clair, her small mouth widening into a grin, and then she moved to the window, watching the passersby. “He looks like a Captain; don’t you think?”
Amelia said nothing, merely glared. “Charles, I expect this girl to be gone when I return from my committee meeting at Mrs. Etherington’s home. We’re selecting a new chairwoman for the church bring-and-buy sale, and then I’ve an appointment with my dressmaker. That gives you until four this afternoon. Mrs. Wilsham, call a hansom, please. Charles, walk me to the door.”
St. Clair kissed the child’s cheek and placed her on the settee. “Wait here, little one. I shan’t be long.”
“All right,” she said. “May I read?”
Amelia turned back toward the girl. “We’ve nothing in French,” she remarked sarcastically. “You will have to make do with English, girl.”
The child smiled, deep dimples creasing her cheeks. “That’s all right. I could teach you French, if you like.”
Amelia’s eyes rounded. “Impertinent child! Charles, if she is still here when I return, I shall...” she began, but St. Clair soothed his wife’s temper by handing her three, one-pound notes, all he had left from that week’s pay packet.
“For your trip to the dressmaker’s,” he told her. “Perhaps, a new bonnet, too,” he added with a handsome smile.
Amelia had thought her husband’s dimpled smile dashing and irresistible three years before, but now she found it annoying. Regardless, she took the bank notes and tucked them into her handbag. She then let Charles place a velvet cloak around her shoulders as she fastened an electric blue hat against her upswept hair with a pearl and silver pin.
“Remember, Charles. I want her gone. If she is not, then I shall find a place for her myself. I will not see this house turned into an orphanage!”
“I shall endeavour to comply,” he said. “Take an umbrella, Amelia. It’s supposed to rain later.”
“I shall decide if I wish to take an umbrella. You see to that girl. Goodbye, Charles. Kiss me now.”
He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, noting its coolness, wondering just how it was that he’d ever found her warm. “Be careful,” he said, walking his wife to the coach and helping her into the seat. “Say hello to Mrs. Etherington for me.”
“I will, Charles. Remember, I shall be home no later than four. Make certain that girl is gone.”
The coachman’s whip snapped, and the horse trotted forward. Turning back toward the house, Charles found the child waiting for him inside the open doorway.
“She seems very sad,” she said, taking his hand as he returned to the small foyer. “Shall I read to you?”
Charles felt weary to his bones, but he feared that his wife’s demands had set a clock ticking that left him with little time. “That would be lovely. So, could you teach me French?”
“I thought you studied it at…Cambridge? Was that the school?”
“Yes, that was it. Come in here by the fire, little one. Did you eat breakfast?”
“I did. Mrs. Mary gave me some tea and a thick slice of toast that she helped me to bake myself. I’ve never made toast on a fire before.”
“Really?” he asked, sinking into a large, comfortable chair near the hearth and setting her onto his lap. “How do you make toast in your home?”
She thought for a moment. “I’m not sure. I don’t think I’ve ever made it. I’ve eaten it many times, though. And I think my cook... No, another cook... No, I’m not sure.”
“Your hair is very pretty since Mrs. Mary washed it,” he told her, deciding to move to a new topic. “Is your mother’s hair dark like yours?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so. Was your mother’s hair dark, Captain? Yours is black like mine. My father’s hair was very dark.”
“His hair was dark? Has your father passed away then?”
She nodded, her smile disappearing, and her eyes downcast. “Yes. It makes me very sad to think about it. He was wonderful, Captain. Really wonderful, and he laughed nearly all the time—well, mostly. It’s strange that I can recall his death so clearly, yet other things are...it’s like they’re not there. I cannot even recall his name, yet I can see him in my mind. He was very tall and quite handsome with black hair and dark eyes. He called me his lassie.”
“He did? Was your father Scottish?”
“Yes, I think so. Does that help?”
“It might. And his eyes were dark, like your own? Your eyes are quite dark. You have beautiful eyes, little one.”
She blinked, but the smile did not return. “Do I? Someone else told me that recently, but... No, I don’t want to remember that.”
She had pulled close, and he felt her tremble. Dare I pursue this? Perhaps, it relates to this crime. Is it possible that her father also lies murdered somewhere near Christ Church?
“I’m sorry to upset you, little one. It’s just that I want to help you, if I can. What else do you recall about your father? You said he was tall. Do you know how tall?”
Her face pinched, as she struggled to dredge up memories, and he noticed she’d begun to breathe heavily. “I cannot remember. Quite tall, I think. Taller than you, perhaps. I—I cannot...” she finished, the last words catching in her throat as large tears gathered on her eyelashes.
“That’s all right, little one. I don’t remember my father or my mother,” he said with a deep sigh. “Both died long ago when I was quite small, I’m afraid, and I’ve no photographs or paintings, so I do not know if their hair was dark or light. My aunt and uncle raised me. They are kind enough, but I often wonder about my true parents.”
“I’m very sorry,” she said, her eyes growing large as she touched his face. “Where are they? Your aunt and uncle, I mean.”
“They live in Lambeth. Do you know where that is?”
She nodded. “Yes, it’s not far from Westminster.”
St. Clair’s brows rose in surprise. “Have you been to Westminster?”
She nodded. “Yes, of course. Many times. It’s quite crowded, but not like it is here. Your street is filled with very interesting people, isn’t it? The men in Westminster wear different clothes from the ones worn here, and there are lots of horses in the park—riding horses, I mean. Have you ever visited our park?”
“Your park? St. James’s Park, you mean?”
Her dark brows worked together as she struggled to remember. “No. I don’t think so. It’s Queen Something, I think.”
“Queen Victoria? Is this park close to the palace?”
She lay her head against his chest, sighing. “I cannot remember. I’m very sorry, Captain. I don’t believe it’s Queen Victoria. There was a man in our park, though. Last month and even before. He kept watching me, and he frightened me, so I ran to... I ran to someone. Paul, perhaps. No. My cousin wasn’t in London then. A man then carried me back into the house.” She shivered. “Has it gotten colder?”
“Yes, I imagine it has,” St. Clair replied gently, and he drew a thick blanket from a basket near the fireplace and spread it across her shoulders. “Does your head still hurt, little one?”
She nodded. “A bit.”
Realising that the strain of trying to force memories might be causing her more pain, he changed to something less strenuous. “What else did you and Mrs. Mary do this morning?”
“I helped her to make a bed,” she whispered, brightening. “It was quite fun, actually. I don’t think I’ve ever done that before either. And she taught me to roll out biscuits and bake them in the oven. And we added sugar on top. Do you know how to do that, Captain?”
“I’m afraid not. Have you ever helped with any other chores around the house?”
She thought about this, leaning against his chest. “I don’t believe so. Although, I have pictures in my mind of horses and stables. And long staircases and lots of books. And something else… Something that…” She tensed up, beginning to tremble. “I don’t want to think about it.”
He held her close, stroking her long curls. “Does it frighten you?”
She nodded.
“Can you describe it? I will keep you safe, little one. Nothing will harm you here. Not whilst I live. Nothing. Not ever.”
“I know, Captain. I trust you...” Her small fingers traced the shape of his nose. “You remind me of someone, I think. Do I know you?”
“No, darling, you don’t. Not until now, anyway. Can you tell me about this thing that frightens you?”
She sat still for many moments before replying, and Charles watched her eyes as she weighed her response. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
“Who told you that?” he asked.
Again, she appeared to be considering her reply very carefully, and the lower lip began to tremble again. “You will protect me?”
He nodded, taking her small hand. “Always. I promise.”
“It is an... An animal,” she whispered at last, trembling once more. “It snarls and bites, and it watches me. It knows me. It knows my name. It has red eyes, and it... It talks to me.”
“Talks to you? An animal?”
She nodded again. “Mother doesn’t believe me. She says I imagined it. Paul doesn’t believe me either, but you will, won’t you, Captain?”
“Of course, I believe you, little one. Can you remember anything else, about your mother perhaps?”
“I think... I think that she is dead,” the child whispered, and she began to shiver. “May I go to sleep now, please?” she asked, her voice choking and her eyes closing. Tears traced her cheeks, and Charles dried them with his handkerchief, kissing her as he held her close to his chest, pondering her words about an animal. Was the woman at Leman Street
this girl’s mother? If so, did an animal kill her? The injuries were certainly consistent with such an attack, but if so, then who strangled her? Or was it something else, someone else. A man who behaved like an animal? The man from the park?
Charles found his own eyelids growing heavy, and within a few minutes, he, too, fell asleep.
Three hours passed, and St. Clair’s body jerked, as someone tapped him on the shoulder.
Mary Wilsham stood beside the detective’s chair, her face flushed and beaded with sweat. “Oh it’s all my fault, Mr. St. Clair! While you was sleepin’ with the girl, I went out to buy a chicken and some potatoes, an’ when I come back she was gone!”
St. Clair’s heart sank at these words. The child had vanished. He leapt to his feet, running into the hallway to don his overcoat and hat. “She’s nowhere inside the house? You checked everywhere? Even closets?”
“I did, sir. She’s gone. Oh, I am so sorry!”
“How long were you away, Mrs. Wilsham?” he asked, struggling to maintain a sense of calm.
“Not more’n an hour, sir. Not even that. The girl was sleepin’ right peaceful when I left.”
An hour! He thought for a moment, imagining all the dreadful things that could have happened to the beautiful child in that space of time and forcing them from his mind. “Stay here, in case she returns, Mary. I’ll walk the neighbourhood. If anyone from the station house comes by, have him join me in the search.”
Blood Lies Page 3