Where Cowards Tread (Ravenwood Mysteries #7)

by Sabrina Flynn

  “Maybe.”

  “She could teach you a lot about herbs.”

  Jin hesitated. She rarely passed up a chance to learn something new. “I have things to do,” she said.

  Sammy stooped down, so his voice wouldn’t carry. “You need to leave this alone—this business about your parents. I’m sorry, but highbinders don’t like people asking questions.”

  Jin looked him straight in the eye. “I will not be silent.” She turned on her heel and left.

  27

  A Dark Path

  The Globe West Hotel wasn’t a dump, but it wasn’t the Palace either. A modest three-story hotel off Market with a red canopy and a doorman in uniform. Riot felt he was putting a shape to this Carl Bennett Hawkins, if that was his real name. A man who liked resorts and music halls, and fought his advancing age by setting his sights on young, vulnerable girls.

  Riot had met men like that before. He had no use for them.

  Riot nodded to the doorman, and stood aside to let Isobel enter first. But once inside, she dropped back. It was these subtle cues that made a partnership. They were both trying to see where they fit with each other during an investigation.

  “We’re here to see Carl Hawkins,” Riot said without preamble.

  The man at the desk consulted his logbook.

  The hotel was older, but clean. Worn brass rails, and an adjoining parlor that looked like it had been a saloon in a previous life. It was the sort of place a businessman would stay, or a salesman new to the city.

  “I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Hawkins checked out a week ago.”

  “A week? Did he leave a forwarding address? It’s important I reach him.”

  The clerk glanced at Isobel. “I’m afraid not.”

  Isobel beamed, and slipped an arm through Riot’s. “That’s splendid, my dear. You won’t be able to return the money you owe him. You can take me to the Palace now.”

  They turned to leave.

  “Wait, sir. I may have it here.”

  2211 Sutter Street was a single stick home that looked nearly identical to the one Ella’s family lived in. The homes were narrow, but stretched back like horse stalls, and the basement door could be reached by a stairwell below street level.

  Riot knocked on the front door with his gentlemen’s stick, and Isobel leaned over the railing to look in the front window. The curtains were drawn.

  It was a sleepy street. A lone cat watched them, swishing its tail on a neighbor’s step. Riot knocked again, louder.

  Impatient, Isobel slipped down a narrow lane. The pathway to the back of the house was oppressive, her shoulders brushing the sides of two homes. Though dark and moldy, the pathway was at least free of rubbish.

  A rickety staircase hugged the back of the house. It went as far as the second story. A patch of a dirt yard extended to a high fence that was propped up by beams to keep it from falling over. The yard was only four feet deep.

  Isobel looked through a grimy window. The back room was empty. She tried the window, and was rewarded when it slid up. She leaned in and stretched to reach a key on the mudroom sink… Her fingers brushed it and it fell to the floor. Cursing her height, she pushed the window all the way up and just slithered through the opening to thud onto a dusty floor.

  A gloved hand swam into her vision. She jerked back, heart in her throat, then looked up to find the eyes of her husband.

  “Goddamn it, Riot,” she whispered taking his hand. “How on earth are you so quiet?”

  He pulled her up. “A convenient bang covered the click of my lock picks. I prefer doors. They’re easier on my suits.” He inclined his head to the back door, and tried the knob. It opened without the key.

  She frowned, brushing the dust from her clothes.

  Save for a basin, and that blasted key, the mudroom was empty. She put the key back on the lip of the sink, and moved into the kitchen, which was also empty. There wasn’t even a chair.

  Wood creaked under her feet. The house had a musty, stale smell and it was as cold as the street in shadow. Isobel creaked towards the front parlor, and Riot went to try the gas. Light seeped through the curtains, enough to see that the parlor was empty, too. Swept clean. But not quite. Business cards and adverts were laid out on the mantel: real estate agents, movers, furniture stores, and dry goods.

  The flair of a match signaled Riot had got the gas lamp working. Light illuminated the shadows and a pile of similar adverts and business cards that had been pushed under the door. Along with letters.

  Isobel bent to retrieve a letter. “It looks like we’re too late,” she said with a sigh. Either Mr. Hawkins never moved in or he had fled. The letter was addressed to Mrs. C.B. Hawkins. She held it up to the gas lamp, and squinted. It was a ‘welcome to the neighborhood’ letter.

  “There are furniture marks over the wood here. And considering the dust…”

  Isobel looked at the spot he was considering.

  “Maybe two weeks old.”

  She’d take his word for it.

  Riot looked over to the stairs. “I’ll check the basement.”

  Isobel nodded. She didn’t much care for cellars, not after being hog-tied and beaten in one. Riot knew this, of course.

  She walked upstairs.

  Room after room was hollow and empty, with the stale cold that marked an unused home. She itched to pull the curtains back, to let gray light filter in. By the time she reached the third floor, Isobel was pondering their next course of action. Discovering who owned the building seemed the next logical step. Had Hawkins rented it or had he bought it?

  But her thoughts came to a standstill when she opened the last door in the very back of the narrow home. Shadows disturbed the emptiness. Isobel paused in the doorway. A shade had been drawn over the only window, but it didn’t completely block the light. As her eyes adjusted, she saw the shapes for what they were, a bed and a chair.

  There was something… wrong about the bed. Her mind took a moment to catch up with the uneasiness slithering down her spine. Isobel swallowed, wishing Riot would suddenly appear. She walked over to the window to give herself some time. It was closed tight. She lifted the shade, then the window, letting fresh air and light fill the room. Then she turned to the bed.

  “Riot.” She had meant to shout it. But it came out a harsh whisper. Isobel stepped up to the bed and stared down at a thin coverlet and the suggestive lump it was hiding underneath.

  Steeling herself, she gently pulled the coverlet down, revealing a youthful face marred by mildew-like blotches. A line of crusted blood escaped from the girl’s lips.

  Isobel turned away. She focused on the chair, and the pile of clothes. On top was a familiar golf cap with a red fuzz ball.

  They were too late.

  Atticus Riot found Isobel in the topmost room, in the very back. She stood over a bed, hands curled into white-knuckled fists. He moved into the room, and touched her elbow, only sparing a cursory glance at what he knew she’d found. She looked at him, eyes misting, her lips a thin line of rage.

  “What do you see, Bel?” he asked softly. Ravenwood had asked him that very thing as he’d stood over the mutilated remains of a girl some years before. Riot had thought him heartless. Now he understood. Focus on the details, and drag Justice kicking and screaming into the light.

  To her credit, Isobel gave herself a shake. He saw a mask slip over her face, as she tucked feeling behind some inner wall. Her eyes glittered with steel.

  She looked down at the girl. Ella stared back, sightless.

  Riot carefully folded the coverlet back.

  Ella Spencer was naked. She lay in a restful repose. A portion of the sheet, slightly stained with blood, was wrapped around her right hand. Her left hand rested on a blood-stained towel on her stomach. It was dried and crusted. Her legs were crossed at the ankles.

  The room was cold. No insects buzzed around the corpse. She wasn’t stiff, and bloat hadn’t set in yet. Her skin was mottled and discolored. Riot bent to lift her left hand and
check under the towel. He expected a wound, but her soft stomach was pale and unmarred.

  He turned her slightly to the side. The skin along her back and buttocks was bluish-purple, blood pooling in the corpse from gravity.

  “She wasn’t moved,” Isobel whispered.

  “No.” Ella had lain there for some time.

  Riot uncrossed the corpse’s legs.

  “What are you looking for?” Isobel asked

  Riot pulled back so she might look. “Blood, tears, trauma. Anything of the like.”

  “Signs of rape.”

  Riot nodded. “There’s some blood, but nothing alarming. Definite signs of sexual activity, however.”

  Isobel averted her eyes, and turned to less intrusive areas. Though her voice wavered, she examined the girl with a detached air, checking the girl’s upper half. “Minor tearing to her fingernails, some blood underneath, no apparent marks on her neck. But it’s hard to tell with the skin discoloration.”

  Riot bent to pick up a flask. He put his nose to it. Brandy. Only a few drops remained. He took out a handkerchief and rubbed the white linen against the mouthpiece. It didn’t leave a mark. He carefully set it back down, and looked under the bed. Swept clean.

  Finding that Isobel had moved on to a pile of clothing, he repositioned the girl as they had found her and lifted the coverlet over her body.

  “Cheaply made underwear, chemise, underskirt. Even her shoes have recently been half-soled,” Isobel said. “But the black skirt and jacket are much better quality.”

  Riot crouched in front of a fireplace. There were ashes inside. He took out a knife and poked at them. A white handkerchief had been burned, but a fragment survived the fire. It had a simple border, no initials.

  “There are cards in her purse, mostly blank,” Isobel said.

  Riot opened the closet door. It was empty, save for two unused candles. He turned to find Isobel standing still, holding a little leather purse in her hands. Dainty flowers decorated the outside.

  “Was the window already open?” he asked.

  The question shook her from her stupor. She shook her head.

  “Put everything back the way you found it. We need to find a call box.”

  Slowly, Isobel set the purse down, and went to close the window. “I’ll have to tell her mother,” she said faintly. That I failed. She didn’t say the words, but Riot knew she was thinking them.

  Detective Sergeant Dillion was a clean-cut man who looked promising, especially since he wasn’t Inspector Geary. His collar was crisp, his attire neat, and his shoulders spoke of a detective who enjoyed physical exertion. He even shook Isobel’s hand, and greeted Riot with respect. But all of Isobel’s hopes were quickly dashed when they took him up to Ella Spencer’s final resting place.

  “Well, well, well,” Dillion said. She and Riot stood against the wall, spectators to the detective’s search. He had a patrolman with him, who leered down at the girl as Dillion removed the coverlet.

  Isobel felt Riot stiffen next to her. She heard him take a breath, and could feel him forcibly relax.

  Dillion flicked the coverlet back in place. “It’s a shame, Daniels,” he said. “Girls selling themselves, then ending it all.”

  “What?” Isobel blurted out.

  Dillion gestured to the corpse. “It’s clear as day, Mrs. Riot. To the well trained eye. I don’t expect an amateur like yourself to pick up these kinds of details. Surely you’ll agree, Mr. Riot. The girl killed herself.”

  The patrolman kicked the brandy flask on his way to rifle through the girl’s underthings. Dillion plucked it from the floor, passing it under his nose with a flourish. “Laudanum-laced brandy. Perhaps it wasn’t on purpose, but a miscalculation.”

  “Whores are always drinking that stuff,” the patrolman grumbled as he held up a pair of underwear, letting the rest of the clothing fall to the floor.

  “When is the coroner expected?” Riot asked. His voice was flat. Calm. And he had his walking stick planted on the floor, hands folded over the silver knob.

  “Soon, I suspect. The dead wagon may be a bit later coming.”

  Isobel bit back an urge to pummel the pair as she watched them blunder their way through Ella’s personal belongings.

  Clomping footsteps echoed downstairs, followed shortly by a man who looked like a penguin stuffed in a suit. Coroner Weston had hunched shoulders and an ample gut that stretched the confines of his waistcoat.

  Weston glanced at Isobel and Riot, grunted, then conferred with Dillion, nodding the whole time, and finally turning to the flask. Next, Weston bent over the corpse, squinting at the blood crusting the corner of her mouth. With a huff of satisfaction, he took out his documents.

  “We were notified, Mr. Riot, that your agency was looking for the girl. Good work,” Dillion said.

  “Have you decided on a cause of death, Coroner Weston?” Riot asked with a diplomat’s restraint.

  The man nodded, scribbling on his certificate. “I don’t agree with Detective Sergeant Dillon’s assessment, Mr. Riot.” He finished the statement by signing the end with a flourish. “I believe she died of natural causes.”

  “You haven’t even examined her!” Isobel growled.

  Weston turned a bushy gray brow on her. “You, Miss, should not be here. This is no place for a woman.”

  Isobel clenched her jaw. With a look at Riot, she stalked down the stairs and out the door, bursting into fresh air. Her fists worked, her blood pumped, she wanted to thrash something. Anything.

  She stopped her furious pacing when she caught sight of a corner store at the end of the block. In front of it were two pint-sized newsboys lounging against the brick, smoking. She hurried over to them.

  “Say, you two.”

  “Whatcha want, Miss?” They eyed her with baby-faced glares.

  She handed a quarter to each. “I need some runners. Spread the word as fast as you can to all the reporters you know. There’s been a murder in that house there and the police detective is bungling it.”

  The boys looked at the coins in their hands, and darted off. Satisfied, Isobel stood and waited for the reporters who were sure to light a fire under the police.

  28

  A Noble Heart

  “Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince. And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.” Miss Dupree fell silent, her clear voice hanging in the room. Her students sat, entranced. Grimm, Tobias, Sarah, and Jin. One chair was empty. Maddie was still gone.

  “That is stupid,” Jin declared. “I’m glad Hamlet died.”

  Miss Dupree raised an amused brow at the girl.

  “Did people really talk like that?” Tobias asked. “I can’t hardly make sense of any of it.”

  “To answer your question, Tobias: Yes and no. Shakespeare wrote plays for entertainment. Do we talk like the characters in Gilbert and Sullivan’s plays?”

  Everyone, including Grimm, shook their heads.

  “It is possible to get an idea of how people spoke based on the plays. But I doubt it was so eloquent. Shakespeare’s plays are famous. They’re known for their drama, turn of phrase, and wit.” Miss Dupree closed the book. “What did you think of Hamlet?”

  “He talked too much,” Tobias said. “Who says all that while they’re dying?”

  “Poor Ophelia,” Sarah said.

  “She was stupid, too,” Jin stated. “Why fall in love with a man at all?”

  “Amor et melle et felle est fecundissimus,” Miss Dupree said. Beautiful and poised, and with a voice like honey, the governess turned prostitute turned school teacher never failed to catch a person’s attention. Man, woman, or child. The children fell silent.

  “Something about love,” Sarah said. She had been diligent in her Latin terms.

  Miss Dupree inclined her head. “Love is rich with honey and venom. Love is both an extraordinary agony and one of the most delightful states to dwell in.”

  “That is why I will not fall in love,” Jin said.


  “You can’t choose who you fall in love with,” Sarah said with a sigh.

  “Hamlet treated Ophelia like trash. She was stupid to fall in love with him,” Jin insisted.

  “Hamlet had to pretend to be mad or he’d be killed too,” Sarah said.

  “He should have killed Claudius straight away,” Jin said.

  “Did he have the right to?” Miss Dupree said.

  “Claudius killed his father,” Jin said immediately.

  “And did his eventual revenge fix anything?” Miss Dupree asked.

  The children went silent with thought.

  “It made it worse,” Tobias said.

  “Someone had to do it. Otherwise Claudius would have escaped justice,” Jin said.

  “But he wanted revenge more than love,” Sarah argued. “That’s no way to live.”

  Miss Dupree leaned forward a touch, and focused on the tall silent young man who was looking out a window. “What do you think, Grimm?”

  Grimm focused on her, and to her astonishment, he spoke. “Hamlet was already poisoned at the beginning.”

  It took her a moment to find her voice. “How so?”

  “Revenge doesn’t leave room for love. It eats a man.”

  Tobias’s mouth hung open. Sarah wasn’t surprised, and Jin only glared with anger. But no one argued with Grimm. He stood to gather his books, then left as quietly as he had entered.

  “He can talk!” Tobias squeaked. “He can talk!” His brows scrunched together. “Wait, my brother can talk?”

  “It appears so,” Miss Dupree said.

  It took a moment for everyone to recover. Except Sarah, who was considering his words. She glanced at the wall clock and raised her hand.

  “Yes, Sarah?”

  “May I be excused early?”

  “Why?”

  “I…” Sarah hesitated on the words. The thought of lying made her sick, so when she answered she wasn’t actually lying. “I don’t feel well. My stomach is queasy.” It was true. Now. She could hear her gramma rolling over in her grave.