by M. J. Tjia
“Sliced almost clear off,” the copper said.
That sobered me up quickly, or so I felt at the time. As I look back, though, the rest of the night is patchy, as inconsequential as a nightmare. My drawing room blanched of warmth as we sat across from each other—me, Hatterleigh, Isobel and her father—answering the policeman’s questions as best we could, his pencil scratching our responses into his tattered notebook. Pidgeon repeated the story of how he knew McBride from their travelling days, but he didn’t mention the break-in, or his friends, the Lovejoys. Isobel’s eyes were bright, but she didn’t cry. Her colour was high, almost feverish. I asked the policemen if they’d found a knife or anything on the road; would they question the neighbours to see if they’d noticed anything?
It’s only now I remember Hatterleigh frowning at me, the slight shake of his head. But I ignored him, kept pressing the police constables for more. My mother was upstairs in her room washing off a man’s gore. I was indignant. And I was scared. It was almost a relief when Hatterleigh decided to leave with the others. It gave me the opportunity to check on Amah throughout the long night.
And now I can see that Amah is already dressed, as neat as an oriental magpie, but I can tell she is not herself. The fine cut on her forehead is clean, half hidden in the hair of her left eyebrow. She picks at the embroidery on my bedspread, stares at a spot on the floor. Maybe she is thinking of all that blood. I can’t help myself—I glance at her hands to see if any of his blood is captured beneath her fingernails. Of course, there isn’t.
“His name was McBride,” I tell her. “He was with us last night. Not for long though. A friend of Pidgeon’s.”
The police constable had only spoken briefly with Amah, before Hatterleigh cut the interview short, allowed me to guide the shaken woman to her rooms. So she missed out on much of what we learned, and I hope that maybe if she knows more, she’ll be able to rest.
“Do the police know why he was killed like that?” There are dark smudges under Amah’s eyes. Her face seems older.
I shake my head. “Surely he was mugged for his purse,” I say, although now I remember he still had it in his pocket. I also think of what the others had spoken of, after McBride had left my gathering—of threatening letters, of Chinamen. I think of that little girl, savagely murdered just a few days ago. How her throat was cut too. I take another sip of water, close my eyes.
“I had a look outside this morning,” Amah says. “There was a smooth, grey stone in the gutter. From the garden of the house two doors down—you know the one? It was almost covered in horse dung, but I think it might have been what the murderer used to smash the glass of the lamp. How else did it find its way onto the road?”
I watch her as she stands, winces against the pain in her twisted ankle. She moves to the window and gazes outside.
“So someone had it planned? You think McBride was ambushed?”
She shrugs.
I feel sick again, and it’s not from my hangover. What if Amah had been just a minute earlier? Would I then have found two bodies huddled at my back door? Was McBride’s death part of a robbery or was he specifically chosen to die?
From the window in her sitting room, Amah watches as Taff helps Heloise mount her brute of a horse. Of course, she looks handsome seated upon its glossy, muscled back—she wouldn’t have it any other way, even if it is a risk to her life. Amah tuts.
A wave of fatigue flushes through her and she rubs her gritty eyes. She wishes that Heloise had left her alone last night when she was trying to sleep. Her heart lurched every time Heloise peeped into her room, letting some of the hall light in. How could Amah find her balance—breathe in, empty mind, empty mind, breathe out, right out—when the bedroom door creaked open every few minutes? How could she steady her racing thoughts? How was she to forget?
And now, with each thrum of her leg, the beat beat beat that throbs up from her ankle, she tries to shut out all thought of McBride. McBride and his head… the blood…
Despite her best efforts—her eyelids squashed tight, the heels of her palms pressed against her eyeballs—flashes of memory illuminate the dark cavern of her mind.
The sea, kingfisher blue. The dirty, wide decks of the Dukano. The stench of burning coal that left her feeling giddy, the smokestack that coughed black clouds into the clear sky. And, of course, Mrs Preston. Jane.
Amah won’t think of the last time she saw her. She won’t.
But she does think of her smooth brown hair, parted in the middle, loosely pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her thin fingers, almost impossibly long, with fingernails as smooth and pretty as pipi shells. Amah was with her when she first saw McBride. Amah disliked him, even then. But he was friends with Mr Preston—another foolish man—so there was no avoiding him. Just as her mind cannot avoid him now.
CHAPTER 6
It’s early evening by the time I return from my ride in Hyde Park. I make sure to appear along Rotten Row at least three times a week in order to stoke the fire of my fame. I didn’t take the phaeton this time, just Malani, a Hanoverian warmblood, my favourite horse. She’s so tall and fine, I tower over the other women riding their ladylike ponies.
I slide from the saddle, rub my hand down the white blaze that marks Malani’s nose and up again against the bristles. Taff acquired her for me from a soldier newly arrived back from India, who told him of Malani’s bravery in battle, but also of her unpopularity there because her black coat was considered unlucky. But I’ve found the opposite to be true. Her inky sheen complements my own hair, which has a sable gloss, thanks to Amah soaking it in egg white, oil and honey every Sunday. Malani’s assured gait calls attention to my new paletot, which is almost mannish, what with the row of military buttons down the front, although I make sure it fits snug over my breasts and accentuates my small waist. I feel almost regal seated upon Malani when I pass the cluster of people by the side of the road who wait to catch a glimpse of me. I angle my face to its best advantage, lift my chin. I pretend I don’t notice this audience of mine, like I’m not aware they are there to see me, but of course I know they are. A man even wrote a letter to The Times complaining about them—about how they block the thoroughfare.
I leave the horse with Taff and let myself into the house. Pulling the gloves from my fingers, I rub my chill hands together. I unpin my top hat, and from its rim I unwind the chiffon scarf that has the shimmer of a dragonfly’s wing. I’ve taken to draping squares of silk or chiffon around my riding hats, and just today I had the pleasure of seeing both Lady Rowe and the Marchioness of Beste with scarves trailing their riding hats too, aping my new fashion. I grin into the hallway mirror. I’ll wear the scarf for the rest of the week, see how many more women I can goad into copying me, and then I’ll never wear it again.
Bundle comes out from the drawing room and gives a slight bow. “Guests for you, madam.” He leaves the door ajar.
Sir Henry Pidgeon and another man are just about to take a seat when I enter the room, but rise when they see me. Pidgeon’s friend groans a little with the exertion.
“Ah, Heloise, you are home,” says Pidgeon, taking my hand. The lines on his face are more present than usual. He has obviously been as affected by McBride’s grisly death as the rest of us, perhaps more. “May I present my friend, here, Mr Erasmus Lovejoy. Mr Lovejoy, Mrs Chancey.”
Mr Lovejoy. It only takes me a moment to realise this must be the father of the poor little murdered girl. I shake his hand and his fingers are as dry as autumn leaves. “Please, call me Heloise.”
I take the armchair opposite. Bundle has left the tea things ready on the table and, as I lean forward to lift the teapot, there’s the sound of something bumping to the floor in the next room. I turn and stare at the painting of a peacock that covers the dividing wall, but there is no further noise. I smile at the men. “I hope the maid didn’t knock over anything too valuable.”
I hand Pidgeon his tea, who says, “Thank you, thank you. You must be wondering why we are h
ere.”
“Not at all,” I murmur as I pass a cup of tea to Lovejoy, who takes it in both hands. His hands shake so hard, the cup rattles in the saucer. He places it back down on the table.
Lovejoy’s wiry hair is unkempt, and white, but the dirty white of snow pushed to the gutter. Even his sideburns, that creep low on his cheeks, are bushy and white. His skin is pallid, and the creases in his face have a greyish tinge. He is not a handsome man, by any reckoning. In fact, he has a bad-tempered face. And he’s old, much too old to have such young children, I would have thought.
“Heloise, you once told me of a man you sometimes work for,” says Pidgeon. “Runs an investigation agency, or something.” Poor Pidgeon. His watery blue eyes are bloodshot. But after last night I probably don’t look too fresh either.
“Yes. Sir Thomas Avery.”
“Ah, yes. Can you put me into contact with him?”
“Of course I can,” I say, rising to my feet. “I will write his directions down.”
When I return from my study, I sense that the two men have broken off from a hurried exchange. I don’t immediately hand Pidgeon Sir Thomas’s card because I’m curious as to why he wants to see him.
“Has Sir Henry told you of the terrible incident we had here last night?” I ask Lovejoy. I offer them the plate of almond macaroons before taking a seat.
Lovejoy looks as though I’ve startled him from a deep reverie. He mutters, “Yes, yes,” as he takes a biscuit.
“That’s partly why we’d like to have a word with Sir Thomas,” says Pidgeon.
“Oh. You think it might be connected to…” I glance at Lovejoy, who’s staring at the macaroon in his hand.
Pidgeon sits forward on the sofa. “Have you heard anything more of McBride’s death? Did the police tell you people anything at all?”
I’m tired. I’ve had a difficult day trying to block memories of McBride’s blood trickling down the back of the steps. I think back to earlier that morning, when the lead policeman returned to my house, interviewed us all over again. As he fired questions at us, he strolled around the drawing room, gazing into cabinets, staring up at my painting. Although he asked questions of both Amah and me, he looked to Bundle, the only other man in the room, to provide the answers. As he bowed to me on his way out, I thought a slight smirk twitched the policeman’s lip, and couldn’t help wondering if he had heard uncomplimentary things about my former relationship with Sergeant Bill Chapman. They were from different stations, but men do so gossip about such things. Or maybe he’d heard of my successful detecting, but couldn’t bring himself to believe it of a woman.
“The police think it was most probably a botched robbery,” I say, rubbing my temples.
Pidgeon’s eyes widen. “How did they come to that conclusion?”
“I think that, maybe, he still had his purse and watch chain on him.” I shrug. “But what else could it have been?”
The two men exchange looks.
Pidgeon slumps back into the cushions. “Yes, this is exactly what we were afraid of.”
“Afraid of?”
He nods. “That the murders…” He glances at Lovejoy, shakes his head in apology. “That the murders might be related. That the murders might be part of a larger…” He places his hand over his mouth, leans his elbow on his knee.
“Of a larger…?” I prompt.
His eyes find mine. “Revenge plot.”
“But revenge for what?”
“Sarawak.”
“The riots you were talking of? All those years ago?”
He nods. “Yes. Unfortunately, when the Chinese kungsi attacked Kuching, we had to kill many of them just to defend ourselves.” He steeples his fingers at the middle point of his forehead, presses his eyes shut. “It was very distressing.” His hand drops and he gazes across at Heloise. “But, you see, if we hadn’t, they might even have murdered my poor wife, God rest her soul. Slaughtered her, cut her down with a sabre, like they did to poor Mrs Crookshank.”
“Poor Mrs Crookshank,” murmurs Lovejoy.
“Yes,” says Pidgeon. “We lost several people that day. Wilkins and the Crookshanks escaped by their kitchen door, and were trying to run across to our house when two villains rushed out from the stable. Killed poor Crookshank with a spear, and sliced through Wilkins’s arm. Mrs Crookshank slipped in the grass… She lay like that for six hours, weltering in her own blood, before the brutes allowed us to retrieve her body. She didn’t survive more than an hour after that.” His voice trails away.
“And you think one of these—kungsi, I think you called it—has come here to exact revenge?” I ask.
Pidgeon nods again. “A couple of days later, after we’d driven them off, they sent a message to Brooke—the sultan there, you know—that stated they’d avenge all their dead, even if they had to follow us to the ends of the earth.”
“And now, one of those bastard Chinamen is after us!” Lovejoy’s voice is hoarse, but loud. “One of those vicious, ungodly, grasping bastards murdered my girl.” The macaroon crumbles from his clenched hand. I hope Amah doesn’t walk past the open doorway anytime soon.
Pidgeon pats him on the knee. “Now, now, Lovejoy. This may not be the case. We must wait to see what Sir Thomas thinks.”
Lovejoy wipes his hands down the sides of his trousers, up and down.
“What do the police say about Miss Margaret’s death?” I ask, my voice soft.
“They think the murder was…” Pidgeon looks away from the other man, “was closer to home.”
“Have you told them of your suspicions? About the Chinese man trying to break into your house?”
“We tried. But they were not receptive.”
“And that’s why you want to bring Sir Thomas in?”
“Yes.” Pidgeon drawls out the word. “But something else…”
Bundle stands in the doorway, announces, “Mr Cosgrove.”
I feel a dip in my stomach. I sit straighter, wish I’d taken time to neaten my hair, pinch colour into my cheeks.
“Heloise. Please excuse my sudden intrusion,” he says, handing his gloves and hat to the butler. He’s wearing a handsome navy coat, set firmly across his broad shoulders, and grey trousers with a diagonal stripe. His necktie is held in place by a stickpin of gold, studded with a blue stone, so deep and pure, that it brings out the colour of his own eyes.
“Ah, Pidgeon,” he says, taking Pidgeon’s outstretched hand, “your man said I’d find you here.”
He catches sight of Lovejoy, frowns. “Lovejoy, sir, you here too?” He takes a seat on a chair by the end of the sofa, next to Lovejoy. “I was sorry to hear of your daughter.”
Lovejoy grasps Cosgrove’s hand, says, “Terrible business, Cosgrove. It’s been terrible.” His bottom lip jerks.
Cosgrove’s frown deepens, the sides of his mouth draw down. “Have the police found out anything yet?”
Lovejoy waves his hand. “Nothing. Nothing at all. They’ve ransacked the house, mucked around in the outhouse, the garden. They’ve even emptied the pond, in search for the… the…” His lips jerk again.
“The weapon,” says Pidgeon.
“They think someone in the house did it,” Lovejoy says, barely louder than a whisper.
“That’s why we’re here,” explains Pidgeon. “We’ve come to ask Heloise of the private detective she sometimes works with.”
“You think the police won’t find the culprit?” asks Cosgrove.
“It’s not so much that.” Pidgeon looks to Lovejoy, whose chin has sunk to his chest. “We believe they’re searching in the wrong quarter.”
Light raindrops tap the window glass. A man calls for a cab out on the street.
“You’re thinking of McBride’s death? Of that Chinese fellow you saw. That these murders might be connected to Sarawak?” says Cosgrove.
“Indeed.” Pidgeon’s hound face is apologetic.
Cosgrove stares at the two men, then nods, once, as though he’s made up his mind. Reaching into the
inner pocket of his coat, he pulls forth a folded piece of paper. “I found this amongst my mail this morning.”
He smooths out a scrap of cheap paper on the tabletop, revealing the words: Your blood be our profit. Under the words is a symbol, of a triangular shape, that resembles a child’s drawing of a roof. The words are a scrawl, scratched into the thin paper.
I lower myself to my knees, my skirts billowing as I lean on the table to have a better look. The nib pen has been pressed against the paper savagely enough to make a tiny tear at the right-hand corner of the triangle.
I tap my fingertip near the edge of the paper, and say, “What’s that peculiar mark smeared across the symbol?” It’s a rusty colour, has the deep hue of an autumn maple leaf. I snatch my hand back into my lap, my eyes widening as I stare at Cosgrove. His face is grim. “It’s not…”
He nods. “I think it might be blood. Or, at the very least, it’s supposed to appear to be.”
Cosgrove looks at Lovejoy, who’s gawping at the letter, mouth open. “McBride mentioned something about a threatening message you received, Lovejoy. Did yours resemble this note, sir?”
Lovejoy shakes his head slowly, before turning it into a nod. “No. But yes. I don’t know.”
“Is it possible to see the letter you received?”
Lovejoy shakes his head again. “I threw it in the fire. Thought it was just an empty threat from a coachman I’d recently let go.”
“Did it also have a smear of blood on it?” I ask.
“No, I don’t think so. But it had lain in the mud for some time before I opened it. I found it by the doors that lead onto the back patio. It was the same illegible scribble though.”
“What did it say?”
Lovejoy shrugs. “I can’t exactly remember. Something along the lines that I’d be sorry, or repentant.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, and his shoulders lift on a sob.