by M. J. Tjia
Swinging open the door, I say, “Cosgrove.” I smile up at him. “A little late for a visit, isn’t it?”
I move back to allow him to step into the hallway.
“Didn’t your butler tell you I have come by several times over the last few days? Pidgeon let slip you were helping the police on the Lovejoy case, which made me very curious for news.”
He stands rather close to me. I’m aware of his scent, how tall he is, his eyes on me. Turning away, I close the door.
“I was just on my way to Motts, actually. Wondered if you’d like to join our party again. I’m to meet the others there. You can fill us in on the gossip.” His smile is as relaxed as ever, reaching his blue eyes.
I glance down at my dress. I haven’t changed since my long day with Hatch, and I’m weary. Well, I was feeling weary, until Cosgrove’s presence cracked through me like a sapling spark in a bonfire.
“You do look a little fatigued, however,” he says. “I will leave you alone and visit again tomorrow. Maybe you can share a little of your news then.” He makes for the door, places his hand on the brass handle. “It’s just that I’ve become a bit worried about Pidgeon. I’d like to discuss it with you also, sometime soon. I fear for poor Isobel.”
“Well, in that case, don’t feel you need to leave immediately.” It’s not just an excuse to make him stay. I am interested in Pidgeon’s predicament. I am. “Have one drink before you go to Motts.”
He takes me in for a moment, then shrugs off his overcoat. I hang it up for him, and he places his gloves and hat on the hall table. I lead the way to the parlour.
“We can sit at the table or by the fireplace. Your choice,” I say, lifting the decanter. “Whisky?”
“Yes, thank you.” He takes a seat at the foot of the divan, leaving the side with the recline for me.
I sit next to him, my wide skirts encroaching upon his thigh. I try to move back, but I am quite ensconced against the side of the divan as it is. I place the box of Turkish delight on a lacquer side table. “Tell me about Pidgeon.”
“Ah, yes.” He sits forward, elbows on knees and gazes into his glass. “The morning after we met here in your drawing room, he received a threatening letter that was almost identical to the one I received. The poor fellow has become quite unhinged by the matter. You haven’t heard from him?”
I shake my head. “No. I have only returned home this evening. I must go around first thing tomorrow morning,” I say, recalling Sir Thomas’s request of me. “Is Isobel not one of your party tonight?”
“No, Pidgeon has become increasingly paranoid. Won’t allow her to leave the house. Has some drunk guarding the front door.”
“I know. I’ve just read a note from Sir Thomas. I’m acquainted with the man he’s put with Pidgeon. A lush buffoon.” I shake my head and take a sip of my whisky.
Cosgrove turns his head to look at me. His fine lips curl into a smile, and I have an urge to run my fingertips across the texture of his face, the evening bristle.
“Tell me about your time at the Lovejoy residence,” he says.
I sigh, raising my eyes to the ceiling, conscious of his gaze resting on my profile. “It was quite exhausting really.” I tell him of Cyril and the drinking habits of Mrs Lovejoy. I make an amusing tale of the gardener startling me that night and befriending the vicious hound. I finish with an account of visiting the servants’ registry and the information we gleaned that helped to unravel the mystery of Nurse Marie.
“But why did she murder Lovejoy? Why not just kill Mrs Lovejoy and be done with it?” he asks, putting his empty glass down on the side table.
“But that’s the problem. We don’t think she did, after all. I’m quite sure she murdered the little girl, but we can’t hold her responsible for Mr Lovejoy too.” I place my hand on his arm, draw it away quickly. “Remember that kris? My kris, from the cabinet in the hallway?” He nods, frowning. “It was found at the scene of Lovejoy’s death. His murder must’ve been committed by whoever killed McBride, not by the nursemaid.”
Cosgrove looks bewildered, draws back. “But I haven’t seen any word of this, that the kris was found. In fact, the police were quite sure the Lovejoys’ deaths were connected.”
“Yes, but the nightsoil man found it that morning near the body, although he pawned it almost immediately. Sold it to the local ragman, without reporting it to the police.”
“Outrageous. Didn’t the blasted ragman make the connection between the knife and Lovejoy’s murder?”
“I think he did, but he wanted the sale.”
Cosgrove folds his arms, stares into the fireplace, and is silent for half a minute. “Are you quite sure, Heloise, that the kris went missing the night of your soiree? I’m just asking because it really does appear to be that we’re dealing with that kungsi Chinaman who’s trying to finish us off, one by one. There’s no chance he could have sneaked in here that night? Nobody who works here who might’ve smuggled it out to him?”
I give a sharp shake of my head, a little offended. “Of course not.” Surely not. Bundle’s very efficient at keeping the house safe from intruders. And the staff? Why would they bother? I must remind myself, though, to question the butler regarding any tradesmen or labourers that might have had opportunity to nick it at the time.
Cosgrove brings out his pocket watch and glances at the time. “The others will be at Motts by now. I really should go.”
“Of course.” I feel a little disappointed at his leaving, and wonder if I should quickly change into a more festive gown, but I’d only hold him up unnecessarily. “Please, before you leave, have a slice of Turkish delight.” I reach across him, and pick up the box.
As his teeth sink into the pink square, the gold pin with the blue stone that holds his tie in place twinkles in the gaslight. Feeling bold, I lean towards him, and touch the stone.
Looking up at him, I ask, “What sort of gem is this, Maurice? I’ve never seen such a thing.”
I go to withdraw my hand, but he catches it in his. “It’s called lapis lazuli. I brought it back from my time in Mandalay.”
I’m so close to him I can smell his cologne, and something beneath that, something male, earthy.
“It’s lovely. I must find myself a piece of this lapis lazuli,” I say. A dab of powder dusts his lips. “But you must go, sir, mustn’t you? Your guests wait.”
He smiles. “Yes, you’re right. I’m very late.” Yet he doesn’t make a move. Instead, he stares at me with those blue eyes of his, and then cups the side of my face in his hand, his thumb softly sweeping the skin below my eye. I turn my head, kiss the base of his thumb, tracing the flesh with the tip of my tongue. With a soft choking sound, he pulls me to him, and presses his lips to mine. I taste the rose water, and feel the prickle of his stubble against my mouth.
I grin as I gaze into the mirror of my dressing table. All around my mouth, and a little bit on my chin, I have a rash from the hour or so my lips were crushed against Cosgrove’s. Heat rises up through my chest and into my face as I think of his hardness pushed against me, of his lips brushing the flesh of my breasts. But I didn’t take him to bed. Not yet. I have to be sure of him first.
“Yes?” I call, when I hear a light scratching at my door.
The door opens a few inches and Amah peeps in. “You are alone?”
“Amah, yes. I am. What are you doing up so late?” She does not look well. Her skin is pallid and she’s taken off weight in the short period I’ve been away. “But what is the matter? Have you been ill?”
She stares at me for a few seconds, her mouth ajar like she might say something, but she just shakes her head. “No. I am fine. It’s just this horrible cold weather. Who can rest with its nipping?” She rubs her hands together so they make the sound of rustling paper.
“Well, at least take a seat and I can tell you all that has happened while I was away.” I pull an armchair close to the fireplace for her, which she ignores.
“Tell me of your case,” she says
, as she takes up my brush.
Taking a seat again, I close my eyes. How nice it feels, how comforting, to have her sweep my hair back from my face. Every few moments I feel her cold fingers skim my scalp, and I can smell her fragrance, something of teak tea chests and jasmine. It’s not often she brushes my hair so gently, with such reverie.
“Tell me,” she repeats.
“It was the nursemaid.”
A sharp intake of breath. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror.
“What wickedness,” she says.
I watch as she places the brush back onto the dressing table, and I see how dry and chapped her fingers are. Urging her to take a seat on the armchair, I kneel down and try to apply my special ointment to her skin. She waves me away, taking the jar, and rubs and rubs the substance into her hands as I tell her of what happened at St Chad’s Lodge. The whole time I speak, she continues to massage the ointment in, as if she’s polishing the silver, only pausing once, when I mention the kris.
“The kris?” Her voice is hoarse.
“Yes, awful, isn’t it? So, of course now it seems obvious that whoever killed McBride also killed Lovejoy.” I turn back to the mirror. “And the strangest thing, Amah, I’m sure I saw Jakub in Stoke Newington. But then I realised it was impossible.” I swathe cold crème across my forehead, swirl it into my cheeks. It’s made of opium and lemon water and something else that smells so sharp the rose perfume can’t hide it, but I’ve been assured it will keep my skin pale and blemish-free. “Jakub’s still abroad, isn’t…?” But the bedroom door clicks shut. Amah’s gone.
For days Amah has hunted for that boy. She’s searched the West India Docks and the shops of Limehouse. She smelt cargoes of spice, the greasy fumes that billowed from the ships, the body odour of the sailors, but all she’s managed to collect are memories of a past she’s striven to forget.
Towards the end of that long voyage on the Dukano, when they made their way across the ocean to this place, Mrs Preston was very sickly. Most of the white people had terrible dysentery—the stench, as the servant boys ran past with overflowing buckets, that mixed with the sweetness of the nilam oil the white men used to keep the bugs from their bedding—even now Amah’s stomach recoils. She’d never seen anything worse.
Day after day, Mrs Preston lay in her bed, panting, only half in this world. Amah had to gather up all their linen, Mrs Preston’s leather shoes, books, spare candles and tuck them into the bedding with her mistress, under a shroud of netting so the rats wouldn’t chew on all of their things or maybe even Mrs Preston’s flesh. Every afternoon, Amah lifted her mistress into a chair and turned her mattress, lined it with fresh sheets, so that when she lay down again she had some relief from the heat. While the sun was high in the sky, Amah fanned Mrs Preston’s face. She watched as the woman mumbled in her sleep, her cheeks flushed. She only really found peace late at night, when the sea breeze whispered through the open doorway. It was on one such night, when the lanterns had been extinguished and the men were bedded down in the saloon, that he found Amah there.
The waves lapped the side of the boat, the timber floors and beams creaked. But still, she heard his soft tread find his way across the cabin. The dark was so complete, Amah had to blink a few times to make sure her eyes were open.
She was not sure if his plan was to attack Mrs Preston or her, but he stumbled, cursed in his white tongue, and landed atop Amah. Her breath came out in a loud huff, and she doubled over, trying to clasp her stomach. He grabbed her arm and held her pinned with one hand, while his other covered her mouth. She struggled against him. She strained to reach the knife that lay close by where she’d been slicing pineapple for Mrs Preston earlier in the day.
Amah doesn’t know how long this went on for—a minute, ten?—it was like the darkness allowed no certainty, no record. But the smell of him, the feel of his flesh. She made sure that she would know this man again.
CHAPTER 28
Over breakfast, I open the rest of my post. Second from the bottom is a letter from Pidgeon. His handwriting is not much better than a scrawl. He writes of the threatening message he’d received, the same one that Cosgrove told me about the evening before. He complains of Bob Beveridge and how unhelpful the police have proven to be. The letter is closed with the words, Heloise, do you trust this Sir Thomas implicitly? Something troubles me greatly, and I need to share it with someone. I think I might know why McBride had to die—indeed, why we are all marked to die. Maybe when you return, you can visit me, tell me of this Detective Inspector you have been working with.
How very odd. I smear Gentleman’s Relish across my buttered toast. But very interesting too. I need to find out what is haunting Pidgeon. I’m sure I’ll be able to draw it from him.
The morning sky is so clear I decide to walk to Pidgeon’s house on Derby Street. Under my cloak I’m wearing a new walking dress. The full skirt, spruce green, has a handsome Swiss waist. The white bodice is neatly trimmed with embroidered seams and has pretty, billowing sleeves. Besides my small bag, I clasp a lace handkerchief, chiefly because it matches my bodice, but also to hold to my nose if the air becomes too foul.
I pass a small bakery and it reminds me of Cyril. I smile and wonder how the little brat is doing. Pausing, I look through the bakery’s window, but they only carry bread and some plain pastries, no sweets, none of the hard candy the boy enjoyed so much. My silhouette makes a smart reflection in the glass, but maybe, just maybe, it’s missing his small figure by its side. My fingers curl, as I remember the boy’s small hand tucked in mine. Pliable, trusting, insistent. Sticky.
Curzon Street is filled with the sounds of coachmen, carmen, and, in the distance, I can see three ladies leaving the chapel. A butcher’s boy makes his way to a large house on the corner, a dog trotting along behind.
I stop short at Derby Street. The narrow road is blocked by a number of carriages and a uniformed policeman argues with a fishmonger trying to gain access.
“Sir, I won’t repeat myself again,” the constable says. “You cannot pass through this street until the Inspector says you can.”
The fishmonger, red in the face, turns back, rolls his eyes at me. “Somebody dies, and the world has to shut down.”
I glance over his shoulder to the row of houses. Anxiety taps its claw against my ribcage. “Who died?”
“They found some chap dead in his coach. Alls I wants is to deliver this fish to Mrs Poole at number 19, but I just can’t get through. Tried the other side too, I did. This fish won’t stay fresh all day, you know. And Mrs Poole is very particular.”
The fish’s grey carcase lies limp in his basket, its middle partially covered with a red and white checked kerchief. A globule of blood seeps from its gills and its mouth gapes. A whiff of its damp, raw odour reaches my nostrils and my stomach turns.
Thankfully, the fishmonger walks on, leaving me staring into Derby Street, trying to discern which coach might hold the corpse. I can see the top of the white portico that fronts Pidgeon’s home, which seems to sit at the centre of the tumult. The claw of anxiety tightens its grip on my chest.
“Mrs Chancey,” a familiar voice hails me from behind. I turn, and look up into Detective Inspector Hatch’s pale face. “What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Inspector, who has died?” I hold tightly onto my purse and handkerchief to stop myself from grasping his sleeve. “I have friends—the Pidgeons—who live in that house, there. Please tell me it’s not one of them.”
Hatch’s thin face seems to lengthen as he watches me.
Two gentlemen stroll close by, crane to see into the road. A cab slows down for the driver and passengers to stare out at the commotion.
Hatch steers me by the constables guarding the road, gestures for me to hop up into the police buggy. “Please sit, Mrs Chancey. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”
I’m glad of the seat because my knees feel weak. I hadn’t really noticed how cold the morning was before, but now I feel as if my limbs are ma
de of ice, that my lips are frozen.
Hatch’s words are hushed and swift. “I’m afraid your friend, Sir Henry Pidgeon, has been found dead in his carriage.”
My mind is awhirl, as though a flurry of snowflakes fills my head. “But how?” I manage to ask. Please let it be an apoplexy or a lung fever. Not…
The Detective Inspector leans forward and briefly grips three gloved fingers of my left hand. “You must be strong, Mrs Chancey. What I have to tell you is not for the fainthearted, but I believe I can use your services again. And I know Pidgeon was a good friend of yours.”
I’m conscious of how dry my lips are, but can’t summon the will to lick them. I just stare at Hatch and nod.
“It appears Pidgeon has been murdered by the fiend who killed both McBride and Lovejoy.”
I let out a long breath. I breathe out for so long, my corsets conflate with my stomach. My breath in is too short, and the next, and the next.
“Was he…?”
Hatch nods. “He was murdered in the same manner as the other two men.”
Pidgeon. With his mournful, hound-like face. Doting father, loyal friend. The terror he must’ve felt.
“Mrs Chancey, are you all right?”
I nod. Closing my eyes, I try desperately to think of something pleasant, something reassuring that will help me right my breathing. I try to imagine I’m by a bright fire, that I’m safe, home in Mayfair. I imagine there are strong arms wrapped around my shoulder. I think they might be Hatterleigh’s, but no. Cosgrove’s? I frown. No. And then I realise they’re Amah’s.
I open my eyes. “I apologise. This has been quite a shock. For that poor man to die in such a terrible manner.” I shake my head. “I can’t fathom it.” I glance over at the carriage. Three men have unharnessed the horses and lead them away. Two constables guard the carriage doors, and Pidgeon’s driver stands close by, staring into the gutter, puffing on his short pipe. “What is it you needed of me?” I dab my lips with my handkerchief and my hands quiver only a little.