by Alex Reeve
The noise wouldn’t stop. I put my hands over my ears, and it got louder.
I was sitting on a hard chair, the backs of my legs sore against the wood, but it tipped up and I rolled on to the floor, staring at the rosette on the ceiling, disused, cracked and grey with dust. I was still falling. I put out my hands to break the impact, but the rug fell away and I was floating, and then it surged back, looming over me, and I swore loudly at the sudden jerk on my wrist as I dangled. Something hit me in the ribs and I hung there, swinging like a string puppet. I could hear music. Someone was singing a lullaby I knew from when I was a child, singing and sometimes weeping, in time to the thump, jangle, thump, jangle. I found myself humming along with her.
Something came into the room, and then another something. They were making noises but I couldn’t hear them clearly. I was sure they were wolves, standing on their hind legs. One of them crouched down and sniffed me, and I could see his black lips and snout, and a fly creeping across his fur. I squirmed backwards and the fly flew up and landed in the corner of my eye, sucking at me with its puckered mouth. I tried to swat it away but it held on. I could feel the tickle of its tiny feet on my eyeball.
Water splashed on to my face. It was cold on my skin, seeping into my hair, running up my nose and making me cough. I wiped my forehead and rolled over, but they poured more over me, another cupful, so it puddled on the floorboards and dripped down between the gaps. It was leaking on to the ceiling below and would cause a stain, and then they’d regret their thoughtlessness. That would show them, if it made a stain. Thoughtless, thoughtless, thoughtless.
The wolves growled at each other and then they were gone, and the flies trailed out after them. For a while all was quiet except for the jangle, thump.
My back was aching and my wrist was agony, and I wanted to sleep. Just let me sleep. My shoulder hurt and I realised a boot was prodding me, trying to rouse me. Against my will, I drifted upwards. There were ripples on the surface and the glow of a lamp, and faces looking down; the wolves again, long jaws and pointy ears.
One of them spoke: ‘Jesus. Make sure he lives, will you? We need him.’
The other, shorter and fatter, with fewer flies, nodded. ‘He’ll be right as rain in an hour, sir.’
The first wolf prodded me again. ‘Tell me when he wakes up.’
The fat wolf grunted. ‘What about her?’
‘She’ll go on the boat tomorrow. And shut her up, for God’s sake.’
I was awake already, but I didn’t show it. If you stay still, they leave you alone. A wolf is just an untrained dog, and they chase movement. I sank down into the black water again, listening to the thump, jangle, sometimes fainter, sometimes louder, and that awful, tender singing. For a while the black water carried me, until her voice grew quiet.
When I opened my eyes, the wolves had gone. I was in an attic room, right at the top of the house, the dim light from the window throwing oblique shapes across the walls. My head was bursting. Something had risen up from within me and was pushing against my skull to get out. I had to shut my mouth and block my ears to keep it inside. Nausea filled my throat, and I flopped over on to my stomach and puked.
‘It passes,’ said a voice. ‘They gave me the same stuff. You’ll feel better soon.’
The wolves had taken my shoes. I tried to get up, but I was caught by my wrist, which was cuffed in an iron manacle. I explored along the chain, and found it was padlocked to a metal frame, the wrought-iron curlicues of a bedstead. I pulled and pulled until my skin grazed, even spitting on to the metal to lubricate it, but the thing wouldn’t budge.
‘You’ll hurt yourself,’ said the voice, and I realised it was Rosie, sitting up on the bed, manacled to it, the same as me. ‘I tried, and it isn’t worth it.’
The only other furniture in the room was a wardrobe with a mirrored door and an upturned chair on the floor next to me. I wanted to right it, but my arms were too weak, so I just lay there, wishing the black water would come again. Slowly, the noise from before returned.
Rosie was rocking. She was sitting on the bed, rocking backwards and forwards, her arms wrapped around her knees, and each time she rocked, the bedstead thumped against the wall and the chain around her ankle jangled, to and fro, to and fro, thump and jangle, thump and jangle. And while she rocked, she sang. It seemed to comfort her.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry you’re here. This is all my fault. But I needed to know what happened to Maria.’
‘That’s not an excuse, it just means you don’t care about anyone else.’
‘I’m sorry. I truly am.’
She turned away, facing the wall, and wouldn’t say anything more. I lay on my back on the floor, and all I could hear was her breathing, and the occasional carriage outside, so distant and disconnected it might as well have been in another country.
I prayed. I couldn’t get the words out fast enough. I prayed in my mind, so hard I thought I would burst: Oh God, please save Rosie. Please save Rosie. This is my fault. Let her go back to her children. If you care for us at all, please save Rosie.
There was a sound from outside the room, and my shivering returned. I pulled my jacket around me.
‘Someone’s coming,’ she whispered, and we both lay still.
The door opened and someone lit the wall-lamp. The glare burned through my eyelids.
‘They’re awake, sir.’ It was Hugo’s voice. ‘I heard ’em talking.’
He jabbed my leg with his foot and I opened my eyes, sparks flickering on the edge of my vision like fireworks on the horizon.
‘It stinks in here,’ said Bentinck. He nodded to Hugo, who sighed deeply and left the room.
Bentinck opened the window and righted the chair. ‘Sit down, Stanhope.’
‘You have to let me leave,’ said Rosie. She crawled to the edge of the mattress and sat with her hands resting on her lap and her shoeless feet dangling. ‘I don’t want to be here.’
He rummaged in his pocket, producing a fold of tobacco and a pipe, which he attempted to light. ‘Damn thing,’ he muttered. ‘Must’ve got wet.’
‘Please, let me go home. I have children who need a mother. I just want to go back to them, and I’ll say nothing about anything. No one will ever know. Who’d believe me anyway? Just let me go, please.’
He gave her an avuncular smile. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, I truly am, but I have responsibilities. I can’t let anything disrupt our new venture.’
Miss Gainsford had mentioned their new venture too. She’d said they were doing trade on the Continent. I wondered what it was they were trading.
‘It was your boat,’ I said slowly. ‘At Puddle Dock, where Mrs Flowers was held.’
Bentinck looked impressed. ‘Yes, very good, Stanhope. And we don’t want anyone talking about it to all and sundry and ruining the whole thing. So you’ll be off to Belgium, Mrs Flowers, all expenses paid. But it’s a one-way trip, I’m afraid.’
‘Belgium?’ she said blankly. ‘I can’t go there. I have three children.’
‘Any of ’em daughters? How old are they?’
Rosie went white, but her fists were clenched. With a sudden horror, I realised what Bentinck was transporting on that boat.
‘It’s people,’ I said, scarcely able to force out the words. ‘Your new venture is people. You’re a kidnapper.’
‘We buy them mostly. Workhouses, factories, orphanages, dolly-houses, scullery maids, fathers who want rid. There’s a market among a certain class of gentleman in Brussels. I mean, a very high class of gentleman. And with particular tastes. They have more wealth than you or I could ever dream of: gold, jewels, palaces, even whole countries in Africa, and they don’t want broken-down old whores. They want young virgins.’ He looked positively proud, as though he was talking about a grand business he’d built exporting fine linens or sculptures. ‘They can’t get them locally without causing attention. The laws are much stricter over there, so it’s supply and demand, and an excellent price for the r
ight girls. Pretty, young and, most importantly, innocent.’
Rosie looked straight at Bentinck and spoke as though she was addressing a fool. ‘I’m a widow with children.’
He shrugged. ‘Oh, we ship over ordinary girls too, when we have space. May as well fill up the boat. Not for the best gentlemen, of course, but they have people and they have people and so on, so there’s no shortage of customers down the chain, as it were. You’ll fit in very well, Mrs Flowers, don’t worry about that.’ He continued trying to light his pipe until eventually there was a puff of blue-grey smoke. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. ‘Nothing finer.’
Hugo came back with a mop and bucket and started cleaning up the floor, replacing the bitter stench of bile with the bitter stench of lye. My eyes stung with it.
‘I won’t go,’ Rosie said firmly, interlocking her fingers on her lap.
‘It’s not really a choice, I’m afraid. We’ll dose you with chloral again, and you won’t know a thing.’
I was reminded of Constance’s game. Chloral … what is it? And then it came to me. I spoke without thinking. ‘Chloral hydrate is a hypnotic. It makes you go to sleep.’
‘Exactly. Nasty stuff, though. Evil dreams, I’m told.’
‘I’ll come back,’ said Rosie.
Bentinck drew on his pipe, and made a sympathetic face. ‘That’s not how it works, my dear. There’s no coming back.’
‘Then why don’t you just kill me now?’
He frowned, seeming perplexed. ‘I’m a businessman, Mrs Flowers, not a murderer.’
‘Detective Ripley knows we’re here,’ I said defiantly.
He clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Ha! You really don’t understand, do you, Stanhope? Even if that were true, and I have no doubt that it isn’t, it doesn’t matter a jot. You see, we have a plan for you too. You’re to be the accomplice. That woman who committed the crime, the French one, what was her name? Can’t trust the French, I’ve always said so.’
‘Madame Moreau,’ I said. ‘But she isn’t French, it’s her married name.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Stanhope! Don’t you understand? She gets the blame and you were her accomplice. You’ve already been arrested once and the police know you’ve spoken to her, so it should be straightforward. You’ll be joining her in Newgate, or …’ He pulled at an imaginary noose around his neck and made the face of a man asphyxiating. ‘You see? We don’t need to kill you, the law will do it for us. So much easier that way.’ He chuckled, looking around the room so we could all enjoy the joke together.
‘What possible motive could I have?’
He shrugged. I had the feeling he hadn’t even thought about it, so sure was he that his plan would work without anyone asking questions. He was probably right.
‘I suppose you were the father of the pregnancy and took her to the Frenchwoman’s place …’ He waved aside her disputed nationality. ‘Maybe you wanted the whore dead to save your reputation. Or maybe things went wrong and you covered it up. The point is, you’ve been set free once, and you can be put back in the clink just as easily.’
‘That was by Judge Thorpe. I doubt he’ll be keen to help you after you tried to marry his son to a prostitute.’
Bentinck smiled unpleasantly. ‘There are other judges. It won’t be difficult.’
Rosie was rocking again, eyes down, to and fro, to and fro, the bedstead tapping the wall like a slow metronome. I had the urge to take her hand, but I couldn’t have reached.
‘I’ll make a deal with you, Mr Bentinck,’ I said, surprising myself by how steady my voice was. ‘If you let Mrs Flowers go, right now, I’ll say I’m guilty and make it easy for you. I’ll accept the blame and confess everything, and you’ll never hear from her again.’
He considered the idea for a moment and shook his head. ‘It’s very noble of you, but we’d never know for sure, would we? Once she’s free you might say anything. No, our way is better. You go to prison and she goes to Belgium on the next boat, and it’s all neat and tidy.’
He pushed himself away from the wall, stepping within my reach. I didn’t think about it, I just lashed out at him, first with my fist and then, as he leapt backwards, kicking at his legs. In a second, Hugo was on me. He punched me in the neck, short and hard, and I felt the pain welling up from my throat and across my shoulder.
‘Stop!’ shouted Rosie, but he tugged my head back by my hair.
I heard Bentinck’s voice. ‘Leave him be, he can have that one. It’s only fair, poor chap. But if he tries it again, pull out his teeth.’
Hugo released me and I doubled over, fearful I would vomit again. I forced myself to meet Bentinck’s eyes.
‘Why did you kill Maria?’
He looked genuinely surprised. ‘I didn’t. Why would I? She was a good employee. And anyway, I wasn’t even here when it happened, I was at Cookham, entertaining some local bigwigs. A man has to unwind once in a while.’ He moved the chair to the window, and sat on it, looking out into the darkness. ‘I was quite fond of the little wagtail, actually. Sharp as a nail, and an absolute vixen in the sack. Well, you know all about that, don’t you? I couldn’t believe it. A vixen.’
‘She wanted to leave you.’
‘They all do, Stanhope! They get old and we let them go, or they move on or marry someone or, I don’t know, become nuns, or whatever women do when they reach that age. We don’t murder them! There are lots of pretty girls, or hadn’t you noticed? Prettier than her, actually, with her …’ He rotated his finger towards his cheek, meaning her stain. ‘Though Nancy always said it was endearing, whatever that means. How would I keep any girl working for me if I went around murdering them?’ He laughed to himself. ‘I was helping her. She wanted to better herself, and she had the talent to do it too. That’s why I introduced her to Gussie Thorpe. He’s a gentleman with lots of money and very little intellect. Truly, very little indeed. It was a match made in heaven. Better still, he was due to go back to India and most likely get his head blown off. She’d have been a wealthy widow in no time, and owing me a debt of gratitude.’
My head was still fogged by the chloral. Our captor was protesting his innocence and I couldn’t think of a single reason why he was wrong. It was utter madness.
‘But then his father found out and broke it off.’
‘Sadly, yes.’ Bentinck waved his pipe around. ‘And that was that, even though she’d cunny-caught him, with apologies Mrs Flowers, and persuaded him to do the decent thing. All unofficial, unfortunately. He’d have got a shock when the brat was born and most likely looked nothing like him, but by then it would’ve been too late, wouldn’t it?’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said, feeling desperate and utterly lost. ‘If it wasn’t you, then who did kill Maria?’
‘Haven’t a clue. Some thug on the street probably, it happens all the time. Or that Madame what’s-it, who you say isn’t French. Are you sure about that?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Or it could’ve been you, in which case we’re serving justice after all, aren’t we?’
I strained against the chain so hard I was sure my bones would crack.
‘Why did Jack have to die?’ asked Rosie, very quietly.
Bentinck pulled a mock-serious face, as if she’d accused him of cheating at charades. ‘Well, you do have to be fair, Mrs Flowers. He wasn’t a very good husband, was he? A strong lad though, which we need now Hugo’s getting on a bit.’ Hugo shifted his position and said nothing, flexing his thumbs. ‘Jack used to help us out lugging everything on and off the boat, and around the house sometimes. He was loyal, or so we thought.’ He sucked on his pipe, immediately withdrawing it from his mouth and staring irritably at the bowl. ‘Damn thing won’t stay lit.’
‘He stole from you,’ I said.
‘He tried. Bloody idiot. We found him downstairs with the strongbox open, piling our money into his satchel. More than two hundred pounds. Can you believe it? Like it was his own. After everything we’d done together too. I miss him visiting here, if I�
��m honest. We used to wrestle from time to time, and he even had the decency to lose.’
‘So you murdered him.’
He shrugged, and struck another match for his pipe. ‘It’s not the same. He knew the punishment. I can’t fetch the police in my business, and I can’t have people stealing from me either. Hugo dosed him with chloral and took him out on the boat. Up and over.’
No signs of a struggle, I thought. He drowned sleeping.
‘With his satchel?’ asked Rosie, leaning forward. ‘Was it still on him when you drowned him?’
He frowned at her, losing patience. ‘His satchel? How the hell should I know? We thought we were rid of him until he washed up.’ He nodded in my direction. ‘And even then, Stanhope here did us a favour and told the police it was an accident. You really have been very useful, for the most part.’
‘But why did you kidnap Mrs Flowers and demand to know where the money was, if you already had it back?’
Bentinck’s face clouded. He clenched and unclenched his fingers. ‘I suppose we do owe you an explanation for that, Mrs Flowers. A few days later I realised it had been stolen again. It was very strange. We’d put the money back in the strongbox, but when we went to get it out, the thing was empty. And the money hasn’t been found, even now. We thought Jack must’ve told you something about it, Mrs Flowers. But it was obvious you didn’t know anything, so … well, my man on the boat got carried away. I think he enjoys that sort of thing, unfortunately, but it wasn’t my instruction, I assure you. We’re not monsters.’ He removed his jacket, slipping out of his braces and stretching his arms. ‘Anyway, enough talking.’
Hugo left the room, clanking the mop and bucket with him, and Bentinck stood up and started unbuttoning his shirt.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked, with a sudden dread.
‘I’m sorry, I truly am. But it has to be done.’