by Alex Reeve
‘What do you want?’
Ripley pulled out a cigarette and lit it, taking his time. ‘I have some questions about a young lady who’s gone missing. Seems you’re connected to this one too.’
‘Another one like Maria?’
He stretched his back, wincing. ‘What’s wrong with your face?’
‘It’s just a bruise. What young lady?’
He leafed through his notebook. ‘Here we are: Miss Charlotte Pritchard, known as Lottie apparently. Do you know her?’
‘What?’
‘You know damn well what,’ blurted out Thorpe. ‘I met with Miss Pritchard in the park. We made another arrangement, but she didn’t arrive. When I asked you about it you were insolent and barbarous. Like a wild beast.’
Ripley sighed, and held up his hand. ‘All right, Major, that’s enough. Now, Stanhope, a simple question: do you know Miss Pritchard or not?’
My mind went completely blank while Ripley examined me through the smoke. Eventually, I managed to say: ‘Yes, I know her.’
‘And did you arrange for Major Thorpe here to meet her?’
‘Yes.’
He had his pen at the ready. ‘Good, then we can clear this up. How can I get in touch with her?’
I couldn’t form words. I was returned to that attic room, shoeless and hatless, my wrist burning with the pain of the manacle. Underneath these clothes, I am female. Leave her alone and take me instead.
No matter the consequences, I vowed I would never be Lottie again.
There was a sound from the little hallway at the bottom of the stairs, and Constance came into the room.
‘Shall I make some tea for you gentlemen?’
Ripley looked surprised. Perhaps he wasn’t used to such hospitality. ‘We’re just asking Mr Stanhope here some questions about a young lady he knows who’s gone missing.’
Constance glanced at me. She was still angry, but she was a pig-headed girl and I feared she might make up some lie for my sake. ‘Constance …’ I began, but she interrupted.
‘I’m sure Mr Stanhope has ever so many friends, and he can’t possibly keep track of them all.’
Pallett smiled, but Thorpe shifted his position irritably. ‘Get out, girl.’
‘That’s enough, Major,’ said Ripley. It wasn’t a request.
But Constance wasn’t daunted. ‘Major?’ she said. ‘Are you Major Thorpe, who sent the letter? You broke that poor lady’s heart.’ She gave him a hard look, and turned to me. ‘Is she the one who’s missing?’
‘No, but please leave us alone now, Constance. I’m sure your father must need some help.’
For once, she did as she was told.
Thorpe was on his feet. ‘You have my letter?’
Ripley stood also, with no sign of his stiff back. ‘Sit down, Major. Now.’ He turned to me. ‘What bloody letter?’
I considered denying all knowledge of it, but what good would that do me now? I already knew what it said. I fetched it from my room and handed it to Ripley, who read it carefully and passed it to Pallett. Thorpe watched the piece of paper travel from hand to hand with the look of a spoiled child ogling the last biscuit on the plate.
‘That’s mine,’ he said, his fingers twitching towards it, but Ripley put it into his jacket pocket.
‘It’s evidence. The regiment haven’t been much help so far, but maybe when I show them this, they’ll be more accommodating.’
‘They’ll do what any right-thinking gentleman would do, and send you on your way. Who are you to be asking questions about me?’ He was going red in the face. ‘I’m an officer in the British Army, and the son of a judge. You’re just a …’ he searched for the right word, his mouth twisted in disgust ‘… a blasted lackey!’
Pallett got to his feet, but the major was already leaving. He slammed the door so hard behind him I thought it would fall off its hinges. In the silence that followed, Ripley lit another cigarette, utterly unbothered by Thorpe’s exit.
‘I’ve done some investigating of my own,’ I said. ‘I may know who … that is, I believe I know who killed Maria Milanes.’
‘Good for you. Now, about this Miss Pritchard. What’s her address?’
‘Did you hear what I said? I believe –’
‘Yes, yes, I heard you, but one thing at a time. Now, the address?’
I had to tell him something. ‘I don’t have it, but I have her sister’s, Jane Hemmings.’ I gave him the address on Maida Vale. ‘I believe, Jane and Lottie are … they’re estranged.’
Saying it out loud made it true.
I wondered what Jane would tell Ripley. Very little, I suspected. She didn’t want the police asking questions any more than I did.
Ripley sniffed. ‘I wish I was estranged from my sister sometimes, and her feckless husband more so.’ He took a pull on his cigarette. ‘Look. Thorpe’s not the brightest star in the firmament, and I wouldn’t normally bother with him. Except that rather a lot of women go missing, or turn up dead, around you, Mr Stanhope.’
‘Are you accusing me of something?’
He watched me for a long moment. ‘I’m wondering if you’re starting a business of your own.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You wouldn’t be the first to earn a little extra running girls on the side. It starts with walks in the park and ends with … well, you know where it ends.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Good. It’s a dirty game, and you’re not cut out for it. Either way, I’ll get to the bottom of this in the end. I usually do.’ He brushed a speck of talcum dust off his lapel, as if it was the single blemish on otherwise perfect tailoring. ‘Now, do you know someone named Hugo Cooper? Used to be a boxer, apparently.’
‘What?’ I was struggling to keep up. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Do you or don’t you?’
I swallowed hard. ‘Yes. I mean, I’ve met him. He works at the brothel on Half Moon Street. He’s the doorman.’
‘He murdered his employer, it seems. There’s a lot of it about.’
‘Hugo?’ For a moment I didn’t understand. ‘You mean … you’re saying Hugo killed James Bentinck?’
‘Smashed his head in with a metal chain. The poor bastard was stark naked in his own home. Bloody mess, it was.’
I couldn’t think of anything to say. My mind was too clogged and my heart was beating too fast. Was he trying to trick me? I searched for signs of artifice on his face, but he was unreadable.
‘Why are you telling me this?’ I asked eventually.
‘Two reasons. One is because Bentinck’s the second person from that place who’s been murdered, and that’s a bit suspicious, even by the standards of a whorehouse.’ He blew a smoke ring, and watched me through it. ‘Of course, Hugo Cooper could’ve done for the girl as well, but why would he? The others said he never showed any interest in ’em. I s’pose it’s like working in a chocolate factory, after a while you stop craving the merchandise.’
‘But you’re sure he killed Bentinck?’ I was aware I was sitting forward in my chair.
‘He was the only one in the house, and Bentinck’s bookkeeper told us it was him. She pointed the finger right away, and he doesn’t seem to have a better explanation.’
‘What was his explanation?’
‘Well, that’s the other reason. Doesn’t really hold water, but he insists it’s true, and he’s not blessed with a potent imagination. He says you did it.’
‘Me?’ I took a breath, trying to steady my voice.
‘You.’ He seemed relaxed, almost somnolent, but he was studying me keenly. I had the impression he was hoping I would fill the silence with a confession, but I’d spent my childhood in church, where oppressive quietude was the norm, and I wouldn’t rush to redemption from my sins now any more than I had then. Eventually, he continued: ‘He said you were there with the widow of Jack Flowers. I take it you know her?’
‘Yes, but that’s absurd.’
‘I agree. Mrs Flowers seems
like a fine woman. She’s got spirit. Gave me what-for about her husband and she didn’t even like him much. Reminds me of a girl I knew years ago, before I was married. We used to call her “The Charity Box” on account of … well, I’m sure I don’t need to explain, but those were good days.’
Pallett cleared his throat, and Ripley gave him a look. ‘What is it? Out with it, Constable.’
‘The chloral hydrate, sir.’
‘Ah, yes. That bookkeeper …’ He paused, as I would imagine most men do when contemplating Miss Gainsford. ‘She pointed out that Hugo Cooper had a bottle of chloral hydrate on him. That’s very strong stuff. Makes you hallucinate, if that’s the right word.’
He knew full well that it was. His simple-policeman act was paper-thin.
‘Then I suppose that answers that,’ I said. ‘Hugo was insensible with the narcotic. He doesn’t know what he saw.’
Ripley worked his mouth as if he had a fish-bone stuck in his teeth. ‘Quite. But it does seem all very … tidy to me.’ Pallett cleared his throat again, and Ripley rolled his eyes. ‘Go ahead, Constable. You don’t have to make a sound like an embarrassed vicar every time you want to say something.’
‘I was thinking we should visit Mrs Flowers too, sir. Maybe she can shed some light.’
‘A fine idea. A nice pie for our lunch tomorrow, and maybe a glass of beer too. We’ll see what’s what.’
‘It’s Sunday tomorrow, sir.’
Ripley stared at Pallett for a full ten seconds while the constable grew more and more red, and then turned to me. ‘Right, Stanhope, you were saying you had an idea who murdered the girl?’
‘I misspoke,’ I said, clinging to what little lucidity I had left. I could hardly accuse Rosie of killing Maria having just dismissed Hugo’s accusation that she and I had killed Bentinck. Things were moving too quickly; I needed time to make sense of it all. ‘What I meant was, I don’t think Madame Moreau did it. You believe that her profession is enough to condemn her, but –’
‘What Mrs Moreau does is inexcusable and, more to the point, it’s against the law.’ He dropped his spent cigarette on to the table, where it smouldered.
‘You have no idea what she does. You think that just because –’
He held up his hand. ‘I let her go. All right? There was nothing to incriminate her for the murder, so I let her go, despite what she does.’ He paused, apparently reliving an unpleasant memory. ‘It didn’t make me very popular with the higher-ups, as you might imagine.’
‘So she’s at home again?’
‘I suppose so. I had Pallett here make sure she got back safely. I regretted what happened with Sergeant Cloake, before. He’s too much whip and not enough oats, if you get my meaning. She’d suffered enough.’
‘She shouldn’t have suffered at all.’
‘It’s imperfect justice, but then it’s an imperfect world. Leave it to us now, all right?’
‘Of course.’
But that was a lie.
‘No more asking questions. You understand?’
‘Yes, absolutely.’
But that was an even bigger lie.
After they’d gone I sat in the back room, watching the shadow of the window frame sharpen and soften as clouds blew across the sun. The floor needed a sweep. Constance had been remiss, what with one thing and another, and Alfie rarely remembered to remind her. It was probably just as well, as she was apt to try out different formulas of polish, and had once made it so slippery the three of us had spent a hilarious half hour skating from one end of the room to the other. I smiled at the memory of it. This room was my favourite in the house, my favourite in the world. Here, I could just sit quietly and think.
Why had Miss Gainsford accused Hugo of killing Bentinck? He was their most loyal servant, and she must know it wasn’t true.
And now that Ripley and Pallett were going to question Rosie at the pie shop, would they see Jack Flowers for themselves? Would they arrest the two of them?
And that was another thing I didn’t understand: I should feel glad they were going there and might arrest Rosie, and yet I didn’t. Despite everything, I felt worried for her.
As evening fell, I hung around in the pharmacy, waiting for Alfie to finish so I could get a teaspoonful of chloral. He opened up the metal box where he kept his money and scooped the few coins into it, his takings for the day. They made a dismal clang. He closed it up and lowered his head on to the lid as if in supplication.
There was something about the box that scratched at me; something I ought to remember. A part of me recognised what it was, but my mind wouldn’t surface.
‘How does that work?’ I asked eventually.
‘Why do you care?’
‘I might’ve seen one like it before.’
‘It’s a padlock.’
‘I can see that. But there’s no key.’
The padlock appeared quite normal at first glance, but instead of a hole for a key, there were five rings, like rings on a finger. When I looked closely, I could see letters engraved on the circumference of each one.
‘What do those do?’
Alfie shook his head. ‘Are we truly going to talk about padlocks, Leo? What’s next? We can discuss the principles of crop rotation if you like, or the exact chemistry of paraffin. Or astronomy. I’ve always wanted to know about the planets.’
‘Just this padlock, thank you.’
He threw up his hands. ‘Very well, if that’s what you want. You see these bezels? You turn them to a particular combination of letters, and the lock opens. Unless you know the right letters, you can’t open it. Keys can be lost or copied, but this is safer because only I know the right letters.’
‘If you can remember them.’
‘That’s the clever thing.’ He was warming to the topic despite himself. He was a man of enthusiasms. ‘The locksmith can set them to anything you want. So you choose a combination you won’t forget.’
And that was it. It truly was as simple as that: you choose a combination you won’t forget.
Mercy, I thought. Five letters: M-E-R-C-Y. Bentinck had put a padlock like this one on his strongbox, and he had chosen the letters to spell his late wife’s name, because he knew he would never forget it.
But this type of lock had a flaw that keys did not. Jack Flowers had worked for Bentinck, loading and unloading, and must have spied on him opening the box. He had probably watched him for days, getting one letter at a time. But Jack wouldn’t know the letters spelled ‘Mercy’ because he couldn’t read or write. They would just be five individual shapes to him. So he had copied them on to a bottle of ale, one by one until he had them all. No one would question him carrying the bottle because everyone knew he liked a drink. And when the opportunity came, he broke into Bentinck’s house, opened up the box and stole the money.
Of course, Bentinck had caught him and Hugo had drugged and tried to drown him. But Jack had lived, and had gone back to the house and stolen the money for a second time.
Except … except that couldn’t be right, could it? I was missing something. Why would the word ‘Mercy’, the exact combination of letters for the strongbox lock, be written on a bottle in a drowned man’s pocket, if the drowned man wasn’t Jack?
I felt as if I was halfway through a game of chess and had discovered that both my bishops were on white squares. At some earlier point I must’ve made an illegal move, but I didn’t know when.
Suddenly, my theory about Rosie and Jack seemed less certain. I’d seen someone who looked like Jack, but there was no other evidence he was Jack. He could’ve been anybody. And if Jack really did drown in the Thames, and it really was his corpse in the mortuary, then I didn’t have any idea who had stolen the money for a second time. Or who had killed Maria.
In fact, I didn’t know anything at all.
What a waste. Everything I had done was for nothing. No income, no home, no friends, no family, no Maria, no idea. All I had to cling to was my name scraped into the paint on Westminster Brid
ge, but I wasn’t sure I had the nerve to go back there. It’s no easy thing to jump.
After an hour, I heard Alfie light his candle and head up to bed. I crept into the shop, which was dark and quiet but for a drunkard singing in the doorway opposite.
I found the vial of chloral, pulled out the stopper and upended the entire contents into my mouth.
25
I awoke in a sweat. Or I thought I did. I couldn’t be sure whether I was truly conscious or was only dreaming of waking. I reached for my box of matches in the pitch darkness, but it wasn’t there, so I lay on my bed, unable to see my hand in front of my face.
The weasel had been outside Rosie’s shop in the fog, a shadowy figure in a long coat. Had that really happened or had I dreamt it? I couldn’t be sure. I wasn’t even sure I was in my own bed or my own room. I got up and fumbled around, feeling for a door or a window frame, finding the hooks in the wall and holding on. The floor was tipping and sliding, so I crouched down, and then lay down. Nothing would stay still. I curled around the leg of my bed as the furniture spun around me.
Jack Flowers had been dead, and then alive, and now he was dead once more. And if he truly was dead this time, then Rosie couldn’t be in cahoots with him. And that meant she was in danger. I needed to warn her.
I was drifting again, and falling, uncertain whether it was still night-time or whether I had simply closed my eyes.
When I awoke, the bells were ringing outside and a weak, dawn light was coming through the curtain. Was it still today?
I got dressed and stumbled downstairs, desperately thirsty. I drank straight from the tap and scooped water over my forehead and neck, relishing the sharp cold of it running down my spine and soaking into my shirt.
Everything was locked up. Alfie and Constance must still be in bed. Their boxes were mostly filled, piled around the table, tied with string and labelled A or C or a cross for the things to be thrown away. There were lots of crosses.
I left through the back door, creeping along the alleyway behind the yards. It snaked along parallel to the road, emerging at a nondescript gate on Great Windmill Street. Anyone trying to follow me would require a pretty good knowledge of the local geography.