by Annis Bell
Trailed closely by her maid, Jane ran down the corridor and across the landing to the Halstons’ rooms. The doors to both the children’s room and Charlotte’s bedroom stood wide open. Another scream, this time gurgling and hoarse, sent a shudder through Jane, and she felt Hettie’s hand on her arm.
“Oh, ma’am, something horrible must have happened . . .”
There were muffled male voices, rustling, the sounds of furniture being pushed around, then a loud crash. Charlotte tore out of her room and fell into Jane’s arms.
“Dear God Almighty, hold on to her!” Sir Frederick bellowed, and the doctor swore.
Jane held the quaking Charlotte tightly in her arms. Charlotte briefly stared at her, eyes wide; her pupils were dilated, and her gaze darted about frantically, but worst of all were the scratches on her face. Bloody trails streamed down her neck and chest, which a plain day dress barely covered. The lace neckline was torn and stained with blood. Strands of her dark hair had come loose and stuck to her neck and shoulders.
“Jane, help me,” Charlotte whispered, her voice breaking, before Dr. Cribb and Sir Frederick rushed out of the room and pulled her from Jane’s grasp.
Now Jane realized that the doctor had probably tried to give Charlotte an injection against her will. On her right arm, the sleeve was torn, dark bruises practically glowing against her pale skin, and blood flowed from a cut.
“What are you doing to her? Why are you doing that?” Jane demanded, following the men, who had dragged her friend back into her room, Charlotte screaming like a madwoman.
In front of the bed stood an armchair, and the two men forced Charlotte to sit, then bound her to the chair with leather straps. Jane would never forget the desperate woman’s screams as she fought them with all her strength. Finally, Dr. Cribb poured a clear liquid onto a cloth and pressed it to Charlotte’s face; a few seconds later the convulsive movements stopped, her body went slack, and she slumped in the chair. Gladys, looking composed, stood beside the bed.
Sir Frederick stumbled back against a chest of drawers. He held on to it as if in danger of falling. His face was dappled with red spots, and the skin around his mouth was deathly white. The muscles of his jaw were twitching and, like Charlotte, he had scratches on his cheeks and neck. Blood spotted his white shirt, and his breathing was rapid.
Miss Molan appeared in the doorway. “Has she been sedated?”
“Yes! Close the door and see to the children,” Sir Frederick snapped. “And not a word to anyone.”
The governess still wore her black mourning clothes, which seemed strangely appropriate. Glancing quickly at Jane, she hurried out. Jane was glad that Hettie had stayed outside, because the sight of Charlotte like this—injured and unconscious—was hard to bear. Her damaged body lay unnaturally in the chair, like a broken doll, her limbs held in place by the straps.
“We can untie her now.” Jane tried to reach Charlotte but was immediately stopped by Sir Frederick’s thundering voice.
“Don’t touch my wife! She’s caused enough trouble for today. And you will keep your nose out of this business.” Sir Frederick pushed himself away from the chest of drawers and grasped Jane’s shoulder in a painfully tight grip.
Though she cried out, it seemed not to bother Sir Frederick in the slightest. “And not a word about this, my lady, from you, either! This concerns me and my wife, no one else. Have I made myself clear?” He glared at her threateningly.
“Let go of me, Sir Frederick. I am your guest and you’re hurting me!”
He released her, but his expression lost none of its threat. “This marriage has brought me nothing but misfortune.” Suddenly, he turned away and buried his face in his hands. His shoulders heaved with stifled sobs.
Dr. Cribb checked Charlotte’s breathing then came over to Jane. Gently taking her arm, he led her to the door. “Please go, my lady, there’s nothing you can do here.”
“But—”
“That woman is a danger to herself and to her children. Believe me, it’s better if you leave now,” the doctor insisted, trying to push her out the door.
“You want to lock Charlotte away, don’t you? You’re not going to take her to one of those disgusting asylums!” Jane braced herself against the door.
“She is ill and will be treated accordingly. Please don’t make this any more difficult than it already is.” Dr. Cribb’s face brooked no protest.
When the door closed in Jane’s face, tears of rage and concern brimmed in her eyes. She was never more painfully aware of her powerlessness than at that moment. Here in this stranger’s house, she was no more than a guest to be tolerated, only a woman, someone who, when it came down to it, would not be believed, her words being ascribed instead to hysteria.
21.
London, December 1860
“Something’s off, Captain.” Blount was standing in the stairwell of a dilapidated tenement in Queen Street looking at an apartment door, which stood ajar. On impulse, David had decided they should visit Bill Pedley at home, despite his wounded arm. His instincts, it seemed, had not let him down.
David already had his army revolver in his hand. “Smells like death.”
Blount growled his assent and nudged open the door with his foot. “Hello? Mr. Pedley? Bill?”
Inside, the narrow corridor was dark and stuffy. Behind the first door was a tiny, windowless room. David lit a match; in the flaring flame, they saw an unmade bed, a basin, and a clothes rack.
“Let’s move on,” David murmured.
The next room was the living room, or what remained of it. There must have been a tremendous struggle there, because the few pieces of shabby furniture were knocked over or sliced open. Glass panes on a cabinet were smashed in, and the contents strewn around. Shards of porcelain mixed with books and papers on the floorboards. A window was open, and the icy winter wind swept the city’s stink into the room, but what made the men pull up short was not the stench of London but the sight of Bill Pedley’s mutilated body.
The veteran lay on his back in a pool of blood. His head was strangely twisted, as if someone with near superhuman strength had broken his neck. Bill’s wooden leg looked like it had been thrown aside, lying in one corner of the room, far out of Bill’s possible reach. Bill was wearing trousers, a shirt, and leather slippers. Among the smashed crockery, David recognized shards of a teapot, and a piece of bread and butter lay beneath a chair.
“They tortured the poor bastard before they broke his neck.” Blount was crouching by the body, examining Bill’s hands. His fingernails had been torn out and his earlobes sliced off. Beside his head lay a crushed orchid.
Bill Pedley stared at nothing in wide-eyed sightlessness. The twisted expression on his face reflected the terrible fight that must have taken place. Blount closed the dead man’s eyes.
“They didn’t waste any time. This must have happened early this morning, right after our visit to St. Giles,” said David, feeling a sharp pang in his injured arm.
“Big John?” Blount asked. His eyes scanned the room in search of clues as to the killer or to what they had been looking for.
“It’s possible, but why? Because we asked about Korshaw? No one heard us talking.”
“Clifford Cunningham?”
David shook his head. “Impossible. He was up to his ears in debt.”
Blount picked up a couple of books. “If that isn’t a good reason to kill . . .”
“Someone like Clifford Cunningham would know that Bill was just the middleman. Big John would make damn sure that he got his money. No, this looks like the work of several men. The door wasn’t broken, so Bill must have opened it, which means he knew his killers. This was certainly not the first time they’d done something like this. I’d go so far as to say that they took pleasure in their work. Clifford might shoot someone in the heat of the moment, but he doesn’t have the stomach for torture.” David looked at the chaos around them.
“What if Bill had been taking bets on the side, and Big John
found out about it?” Blount stared out the window. It was early afternoon, and street vendors were touting their wares.
“Maybe. That’s always a possibility, and with a man like Bill, I think we can safely assume he was taking secret bets. Let’s look for Korshaw’s letter. If it isn’t here, we’ll know what they were after.”
They set to work searching through the books that littered the floor. Although the furniture was old and worn, David noticed that Pedley had kept a number of art objects and weapons from his time in India: ivory figures of elephants, carvings inlaid with semiprecious stones, and two small paintings of Indian landscapes. One of them reminded David of the picture he had seen in Rosewood Hall, the one Jane loved so much.
“They left all of this behind? They must have been in a hurry.” Blount went to a desk by the wall and pulled out all the drawers that weren’t already lying on the floor.
David looked back at the dead man. “Someone must have disturbed them, but if that was the case, why did no one call the police? And why did they leave the valuables behind? It would have been easy to sell them.”
Crouching, David rapped on the desk with his knuckles, searching for hidden spaces. He found a secret compartment and the mechanism to open it, but there was nothing inside.
A fire still smoldered in the fireplace, and the remains of letters and papers lay scattered among the dark embers. David poked through the burned scraps. “Looks like they did a thorough job.”
“What about the pictures?” Blount turned the paintings around, but there was nothing hidden below the paper backings.
A letter could be anywhere—beneath the floor, behind a wall panel, or even under the wallpaper. David ran his hands over the walls, and Blount scoured the floorboards.
“The bedroom?”
David shrugged. “I’m afraid we’ve come too late, but let’s not leave any stones unturned.”
They found a candle and searched the narrow bedroom from top to bottom. It looked as if the murderers had done no more than lift the mattress, because everything else in the room was untouched.
“D’you hear that? In there!” cried an unfamiliar voice, and there was the loud clopping of boots on the stairs.
Smothering a curse, David threw open the front door. A surprised constable stood before him, his club raised.
“It’s about time someone got here! We’ve been waiting half an eternity for you!” David snapped at the young bobby, who took a step back, perplexed.
An older man in a plain brown suit was standing behind him. “Impossible! My name’s Kealton, I’m the building’s caretaker, and neither of these men notified me that they was here! Arrest them! And where’s Mr. Pedley? I heard strange noises up here this morning, and with these two here, I’ve been hearing them again. Something’s going on in there!”
Still wearing his hat, David squared his shoulders. In his elegant suit and dark coat, he commanded respect. “Your name and district, sir.”
The officer was a very young man who had clearly not been in the police force very long. “Uh, Gibson, Willie Gibson, Mayfair and Soho, sir.”
“Who is your commanding officer?”
“Mr. Eastlake.”
“Roscoe Eastlake, I see.” David knew the man only by name, having heard Martin Rooke mention him. “This is a case for a special team, Gibson. Send a message to Mr. Rooke at once.”
“Who are you to give orders?” said the caretaker.
“This is Captain Wescott, you cretin,” Blount snarled at the caretaker, who stepped hesitantly aside. “A man to whom our country owes a great debt. This investigation is confidential, so clear off. Go make sure nobody sticks their curious nose in here and disturbs the scene of the crime.”
“A man can claim anything. I never heard of no Wescott. Have you?” The skeptical caretaker, who clearly was not going to be put off easily, turned to the young officer.
The officer replied meekly, “Crimea. The Lucan case.”
At that, the caretaker whistled through his teeth. “Of course! I apologize, Captain, and congratulations. I’ll take care of everything. No one’ll come up here who don’t belong here, I promise you that.”
A door across the way opened, and a woman peered out. “What’s going on out here? D’you have to make such a racket?”
“Back in your room, Trudie, and don’t put your head out here again. Count up your rent, instead. This here is a secret matter of the highest importance,” the caretaker ordered her, adopting the imagined tone of an army sergeant.
Trudie screwed up her face indignantly, gray strands of hair hanging loosely beneath a puffy bonnet.
“Just a moment. Ma’am, perhaps you saw something this morning? In the stairwell, perhaps? Mr. Pedley had visitors, and we would very much like to know who they were,” said David very politely.
The woman took a hesitant step forward, revealing her washed-out dress, patched many times, and her bare feet stuffed inside ragged slippers. “Because you asked so nicely, my good man, I’ll tell you. I did see someone today, and three slippery-looking types they were, too, the kind you don’t want nothing to do with, if you know what I mean. There’s lots of people who come to visit Bill, but normally it’s scruffy gamblers or young gents whose fine old fathers have cut ’em off. No secret round here that Bill took side bets on the dogs.” Trudie signaled to David to come closer. “My own husband placed his bets with Bill in Seven Bells. The old bugger won, too, then drank away his winnings!” she said, aggrieved.
“And what did today’s men look like? This is very important. If you can help us, we would be grateful.” David fished a shiny silver coin from his pocket.
The caretaker pushed his way forward. “I can tell you what they looked like.” He wanted the coin for himself, but David closed his hand over it.
“And yet you didn’t mention that right away, Mr. Kealton. Why not?”
“Give a man a chance to get the lay of the land. Where is Pedley, anyway?”
“Dead, back there in his living room. You didn’t bother to check on him after the men left? I’m surprised, considering that you’re the caretaker here.” David narrowed his eyes and peered at the man, who turned and looked at the floor.
“Ha, Kealton, you were off with that whore of yours, weren’t ye? Where you’re always creeping off when Katie ain’t home. You can’t have seen those men at all,” sniffed Trudie.
“You are bound to tell the truth, sir!” the bobby said importantly, and Kealton, abashed, gazed at his shoes and said nothing.
“Go, man, and make sure no one else comes in here!” Blount gave the man a push.
“And you, Gibson, go and fetch Rooke and his men,” David ordered. “Ma’am?”
Trudie held out her hand, and David dropped the coin into her palm. The woman grinned at him with satisfaction, revealing gapped teeth. “There was three of ’em. One was bald and had a face full of scars. The other one, the one I reckon was the leader, he was a monster of a man. I didn’t recognize his face, but one of ’is ears looked like a cauliflower.”
“Big John,” Blount murmured.
“And the third?” David asked.
“He was little, weedy, a foreigner of some sort, spoke a mishmash you couldn’t understand, and he carried a knife. They were up to no good, I could see that clear enough. When the little man spotted me in the doorway here, I locked it up quick smart, else they might well have sliced me up, too.” Trudie’s swollen eyes looked fearfully at them. “They ain’t coming back, are they?”
“I think they got what they came for. You didn’t go into Pedley’s rooms after that?” Wescott watched her carefully.
Trudie vehemently shook her head. “No, Captain, cross my heart. I did my washing and cooking and kept my eye on my daughter’s littl’uns. I only just came out when you was talking to Kealton out here.”
David believed the woman; her fear of the killers was not feigned.
“Thank you. Oh, and can you let us borrow a lamp?”
David
and Blount spent the time until Rooke and his people arrived combing every chink and corner of Pedley’s apartment, but all they found was a small tin box hidden behind the bed that contained bills and a number of letters from India. None, however, were from Korshaw.
Later, sitting with Rooke in his office at the police station, the detective pushed the small box across his desk to David. “Take it with you if you want. You’re deeper into this than I am. What do you think?”
It was beyond question that Big John was involved in the murder, but they could not prove that because Trudie had sensibly refused to testify. No one could blame her, because no one would be there to protect her from the criminals’ revenge if she spoke out against them.
The handwriting on the letters was a woman’s script. “Love letters?” David asked.
“Come off it. Not the items in the box. I mean Bill. The orchid. Coincidence?”
David slowly shook his head. “Those damned flowers turn up everywhere we look. The first murder happened at Veitch and Sons. The victim was an orchid-keeper. No, let’s go back further, to the maid at Winton Park. She lived in the house of an orchid breeder. And now there’s Bill, who was acquainted with Korshaw. He was left with a crushed orchid lying beside his head. I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“So what do you believe in, David?” Rooke laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back.
“Nothing, not since the war. Humans are evil, grasping creatures. Worse than any animal, because a human will kill not to sate his appetite or protect his family. Humans kill for material gain or to take revenge, or simply because they feel like it.” It had been a long and difficult day. His arm hurt, and he longed to feel the warmth of his wife beside him.
“Evil wears many faces, and I have a sinking feeling that Bill’s death is the start of something that will keep us busy for a very long time.” Rooke rocked forward and rapped on the table. “Go home, David. Have someone examine that wound. You don’t look good.”
David stood up and took the dented box with him. “See you tomorrow.”
Colombia, October 1860