Work. His work is where he needed to place his focus. Heaven knew what he’d sacrificed—his family, his fiancé—to become a detective. Regaining his position, that would be his first goal—and then bringing the Ripper to justice.
Ben realized he’d trod in a circle, going down one street, only to turn a corner and return to a lane not far from Moreton Terrace. He turned again, this time toward Eaton Place, toward the townhouse of his sister and, nearby, his parents. But treading toward his parents’ home scratched at old wounds he wasn’t certain could be healed. Father would never understand, never accept the profession Ben had chosen. Still, Ben couldn’t deny the urge to see his mother and sister again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Benjamin! My goodness, I thought it was you. I told Charles it was, but he didn’t believe me.”
Even with the luxurious fur collar of her cloak obscuring much of her face, Ben could never mistake the woman who approached him with a thin gray and white dog prancing ahead of her. Annabel, his youngest sister, had married the Earl of Davenport in the summer of ’86, and he’d seen her only twice since the wedding. Despite the excitement in her voice, she moved at a steady, dignified pace.
“You look well.”
Did he? He doubted her words, but Annabel was always effusive in her praise.
“As do you, my lady.” It seemed to take forever for her to reach his side. “You even walk like a countess these days.”
She might walk like an aristocrat, but Ben thought her answering smirk was more Annabel Quinn than Lady Davenport.
“And how would you know? Do you encounter many countesses in Whitechapel?”
“No, but I did attend your wedding.”
“And you spent all your time studying countesses?” She shook her head at him as she reached his side. “Why do I bother asking? Of course you observed everyone and everything. Always the detective.”
Her words made him wince.
“You are still a detective, aren’t you? If you’re not, you should tell Father immediately. He’ll be ecstatic.”
She was right, of course. Bel was usually right. Nothing would please their father more than Ben failing at his chosen profession. The only question was which was greater—their father’s hatred for the Metropolitan Police, or his disappointment in Ben for choosing the Met over a law degree and following in his father’s esteemed footsteps.
“Suspension.”
“Oh, Ben.”
“Don’t tell him. It’s only temporary. All will be right again soon.”
She frowned, the expression puckering the pale skin between her dark brows. “Father? You know I wouldn’t tell him. How can you think it?”
“But you’ll tell Mother, no doubt.”
His sister’s long sigh was answer enough.
“If you’re going to tell Mother, Father will know too.”
“I’m sorry. You know how she is. The woman has a frightening ability to read one’s mind.” She smiled at him, one of her infectious Annabel smiles. “She says you inherited many of your detecting skills from her. Did you know that?”
For a moment he couldn’t speak, couldn’t force his tongue to obey and utter some witty, sarcastic quip that would make Bel smile again and mask his feelings about their mother.
“You’re shocked at that.”
He forced words past his disobedient tongue. “I had no idea she ever mentioned my work, or me, to anyone.”
Bel reached out and laid a hand on his arm. “You know her birthday is in February. We’re hosting a very small celebration. Please come.”
“No, Annabel.” The notion of facing his father sparked a sickening twist in his belly.
“Father won’t be there. I promise.” She squeezed his arm, emphasizing her plea. “Please, Ben. Mother misses you. I miss you.”
The baby of the family, and his favorite sibling, Annabel had always been impossible to deny.
“I’ll consider it.”
Could he manage a reinstatement within a week? The superintendent had promised to review his case during the month. He’d have to seek a meeting with Ainsworth and convince the man he was ready for service again.
“Excellent.” She pronounced the word as if there was no doubt he’d come to his mother’s birthday celebration. “Now, do stop for some tea. It’s far too cold to stand about on the pavement.”
“Bel, I really should—”
“What? Return to Whitechapel? You have already confessed you are unemployed at the moment. Why rush to return to that squalid little room you’re renting?”
Why, indeed. Though the squalid little room did offer a strange semblance of comfort. It had become familiar, a simple, uncluttered space where he could think and plan. Yet it didn’t compare to Bel’s company. And her aristocratic husband Charles was a fine companion too, when he didn’t go on about politics and horse racing. Ben licked his lips at the thought of one of their cook’s excellent soups and Davenport’s fine French brandy, far more appealing than anything available at The Ten Bells.
“Come to think of it, what are you doing in Belgravia?”
Nothing good ever came of Annabel’s endless curiosity and amateur detecting, but she had the nose of a sleuth as surely as he did. Perhaps their mother had passed on the trait to both of them.
Her question brought one word to mind. Kate. He’d come to see a woman. But why had he lingered?
Because whatever bound them to each other was unfinished—cut short before it had truly begun. Because she intrigued him more than any woman he had ever met. Because he had suddenly become addicted to the scent of lavender. There was little use denying it. The notion of seeing her again, even for a moment, would always lure him.
“I came to deliver some news.”
Annabel arched an eyebrow and offered a withering I-don’t-believe-a-word-of-it glance, another skill she’d inherited from their mother.
“Mmm. I see.”
“What do you see?”
The little dog at her feet perked up and strained at its leash, intrigued by something up the road.
“Does your visit here have anything to do with that pretty golden-haired woman watching us?”
Ben’s stomach plunged at Bel’s description. Kate? Had she followed him?
He turned quickly and saw her, so far up the street he could just make out her petite form and the shade of her hair—golden, as Annabel so aptly described it. Without thinking better of it, he raised a hand to her. She turned as soon as he gestured and began marching back the way she’d come.
“Who is she?”
“Mrs. Guthrie.”
“The woman you delivered news to?”
“Yes.” She was that and so much more.
“Should you go after her?”
“No.” Most decidedly no. Perhaps she’d merely gone for a walk. In the cold. Alone. In exactly the direction he’d taken. Whatever her reasons for pursuing him, her hasty departure made her preference clear. She had no desire to speak to him. And truly, what was there to say?
“No.” He said it again to convince himself. To put finality into words that he did not yet believe with his heart or his head.
Bel took his arm, tugged on her dog’s leash gently, and led them both back to her home on Eaton Place.
Ben was glad for it. He’d never needed a splash of Charles’s expensive brandy more in his life.
****
“Mrs. Guthrie. What were you thinking, my dear? I was just coming to fetch you.”
Mr. Thrumble’s voice, high pitched when he was distressed, jangled Kate’s nerves as she closed the door behind her.
She’d been a fool to dash out after Detective Quinn. But how dare he depart so rudely? He’d come all the way from Whitechapel to inform her about Rose and then hied off as if hellhounds were nipping at his heels. Then she’d impulsively followed him, only to find him engaged in playful banter with a beautiful young woman. Nothing about the man made sense.
But the scowl on Solomon’s face d
id. She deserved it. And he deserved an answer.
“I’m sorry for walking out without explanation.”
She waited, though she didn’t expect a reply. Her behavior—rash, foolish, mercurial—were the very qualities he would not wish for in a wife. What man would?
“You deserve an answer, Mr. Thrumble.”
He mashed his hands together, as he often did when was nervous. “Perhaps now is not the best time. That detective has upset you. Let us sit and—”
“No, Solomon. You said so yourself. You’ve waited long enough.”
He knew. She saw the disappointment in his gaze before she uttered the words. But it was the right answer. It was the only honest answer she could give. And in the end, they’d both be better for it. He would find a suitable wife. And she… What would she do?
Kate swallowed against the words, the sentiments growing heavier, more difficult to speak as she watched Mr. Thrumble twist his hands and dart his gaze around the room, seeking anything but the answer he must have glimpsed in her expression.
“I cannot marry you, Solomon.”
He opened his mouth to speak and Kate lifted her hand to stop him. She’d never treated him so rudely in all the year’s she’d known him. Yet she had to continue lest she lose her nerve.
“You are a fine man, a good man. You’ve been an excellent friend to me and my family. But it is clear what you expect of a wife, and I cannot give you any of it.”
Kate spoke the words quickly, trying not to falter, and took a deep breath when she finished. The breath seemed to set her emotions free. The constraint she’d maintained with him, the stifling sense of what she should do, dissolved. Her pulse fluttered at her neck and the tightness in her chest loosened. She longed to move, to stretch, to lift her arms and spin around the room like Vicky sometimes did for the sheer joy of being young and full of life. The release of speaking the truth made her giddy and she smiled at Solomon, finally free to express the kindness she felt toward him. “You deserve all you seek. And I know you’ll find it, Solomon, but not in me.”
There had never been a less appropriate moment to giggle, yet Kate sensed the urge bubbling up. Surely her body was lighter. Some invisible weight had been lifted.
When the tickle in her chest eased, she looked up at Mr. Thrumble. No amusement softened his features. She’d never seen his expression so stiff, so forbidding. His lip curled, as if the very sight of her disgusted him.
“I never took you for a fool, Katherine.”
“You’re a bloody fool, Kate.”
Solomon Thrumble’s voice echoed in the room, but Andrew’s harsh tone rang in Kate’s mind. Fool was the least of what he’d called her in the midst of one his rages. Cold, empty—her body responded as if Andrew Guthrie stood before her, and she steeled herself instinctively, waiting for him to strike.
“Well, what more is there to say? I have my answer. And you have your lonely widow’s life to be getting on with. I’ll take my leave of you, Mrs. Guthrie.”
He’d never removed his coat and Mr. Thrumble didn’t bother with buttoning it up now, merely reached for his hat and marched toward the front door.
Kate held her breath, waiting for him to go, to hear the click of the door latch signaling the end of their confrontation, perhaps of their acquaintance. She wanted to say more, to salve the pain she detected his voice, but it was best to let him go. Time would heal this wound too.
On the threshold, he turned back. “Just tell me this, Katherine. What has your answer to do with that detective? What is he to you?”
Detective Sergeant Benjamin Quinn—his scent, the press of his mouth on hers, the heat of his breath—flooded her senses. He was there in her mind’s eye as vividly as if he still stood next to her in the room. But what was he to her? A memory now. Nothing more. Yet he was the one person she longed for at that moment. She had a notion his presence would calm her.
“Nothing. He’s nothing to me.” It wasn’t true. He was a delicious memory, a man who would haunt her dreams.
“Thank God for that at least. You may not wish to be my wife, but I trust you still wish to be an honorable woman.”
He pulled the front door shut with a crash that rattled the house, and Kate stood pondering just how honorable a woman she wished to be.
“My goodness, is the door still on its hinges?”
Ada entered the hallway behind Kate.
“I believe so.” Kate grinned at Ada, never more grateful for a sister-in-law.
Reaching for Kate’s arm, Ada led her gently into the sitting room. Taking the shawl from her own shoulders, she settled the warm fabric around Kate, then lifted the brass poker next to the fireplace to rustle the coals in the grate into flame.
Wouldn’t Alice Cole appreciate the caretaking skills of a woman like Ada Selsby at the Fieldgate Street clinic?
“What is it?”
Ada had noticed her smile.
“I was just thinking how much more useful you would be at the clinic than I ever was.”
“Nonsense. I’m sure you were a great help to them.” Ada never allowed Kate a moment of self-reproach of any sort, and Kate loved her for it.
“I’ll go back.” The notion flashed in her mind with the same clarity as the answer she’d given Mr. Thrumble. “Or perhaps I shall start my own charity, a home of sorts for women who need it. There is the extraordinary Toynbee Hall settlement on Commercial Road, but perhaps something on a smaller scale. I read in the newspaper of a young woman who started such a settlement house in America. I could fund it with what’s left of my inheritance and the money from Andrew’s estate.”
The flutter ignited again, the same sense of freedom and purpose she’d tasted when she’d given Mr. Thrumble her answer.
Ada’s face lit with excitement. “That’s a wonderful idea. I would love to help you in whatever way I’m able. Were you thinking of a property here or in the East End?”
“It seems it would be of most use in Whitechapel where there’s the most need. Don’t you think?”
“I do. And I may know of the perfect place, not far from the pub.” The pub Ada’s family owned, The Golden Bell, had a much tamer reputation than public houses like The Ten Bells. “Oh Kate, it could be quite something.”
Kate tapped her index finger on her bottom lip. Ada sat nodding to herself as if warming to the notion more and more. Enthusiasm welled between them, expanding like a soap bubble. Then they glanced at each other.
“What will Will say?”
“Should we tell Will?”
They spoke the questions over each other and giggled.
“Yes, you should most definitely tell Will.”
The man in question stood in the sitting room doorway, arms folded across his chest, feigning a look of disapproval and failing miserably. “I came to inform you that our hot luncheon has now gone cold. Sally is none too happy with any of us.”
Ada grinned at her husband. “Shall we have a cold lunch then?”
Her sister-in-law’s practical solution sounded perfect to Kate. With newfound purpose blooming in her mind, her body seemed to focus on more immediate matters, and her stomach rumbled with hunger.
Ada stood first and straightened her skirts. Kate followed suit.
“Just a moment, ladies, if you please. Neither of you is leaving this room until you tell me precisely what you’re plotting.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
December 10th, 1888
“You know, Quinn, I’ve always considered you one of my most promising officers, more intelligent than most. But after seeing this, I have my doubts.”
Superintendent Ainsworth held up a thin sheaf of papers but seemed to have no intention of revealing their contents.
Ben waited, holding his body straight and stiff, attempting to appear calm. He needed a reinstatement.
“I have an interesting document here, sergeant. A statement of one Rose Hannity, written by you and dated two days ago. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear regarding your suspen
sion. Or are you unfamiliar with the meaning of the word?”
Ben rejected the sarcastic retort that sprang to mind and tried for a measured tone. “Miss Hannity was known to me, sir, and refused to give a statement to a constable. Since she claimed to have been attacked by the Whitechapel murderer, I thought it worth submitting her statement for the files. When giving her statement, she revealed her assailant to be a Jonathan “Jack” Sharp. I think he’s worth considering as a suspect. He’s a dangerous man, if nothing else.”
Ainsworth steepled his fingers under his chin as he listened and then grunted a sound of agreement. “Sounds terribly logical. Except that you’re on suspension, detective sergeant. Did you not comprehend that I suspended you to free you from this case, if only for a few weeks?”
Ben’s violent tussle with a suspect had prompted his suspension, but he’d always suspected Ainsworth’s ulterior motive of distancing him from a growing obsession with the Ripper investigation. Solving the case had become personal for Ben, a means of proving to himself and his father that he had chosen the right course. That he could make a difference as a detective.
He didn’t offer his boss an answer and stood quietly in front of the superintendent’s desk.
“Have a seat, detective.”
As Ben sat, Ainsworth searched the piles on his desk and lifted two more pieces of paper toward Ben.
“Have a look at these.”
The letter on top was handwritten in an elegant script and signed by Mortimer Penhurst, the father of the Dorian Penhurst. Ainsworth was well aware that Penhurst was Ben’s choice as likeliest Ripper suspect. The document below the letter appeared to be a notice of admittance from an asylum in Blackheath.
“I consider this the end of the matter, at least where your suspect is concerned, Quinn. You can see the details there. His family had him committed. He won’t ever walk these streets again. And if you’re right about him, it will be the end of the ripping too.”
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