A Mortal Likeness

by Laura Joh Rowland

  “With all due respect, Chief Commissioner Monro, you’re making a big mistake,” Reid says. “One of these people is a murderer. Just give me a little more time with them. I’ll get a confession.”

  “You’re out of time,” Commissioner Monro says. He’s about fifty years old with a wiry physique and a military bearing. Short gray hair recedes from his high round forehead; his luxuriant gray mustache curls up at the ends. He has the bronze complexion typical of men who’ve served in India. His clothes—a black suit coat, gray trousers, and starched white shirt—are immaculate and precise, like a soldier’s uniform. I recall that he replaced Sir Charles Warren, who resigned in 1888 at the height of the Ripper investigation.

  “Thanks, James. I knew you would see reason,” Sir Gerald says.

  “But they’re flight risks,” Reid protests. “The son and daughter had tickets for passage on a ship to Marseille.”

  Maybe Tristan did try to escape; maybe he really is guilty. But I can’t ignore the possibility that Olivia, who was with him, could be the true murderer.

  “Better hurry and make an arrest before they can abscond,” Commissioner Monro says.

  “How am I supposed to do that?” Reid demands.

  “You’re the detective; you figure it out.”

  “You mean, I’ll take the fall if the case is never solved.” Reid’s tone is acid with rancor.

  Monro shrugs. Sir Gerald says, “Now that we’ve got this settled, the police can leave my house.”

  The tobacco smoke in the air triggers another coughing fit. My coughs draw the men’s attention to me. Reid says, “You again? What the hell?”

  “We caught them on the road trying to help the medium escape,” the first constable explains as he and his partner drop DeQuincey in a chair.

  Reid’s anger turns to astonishment. “Well, I’ll be.”

  He, Commissioner Monro, and Sir Gerald stare down at DeQuincey, who looks worse than he did in the moonlight. His face is sickly white, marred with bruises and bleeding cuts, awash in sweat and mud. His wet black hair is plastered to his forehead, leaves cling to his garments, and he moans in pain.

  “He killed Robin,” the second constable says.

  “You mean, he confessed to you?” Reid’s expression combines incredulity and dismay. He obviously doesn’t want to believe that a subordinate solved the case.

  “Well, not exactly. He told them.” The constable points at Mick and me. “She told us.”

  “No, he didn’t,” I say. Reid, Sir Gerald, and Commissioner Monro turn to me. The smile lines on Monro’s face indicate a genial nature, but his expression is severe. His eyes are bright blue, his gaze penetrating. “Mr. DeQuincey said that he and Tabitha Jenkins only sent the ransom note.”

  “That’s all!” DeQuincey sobs and gulps. “We didn’t kidnap Robin. We didn’t kill him. We didn’t even collect the damned money!”

  “Of course you didn’t.” Reid’s sarcastic rejoinder sounds a little flat, as if he’s repeating words he’s said to hundreds of criminals who’ve denied their guilt.

  “So it was Tabitha.” Sir Gerald speaks with cautious relief, as if he’s testing the idea, less than certain.

  “What are you waiting for?” Commissioner Monro asks Reid. “Here’s your chance to end this sorry business.” He seems ready to believe that DeQuincey and Tabitha are guilty.

  Reid hesitates, frowning. I sense that he’s recalling how he tried and failed to pin the Ripper murders on my innocent friend Mr. Lipsky. His rash ambition got him suspended from the police force, and he surely won’t want to make the same mistake in another high-profile case. He says to the constables, “Fetch Tabitha Jenkins. We’ll see what she has to say.”

  Sir Gerald halts them with a raised hand. “Your men don’t have the run of my house anymore. I’ll do it.”

  He leaves the room, and as his brisk footsteps mount the stairs, DeQuincey keens, “Tabitha! I’m sorry! Forgive me!”

  “Wish I could stay,” Commissioner Monro says to Reid, “but the home secretary is waiting for a report.”

  After Monro departs, Reid turns on me. “Why were you hanging around here?”

  “I wanted to know what was going on,” I say in lieu of admitting I was afraid he would pin Robin’s murder on the wrong person. “I believe DeQuincey. I think that all he and Tabitha did was send the ransom note after someone else killed Robin.”

  Reid looks askance at me. “Thanks for your amateur interpretation.” He jerks his chin at one of the constables. “Uncuff her and the boy.”

  The constable obeys. Mick and I flex our sore wrists. The steel has left red indentations in my flesh. Reid says, “Go home. Stop meddling. If I have to tell you again—”

  The sound of quick footsteps rackets down the staircase. We turn to see Lottie in the doorway, breathless and wide-eyed. “Miss Tabitha is dead!”

  I’m speechless with shock and disbelief. Mick exclaims, “What? How—?”

  “Tabitha!” Arms outstretched as if to rescue her, DeQuincey lunges out of his chair. He sprawls on the carpet, bursts into sobs, and pounds the floor with his fists. “Oh, God, no!”

  Reid curses, bolts from the room, and yells at the constables to stay with DeQuincey. Mick, Lottie, and I charge up the stairs after Reid. In the passage in the south wing, Olivia stands by an open door from which the sound of weeping emanates. Clad in a long white nightgown with puffed, lace-trimmed sleeves, her long, curly dark hair uncombed, she looks like frightened child. Reid pushes past her into the room. The doorjamb is splintered where the lock was forced. Mick and I stop at the threshold, and my gaze quickly takes in the room, which is smaller than the one I stayed in, with plain wooden furniture and subdued colors. Barrett stands at one side of the bed, Sir Gerald between Lady Alexandra and Tristan at the other. Tristan holds a rosary and murmurs prayers, his head bowed over Tabitha.

  “All-powerful and merciful God, look kindly upon your servant Tabitha Jenkins, and by the blood of the cross, forgive her sins.”

  Barrett and Sir Gerald look stunned. Lady Alexandra has one hand gripped around the bedpost for support, the other clapped over her mouth. I smell the sweet, unexpected aroma of chocolate before my attention locks onto the figure on the bed. Tabitha lies diagonally across the counterpane in a grotesque, contorted position—her back arched like a bow, her buttocks and thighs raised some ten inches off the bed. Her peach-colored nightgown and gray wool wrapper are twisted around her stiff legs, the toes of her bare feet tightly curled. Her arms are bent, her hands balled in fists. Her white nightcap has fallen off, and her two ash-blonde braids splay from her head like exclamation marks. Her face is a ghastly mask of agony—bluish complexion, pale eyes bulging, flared nostrils, jaws clenched. Her exposed teeth have bitten through her tongue.

  Mick gasps in horror. My own horror is laced with bewilderment. What could have done this? Brown liquid has drooled from Tabitha’s mouth and splattered the bed linens. At first I think she must have vomited, but then I see that the brown trail leads down the white dust ruffle to the carpet. There, a brown stain surrounds an overturned blue china cup. It’s spilled cocoa, the source of the chocolate smell.

  “Deliver her now from every evil, O Lord; bid her eternal rest, and let your perpetual light shine upon her soul forever and ever. Amen.” Tristan crosses himself.

  “What the hell happened?” Reid demands.

  Barrett’s grim gaze flashes to me for an instant before he says to Reid, “The door was locked. When I knocked, Miss Jenkins didn’t answer, so I broke in. I found her like this.”

  “How did she die?” Reid sounds puzzled; he’s never seen death like this before either.

  “It looks like she took poison.” Barrett moves to the bedside table and points at a small bottle made of clear glass with a cork stopper. Mick and I steal farther into the room, the better to see. The bottle contains white granules. The white label bears an illustration of a skull and crossbones between the words “Strychnine” and “Poison” p
rinted in black. Barrett points at the cup on the floor. “She must have put it in her cocoa.”

  “She committed suicide?” Reid is astonished.

  So am I. In my dealings with Tabitha, I observed no sign that she would take her own life. But maybe she was so heartbroken because DeQuincey ran out on her that she wanted to die.

  Sir Gerald lifts a sheet of white notepaper that had been lying on the table beside the poison bottle. “Here’s the note.” He hands the paper to Reid.

  I see the two words handwritten on it in blue ink: I’m sorry.

  Lady Alexandra dissolves into sobs. “It means she killed Robin! Oh, God, I didn’t know she hated me so much that she would kidnap and murder my innocent child!”

  Sir Gerald puts his arms around her. An angry scowl darkens his face.

  “She tried to repent of one sin by committing another.” Tristan’s tone combines sadness with reproach.

  “More likely, she wanted to avoid being hanged for Robin’s murder.” Reid adds, “When I interrogated her, she acted like she was hiding something. Now it’s obvious she was trying to protect herself and DeQuincey.”

  He seems ready to believe in the scenario that the evidence suggests. I feel stirrings of relief—I myself would like the case solved, even with such a horrible ending. And if Tabitha and DeQuincey are guilty, then Sir Gerald isn’t. But now that my initial shock has passed, I perceive something wrong. “Tabitha and DeQuincey couldn’t have kidnapped Robin. She was with Lady Alexandra. He was in Grosvenor Square.”

  Barrett and Reid frown as if I’ve thrown a wrench into their machine. Then Lady Alexandra says, “She wasn’t with me.”

  Surprise replaces the displeasure in Barrett’s and Reid’s expressions. Sir Gerald holds his wife away from him and stares, incredulous, into her face. “You lied to the police? And to me?” He speaks as if the latter is her more grievous offense.

  Lady Alexandra wipes her streaming eyes. “Yes. Tabitha didn’t have an alibi; she was alone in her room. We were afraid the police would think she took Robin. So I lied to protect her.” Lady Alexandra sees Barrett and Reid’s disapproval and cries, “She’s my sister! We’ve stood by each other all our lives! If I’d known, I never would have lied for her!”

  Although still displeased, Sir Gerald, Reid, and Barrett nod in understanding, but I see another problem. “You were Tabitha’s alibi,” I say to Lady Alexandra, “but she was yours too. Where were you when Robin was kidnapped?”

  Lady Alexandra doesn’t flinch at my hint that she could be responsible for her son’s murder. “I was in the ballroom, rehearsing for the private plays we have during the summer,” she says promptly. “Lottie can vouch for me. She was there watching.”

  Mick gulps, then coughs as if he’s swallowed the wrong way. Everyone looks toward the passage, where Lottie is standing. Her eyes widen, and she shrinks back, dismayed to be put on the spot. She glances at Lady Alexandra and nods vigorously.

  “Well,” Reid says, “that closes the case.” He seems at once relieved because he won’t be blamed for Robin’s murder going unsolved and disappointed because he can’t take credit for a solution.

  “Congratulations,” Sir Gerald says with a tinge of irony.

  Reid tucks Tabitha’s suicide note into his pocket, then says to Barrett, “Send the body to the morgue and Mr. DeQuincey to Newgate.” On his way out the door, he turns to me. “Thanks for giving us the goods on the suspects and finding DeQuincey. I thought I’d never say this, but maybe you’re worth the air you breathe.”

  25

  Reluctant to leave Mariner House, unable to believe the case is closed, I loiter in the driveway. Mick has wandered off somewhere, but he soon joins me. Then Barrett and two other constables emerge from the mansion with Raphael DeQuincey. They load him into a carriage while he struggles and screams, “We didn’t kill Robin! Please don’t take me to jail! Oh, God, somebody save me!”

  The other constables climb in with him, and the carriage rolls away. I feel sick because I’ve just witnessed the terrible miscarriage of justice I feared.

  Barrett walks over to Mick and me. “The show’s over. Why don’t you just go home?”

  His voice is frosty. The woeful disappointment I feel tells me I’ve been hoping we could mend our relationship. I force myself to address the more important business. “I don’t think it is over. I don’t think Tabitha poisoned herself.”

  Barrett eyes me with more annoyance than surprise, as if he’d been expecting me to make more difficulties of some sort. “Why don’t you?”

  I’m so tired, weak from hunger, and upset that the effort necessary to marshal my thoughts is tremendous. “Because Tabitha’s death is too convenient for the Mariners. It gets them off the hook for Robin’s murder. One of them must have put the poison in her cocoa.”

  “I think it was Lady Alexandra,” Mick says.

  Barrett shakes his head, pitying us for what he obviously thinks is our delusion. “The door was locked. The key was in the lock inside. I had to break the door down. Nobody could have gotten into the room to poison Tabitha.”

  “Maybe they brought her the cocoa and she let them in,” I say. “Where were Sir Gerald, Lady Alexandra, Tristan, Olivia, and John Pierce tonight, before she died?”

  Barrett folds his arms, refusing to be drawn into further discussion.

  “Lady A lied when she said she and Lottie were together when Robin was kidnapped. So did Lottie.” Mick sounds grieved by her betrayal of his trust. “She told me before that she was in the servant’s hall with the cook and the butler.”

  That explains Mick’s and Lottie’s reactions earlier to Lady Alexandra’s claim. “Lady Alexandra would have been familiar with Tabitha’s handwriting—they were sisters,” I say. “She could have forged the suicide note.”

  Incredulity permeates Barrett’s expression. “So you think Lady Alexandra killed Robin too?”

  “There was something wrong with Robin,” Mick says. “She killed him because she didn’t want him.”

  Barrett groans. “Not your half-baked theory about Robin’s photograph again.”

  I still believe in my theory, but it’s obviously not going to convince Barrett. “If Lady Alexandra didn’t poison Tabitha, someone else did. Tabitha was a poor relative, not a Mariner family member by blood. If someone had to be sacrificed to protect Sir Gerald or his children—”

  “Tabitha was the perfect scapegoat,” Mick concludes.

  Barrett responds with a sardonic twist of his lips. My persistence is only pushing him further into denying the validity of my allegations. I employ the only means that might sway him. “I was right about Jack the Ripper. You didn’t believe me when I first tried to tell you who he was.”

  “Don’t throw that in my face. Just because you were right that time doesn’t mean you are now.”

  His anger and resentment toward me are affecting his judgment. “I’m not asking you to take my word that Tabitha and DeQuincey are innocent. I’m asking you to investigate and make sure there’s not been a mistake.”

  “That’s Inspector Reid’s call, not mine. And he’s satisfied that Tabitha and DeQuincey are guilty. So is Sir Gerald.”

  I wonder if Sir Gerald really is satisfied. I can’t believe he would be blind to other possibilities. “Maybe if you talk to Inspector Reid . . . ?”

  Barrett chuckles disdainfully. “Reid’s not going to reopen the case on my say-so. Not after he thought he had you and Hugh for the murders in the dinosaur park and I proved you didn’t do it.”

  That was the second time Barrett saved our lives and strained his fraught relationship with Reid. I shouldn’t expect more from him than that, but I can’t give up on finding out the truth about Robin’s murder. “Please! I beg you!”

  I reach for Barrett, but he impales me with a wary, calculating gaze, as if I’m a cutthroat he’s met while patrolling the streets. “What’s the real reason you’re pushing me to help you prove that Tabitha and DeQuincey didn’t kill Robin?”r />
  How I wish to believe they’re kidnappers and murderers so I needn’t feel guilty about Tabitha’s death or DeQuincey’s arrest! “I gave you evidence against them. I’m responsible for making things right.” There’s still time to save DeQuincey, but there’s nothing I can do for Tabitha except exonerate the man she loved.

  Distrust narrows Barrett’s eyes. “Or maybe you’re just a bad sport because you were fired before the case was solved. Maybe you’re trying to keep it open just so you can worm your way back into it and wring some more money out of Sir Gerald.”

  Offended by his accusation, I can only sputter.

  Mick leaps to my defense. “That’s an insult to Miss Sarah.” He grabs Barrett’s collar, raises his own fist. “Take it back!”

  I pull Mick away from Barrett. “I would never do such a thing! Don’t you know me better than that?”

  Barrett’s expression turns solemn, regretful. I can tell he’s remembering the last time we made love, the day he asked me to marry him. “I once thought I knew you.”

  I’m furious that he thinks me capable of such mercenary behavior, but then I recall what I’ve learned about my family’s past. If my father raped and murdered Ellen Casey, then I’m the child of a monster. Maybe I am a bad sport who doesn’t want to accept that Tabitha and DeQuincey are guilty and I’m wrong. Maybe being a bad sport is only the least of the hidden flaws in my character. What others might I have inherited from my father?

  Barrett speaks to me in a cold manner that wounds my heart. “You found DeQuincey. You helped solve the case.” This is how he’ll speak to me from now on if ever we chance to meet. “So you didn’t earn the reward—tough luck.” He turns and strides into the mansion.