Painted Trust_Edith and the Forensic Surgeon

by Elsa Holland

  “Vaughn.” She sounded all too pleased to see him. She opened her eyes. There he was, dressed in top hat, navy three-quarter coat and polished shoes. She’d seen everything under those clothes, knew what he felt like in the most intimate of ways and, here in the street, that knowledge sent a wave of pure heat through her. It pushed away Mr Wire, the man in the bowler hat and the reality that she was quite possibly already doomed.

  CHAPTER 57

  Stepping back into the street, Vaughn threaded her arm through his. “What mission have you been on now, I wonder?” Edith made a face at him; clearly the Butcher was still in residence.

  They were a block away from the red-light district and perhaps one block away from where respectable women would be seen on the street.

  “It’s best you don’t know.” That weight on her chest returned tenfold. She had, after all, both his medical degree and the forgery in her hands.

  “Hmm, back to that, are we?” He started to walk toward the main street. For a man like him the whole world must seem within his sphere of control.

  But she knew better.

  “Are you going to tell me what you were up to today? I know you weren’t taking a stroll, nor were you soliciting in doorways.”

  She made a futile attempt to wrest her arm from his hold. “I have my own business.”

  “At the Edinburgh Bibliotheca of Foreign Books?”

  “Have you been following me?”

  “You need to learn to look less guilty when you skulk about.”

  “It’s best you don’t know.”

  “I guess I can at least be a little pleased that you are keeping me at a distance with words, rather than silence, misdirection and deceit. Actually, perhaps we should keep misdirection—or do you think I was too hasty to remove deceit, as well?” Before she could respond, he suddenly turned her into a smaller street. “Either way, Apple, I think we deserve a celebration.”

  Panic flashed through her. She peered over her shoulder and looked back. No bowler hat in sight.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary.” The less time she spent with him the better for both of them. If Mr Bowler Hat was still following, they would soon find out about Vaughn. These men left no loose ends.

  “Nonsense.” He quickened his pace and she almost had to trot to keep up. It was difficult to argue while moving so quickly, a fact of which he was well aware, and had used to great effect on her first day as well as now.

  They came to the street where they’d met Henrietta, his goddess ex-fiancée. Her jaw tightened, and she scanned the street as if that bundle of perfumed beauty would pop up out of nowhere again.

  “I’d like to return home.” She tugged at her arm, her memories of this place creating unwanted—and undeserved—feelings of jealousy.

  “You owe me an afternoon tea.” He held fast to her and moved swiftly down the street to St Andrew’s Square.

  The tea shop was just two buildings down.

  She tried another tug.

  The grip tightened.

  They walked past the shop window and he looked in.

  “Marvelous, nearly empty and no ex-fiancées.” He stopped and looked at her. “Now, before we enter, is there anything else that causes you to flee?”

  “You’re making fun of me.”

  “No, I am managing extreme annoyance that, firstly, you should visit Edinburgh’s most notorious sex shop on your own and, secondly, that you are frustratingly and insultingly secretive.”

  Vaughn opened the door and a small brass bell tinkled as he ushered her in. It was warm inside and the smells of vanilla, leathery tannins, dried fruits and lavender wrapped around them, along with the comforting wafts of cinnamon and buttery biscuits.

  She would be on a train tonight, surely it wouldn’t hurt to take tea together. Edith looked around, it all seemed safe enough, the shop was tucked away from main thoroughfares, and there were not many customers inside. “It’s nice.” She smiled up at him as she removed her gloves. “I didn’t really focus on the interior last time I was here.”

  “I wager you marched straight through,” he looked about, “that door,” he pointed to the ‘Staff Only’ door, “and then out to the back lane without a word to anyone.”

  She grinned. “Perhaps I did overreact a little.”

  He looked down at her and those usually arrogant steel eyes held something unreadable.

  “What is it?” Her voice was hushed.

  But instead of an answer he moved around her and took off her coat, then placed their things on hooks by the door.

  “We’ll sit over there.” His head indicated a round table in the far corner and his hand came to the center of her lower back to guide her in front of him.

  Their table was away from the few other patrons and somewhat hidden by a pedestal with a large fern. The attendant, a young woman with a white linen pinafore and cap embroidered with tea leaves, greeted them. Vaughn ordered for both of them.

  “I’ve never had Russian Caravan tea.” She sounded like a debutante. Totally out of her element. Her coat beckoned by the door.

  Their eyes met and a current shot down through her solar plexus and skittled to a halt between her legs. She broke their gaze and looked back at her coat. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.

  His knuckles rapped on the table and she turned back.

  “Tisk, tisk, Apple. Can’t you at least feign, for the sake of a man’s ego, a semblance of enjoyment in my company? Your coat is not going anywhere, and neither are you. Now, it’s customary to engage in some light discussion in these situations.”

  She scowled at him.

  His eyebrows rose, and the corner of his mouth lifted fractionally. “I see. Obviously, outside of surgical topics or misdirection, you are out of your element. Madam, let me inform you of the wonders of Russian Caravan tea. It is produced from three varietals, all manufactured from the Chinese tea plant, Camellia Sinensis,’ he lifted his finger between them, “but that is not the most interesting. The tea travels over the Great Route. It is a perilous journey through China, Siberia and then Russia. Porters are treated for frostbite daily and the obligatory amputation contributes to the tea’s high price.”

  “Ridiculous,” but the tension that had clamped around her all day was lifting.

  “Don’t doubt me so soon, Apple. Medical journals have referenced the fact.”

  She scoffed.

  “But the most remarkable fact is that as the suffering porters are unable to find more than dank wet wood and dung for fuel; the campfires, with their earthy, peaty smell, over those six months of travel infuses the tea with its smoky flavor.”

  “Nonsense!” The word bubbled out and into a laugh.

  His eyes softened.

  The attendant brought two slices of tea cake sprinkled with demerara sugar, and a pot of tea.

  “Shall I pour?” He filled both their cups.

  He took out an envelope from the inside of his coat and placed it on the table, then walked to her coat and came back with her envelope from the forger. Edith jumped up to take it out of his hands.

  “Give me that,” she said, as panic screamed through her.

  He sat down and placed his hand over both envelopes.

  “I spoke with Mr Wire, Edith—seems he is protective of not only you, but also the Butcher. I didn’t quite believe him when he told me you had a letter of reference forged. Should I, Apple?”

  Her ears were ringing, and Edith thought she would be sick.

  Vaughn took a bite of cake, then motioned to the cashier to prepare the check.

  CHAPTER 58

  “Did I ever tell you how my fiancée betrayed me?”

  She shook her head.

  “My beloved viewed me only as an income source to support her lover; a man who apparently possessed such magnetism that women—I’m sure he had more than dear Henrietta—did things they swore they never would have otherwise.” He took another bite of cake, then continued.

  “After I refound my equili
brium, I realized that I was attracted to women who, by nature of their upbringing and situation, had learned to survive by camouflaging the truth. To dress up reality to better suit their desired outcome. As you know, Edith, my tastes in woman run to the voluptuous, giggly and obedient. These women are found in the theater. I was happy once I understood that. I learned not to expect any more and would not be disappointed.

  “Then you appeared, and I made a simple, and understandable, mistake. I thought I was dealing with a different kind of woman and, in many respects, I was. You are not giggly, and you are certainly not obedient, but you do work in a theater. This, it seems, is the defining criteria . . .”

  Edith stood up, pushing the chair back suddenly as she rose. She reached over and knocked his tea into his lap, the cup rolling off his thighs and shattering on the floor.

  “Waitress!” her hand came up attracting their attention. While the waitress and cashier rushed over and fussed about, she grabbed her envelope and her coat and marched out of the door, heading back to the house. She would pack then go directly to the train station.

  He caught up with her and whirled her around to face him.

  “That was childish.”

  “You’re a bastard.” She pulled herself out of his grip and started to walk off. He followed and stopped her again. “So, tell me I’m wrong, Edith, say what I want to hear. Prove to me that I am not merely a means to an end.”

  She walked a few steps away then turned back to him, her chest heaving. “You’re right. I took your medical degree to the forger and drafted a letter of reference, showing them a sample of your signature and script.” She waved the envelope at him.

  His face was tight and his lips thin and white. “My degree. You are going to Africa on my forged degree?”

  “Yes!” She turned and stalked off.

  He caught up and this time held onto her arm, stopping her from leaving.

  “I regret to inform you, my dear, that I spent yesterday writing a letter to the church organization in Africa—the address for whom I found in your satchel at the bottom of the wardrobe—letting them know you are no longer interested in the position. It is in this morning’s post.”

  “You didn’t!” Her breathing reduced itself to gasps and gulps. Her head spun and she started to feel faint. “Please. Please, Vaughn, tell me you didn’t. It was my only chance.” Her legs started to give way. He put his arms around her and she thumped them aside, bending over instead and placing her hands on her knees, trying to breathe deeply.

  Vaughn took the envelope with her precious forgeries and his original degree from her grasp. “You will not be going to Africa, or any such godforsaken place.” He started to walk off, then came back. “And how dare you think that a few years of interest, reading medical journals and an active attention in anatomy qualifies you as a medico. You have not earned the right.” Vaughn walked in a circle and came back. “You are not even close to knowing what you need to know. Your arrogance, desperation and deceit would have killed at least one person, if not dozens, before you were found out. You may be desperate, Edith, I can see that, and you certainly have something to keep secret, but you damn well should have known better.”

  Vaughn strode off, leaving her standing there. Hot, angry, desperate tears began to fall. Everything he’d said was true. It made her feel like the worst kind of person. She could have endangered not only Vaughn but patients as well. But what was she going to do now?

  CHAPTER 59

  The cab stopped in Harehill, another city slum. Leeds was not the hellhole that Manchester was, but it still had its pockets of filth and desperation.

  “Ready?” Morrison looked over at the pale pup, who nodded his assent. He had not been regaled with facts on this trip; they both knew what they would be walking into, and the pup was suitably silent. They were here to see how the killer had evolved and if he had left more clues.

  Morrison stepped from the carriage. They’d stopped at another block of back-to-backs, built around a small block of land with covered tunnels connecting the street units to the back courtyard. The lodgings were lined up with tunnel breaks every two residences, with two facing the front and the two behind facing the inner courtyard. The covered tunnel allowed residents at the back access to their units, and those living in the front access to washhouse, water and privy. The courtyard, a mud pit in the rain and dust bin when dry, had some form of water coming from a pipe. Morrison had heard of a back-to-back block of thirty-four residences housing as many as seven hundred people, multiple families sharing spaces built for a single family. Seven hundred miserable souls, as well as the animals that were often kept for company.

  “Leeds loves its back-to-backs; there are more back-to-backs being built here than in any other city in the country.” The first pup-fact of the trip, and it strangely settled some of the building tension in his shoulders. The kid was grounding himself.

  “The influx of Irish workers,” he added.

  The kid came and stood next to him. “Fleeing the famine.”

  Morrison looked at the kid; he was still too fucking pale. This grimy situation really wasn’t for the likes of the kid, despite his gift for it.

  “That will be the tunnel to number twenty-seven.” The kid pointed down the way a bit. Bobbies milled out the front of the archway that lead into the shared courtyard.

  Morrison nodded and motioned for the pup to follow as he walked through the narrow space and out into the dim light on the other side. The courtyard was bigger than he expected. The lodging they wanted was to the right, flagged by a bobbie standing guard. Morrison walked to the front door.

  “Inspector Morrison, Scotland Yard, my assistant, Mr Brody.” Morrison inclined his chin towards the pup then gave a quick glance back at him. The kid was solemn as he nodded to the sergeant, yet Morrison knew his acknowledgment meant something to the kid.

  “This way, Inspector, Sergeant’s upstairs—attic. We’re thinking we have another Princess.”

  Their killer liked to climb; he could have easily done what he needed in the coal cellar below.

  The three-storey lodging looked to have the usual layout of kitchen and lounge on the ground floor, two bedrooms above ground and an attic above that.

  “Who lives here?”

  “There was just an old man living here. He was seen coming home late the night before last. Been spending up big at the pub last few weeks.”

  “Where’s he now? Can we speak to him?” He caught the pup’s eye, the kid could start with that, then come up and look at the girl later.

  “In the cellar, dead. Throat cut.”

  Morrison looked back at the pup again who scowled. There would be no sparing him the sight of the girl. Fuck knew why he cared.

  “Anyone else seen coming in here?”

  “There was an Indian man, called himself Mr Bombay. A town planner, he said, looking at cheap housing designs.”

  “And people believed that?”

  “People here don’t ask too many questions, Inspector.”

  Of course not. That’s why the killer chose places such as these. Fucking Mr Bombay from Bombay.

  “Did he look Indian?”

  “As far as I can ascertain from the other tenants he had lighter skin but sounded very Indian.” Thanks to the glories of the Empire, the British had learned what different accents sounded like, even if all those of Asians descent were thought to be Chinese.

  After four flights of narrow stairs and two landings, he was at the attic. There was little smell. A fresh kill.

  “Inspector Morison, I take it. Sergeant Smith.” Morrison shook the sergeant’s hand and they both turned to look at the scene in the room.

  Unlike in Manchester, no-one had placed a broadcloth over the girl. She lay naked in the darkened room, on her back, skin removed, save for the forearms, hands, neck, face and feet.

  A hand pushed at his left side to move over. Morrison swore inwardly as the pup pressed past him to get a look. Instinct made him want
to crowd the kid out. After only a few moments, the kid made a dash for the stairs but didn’t make it past the first landing, and the soft garbled sound of him throwing up rippled over his nerves. Funny, he thought himself immune to human suffering by now.

  “First one?” The sergeant asked.

  “Second but,” Morrison motioned to the body, and the sergeant nodded. They had both seen hundreds of bodies—thousands if you counted the war and natural deaths—but a kill like this made even the most experienced light-headed.

  “We’ve kept the scene as clear of foot traffic as possible.”

  Morrison heard the pup walk back up the stairs. “Okay, let’s get started.” The kid took out a notebook from that multi-function coat of his and looked up at the room with seemingly clear eyes.

  “There’s no basin of blood,” the kid said, “and the fat’s gone too.”

  “Sergeant, anyone see blood or what looks like soft lumps of lard in the privies or washroom?”

  “One of the privies was broken, door nailed shut.” The foul smell of the privies would have camouflaged the fat and blood for a little while longer yet.

  “Open it up and have a look, could be where our killer disposed of them.”

  Sergeant Smith went to the stairs and yelled for a bobby to take care of the task then came back.

  The kill had certainly evolved. The walls had been freshly whitewashed, and the wooden floor stained dark, except where Girl Number Two lay; she was within a large gold rectangle. There was no smell from the paint—it was not fresh.

  “Any idea when this was done?

  “Neighbors said the old man was paid to paint it, part of setting up an Indian-styled room for photographs. Mr Bombay also cleared the place out. Paid the rent for all the other families living in the house, and gave them money for their new lodgings, so it was just the old man.”

  “Can we locate this Mr Bombay?”

  “I’ll need to get some a better description then get a drawing out.”