Mr. Ridley: A Whipping Society Novel

by Delilah Marvelle

The softness of a feather-stuffed pillow met her head as his large hands slowly slid out from beneath her. Her cap was gently removed, dragging her braid out and her boots were unlaced and nudged off. His fingers carefully pulled up the soap-scented linen around her body and over her shoulders in the darkness.

  A large hand smoothed her hair and skimmed her cheek.

  She melted against that unexpected touch, wanting and needing the heat of that hand to skim all of her and make her forget everything that had ever been prior to that moment.

  It was like meeting a different man.

  The one whose work coat had at long last come off in her honor.

  “Kumar,” he huskily whispered from above and over her. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me. Do you require anything else before I go?”

  “Nahin.” She snuggled into the pillow and faded back to sleep in her haze, wanting to say more but unable to.

  The bed shifted and creaked against his muscled weight. “We’ll bathe and feed you early in the morning to erase your time in prison,” he whispered. “Sleep. Stay in the only world where life is perfect: in dreams.” He then tucked the linen around her, smoothing it around her body and chin, and stepped away.

  It was as if she had met the man she was going to spend the rest of her life with.

  He lingered for a moment in the darkness.

  Edging back, he opened the door and left the room without closing it.

  Jemdanee drifted back to the lush depth of sleep knowing a most terrible thing had just happened. In a single night her heart had been kidnapped and was being held for ransom by a man who wasn’t even willing to set a price.

  Chapter 4

  1:07 a.m. - 221 Basil Street

  He used to be so fucking organized.

  If Vidocq saw what his study had turned into, the back of that gloved hand would have done what it always did best: hit him.

  Between seven different newspapers he read every day (none of which he ever disposed of) and his own paperwork piled onto furniture, the floor, and random corners up to the waist, his study resembled the catacombs of Paris where bones had been tossed with no names.

  He was used to it.

  Extinguishing his half-smoked cigar into the ash pan, he paged through his ledgers, trying to focus.

  “Haaallo.” His raven landed onto the wooden floor beside the desk with the folding of wings.

  Without lifting his gaze from the pile of ledgers he had to get through, Ridley offered warmly, “How goes your night, Chaucer? The missing strip of wallpaper eight feet from this desk tells me you were being a prick again.”

  Rounding the desk with several hops, Chaucer eyed him with the turn of his black feathered head and landed onto the corner of the desk. “Caaawww.”

  “No worries. Given Elizabeth was the one to choose the wallpaper, strip it to the plaster and turn every fiber of it into the dung that we both know she was. As long as it’s not the books or my papers, you’ll never hear any complaints.”

  Chaucer said nothing.

  His ‘relationship’ with Chaucer was as equally macabre as everything else in his life. After the death of a well-loved dog that was cruelly taken, Ridley had decided to brush away the conventional keeping of an animal.

  He purchased a newly hatched raven.

  It was his way of further digging into the mind of the faceless woman who had created him.

  The one whose overwhelming acrid scent of cheap rose water had penetrated his nostrils in the darkness that blurred everything. The one who had grazed his cheek with an ax, wordlessly commanding silence before gesturing to the trunk at the foot of his bed like death gesturing to a grave before hammering his skull into the shadows he never emerged from.

  While there had never been another murder involving the feather of a raven, nor had she ever attempted to reveal herself or play with his pain, he knew by always, always keeping a lamp burning in the upper window of the room his father had been butchered in, that the justice he believed in would never die, regardless of the price he had to pay to keep the oil burning.

  With the hobbling of quick feet and feathers, Chaucer peered up at him from the floor. He then flew up and lunged, spearing him with his beak.

  “Ey.” Ridley snapped his fingers at him in warning as Chaucer settled far back enough not to get swatted. “Be useful. Go organize some papers.”

  “Caaaawwwww.” Wobbling from side to side, while still staring him down, Chaucer further rattled and clicked at him.

  Lifting his brow, Ridley countered, “Your lady bird can wait. I’ll let you out in the morning.”

  Falling silent, Chaucer tilted his head, blinking. A soft, grating, “coo” followed.

  Ridley’s mouth quirked as he reached out and smoothed that soft head that burrowed itself against his palm. “I thank you for being the only one to never judge. Extra chicken for you in the morning. Now let me finish this or my head will never hit the pillow.”

  It rarely did, but he tried.

  Gathering the remaining stack of his notes from what he had dubbed the Barlow Poisonings, he rearranged them, letting his gaze fall to the names of James Jack Barlow and Emily Grace Barlow.

  Siblings. Ages sixteen and nineteen, with James being older and attending Cambridge.

  The two came from an upper-class merchant family whose family empire had grown from importing oranges amongst other exotic fruits like papayas and mangoes. Emily was engaged to a much older gentleman, Mr. Richard Rubenhold, whose sizable income would have re-infused the failing Barlow estate. Unfortunately, Mr. Rubenhold and his elderly mother had died twenty days earlier after falling violently ill during a dinner party hosted by the Barlows.

  Illness and source leading to their deaths had been undetermined.

  Then there was Mr. and Mrs. Barlow, the parents to Emily and James.

  The ones who died in the theatre.

  After threading the names of every person who had ‘passed’ under suspicious circumstances revolving around ‘food’ that had spanned over the course of nine weeks, it resulted in a very convenient list of those affected.

  They were family members all related to the Barlows and the Rubenholds.

  It would seem the generation these days were getting bold about voicing their opinion on arranged marriages.

  A knock against the door made Chaucer fly up and across the room.

  Ridley glanced up from his disorganized desk, past the cluttered furniture piled with newspaper. Jemdanee. He sat up, accidentally sending parchments and missives flying. He shoved his hair out of his eyes. “Come in, Kumar,” he called.

  “Forgive me, sir,” the butler insisted, opening the door to the study and peering in, his robe affixed over a nightshirt. “’Tis me.”

  Ridley couldn’t help but be disappointed. Kumar entertained him. Which was incredibly rare. He’d seen too much to be entertained by anyone or anything anymore. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

  The butler cleared his throat. “I was. Quite blissfully, in fact, sir. Unfortunately, Mr. Quincy came knocking at the servant’s door as he is known to do past the hour of one and refused to leave. Are you at home? Or shall I convey the usual message of expletives?”

  “Let us not be rude quite yet. What does he want?”

  “He refused to say.”

  “Is he alone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ridley fell back against his leather chair and dragged his pocket watch out by the fob. He was about to lose an hour. Maybe even more. Fuck. Welcome to the life you never wanted. “Tug him in through the back door. Not the front.”

  “Yes, Mr. Ridley.” Propping both doors open, the butler departed.

  The corridor and marble floors greeted him, oil lamps illuminating patches of darkness.

  Chaucer hobbled toward the door, then flew out of the room and into the corridor, disappearing.

  Pushing his rosewood pistol off to the corner of the desk, Ridley flipped open another ledger with his notes from current cases. He
reread them on a nightly basis to ensure every detail remained in his head for later use.

  The Clover Stack case.

  Male of about eleven. Freckled white skin in state of blue darkening, brown eyes, brown hair, lean, four feet and ten inches. Approximately seven stone. Signs of bloating indicating death occurred only days earlier.

  Remains discovered under a clover stack in a stable, wearing only frayed, brown wool trousers with the left button of the flap missing. No button found. No callouses on either hand and nails unusually clean, indicating wealthier station despite frayed trousers. Notable indentation of the skin on the left, fourth finger evocative of a large ring no longer present.

  Most likely stolen.

  Based on minimal disruption surrounding the body, death took place at another location. Teeth untouched, yet jaw, side and back of skull fractured. Nostrils heavily coagulated with blood and uneven bruising on right shoulder and entire side. Broken ribs, shattered pelvis and dislocated shoulder all on same right side, indicating possible fall from an elevated height.

  No signs of anal penetration. No witnesses. No motives. Lack of blood on trousers indicate victim was not wearing them during the time of death.

  Steps echoed in the corridor, making Ridley sit up.

  The booted stride wasn’t in any particular hurry despite it being almost two in the morning.

  Quintessential Quincy.

  Leaning toward the desk, Ridley dipped the quill into ink and quickly wrote: A reward of five hundred pounds has been offered and dispatched to designated columns in every newspaper.

  He set aside the ledger to let the ink dry, and inserted the quill back into its holder.

  A rawboned gentleman with a swath of wavy black hair that fell into piercing green eyes strode into the room. “Do you ever sleep?”

  “Do you?” Ridley countered. “Keep it to twelve minutes.”

  Quincy stalked in with his hands in the pockets of his posh tailored attire, well-polished leather boots gleaming against the candlelight. His expression was one of pained tolerance. “One of the girls was almost butchered. Geneva. They’re threading her up right now.”

  And so it began.

  Back to Elizabeth.

  The one who needed a bramble woven crown to go with her name.

  So much for twelve minutes or less.

  Ridley gestured rigidly toward the butler. “Close the doors behind you, Fulton. Retire and remember to have every last servant follow the instructions I earlier gave you. No one talks to anyone outside of this house for three days, and above all, be welcoming. Overly so.” He was referring to Kumar.

  “Yes, Mr. Ridley.” The doors folded into each other.

  The room now hummed with lethal silence.

  Quincy removed both hands from his pockets, revealing four fingers and a partial stump of a forefinger on his right hand.

  It personified everything the man was.

  For this son of a bitch had been born with a gift and a curse no man could boast and no doctor could cure or explain. Quincy could take four knives to his back, bleed out, and die without ever once feeling it. In a very literal sense.

  It made him Ridley feel gloriously normal. It’s why they got along. They both saw the world through a cracked glass that refused to hold the water. “I told her to hire more sentinels to protect those girls. Did she?”

  Quincy eyed him. “You know how Elizabeth is. It wounds her sensibilities to think she needs a man at all.”

  He’d punch the wall later. “And now what? I’m supposed to do what she always wants me to do and spit shine another mess? So much for her not needing a man.”

  Wedging off the wedding ring from his finger, the one he wore to remind himself that what had once been love should never be hate, Ridley held it up, then clacked it onto the desk before him. “Inform her there isn’t a single board of timber left of this three-year-old bridge to burn. The ring is purely ornamental and meant to remind me that murdering one’s bondwoman is illegal.”

  “The incident regarding Geneva is only part of the problem. Elizabeth insisted I call on you and explain.”

  “Quelle surprise,” Ridley breathed out. “What is there to explain? Are you saying your finger went missing between her thighs and now I’m being asked to find it?”

  Quincy’s features darkened. “Can we not do this, Frenchie? I only work for her.”

  Smacking the ledger shut, Ridley stacked it off to the side, causing one of his hemp ropes to fall of the desk. “What man doesn’t?” he muttered.

  One would think after everything he’d been through in the unending chasm known as life, he’d feel unaffected knowing that his former wife, whom he’d once entrusted with the darkest pieces of his soul, was now a birch mistress to thirty-four men and eighteen women.

  It wasn’t much of a compliment.

  Quincy strode, further weaving into the study past stacks of newspapers, grazing his hand against the covered furniture as he passed. He tapped at the spines of the leather bound medical books on the shelves and paused only long enough to pluck up a mint from the porcelain bowl on a side table.

  Flicking the mint into his mouth, Quincy crunched through it on his way over. “So the complication is this: I accidentally killed the mudsill who attacked Geneva. He got in through a broken window in the cellar, and as you well know, my condition makes it difficult for me to gauge the force I use.” That impersonal tone broke the stillness as if they were discussing politics. “Given you always vie for Elizabeth whenever Scotland Yard tries to wrangle her in, she is asking you to step in.”

  It was a good thing he wasn’t holding a pistol or he would have used it. “Let me consult my conscience.” Lifting his gaze to the ceiling, Ridley pretended to listen as if the silence were talking and then lowered his gaze and offered, “Fuck all of you. I’m not your personal guide to right and wrong. Because the answer is always the same: wrong.”

  Quincy stared him down. “I was doing what I was hired to do: protect the girls. The son of a diddle was waving a crucifix and roaring about God burning their souls when he lunged at Geneva. She almost died. I left him exactly where I tackled him on the floor. I think I snapped his neck when I bounced his skull off a piece of furniture. Christ, you know me, Ridley. I’ve done a long list of things no man in my condition should, but I’m not that. It was an accident. Would I be coming here to report it if it wasn’t?”

  Sometimes, he felt like he was dealing with the Spanish inquisition who thought itself to be the equivalent of a gallant knight. “For a moment, let us all sip port and believe this little tale you’re telling me. Is Geneva all right?”

  “Barely. That bilge rat removed a fucking knife out of his boot and started cutting her as if she had agreed to it.”

  Ridley slowly shook his head knowing the girl was only twenty. “Why wasn’t the window in the cellar replaced?”

  Quincy lowered his chin. “It was. But these self-righteous loons who think they speak for religion keep knocking it out. Now a foot of thread is being woven into her like a rosary through fingers. In my opinion, Elizabeth has to put bars on the windows. She has to.”

  “That would certainly complete the disparaging symbolism she brings.”

  “Ridley, be serious. Can’t you send one of your contacts from Scotland Yard to ensure this is handled appropriately? Everyone at Sérail is panicking knowing there is a dead body two feet from the Berkley Horse that no one wants to get strapped to. They’ll hang more than me. They’ll hang every last one of those girls and two of them, as you know, have children.”

  A breath escaped Ridley. He knew that.

  He wanted to blame Elizabeth who now went by the nom de plume of ‘Mrs. Berkley’ for the tragedies that continued to befall those living behind that black painted door at 28 Charlotte Street. He wanted to blame, blame, blame Elizabeth for creating a world no woman belonged in.

  A world he and she had secretly shared before she decided to share her ‘talent’ with the world.

/>   Deranged though it was to admit, her creation of Sérail was probably the safest haven there would ever be for countless prostitutes who would have otherwise ended up pregnant, diseased or dead. Because Elizabeth’s one rule for every girl in her care was one no brothel could or would ever offer: no fucking.

  It was all about the whip.

  Ridley slid the ring off the desk and wedged it back on, knowing he had no right to judge. She had been through far too much prior to meeting him. “Are there any witnesses outside of Geneva and yourself?”

  “Three. Elizabeth, Bald-cunted Polly and Ebony Bet.”

  All of them delinquents in need of a good hanging.

  He thudded his boot against the floorboard beside his desk knowing he was going to do what he always did: save Elizabeth and her ‘family’. “We need someone the magistrate would actually trust. The bigger the name, the bigger the gain. Were there any clients there who were titled? Anyone who might speak up?”

  Quincy adjusted his coat. “Lord Bainbridge came to assist.”

  “Bainbridge?” Ridley tsked. “We might as well hang you now. He’ll never admit to being there. The boy is seventeen and lives with a mother who invests obnoxiously large sums of money into her church. What the hell is Elizabeth doing letting a boy that age into the establishment? And why the fuck did you let her?”

  Quincy glowered. “I help you with cases all the time, don’t I? I help without ever asking for the ‘books’ I need and this is how you repay me? With a twist? With accusations?”

  Ridley scrubbed his head knowing Quincy was one of the few strongholds in the criminal community he could actually trust. “Leave the window broken and point it out to the constables. Before you turn yourself over to a magistrate – which you will, for it will further demonstrate your innocence – have Doctor Harris call on Geneva immediately. He and the judge are elbow associates, so it will work in your favor, and if Bainbridge can verify your story – assure him his testimony will be held private – you’ll be released for a mere citizen defense.”

  “Can you guarantee it?”