by Forbes, Kit
“Don’t you now?” He steepled his fingers before his chin. And why not?” Ian looked at the report again. “The doctor thinks the dagger wound was inflicted by a left-handed assailant while the other wounds were caused by a right-handed one.”
“Or the dagger wound could have been inflicted from behind so the blood wouldn’t get on the killer,” Mark suggested. “A right-hander standing above or behind her might seem left-handed.”
“But surely the position of the legs, the skirts pulled up as they were, suggest that the attack followed sexual relations. That rather supports the two assailant theory.”
“She could’ve been left that way to mislead you.”
“What?”
I shrugged. “It’s possible the body was arranged to make you think it was an unhappy customer or jealous boyfriend.” I paused and wondered if it was okay to give Ian what might be a valuable clue. “This could be someone who hates women. Or maybe he has a grudge against hook—prostitutes because they’d be easy targets. That might be more ‘opportunity’ than ‘motive.’” I paused then decided to toss another theory out there. “You know, you shouldn’t rule out the possibility the killer was a woman.”
Ian pounded his hand on his desk. “That’s absurd. No woman could commit this savagery. It simply isn’t in their natures.”
“You’d be surprised,” I said.
Ian stood, picking up the report. “There are exceptions, of course, especially when drink is involved. We’ve seen our share of brawls between women, of course, and even some stabbings, though I daresay the men usually deserved it.” He stood. “But I can’t imagine any woman could be capable of this sort of savagery or cunning.”
I shrugged. “One of the nastiest crimes my uncle was ever called to involved a woman who murdered her boyfriend. Hit him in the head with a frying pan, knocked him out, then cut off his…manhood…and let him bleed to death. She was frying it in the pan when the police arrived, adding chopped onion and garlic and everything.”
Ian looked like he wanted to hurl. “You raise troubling possibilities. Quite troubling,” he said when he’d regained control of himself. “But I’m obliged to accept Dr. Killeen’s report. His is, after all, the official version.” He paused. “And I must say, I’m thankful for that. I shudder to think of the consequences were we to pursue your lines of inquiry.” He shook his head, muttered something about “civilians,” then stood. “I told my sisters America was still an uncivilized colony. Frying a man’s…disgusting.”
Ian picked up the report. “Perhaps you should make the acquaintance of Dr. Doyle and expound on your ideas. He seems the type who would appreciate that outlandish kind of fancy.”
I followed Ian to the door. A voice shot down the hall like the crack of the lightning bolt that had sent me here. “I wish to see Inspector Fraser. Now.”
“Oh, bloody hell,” Ian muttered, stepping back trying to close the office door.
“I see you there, Inspector Fraser. Don’t you dare try to hide.”
Ian heaved a tired sigh and stepped back into the hall. Genie Trambley stalked down the long corridor toward us.
“I need to deliver this to Inspector Reid,” Ian muttered. “Do see if you can deflect her, won’t you?”
He jogged down the hall, leaving me to face the thoroughly pissed off Genie Trambley all by myself. I’d have had no trouble blowing past her, but I felt that I did owe Ian for the room last night and hearty breakfast Imogen gave me that morning.
***
Genie
I stopped and seethed as I so often did when coming here. How dare that man scurry away at a time like this? I silently cursed the constraints of the skirts and bodice that made it impossible for me to run after him. Of course, I would never run after a man but it would serve him right if I did. Perhaps being chased down by an irate citizen in the middle of the police station would get him to pay attention to me.
But gaining the inspector’s attention might not gain his cooperation and that was what I needed most.
If Inspector Fraser thought I was going to continue to accept his empty promises, he was quite mistaken. I would find a way to make him listen and, more importantly, to make him act.
Once Inspector Fraser disappeared up the stairs, I looked back to Mark Stewart, who stood near the inspector’s office. He was decently attired but appeared unshaven. Ignoring the little jump, I felt inside at the sight of him and the memory of helping him shave the previous evening, I wondered how he might be of use. Perhaps he was the key to getting Inspector Fraser to listen. I continued down the corridor, smiling pleasantly at the constable who passed by.
“Feeling well, Mr. Stewart?
“Pretty good, Miss Trambley,” he replied, out-of-sorts.
“That certainly is good news.” I paused, glanced down at the pendant watch I wore. “I must apologize again for the commotion at the table last night.”
“It happens in all families. Sometimes things get a little out of hand.”
“A little out of hand?” I was barely able to imagine what he would consider “considerably” out of hand.
He grinned. “There was no blood drawn. I consider that a plus.”
I gazed at him and realized that, beneath the flippant tone, he was quite serious. I decided to press on to the matter that had brought me to the station. “I take it you’ve heard about the atrocity in George Yard yesterday morning?”
He nodded. “I did.”
I fixed him with what I hoped was a penetrating look. “Surely you must agree it’s beyond shameful the way innocent women are used and beaten by the men they encounter and live with?”
He scratched his chin. “I’m not saying that lady was working the street, but prostitution is a dangerous business. They have to know the risks involved.”
So he and his uncle were cut from the same cloth, were they? I squared my shoulders. “Not all the women who are brutalized are prostitutes, Mr. Stewart, or thieves.” I put him squarely on the spot. “And even so, there is no excuse—”
Mark held up his hands to silence me. “For the record, I’m against all types of violence against women.”
I crossed my arms and stared at him. “You seemed well-enough acquainted with violent acts yesterday.”
“That was different. That thing with the pickpocket was self-defense,” he snapped. “I defended my stuff against a thief who just happened to be a girl.”
I remained silent, slowly tapping my foot and not dropping my gaze.
“You know why Ian avoided you, don’t you?” he said as if my skepticism meant nothing. “Because a ‘civilian’ can’t understand police methods and procedures.”
I glared at him, clenching my hands into fist to contain the urge to slap him as I longed to slap every man who acted as if I hadn’t an intelligent thought in my head. “And such wonderful methods they are. Allowing murderers and rapists to roam the streets to prey on innocent women. And I suppose it’s always procedure to hide away in one’s safe office while this—this fiend is free to perpetrate more hideous crimes? You are correct, Mr. Stewart, I do not understand police methods or procedures at all.”
He crossed his arms and looked attentive. And far too attractive.
“What do you think they should do?”
“Find the man responsible!”
“How?”
“Well, they—”
“Exactly.” He dropped his arms. “You haven’t a clue. And neither do they. They don’t even know the dead woman’s name yet.”
“Well, they should find out!”
“And how are they going to do that? No one at the scene knew anything. Should Ian prop the corpse up in a wagon and drive it round the streets asking, ‘Do you recognize this woman?’“
“I should think not!”
A certain darkness moved across his eyes. I found it both compelling and off-putting. Then his expression took on a challenging air. “I wonder if Ian would allow you
to try to make an identification. Maybe you know her.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. I’d seen illness and death and yet. “I simply couldn’t.”
Mark shrugged. “Then Ian and the police will just have to circulate her description and hope they get an answer. Then they start all over again, asking if anyone saw her that night or morning, if she was with anyone, if they heard anything. All that takes time.”
I bit my lip. “But certainly there’s more they could do!”
“They’re doing all they can at this point in time.”
Mark Stewart was so calm, so totally unconcerned with any of this. “And that leads us to what, exactly? Should I just be a ‘good little girl’ and toddle off and let the big, wise policemen do their jobs?”
He shrugged. “You’re not dumb. You know Ian will stay upstairs until you leave. Is there any real reason for us to keep standing here arguing about things we have no control over?”
Perhaps he didn’t take me for a fool. “Well then, Mr. Stewart. I suggest we leave so as not to impede police business.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
I turned, took several steps then stopped to see why Mark wasn’t following. He’d gone back into the Inspector’s office for his hat. “Come along, Mr. Stewart. I haven’t all day to dawdle.”
He followed me outside. The day had turned out fine and it was certainly more inviting than being stuck the dark police station. “Perhaps we could walk up towards the High Street and continue our talk,” I suggested, already turning in that direction. He walked beside me, close to the building.
Surely he wasn’t rude on purpose. I stopped and stared at him. “Is it not the custom in America for the man to walk next to the curb?”
He looked perplexed, then switched sides with me. “You do everything backwards here.”
“Or perhaps you do everything backwards in America,” I shot back.
He grinned. Rather ruefully it seemed, as if he regretted coming here. Perhaps it wasn’t merely the choice of location he was regretting.
Steeling my resolve, I turned my own thoughts from regret at what might have been. “Mr. Stewart, let me get to the point. I need the cooperation of the authorities and I believe you can provide that.”
“What makes you think that, Miss Trambley?”
“You are Inspector Fraser’s nephew,” I said. “While he has shown some sympathy to my ideas, I believe with your support he would be even more amenable to providing the assistance needed.”
Mark shrugged. “I don’t see what I could say that you haven’t already said.” He paused then added, “Repeatedly.”
My shoulders tensed, my smile remained tight. “But surely—”
“I doubt he’ll listen to me. I gave him my opinion of the murder and he reminded me that this is police business and that I’m no policeman.”
I studied his face, noted the indignation his calm voice concealed. “But you are a man, and unfortunately, the opinions of men, even those my age, seem to carry more credence with the authorities than the most strenuous pleas of a woman of any age.”
He said nothing. He simply gazed back at me with penetrating hazel eyes that both invigorated and frightened me.
“Tell you what,” he said finally. “You wash my back, I’ll wash yours.”
Assisting with a shave was one thing but this—this was an outrage. “I beg your pardon?”
“I mean, I’ll help you if you help me.”
I still wasn’t at all sure I liked the sound of that. “Help you in what way?” I moved away from him, and started forward once more.
“I need a job and a place to stay. You know a lot of folks around this part of London, right? And I take it not all of them are poor and downtrodden. I hoped you might know someone who knows someone…”
“And why not ask your uncle for help in this?”
“Because I don’t want to ask him for any more favors than I already have.”
“But you are perfectly willing to ask favors of me?” I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, not quite sure if I was offended or flattered. It was obvious he bit back a rude comment before he replied.
“You’re the only person my age I know here. The way I see it, that makes you the only friend I have. And friends help friends, right?” He breathed a quiet sigh. “If it makes you feel better I’ll owe you a favor back. Anything you want I’ll do, okay?”
As we walked I pondered his words, tried not to smile because I found that notion disquietingly attractive.
“I do hope you’re of good moral character, Mr. Stewart,” I said after we’d walked a bit in silence. “I’d not want peoples’ opinion of me diminished should you prove an unsuitable boarder or employee.”
Mark glanced over at me. “My morals are suitable.”
I replied with a quirk of my eyebrow then quickened my pace. “Be that as it may, Mr. Stewart, I require your word that you will not disgrace me if I introduce you to some of the people I know.”
Mark shrugged. “I can’t guarantee I won’t disgrace you. After all, I am American, but I promise not to commit any obscene acts in public if I can avoid it.”
He winked. I pretended not to notice, though I had no doubt the heat flush I felt signaled otherwise.
***
Mark
When Genie stopped in front of a tidy storefront bearing the sign Tea and Sweets. I smiled to myself and remembered the stories of how my parents first met. Dad had an apartment over the bakery near the hospital where my mom worked in the emergency department. She and Dad used to see one another as they headed off to their respective shifts. “I knew I was in love the day I let your mother have the last cream-filled donut in the case.”
My smile grew once we entered the bakery and were greeted by the sweet smells of pies and cakes and bread baking in the back. My stomach purred in delight. We settled in at a small table near the front window and ordered tea and scones from the woman Genie introduced as the shop’s owner, Mrs. O’Connell.
She gave off a warm grandmotherly vibe but eyed me suspiciously, then looked inquisitively at Genie before retreating behind the counter.
I ladled sugar and cream into my tea despite the faint look of horror on Genie’s face. “You know, I never realized tea with cream and sugar tastes a little like coffee. Or maybe they both just taste like hot cream and sugar.”
Genie smiled blandly back and I found myself with a sense of déjà vu, feeling as though I was on one of the weird blind dates my parents set up every now and then, the one with “nice girls” who turned out to be not as ladylike as the folks wanted to believe.
A pang of homesickness hit me. I shook my head to clear it and stared out the window for a minute then glanced back at Genie. “I agree about violence against women being a problem. But it’s a problem of not having enough patrols in the area and of the women themselves taking reasonable precautions.”
“The police could certainly do more.” Genie insisted. “They need to catch this fiend!”
I shook my head. Hadn’t we been through this? “How? No one ever sees or hears or knows anything. I was there. Nobody wanted to talk to the ‘coppers.’ So what have they got to work with? A dead body that hasn’t even been identified. There are no clues. No suspects. No evidence. No apparent motive. And the police are supposed to do something about it? It’s the people who live here who need to do something. They need to stop being victims and start getting involved.” I stopped, embarrassed that I sounded like a mini replica of my father.
“I am certainly involved.” Her eyes flashed. “I’m trying to get the police involved.”
I looked down to my teacup. This was only going to get worse and I was the only one who knew it. I looked at Genie again. “The police can do only so much. People have to change the way they think and behave. They need to do it sooner than later.”
Genie sipped her tea. “Giving women the vote would certainly change everything.�
�
“It wouldn’t change a thing. Not really.”
“You are wrong, Mr. Stewart. Dead wrong.”
“Okay. Sure. You go live in the world your mother and sister would vote into existence. Then come back and tell me how much better it is.”
Genie opened her mouth to argue then snapped it shut
“You think just letting women vote will magically change England or the world? Not in a hundred years.”
“Typical man,” she said with a sneer. “You think women are only here for your comfort.”
“I never said that. I’m all for equal rights. I know girls can do just as well as guys if they try.”
Genie sat up even straighter. “That’s exactly what I keep telling everyone. I have the initiative and the desire to help the women of Whitechapel help themselves. I’m willing to do anything it takes to get through to them. What I need is the cooperation of the authorities. I believe you can help provide that.”
“And you think this because…”
“As I said before, you are Inspector Fraser’s nephew. He will listen to these ideas coming from you.”
I shook my head. “My opinions are not necessarily shared by my uncle in particular, the Metropolitan Police in general, or any other living creature around here.”
Genie took a deep breath, her shoulders tensed, her smile tight. “Surely—”
“I’ll do what I can but I make no promises.” I sipped the tea. “There might be a way to convince Ian and the others to take you more seriously.”
Genie put down her teacup and leaned forward across the small wooden table. “And that would be?”
“I told you no one would talk to the police and how that makes it nearly impossible for them to do their jobs. But with your contacts, the women you know, maybe you can get them to talk to you.” I saw real possibilities in this idea and warmed to it. “You could be the link between the streets and the police. If you can help Ian do his job…”