House of Bliss

by T T Thomas

  None of them was the woman he sought, but they were good practice. When she was fully limp, he’d reach down and pull the busk halfway out of its sleeve. He’d fiddle with the fabric until he found the secret pocket whence he’d retrieve his money. Then he’d push the busk back into its invisible pocket.

  He’d wipe the blood off the knife with his handkerchief, wad it up and jam it down the iron grate of a sewer a block before he approached his next destination. He’d leave the rope around her neck.

  But it was messy. And there was the noise of resistance. The rope was not working, the stabbing took too long. He needed a clean swipe of his razor-sharp knife across her throat. He needed it to be a surprise. He needed her not to see it coming. Sometimes, he had no time to retrieve his money—voices in an adjacent alley, the sound of a carriage approaching, someone with a lit cigarette coming toward him in the darkness from the end of the street. Barely enough time to leave. Afterwards, he’d walk at a leisurely pace until he reached his driver.

  “Home, Sir?”

  He’d incline his head and wordlessly step into the carriage. On the way home, he’d review the encounter. He contemplated a better way to ensure his own safety from exposure. Money. Money always worked.

  Seven women died in this manner, but it took the police months to make a connection among three of the victims; the first four murders were never solved following cursory and incomplete investigations led by Chief Inspector B. Menidcott. The death of a prostitute was not a priority for anyone…until the last three women were found wearing corsets familiar to high society women in London.

  Chapter 6

  It seemed she had been asleep but for a quarter hour when she heard a knuckled rap on her bedroom door.

  “Is it you, Cath?” She pulled up her coverlet. Cath, who usually had a gentle knock, opened the door and poked her head inside. Sabrina sat up in her bed and blinked to see it was morning.

  “It’s Dr. Wintermere,” Cath whispered, her brow furrowed, her eyes wide. “He’s here with a Chief Inspector Mendicott, who wants to interview you, and he, the doctor, said to awaken you immediately.”

  Sabrina threw on her dressing gown and slippers and ran a brush through her tangled hair. She considered getting fully dressed, but the imposition was on her not from her. She entered the library with an impassive face but her deliberate, quick stride revealed her botheration.

  “Gentlemen?”

  Jeremy introduced Chief Inspector Bailey Mendicott of the Criminal Investigation Department.

  Mendicott was a tall man with penetrating gray eyes and hair the color of graphite. He was older than Sabrina and Jeremy, perhaps in his forties instead of thirties. His standard, ill-fitting civilian suit of inferior cloth was not unexpected, but his black leather shoes that shone like polished carbon were a surprise.

  He gave a wan smile and indicated she should sit. Silently, she thanked him for his hospitality. A glance at Jeremy confirmed her suspicion that the good doctor was not here by his own choice.

  “Miss Blissdon, I am sorry to inform you that another prostitute has been found dead wearing a corset we believe was made by you. Or your company,” he added with a short wave around the room. “Dr. Wintermere mentioned he already told you that an earlier victim was also found similarly dressed, or barely dressed, I suppose I should say.”

  She looked, first, at Jeremy. He was pale.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Chief Inspector. How may I help you?”

  “Help me?”

  “I assume you have urgent questions either pertinent to the corset or to me,” she said breezily. “I cannot think of another reason you would arrive so early.”

  “Or pertinent to the dead woman.” Mendicott’s voice was smooth as glass.

  “Or the deceased,” she said, conceding his point with a nod.

  “Can you account for your whereabouts last evening?”

  Sabrina laughed without mirth. “You surely can’t think I had anything to do with the woman’s untimely demise.” There was a protest in her voice but a tremor in her body. “I was right here, asleep. I retired early, right after you left, Jeremy.”

  Mendicott turned to Jeremy. “What time did you leave, doctor? I don’t believe you mentioned that when we spoke of this earlier.”

  Jeremy tilted his head. “Half past seven?”

  Sabrina nodded. “I think so, yes.”

  Jeremy added, “And no, I did not because I had no idea, when we spoke, that you were planning this particular line of inquiry with Miss Blissdon.”

  “All inquiries start with the basics, Dr. Wintermere.” Mendicott took out a pen and a small, dog-eared notebook and looked at Sabrina again. “And you retired at that time until you awakened, or rather, were awakened by our call?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “We aren’t sure of the time of death yet,” Jeremy offered.

  Mendicott gave him a dark look. It was quick, but Sabrina thought both her and Jeremy caught it. “I’m going to need a list of your clients,” he said.

  “I don’t have any clients who are prostitutes, Chief Inspector.”

  “Well, we have to account for not one but two women in the past 48 hours showing up murdered wearing your corset,” he said. “Well, not yours, of course, but your brand. We need to find out how these women came to own such a garment.”

  Her mind flew through the options. “I can narrow down the original provenance for you, Inspector, but I’d need to see the corset.” He raised an eyebrow. “For the measurements, naturally. I would then know who among my clients wore that size, perhaps even that model.”

  Mendicott must have made a snap decision to be more cordial when he saw he couldn’t pressure her to turn over the names of all her clients.

  “Ah, of course. That’s a wonderful idea, Mrs.—Miss Blissdon, although I thought your fine garments were custom made?”

  She didn’t feel the Mrs. attribution was an accident, but she went directly to the part she could easily explain. “They are, for the most part,” she said. “But that refers to the individual measurements. At the start of each new apparel season, we design a half dozen set styles or models.”

  “I see. Very well. If you could come to the station later today, I can arrange for you to see both pieces of evidence from both victims. I must warn you, however, they were ripped, slit with a knife, really, and bloodied, so if you’d rather have one of your—”

  “No, I want to see the corsets myself.”

  As if by some invisible cue, they all stood. “May I offer you coffee, Chief Inspector?” Sabrina gave him her warmest smile. He seemed taken back by both the offer, coming as it did at the end of his visit, and the tone, a departure from her coolness up to this point.

  “Thank you, but I must get back,” he said.

  “If that offer’s open to me, I’ll take it,” Jeremy said.

  They walked the Inspector to the door. “Will you be writing up the autopsy results today, Dr. Wintermere?”

  “Certainly, certainly. I’ll be down at the morgue in no time,” Jeremy said. He rocked on his heels and smiled with abundant but untimely good humor, which Sabrina correctly assumed was nerves.

  “By the way, Miss Blissdon, you didn’t happen to know the first victim, a Miss Annie Bishop, did you?”

  Sabrina’s face reddened. “No, of course not.”

  Mendicott nodded with a quick flick of his head and shut the front door behind him.

  “Good God.” Jeremy whispered as soon as they got behind closed library doors. “That man is not only insufferable, he’s nearly rude.”

  “What’s the difference?” She rang for Cath. “He can’t possibly think I killed those women?” She asked Cath to bring the coffee and breakfast fruit and pastries into the library. They sat in silence waiting for the breakfast.

  Once alone, Jeremy leaned over the coffee he was pouring and whispered again. “What if he comes back and asks you where you were the night before last?”

  The t
hought hadn’t occurred to her, but she grasped the problem. “I’ll say that Lena and I are dear old friends.”

  “Dear old friends of two or three years?” he asked. “And didn’t you tell me you’ve given Lena a corset? And what if he finds out about her past, and trust me, he will?”

  “Yes, I’ve given her several. But they all had the monogram in pink, not blue.”

  “Well, the two victims definitely had corsets with the blue monogram,” he said.

  “What was the time of death for the one last night?”

  “That’s just it. It didn’t happen last night. She’d been dead at least two days when they found her at dawn today. Mendicott doesn’t know that yet because I haven’t written my report.”

  Sabrina ran her hand through her hair. “Good Lord, that definitely puts me back in the picture.”

  “Well, of course you’re not really in the picture. Although it looks like you are.”

  “No, it doesn’t. It only looks like it because he asked me my whereabouts. It’s a subtle presumption and not a subtle suggestion.”

  “I share your concern,” Jeremy said. “Except that he’s awkward that way.”

  Sabrina fiddled with her napkin. “Disagree,” she said. “The presumption he’s making is that I’m a suspect, and the suggestion is that I need to account for my whereabouts to exclude myself from suspicion.”

  “I admit it surprised me how quickly he seemed to take that line of questioning. But remember, he also thinks of you as a material evidence expert.”

  “I am an expert, but his line of questioning most resembled that addressed to a material witness. Possible suspect, in other words. Well, I’m not going to invent a story if he comes back. I wouldn’t want it to get out where I spend my free time though. The business could suffer.”

  Jeremy drank his coffee but didn’t touch the pastry.

  “And furthermore,” she added, “my houseguest, Felicity West, heard me come in early Saturday morning—she mentioned it yesterday while visiting my studio.”

  “Your studio? Does she want a bespoke corset?” Jeremy asked.

  “No, and quite frankly, she doesn’t appear to need one in the least. Lovely figure, from what I can tell.”

  Jeremy choked back a small laugh. “Well, if she heard you come in, then she is a witness.”

  “I don’t think Mendicott will come back to ask me, will he?”

  “He might when he reads the time of death. Of course, it’s an estimate within a range.”

  Sabrina broke off the end of one of the pastries. “Do we know who she is? Was?”

  “I don’t. At first, she looked vaguely familiar but then…not.”

  “What time should I come to see the corsets?”

  “Come around between two and three o’clock,” he said. “The police are scouring the area now to look for any sign of a personal belonging that might reveal her name. A pocketbook, a piece of jewelry, something.”

  Sabrina’s eyes flickered brightly for a second. “Inside every one of House of Bliss corsets,” she said, “is a nearly invisible small pocket no bigger than a pound note.”

  “What’s it for?” Jeremy asked.

  “Well, we don’t broadcast it, but if a lady should ever find herself in need of an escape plan, the pocket can hold secret money or a house key or some other bit of small sentiment.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I’ll probably have to show you,” she said. “But it’s essentially inside the casing for the busk. We insert the whalebone busk into the casing from the top down, in the front of the corset, and a small flap covers the opening,” she said. “Anyway, behind the busk but still within the narrow casing is a small silk pocket. A folded bit of money would fit discreetly.”

  “Anything else?” he asked. “Anything unusual, I mean, about House of Bliss corsets?”

  Sabrina started to shake her head in negation but stopped herself. “I really doubt this would help, because women change busks quite often—gifts from admirers, husbands…friends. But our original busk is made of ivory. Some women never change the busk, others change it all the time—the material could be bone, a thin steel or metal, wood, almost anything that could keep its rigidity over time.”

  “I see. So your original busk is ivory. That seems like something a woman would want to keep.”

  “And she may keep it,” agreed Sabrina, “or change it once in a while, often or never. Most women rarely change out the busk in her first House of Bliss corset because it has her name hand-painted in tiny lettering on the back of the ivory busk. A little something extra from House of Bliss.”

  “My God.” Jeremy jumped up. “That could help us.”

  “Maybe,” said Sabrina, “if the original owner did not remove it. Designs change, so it’s rarely used on subsequent corsets. Some women keep it as a memento, some forget all about it. It’s become a statement of sorts and an invitation to boast. Someone might say, ‘Did you receive your hand-painted busk, darling?’ It’s a way to ask if the lady wears House of Bliss and to let others know the one asking does.

  She paused to think. “And I would be able to spot a House of Bliss corset from several paces, but of course, no one I know would leave their corset uncovered. At least not in polite society.”

  Jeremy stood to leave. “Give me about two hours before you come into the morgue. Ask for me at the duty station.”

  Sabrina put her hand on her heart. Was it beating as quickly as she thought? It was not going to be her typical work day.

  Chapter 7

  Same Afternoon

  As soon as Sabrina left the house, Felicity dressed, put the baby down for a nap and elicited a promise from Cath to watch the child while she went out for a few hours. Initially, Cath looked surprised as Sophia’s mother hadn’t left the house in nearly a week.

  “I must go see about my elderly auntie,” Felicity explained. “She’s doing poorly, and I fear we may lose her soon. You understand.”

  Cath clutched her heart. “But of course, Miss, I do understand. The baby will be well looked after,” she said.

  Felicity chose one of Sabrina’s more sophisticated daytime dresses, a barely used pair of leather boots and a tan cashmere coat from the closet. Cath and Walters had given her access and free rein—indeed, they urged her to wear the things Sabrina no longer would. She wrapped a large, heavy silk scarf around her neck to complete the outfit.

  Once outside, Felicity walked about three blocks to a public taxi stand. The driver paused when she gave him the Spitalfields address, but she pretended not to notice. The ride was comfortable, but she knew her departure from Spitalfields would be less agreeable—it would be on foot or by omnibus, as the for hire transports were rare in the dark, dangerous and criminal neighborhoods of Spitalfields.

  After dropping her off, the driver left quickly. Felicity walked down five stone stairs and descended into the semi-darkness of an uneven brick walkway leading to the basement flats. She knocked lightly on the first blue wooden door set back in an alcove below street level. The narrow path continued, revealing six such doors, all painted blue. A bare bulb in the middle of the walkway lit half of the area, leaving Felicity in a dusk-like shroud of shadow. She heard the latch being turned inside.

  Bel Glyver leaned wearily against the doorframe, her thin body blending into the dirty oat-colored walls next to her.

  “I came as soon as I could,” Felicity whispered, sliding inside and locking the door behind her. “I’ll make us some tea.”

  “I’ve run out of tea, I’m afraid, dear.” Bel’s voice was hoarse.

  “And that’s why I’ve arrived just in time,” Felicity said with a smile. “I’ve brought tea and a few other wonders.”

  Bel closed her eyes and sat with her face in her hands, elbows on the small table. “I’m not getting better,” she whispered.

  Felicity put the kettle on the metal grate over a small fire. She looked around. “Is there no more wood, darling?”

  Bel shoo
k her head in negation. “The boy comes around later today, but…”

  Felicity moved toward Bel, bent down and put her arms around her. “Sweet sister, don’t worry. I’ll leave you enough for wood. And before I leave the neighborhood, I’ll have Mrs. McCarthy send over milk, a loaf of soda bread and a tin or two of sardines. You like sardines, now, don’t you?”

  Bel nodded. They drank their tea in silence as Bel devoured the biscuits her sister had brought. “I’d have brought more, and will next time,” Felicity said taking two oranges out of her bag, “but I’m new to the house, and—”

  “Is she kind to you?”

  “Yes, terribly kind,” Felicity said. “And to Sophia.”

  “My baby, is she well?”

  “She’s completely healthy and Miss Blissdon had a doctor come in and take a look at her. She sleeps all night, and she eats well.”

  “You haven’t told Sabrina have you?”

  “No. No, I haven’t. But I worry that she’ll want more of my story soon enough. What should I tell her, Bel?”

  “Not a word.” The flash of fear in her eyes softened then to a glow. “Because I will not rest unless I know you and Sophia are safe. I felt she would take you in.”

  “Darling, you don’t look well, but do you think you’re worse?”

  “I’m a bit weak is all. The blood problems after Sophia was born weakened me. That’s all I meant.”

  “Bel, can you please not continue to work? Within a few weeks, I will be able to perform some seamstress work for Miss Blissdon. She doesn’t yet know I can sew.”

  Bel shook her head. “What have you found out about the divorce settlement? Is there any way I can force him to continue payments?”

  Felicity stood up and walked to the fireplace for more water for tea. She poured it into the pot over the used tea leaves and covered the pot with a worn tea cozy. If she let the brew steep long enough, it wouldn’t taste too weak.