Death at Whitechapel
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Authors’ Notes
References
THE VICTORIAN MYSTERY SERIES BY ROBIN PAIGE
DEATH AT BISHOP’S KEEP
... In their first encounter, Kate Ardleigh and Sir Charles
Sheridan pursue separate solutions to a deadly puzzle involving
an occult society whose membership includes Conan Doyle.
DEATH AT GALLOWS GREEN
... Kate and Sir Charles find themselves attracted to one
another as they rescue a kidnapped child and solve the mystery
of a policeman’s brutal murder—along with the aid of Beatrix
Potter and Jemima Puddleduck.
DEATH AT DAISY’S FOLLY
... Kate and Sir Charles find murder, aristocratic corruption,
and romance at a countryhouse party held at the home of Daisy,
the Countess of Warwick, and attended by Daisy’s lover, the
Prince of Wales.
DEATH AT DEVIL’S BRIDGE
... The Sheridans, newly married, host a promotional motorcar
and balloon race for Charles Rolls and Henry Royce (of Rolls-Royce
automotive fame). Amid the hoopla and high jinks of the
early days of the British motorcar industry, the murder of a
racing-car driver occurs.
DEATH AT ROTTINGDEAN
... Lord and Lady Sheridan, in the company of Rudyard
Kipling, seek a quiet holiday at a quaint seaside village where
they discover murder and a bizarre smuggling conspiracy.
MORE PRAISE FOR ROBIN PAIGE’S
VICTORIAN MYSTERIES ...
“Absolutely riveting ... An extremely articulate, genuine mystery, with well-drawn, compelling characters.” —Meritorious Mysteries
“An adventure worth reading.”—Romantic Times
The Victorian and Edwardian Mysteries by Robin Paige
DEATH AT BISHOP’S KEEP
DEATH AT GALLOWS GREEN
DEATH AT DAISY’S FOLLY
DEATH AT DEVIL’S BRIDGE
DEATH AT ROTTINGDEAN
DEATH AT WHITECHAPEL
DEATH AT EPSOM DOWNS
DEATH AT DARTMOOR
DEATH AT GLAMIS CASTLE
DEATH IN HYDE PARK
DEATH AT BLENHEIM PALACE
DEATH ON THE LIZARD
China Bayles Mysteries by Susan Wittig Albert
THYME OF DEATH
WITCHES’ BANE
HANGMAN’S ROOT
ROSEMARY REMEMBERED
RUEFUL DEATH
LOVE LIES BLEEDING
CHILE DEATH
LAVENDER LIES
MISTLETOE MAN
BLOODROOT
INDIGO DYING
AN UNTHYMELY DEATH
A DILLY OF A DEATH
DEAD MAN’S BONES
BLEEDING HEARTS
CHINA BAYLES’ BOOK OF DAYS
Beatrix Potter Mysteries by Susan Wittig Albert
THE TALE OF HILL TOP FARM
THE TALE OF HOLLY HOW
THE TALE OF CUCKOO BROW WOOD
Nonfiction books by Susan Wittig Albert
WRITING FROM LIFE
WORK OF HER OWN
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England
Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Mairangi Bay, Auckland 1311, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,
South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
DEATH AT WHITECHAPEL
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the authors.
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / February 2000
Copyright © 2000 by Susan Wittig and William J. Albert.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 9781440672965
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
PRIME CRIME Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design
are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
http://us.penguingroup.com
Version_3
Acknowledgments
We are grateful to Ruby Hild and her late husband, Ron Hild, who introduced us to Dedham, the River Stour, and the beauties of Essex. Thanks, too, to the legion of Ripperologists without whose diligent research and imaginative speculations we could not have devised this plot. And thanks, as well, to the loyal readers who have encouraged us in the creation of these historical mysteries.
Robin Paige
a.k.a. Bill and Susan Albert
Cast of Characters
Lord Charles Sheridan, Baron of Somersworth
Lady Kathryn Ardleigh Sheridan, Baroness of Somersworth and mistress of Bishop’s Keep
Jennie Jerome Churchill, Lady Randolph Churchill
Lieutenant Winston Churchill, Jennie’s older son
George Cornwallis-West, Jennie’s
lover
Manfred Raeburn, managing editor of The Anglo-Saxon Review
Fredrick Abberline, Detective Inspector, Scotland Yard (retired)
Walter sickert, artist, Number 13 Robert Street
Bradford Marsden, master of Marsden Manor
Mr. Hodge, butler, Bishop’s Keep
Sarah Pratt, cook, Bishop’s Keep
Mary Plumm, kitchen maid, Bishop’s Keep
Dick Pratt, Sarah’s husband
1
Dearest this is the only subject on which we ever fall out. If you only realised how little I have, & how impossible it is for me to get any more. I have raised all I can, & I assure you unless something extraordinary turns up I see ruin staring me in the face.
LADY RANDOLPH CHURCHILL to Winston Spencer Churchill 5 March, 1897
35A Great Cumberland Place, London 3 October, 1898
Jennie Churchill opened the drawer of her writing desk and took out an envelope. Her mouth taut, dark brows pulled together, she counted the notes, feeling an enormous resentment, then sealed the envelope and addressed it, fiercely, to A. Byrd. She was done with it—until the next time.
The small black pug at her feet roused and looked up at her with an anxious expression, as if to ask what the matter was. The next time! Jennie picked up the little dog and held it close, rocking back and forth. “How much longer can this terrible thing go on, Caro?” she whispered. “And what in heaven’s name shall I do if he asks for even more? How can I—”
There was a rap at the door, and it opened. A slender young man wearing the dress uniform of the 21st Lancers stood in the doorway, stick in one hand, helmet under his arm.
“Hello, Mama,” he said.
“Darling boy!” Jennie cried. She put the pug down and leaped to her feet, holding out her arms. “What a relief!”
“Dearest Mama!” Winston threw aside his helmet and stick, strode across the carpet. “How wonderful to see your face at last!”
The two could scarcely have looked at each other, however, so close was their embrace. Eventually, this emotional greeting gave way to holding each other at arm’s length, each exclaiming how marvelous the other looked, then returning to the embrace again, and to more exclamations and more tears. After a time—a very long time—they seated themselves on the sofa, still quite close together. They made a striking pair: the son not yet twenty-four years of age, pale, with thin reddish-brown hair and his father’s protuberant eyes; the dark, elegant mother, astoundingly youthful at forty-four and renowned as one of the great beauties of England.
“I cannot tell you, my dear, dear Winston,” Jennie said gravely, “how frightened I have been for you.” She pushed her heavy dark hair away from her face with a shudder. “Omdurman—even the name conjures up fears. The news of the attack was in The Times on that Friday. I waited all through the day, and the next, for your telegram, which didn’t arrive until after luncheon on Sunday. Lady Grenfell sent word that the offensive against the fort had been successful and that we had suffered no casualties, but you can imagine my state.” She shook her head, making a wry face. “And to think how hard I worked to get around General Kitchener and get you posted to Egypt. And then, at the last, you had to pay your own expenses! I know it was your heart’s desire, but if anything had happened to you, I should have blamed myself.”
“To be sure, Mama.” Winston smiled. “You left no wire unpulled and no cutlet uncooked to put me into the Expeditionary Force. I shall be eternally grateful to you for giving me my chance to join a significant action. But you know my luck in these things. At Omdurman, I was under fire all day and survived without a scratch, not even a rip in my sleeve.”
“Thank God for that,” Jennie said.
Winston made a dramatic gesture. “I am sorry to say, however, that I shot five men, perhaps seven—although out of ten thousand dead Dervishes I don’t suppose my effort signifies. We lost only five officers and sixty-five men, but Colonel Rhodes was wounded and poor Hubert Howard was killed with a friendly shell. You cannot gild war. All the raw shows through.” He smiled faintly. “But I intend to settle down to writing another history—The War for the Waterway, I am calling it. You can read all the glorious details there.”
“I can wait,” Jennie said. “War is not my favorite subject—although of course, dear boy, I am all for anything you write, as you well know.” She patted his hand with a proud smile. “Your dispatches for Borthwick in the Morning Post have caught everyone’s eye, although I daresay General Kitchener is mightily miffed at your having written them. Your story of The Malakand Field Force has sold six thousand copies and is still strong, especially in India, where Lady Curzon says it is read by all the officers. Your agent, Mr. Watt, has sent you an accounting—it appears that you have already earned over three hundred pounds in royalties.”
“Three hundred pounds!” Winston’s smile was rueful. “That’s more than I would receive in four years as a subaltern, and the writing was done in a few weeks. As for Kitchener, I don’t care a fig for what he thinks of the Post dispatches. The glorious victory at Omdurman was disgraced by the slaughter of the wounded, for which he alone must be held to account. He may be a general, but never a gentleman.” The smile became a grumbling laugh. “In that direction lies my future, Mama—not in the sword, but in pen and in politics, speaking the truth as frankly and fully as is possible.”
“I don’t know about the truth,” Jennie said, “but I have no doubt about your political future. You have heard me say many times how anxious I am to see you in the Commons, taking up where your father left off.”
She paused, thinking of Randolph and what had gone into the envelope, and how much it cost her to defend him, not for his sake, certainly—she would not have lifted a finger to save her dead husband’s reputation—but for Winston’s. She would stop at nothing—nothing!—to enable Winston to fulfill the promise of leadership she knew he possessed. He knew this, but he also needed to know that she counted on him to help.
“I am very glad to see you earning something by your writing,” she said quietly. “I don’t suppose it’s necessary to remind you that every shilling is wanted. I fear that we are in dire straits.”
There was a moment’s silence. Winston bit his lip, while Jennie reflected on the grim truth of her words. Randolph had died nearly three years before, leaving an estate of some seventy-five thousand pounds. After his debts were paid, the remainder was put in trust for the boys, Winston and Jack. Although Jennie had been Randolph’s wife for twenty years, she had received precious little—only the horses, the household goods, and a meager five hundred pounds a year. It was all she would ever get of the Marlborough millions, for the old duchess would leave no more than a token to Jennie, whose American forthrightness she had never appreciated, or Jennie’s boys, of whom she was none too fond. Randolph’s slim legacy, added to the annual ten thousand dollars Jennie received from the rental of her father’s Manhattan mansion, was her entire income. For a woman in upper-class British society with two sons to support, it was not nearly enough to keep up appearances, much less do the other things Jennie wanted to do.
But Jennie was determined that no one—except her solicitor Lumley, and Winston, of course—should know the extent of her financial woes. She had taken a house in Great Cumberland Place, only a few blocks from Hyde Park, a fine seven-story house of Georgian design, albeit on the wrong side of Oxford Street, which somewhat reduced the cost. She had planned to economize on the furnishings and refurbishments, but the whole thing had needed painting, and hot water and electric light, the cost of which was appalling. Equally appalling was the cost of the multitude of servants required to staff the place and manage the dinner parties for which she had always been famous. And then there had been that deplorable business with Cruikshank, the fraud who had swindled her and her sisters out of more than four thousand pounds. The miserable wretch had been sent off to jail—eight years at hard labor—but not before he had spent all the money on fine living, making reco
very impossible.
Jennie’s financial situation was so precarious that she had not even been able to pay Winston’s allowance into the bank, and several of his checks had been dishonored. But of course he was as careless of his finances as she was of hers. In India he had lived far beyond the five hundred pounds he got from her and the fourteen shillings a day the Army paid him, and visited the native moneylenders on a quite regular basis.
Winston pushed his lips in and out. “I did hope,” he said, after a long silence, “that the loan Lumley arranged should have made things more comfortable for you.” He spoke carefully, not quite looking at her.
Jennie felt herself tense. At the beginning of the year, she had been forced to take out a loan for seventeen thousand pounds. Seventeen thousand! The size of the debt, and the impossibility of repaying even a small portion of it—still filled her with enormous anxiety. But equally hard was the rift the thing had caused between her and Winston. She had told him she needed the money to repay her many smaller notes and to settle some urgent dressmaker’s and jeweler’s bills—almost the whole truth, but not quite. He had taken the matter quite hard, for Lumley had unfortunately arranged the business so that Winston was required to guarantee seven hundred a year. The unfavorable contract wasn’t Lumley’s fault, of course. Her credit with the banks was so very bad, and she had already borrowed what she could from her friends.
Now Winston turned his head to look directly at her, and she saw that his pale eyes were hard as marbles. They reminded her, unhappily, of his father’s eyes. “I hoped,” he repeated, “that the loan should have made you more comfortable, Mama.”