by Robin Paige
The Star,
Friday 31 August, 1888
Charles took a cup of steaming tea from Kate and settled back in his chair. The drawing room at Bishop’s Keep was a modest room—the Ardleighs had apparently been given to entertaining a few intimate friends, rather than a throng—but it was quite pleasant, with tall, well-proportioned windows, a high ceiling, Turkish carpets on the parquet floor, and the gas wall sconces whose installation he himself had directed. A fire burned brightly in the large fireplace, and across from him, on the sofa, sat two very beautiful ladies, both wearing the loose and flowing tea gowns that were currently in fashion. His eyes lingered for a moment on the one with the unruly mane of auburn hair, the steady hazel-green eyes, the decisive chin, whom he loved beyond all power of expression. He smiled at her, then turned to the other. She was attempting to hide, not very successfully, a pained distress.
“I am so grateful,” she said in a low voice, “that you have allowed me to come for another visit.”
Kate leaned forward. “Allowed you!” she exclaimed with a little laugh, her face alight with pleasure. “We’re delighted that you chose to come.” Jennie Churchill was a woman of wit and charm and a sparkling zest for life, and Charles knew that Kate had enjoyed her earlier visit enormously. “I’m anxious to hear about your progress with Maggie,” Kate added. “Does she have a proper name yet? And has Mr. Raeburn located a publisher?”
Jennie seemed to brighten. “I’ve been considering your proposal of The Anglo-Saxon Review,” she said. “Winston doesn’t favor it, but Mr. Raeburn agrees that it’s a fine title, as does Pearl Craigie. I think you know Pearl’s work—she writes under the name of John Oliver Hobbes. She has offered a short play for the second or third issue. And yes, it appears that we may have found a publisher, a Mr. John Lane. I am hoping that the first issue will appear next June, if we are successful in attracting sufficient subscribers.”
“I have been thinking,” Kate said, “that a French contributor to each number might add to the international interest.”
“Well, then,” Jennie said, “what would you say to Paul Bourget? He is as well known in England as he is in France and America, and a friend. I think I could impose on him for a piece. I should also like to have a scientific article. I am trying to get Professor Lodge to write something on wireless telegraphy.” She made a little face. “Although the good professor is not very cooperative.”
“Charles,” Kate said eagerly, “couldn’t you ask your friend Mr. Marconi to write something for Jennie’s magazine?” In explanation, she added, to Jennie, “Charles is quite well acquainted with Mr. Marconi, the inventor of the wireless. He has a laboratory at Chelmsford, which is only twenty or so miles away.”
“I should be glad to inquire,” Charles said. He had been listening with interest to the ladies’ conversation. Jennie Churchill was no intellectual, but she was intelligent and well-informed and enormously energetic. In fact, in Charles’s view, it was her energy and spirited engagement, rather than her beauty, that set her apart from the idle women of her class, most of whom watched the world go by with a remote and indifferent lassitude. However she invested that vigorous energy—whether in Winston’s high-flown political aspirations or her own ambitious publishing project—she was sure to realize at least some of her goals.
“That’s very kind of you, Charles,” Jennie said. “Please do ask Mr. Marconi if he is interested—and if not, perhaps you would care to offer an article.” She paused, and a darker look crossed her face. “But Maggie isn’t the reason I’ve come.” She glanced under her lashes at Charles. “As you know, the Countess of Warwick and I are friends. She didn’t confide details, but I understand that you and Kate were instrumental in retrieving a certain ... indiscreet letter that came to her from the Prince.” Her smile was gone as quickly as it came. “I am in a similar painful situation, with a potentially ruinous outcome, not only for myself but for Winston, whose political career may hang in the balance. I’ve come to ask your help.”
Charles maintained an untroubled expression, but inwardly he was irritated. If Jennie Churchill wanted him to recover a purloined love letter, he would have to disappoint her. He was not going to become Society’s all-purpose sleuth, covering up the muck of misbegotten love affairs.
He held out his empty cup to Kate, who refilled it from the silver urn on the tea table. “If you are in need of a detective, I can recommend a man who is retired from the Yard. You will find him perfectly discreet and extremely able. If it is your letter you wish to recover—”
“You have misunderstood.” Jennie met Charles’s eyes with a candor and determination so fierce that it shook him. “I am speaking about a terrible blackmail.” She looked away, toward the fire. “The blackmailer’s claims are utterly ridiculous. They cannot possibly be true. But even so long after Randolph’s death, many would be willing to believe anything about him. If the thing ever becomes public—” Her voice nearly broke. “The taint will damn Winston before he has had a chance to demonstrate his own merit. His political hopes for himself—and mine for him—will be ruined beyond redemption. He will never sit in Parliament.”
“The blackmail has to do with Lord Randolph?” Charles asked. Randy had never been well liked except by a small circle of friends who shared his interests in horses and gaming, or admired his audacious political maneuverings. The man had made a great many enemies in his forty-five years, in both high and low places. It wouldn’t be hard to imagine some of them engaging in a spot of blackmail.
Jennie’s response was measured, but her voice held such tension that it nearly vibrated. “The blackmailer claims to have proof that Randolph was Jack the Ripper.”
Kate’s cup rattled in its saucer. “Jack the Ripper?”
Charles felt relieved. Randolph Churchill had led an unruly life, and there were many charges against which he could not be defended. He did not think this was one of them.
Jennie picked up the reticule she had brought downstairs with her and took out a square of paper, which showed signs of much folding and unfolding. She handed the paper to Charles. “Read this.”
The note was written in a scrawling, almost childish hand and adorned with several ink blots. It was neither signed nor dated. Charles read aloud:“‘Dear Lady Randolph:
Your late husband may now be beyond the reach of the law, but the sins of the fathers are visited on the sons. I know who killed Mary Kelly and the others. My silence is worth one hundred pounds, which you will pay to the boy who calls for it tomorrow. If you don’t, the world will know the true identity of Jack the Ripper.
Yrs respectfully,
A. Byrd’”
Charles folded the note and handed it back. “The Ripper, eh? Well, I don’t suppose it’s anything to bother yourself very much about. Anyone who knows the family will pass it off as libelous. If you hear any more from this chap, I suggest that you ask your solicitor to track him down and give his nose a good twist.” He raised one eyebrow. “You said something about proof?”
Jennie put the note back into her reticule. “That is his claim,” she said evasively. “But you are probably right.” She composed an uneasy smile. “I fear I have been rather silly about this ridiculous business.”
Kate frowned. “Jennie, I don’t think—”
Jennie turned to Kate with a brittle cheer that failed to deceive. “Dear Kate,” she said, “I have been dying to hear about Beryl Bardwell’s next novel. What can you tell me?”
7
Bloody Murder! Man Discovered Stabbed!!
Mr. Tom Finch, a resident of Number 2 Cleveland Street, Fitzrovia, was discovered dead in his lodgings on Saturday. The dead man, who had been brutally stabbed in the back, was found by the deceased’s landlady, face-down on his luncheon table. Police have learned that a veiled lady was seen entering Mr. Finch’s rooms in the afternoon, before the discovery of the gruesome murder. The lady’s name remains unknown to this time, although an identification is expected shortly. A police i
nvestigation is underway.
Daily Telegraph,
14 November, 1898
Lieutenant George Cornwallis-West stared at the item buried on the fourth page of the newspaper, his breath coming as fast as if he were running from a pack of howling dogs. Around him flowed the usual Monday commerce of the Bachelors Club, frock-coated City men brokering business, dandies brokering the latest gossip, uniformed Regimentals discussing the Egyptian campaign, liveried footmen, lively pageboys. But George, sitting on the leather sofa with the Telegraph and a brandy, was oblivious to everything but the page in front of him. Jaw clenched, heart pounding, he read the short piece for the third time, trying to get control of himself.
So someone else had spotted her going into that wretched place! Damn the rotten luck! Name unknown ... although identification expected shortly. Of course she would be identified. It was a bloody marvel she hadn’t been recognized at once, on the spot, from the photographs of her that frequently appeared in shop windows—all too often, for his taste, for she had been, like his mother, one of the P.B.’s, the professional beauties. But his mother had aged with time, while Jennie was ageless, like a fine painting or a precious necklace. He’d overheard a pair of old snaggle-tooths chattering just last week, when she’d come back from Sandringham and he’d met her at the train station.
“That angel,” cooed one of them enviously. “‘Oo is she?”
“Why, ye silly!” the other scoffed. “She’s Lady Randolph Churchill, she is. Don’t ye ‘ave eyes in yer witless ’ead? ’Oo cud mistake such a beauty?”
Who indeed, George thought despairingly. No one who had ever seen Jennie Churchill could fail to remember that face—those extraordinary eyes (the eyes of a panther, someone had said), the suppressed sensuality of her mouth, the exquisitely smooth skin. Or that perfect shape, those incomparable shoulders, that generous bust, truly the form of a goddess. As long as he lived, if he lived an entire century, he would never forget their first meeting, the way she had taken his hand, the awareness in her eyes, the smile on her full, ready lips. He had fallen wholly and hopelessly in love with her at that moment, and from then until now his heart and his body—his soul, even!—had been hers alone.
It had been June, at one of those fabulous weekend parties at Warwick Castle, with around-the-clock entertainment and enormous quantities of food and drink, the guests left to as much friendly intercourse as they wished. George had been pleased to receive the countess’s invitation but a trifle discomfited as well, for the First Battalion was in the midst of a musketry course and normally he’d have a devil of a time getting excused. But the Prince of Wales was to be a guest at the party, and an invitation to join His Royal Highness (who was also George’s godfather) almost amounted to a command. Colonel Hamilton had given him grudging leave and he’d taken himself off to Warwick, where the countess had introduced him to Jennie—who was forty-four to his twenty-two, someone had whispered, although he’d scarcely believed it, for she didn’t look a day more than thirty. She was vivacious and boldly flirtatious, and he—who had kissed only the childish cupid’s-bow mouths of fragile, wide-eyed young innocents—had been utterly overwhelmed by her frank sensuality. They had drifted down the Avon in a rowboat, he leaning manfully on the oars, she lying in the shade of her white lace parasol, her fingers trailing in the water, her dark-lashed eyes never leaving his. It was an hour that George, whose deeply romantic spirit had been touched by this marvel of a woman, would forever treasure.
Two days later, back with the First, he wrote Jennie a letter decorated with hearts: “I thought about you all yesterday & built castles in the air about you & I living together.” A boy’s naive letter, perhaps, but conceived in a man’s passion, a passion made bold by her passion, the merest thought of which never failed to reduce George to helpless trembling.
Their meetings—first at one country weekend, then another—continued through the summer. They took tea and listened to the military band in Burton’s Court, the large green in front of the Royal Hospital at Chelsea, where the Guards played cricket. They went for pleasant walks and rode together, their time interrupted only by George’s tedious military duties, such as guarding the Bank of England.
George knew that Jennie was conscious of the great difference in their ages and hesitant to make any sort of serious commitment to him, but her reluctance only fueled his growing obsession, as did his parents’ opposition. His mother, who had successfully married both her daughters into wealthy families, pointed out sarcastically that Jennie’s friends were known to be fast, that her lovers were too many to count, and that George was just sixteen days older than her son Winston. His father reminded him that he was meant to make himself agreeable to Mary Golet, an American heiress whose fortune could remove the family’s entire burden of debt and rebuild Ruthin Castle (the family home in Denbighshire) into the bargain. In no circumstance was George to pursue an impecunious widow who had slept with half the men in the Empire.
But his parents’ displeasure only strengthened George’s passionate resolve. He wrote to Jennie daily, telegraphed her, begged her to see him when she seemed to respond coolly, fearing all the while that she might be romantically involved with someone else: Major Ramsden, perhaps, that Highlander with whom she had visited Egypt a few months before; or the filthy rich American, Astor. Whenever he heard her name linked with another man’s—and he heard this far too often, for her romantic escapades delighted all the gossips—he became wild with an uncontrollable jealousy. She was too beautiful, too cosmopolitan, too much of the world’s to be his, and yet she must be his and his alone, or he would go stark, staring mad!
In early September, to George’s enormous relief, his battalion of Scots Guards was transferred to London. Now that he could press his demands on her, Jennie gave in. While she seemed reluctant to be seen about town with him, she began entertaining him alone at her home in Great Cumberland Place. There, in private, she wore the soft, loose kimonos that seemed to him incredibly seductive and exotic, made of the stuff of dreams, her body the stuff of yet other dreams, even more seductive, more exotic. He sighed and closed his eyes, feeling warm. Surely, where this goddess was concerned, his fierce and ungovernable jealousy could be understood and even forgiven, although it led him to do dreadful things. But surely not so dreadful, given his passion. He loved Jennie desperately, lived only for the moments he could hold her in his arms. He had sworn himself to do anything in his power to protect her from harm, from insult, from other men. Surely, then—
Two stout fellows with Havana cigars passed in front of the sofa, loudly debating the merits of the Royal Navy’s shipbuilding policy, which, one insisted, had already allowed the Kaiser to get the upper hand. George’s eyes snapped open, and there was the newspaper in front of him, with its story of the discovery of Finch’s body, and he was once again in the depths of despair, thinking not only of the appalling sight Jennie had seen—seen with those lovely, pure eyes, which should never have looked on such bloody mayhem!—but that she herself had been seen and would surely be identified and hauled before some odious magistrate in some awful courtroom to explain the unexplainable : how it was that she knew the dead man, why it was that she had happened to call on him so soon after he had been visited by a murderer, who she suspected of doing the deed—
George’s stomach heaved. He was not only violently jealous but wildly imaginative, and he had created that awful moment over and over again just as it must have happened, seeing the scene in his mind’s eye, witness to the moment of murder. That great, horn-handled knife plunged three times hilt-deep into the wretch’s back, the sound of the dying man’s gurgle and gasp as he pitched face down into his shepherd’s pie, the splash of ale as the jug tumbled off the table. Then the retreat down the stairs and—
George shuddered at the thought of it. For him, the worst part had been to see her arrive, believing as he did that she had come to visit a lover. To see her make the awful discovery, and flee without sounding the alarm—as su
rely she should have done, had she gone there on some innocent errand. He recalled it again, the moment she had stepped out of the cab. The day was cold and she was wearing a heavy woolen coat and veil of dark tulle, a perfect costume for an assignation.
But perhaps the very disguise that had sent him into a jealous rage would be her salvation, after all. Why, if he hadn’t known it was his precious Jennie, even he could not have said for certain it was she who climbed out of the hansom and mounted the stoop. George closed his eyes, recalling the furtive glance she had flung over her shoulder, the way she had slipped through the door without knocking, as if she were expected, as if she were accustomed to regularly calling there. And that, he acknowledged bitterly, was the root of his jealousy, the reason he had done what he did: the loathsome idea that his dearest darling Jennie had called regularly at Number Two and was intimate with Mr. Tom Finch.
But there had been no intimacy on that day. Not three minutes after she entered, while George fumed and waited and swore, the outer door had burst violently open and Jennie was fleeing down the steps and into the waiting cab and away, as if the hounds of hell were after her.
And then those hounds had turned on George and had been at his throat ever since. Their ferocity had only increased when he had discovered that Jennie had gone out of town, and that neither Winston nor the servants would tell him where she was.
8
Never have I received a really good report of your conduct in your work from any master or tutor you had from time to time to do with. Always behind-hand, never advancing in your class, incessant complaints of total want of application.... Do not think I am going to take the trouble of writing to you long letters after every failure.... I no longer attach the slightest weight to anything you may say about your own acquirements and exploits.