‘Not that I noticed. The weather must have kept even that lot indoors.’
‘The grapevine seems to be in excellent working order,’ Salter said. ‘The ghouls are here and we haven’t even looked at the body yet.’ He nodded to a cluster of people standing across the street, huddled beneath umbrellas.
‘News like this won’t ever stay quiet,’ Riley said. ‘No newspaper men sniffing around, I trust?’ he added, turning to Peterson for clarification.
‘Not so far as I am aware, sir.’
‘Long may it last,’ Riley muttered, more in hope than expectation.
They stepped into a small ante-room with a desk on one side and what appeared to be a cloakroom the other. The desk, Riley knew, would be manned by a porter-cum-bodyguard, to whom customers would be required to give their names, always supposing the porter didn’t recognise them.
Peterson opened the door onto a long and narrow reception room which had probably originally been the entrance vestibule. Their footsteps echoed on the marble floor as Riley took in his surroundings. A galleried landing accessed by a wide, sweeping staircase spanned three sides of the hall—a voyeur’s paradise. There were ornate chandeliers at either end of the room and more discreet lamps lining the walls at regular intervals. The space was lavishly and expensively furnished with chaise-lounges dotted about. Extravagant floral arrangements gave off an intoxicating aroma. A credenza bearing crystal glasses and a variety of decanters sat against one wall. A small doorway led from the far end of the room to the back of the house probably giving access to the kitchens, enabling servants to preserve the clientele’s stamina by keeping them fed and watered.
The space could be mistaken for a drawing room in a superior household, Riley thought, but for the fact that the walls were adorned with thick red embossed paper and a series of salacious yet oddly tasteful sketches of females in various states of undress. Upon closer inspection, some of the smaller paintings proved to depict couples in positions that would be physically impossible to replicate. The crimson paper ended at ceiling level with a cornice of erotic engravings. There were several alcoves partially hidden from view with full length mirrors on three sides of the chaises that occupied them. Marble statues of artistically posed couples featured, as did pillars that probably served as more than decorative supports. Privacy, Riley suspected, was not a necessary requisite for the denizens of this particular establishment. They were exhibitionists, and the girls employed to entertain them were not too particular about where those entertainments took place, or who watched them.
‘Blimey,’ Salter said, scratching his head.
‘Where is everyone?’ Riley asked, turning towards Peterson for clarification.
‘All the occupants of the house are together in the salon,’ Peterson replied, pointing towards a closed door. ‘I told Harper to stay in there with ’em and make a note of anything they say, like.’
‘Good thinking, Peterson. I will talk to them in a moment. But first, I’d best see the body.’
‘This way, sir. We checked to make sure she’s dead.’ Peterson shuddered ‘Not much doubt about that, but I thought it best to follow procedures. Then we locked the door, made everyone else go downstairs and waited for you to get here.’
‘You did well,’ Riley replied, nodding his approval. ‘I take it there were no gentlemen on the premises, given that the body was found this morning.’
‘No, sir. Only the man what lives here. He seems to perform the duties of butler and guard combined.’ Riley nodded. ‘This is it, sir.’
Peterson stopped in front of the door in the centre of the first floor, clearly one of the principal rooms. Riley took a quick stock of his surroundings. They were now standing on the galleried landing, looking down on the salon below. There were five similar doors leading off from the landing, implying that up to six ladies worked from individual rooms at any one time. Whether they were the same ladies who took care of the communal entertainments below Riley had yet to establish. A further, far less pretentious staircase led to the third floor. That presumably was where the ladies lived and slept, and where Mrs Sinclair had her private quarters.
Peterson removed the key from his pocket, opened the door to the room containing the murdered girl and stood back.
‘Thank you, Peterson. Have photographs been taken?’
‘Yes, sir. The police photographer had to go on elsewhere but he was finished here so I said it would be all right.’
‘It was. Go back to your post downstairs and show the doctor up as soon as he arrives.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The metallic smell of blood assailed Riley’s nostrils even before he took in the tragic figure, semi-clad, lying in the centre of the bed, her throat slit neatly from ear to ear. Drying blood was everywhere. Pooled on the bed, running down the sheets to the rugs on the floor, splashed up the walls. A vicious crime committed in anger or for revenge, were Riley’s initial thoughts. He held a handkerchief to his nose, regretting that the pouring rain excluded the possibility of opening a window. He pulled aside the partially closed curtains, revealing a long garden, neatly maintained and dominated by a statue appropriately depicting Aphrodite. He pulled the top sash window down an inch and felt immediate relief.
He then forced himself to examine the body with a clinical eye, lamenting the waste of such a young life. The girl couldn’t have been more than twenty, and was breathtakingly beautiful even in death. A glorious cascade of golden hair was spread beneath her, some of it stained with her own blood. Her complexion was flawless and her eyes stared lifelessly upwards—cerulean blue clouded by the mask of death.
‘Such a waste,’ Riley said, articulating his thoughts with a sad little shake of his head. ‘What are your initial observations, Salter?’
‘Rigor mortis has set in, sir,’ he said, pointing to the girl’s fingers, clenched into rigid claws. ‘So she must have died late last night or early this morning.’
Riley nodded. ‘Anything else?’
Salter prowled around the bed, avoiding the blood that had spilled onto the rug. ‘A couple of her fingernails are broken, but all the others are well manicured.’ He gazed thoughtfully at Riley. ‘She tried to fight off her attacker. There are defensive scratches on her forearms.’
‘Very good.’ Riley glanced at the neatly lined floggers, canes and whips situated in a cupboard in one corner of the room, the door to which was flung wide, and let out a soft whistle. ‘Of course, she could have acquired those wounds during the course of her professional activities.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Salter looked astounded when his gaze also fell upon the paraphernalia. ‘I thought women like her were employed to do the flogging, not take it.’
‘I think the client gets what he pays for. Most of the men, I would imagine, prefer to be on the receiving end but some like to dish it out too. Dr Maynard will be able to tell us, I expect.’
‘Did I hear someone take my name in vain?’ Dr Maynard, police pathologist and social climber, slipped into the room. ‘Dreadful weather. Will this rain ever stop? Good morning, Lord Riley. Oh, I say, the poor girl.’
‘Since the cause is death is obvious,’ Riley replied, ‘perhaps you can give an estimate as to the time.’
Maynard gave a sage nod. ‘Judging by the early onset of rigor and the fact that this room is warm, I’d say no more than eight hours.’
Riley pulled his half-hunter watch from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Given that it’s now ten in the morning, you imagine she was still alive at about two o’clock?’
‘These establishments do a roaring trade late at night, but business would have been dying off by then—if you’ll excuse the pun, inspector.’ Maynard scratched his head and continued. ‘Whoever killed her probably knew she’d be missed if he did the deed any earlier.’
‘Implying that it was planned?’
Maynard held up a hand to ward off Riley’s questions. ‘That’s your department, Lord Riley, not mine. I dea
l in medical facts.’
‘But you know about the hours these places keep,’ Salter muttered. ‘What’s that got to do with medicine?’
‘Right then, Maynard,’ Riley said, sending his sergeant a look of admonishment. ‘We’ll leave you to it. You can have the body removed as soon as you’re ready. Then we shall need Carter and Soames to conduct a thorough search of this room.’ Riley referred to the two detective constables who routinely worked with him. ‘Where are they?’ he asked, turning to Salter for clarification. ‘Shouldn’t they be here by now?’
‘They were finishing up the interviews from the Barking enquiry. I’ve left word for them to join us here as soon as they get back.’
‘Right. Well then, let’s see what Mrs Sinclair has to say for herself.’
Riley took a final look around the room before leaving it. The walls were lined with sketches that were even more graphic than those in the communal parts of the house. There were full length mirrors everywhere and a small alcove covered by a curtain in one corner. Riley pulled it back and found items of feminine clothing—working attire, judging by its flimsy nature—neatly piled there. He was unable to decide whether it belonged to the victim or one of the other ladies who worked on the premises. He also had no way of knowing if the victim had been wearing it but removed it at her killer’s request. Instinctively he doubted the possibility. He couldn’t imagine a courtesan in the heat of the moment removing clothing and neatly piling it in this subtle little alcove.
So many questions as yet unanswered. He picked through the garments, but there was nothing that might have belonged to a gentleman. Another door led to a bathroom with a huge tub and more paraphernalia pursuant to its occupant’s profession. Riley didn’t have the first idea what use it would be put to. Neither, judging by his perplexed and somewhat disapproving expression, did his sergeant.
‘The question is, Salter,’ Riley said, thoughtfully, ‘whom was she entertaining? She must have been with someone, or at least expecting a client to join her, because she’s wearing her working clothes.’ He nodded towards the corpse, clad in a lacy corset, a flimsy robe and, as far as he could see, absolutely nothing else. ‘Let’s hope Mrs Sinclair can enlighten us.’
Riley led the way back down the wide staircase and entered the salon—another long, narrow room—into which the residents of the house had been contained. Harper’s cheeks, Riley was amused to notice, were red enough to compete with the walls in the room. One glance around the assembled company and it was immediately apparent why. The ladies who lived on the premises had been asleep when the body was discovered, awoken presumably by the screams of whoever had found her. Given their profession, they were not shy and hadn’t seen the need to throw anything other than flimsy shawls over their equally flimsy and revealing night attire. Poor Harper would never be the same again!
There was a maid with a white face and red eyes, shuddering in one corner. An older lady, a cook or housekeeper perhaps, kept patting her shoulder. ‘There, there,’ she repeated. ‘There, there.’ The only man in the room was large, menacing and clearly not at all happy that one of the girls he was responsible for protecting had been killed without him being aware of it.
‘Mrs Sinclair?’ Riley asked, looking around him expectantly.
A lady of perhaps thirty-five, impeccably dressed and perfectly coiffured despite the early hour and tragic circumstances, stood and sent Riley an amused glance. Now that he’d seen her, he wondered how he’d overlooked her in the first place. She cut an impressive figure and had an air of authority about her.
‘Lord Riley, if I am not mistaken,’ she said. ‘We are honoured.’
Riley probably looked as discomposed as he felt. He heard Salter failing to smother a chuckle and sent him a sideways look. ‘We are acquainted?’ he asked.
‘Even women in my line of work know how to read,’ she replied calmly. ‘An account of your tracking down the murderer of that poor debutante was all over the newspapers.’
‘You are Mrs Cora Sinclair.’
The woman inclined her head. ‘That is the name I am known by, yes.’
Probably not her real name, Riley thought. He glanced at the five semi-clad women reclining on various sofas, all of whom were watching him with predatory eyes. None of them, including Mrs Sinclair, seemed especially disturbed by the brutal crime that had been committed beneath their noses. Or for the loss of the unfortunate victim, for that matter.
‘Perhaps we can start with all your names,’ Riley said calmly, nodding at Salter who had already extracted notepad and pencil from his pocket. ‘Then I shall want to speak with each of you individually. But first, the name of the victim, if you please.’
The weeping maid cried out and then went back to her monotonous sobbing.
‘Her name was Adelaide,’ Mrs Sinclair replied calmly. ‘She was in great demand. I do not know how I will replace her.’
Chapter Two
Riley noticed a disgruntled look pass between several of the girls when Mrs Sinclair spoke, confirming his initial impression that Adelaide’s popularity had caused jealousy and resentment within their ranks.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Now, Mrs Sinclair, perhaps there is somewhere you and I can speak in private.’
‘Yes, if you would like to come with me.’
‘Or me,’ said a stunningly beautiful woman with skin the colour of caramel, a waterfall of thick black hair and mischievous green catlike eyes. She accompanied her words with a confident smile and pulled her shoulders back to accentuate full breasts barely concealed beneath a thin layer of satin. Her colleagues smirked and rolled their eyes.
Riley ignored the remark, but Salter turned to her. ‘You and the rest of your friends can form an orderly queue for a turn with me and the constables,’ he said, eliciting a sarcastic ‘Oooooh’ of mock anticipation from the collected women. Riley admired Salter’s approach. Dispel the tension, get them onside and they’d be bound to offer up more information. ‘Just stay where you are for now, girls,’ Salter continued. ‘Someone will be along to take your details in a while. In the meantime, Constable Harper will keep you company.’
‘We’ll start givin’ ’im our particulars, shall we?’ another women said, batting her lashes extravagantly at the hapless Harper. Riley almost smiled at the look of dismay that crossed Harper’s face, well aware that the women would behave mercilessly once they got their claws into such an innocent. It would be good for him. Harper would have to toughen up if he intended to pursue a career in law enforcement.
‘That’s an excellent idea. Thank you.’ Riley turned towards Harper. ‘Just take names for now, Harper.’
Harper swallowed and nodded, a condemned man braving his fate.
‘That wasn’t kind of you, sir,’ Salter said in an undertone as he and Riley followed Mrs Sinclair from the room. ‘Harper is a religious man.’
‘So am I, Salter, after a fashion, but if he can’t put his personal feelings aside and perform his duties in a professional manner then he’ll be of no help to me.’ Riley hung back so that Mrs Sinclair couldn’t hear their conversation and fixed his sergeant with a probing look, sensing that Salter also disapproved of the women’s line of work. ‘That goes for everyone else involved with this case, including you. It doesn’t matter how Adelaide lived, or whether we approve of the choices she made, she still didn’t deserve to be brutally murdered and we will investigate her death just as vigorously as we would any other. Are we clear?’
‘Crystal, sir,’ Salter replied curtly.
‘Carter and Soames have arrived, sir,’ Peterson stepped forward, breaking the uneasy tension between Riley and his sergeant. ‘They have gone upstairs to commence their search. Oh, and the body’s been removed.’
‘Thank you, Peterson,’ Riley said. ‘Stay alert and don’t let anyone in who has no business being here.’
‘You can depend on me, sir.’
‘It’s this way.’ Mrs Sinclair led them across the
entrance hall into a small room at the back of the ground floor, an office of sorts that served as Mrs Sinclair’s private domain. Unlike the rest of the house, the decorations were utilitarian—practical rather than elaborate. There was a desk with neat piles of papers adorning its surface and a small cluster of mismatched chairs around an empty grate. The small window looked out onto a side alley. The house’s narrow frontage was definitely deceptive. Its rooms, with the exception of the entrance hall, were not wide but they were long, allowing for the number of chambers on the first floor—which Riley assumed were sufficiently commodious to accommodate the needs of even the most athletic of clients.
‘Be seated, gentlemen.’ Mrs Sinclair led by example, taking the chair closest to the fireplace. She drew a woollen shawl around her shoulders, making no apology for the austerity of the room. ‘This is a sad business,’ she said.
But Riley suspected that her main consideration was for the reputation of her establishment and the effect the death might have upon repeat custom.
‘Can you tell us Adelaide’s real name?’ Riley asked.
‘I can, but before I do so, may I ask how far-reaching your investigation is likely to be?’
Riley understood her concerns and decided to lay his cards on the table. ‘I am as anxious as you are to bring the person responsible for this crime to justice,’ he told her. ‘Rest assured that I have no intention of charging you for living off immoral earnings.’
‘But we could do,’ Salter growled, ‘if’n we don’t think you’re cooperating.’
‘It hadn’t occurred to me that you would consider doing such a thing, especially since it would be impossible for you to prove.’ Her lips pinched together and her expression turned shrewish, calculating. She no longer looked so attractive. ‘Not to say exceedingly embarrassing for the careers and reputations of some of the gentlemen who come here to enjoy my soirees.’
‘Your soirees are the talk of London,’ Riley replied, prepared to accept that Mrs Sinclair’s first thought was for her own survival but still surprised by the veiled threat. She could destroy the reputations of some of London’s leading figures and wanted to be sure that Riley knew it. ‘Now then, I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that the irreplaceable Adelaide’s body was until moments ago lying in the chamber above our heads.’
Death of a Courtesan: Riley Rochester Investigates Page 2