The Last Hellion

by Loretta Chase

  And so she smiled, displaying an incomplete line of brown teeth. “Ainswood House is closed up and everyone’s gone,” she lied to her prisoners. “Looks like they’ve gone out hunting for you.” She shook her head. “A pair of runaways. Lucky for you I was the one who found you. There’s some as wouldn’t care if you was royalty. Finders keepers is some people’s motto. And do you know what some people does to little girls they find?”

  The older one drew the smaller one closer. “Yes, we know. We’ve read about it in the Argus.”

  “Then if you don’t want it to happen to you, I recommend you be good and quiet, and don’t give me no trouble.” She jerked her head toward the window. “You see where we are? It ain’t a elegant part of Town. All I got to do is open the door and say, ‘Anyone want a pair of pretty females?’—and you’re off my hands.”

  “You don’t want Corrie to do that,” Nell said, leaning toward the girls. “Whatever you read about what happens to young gals ain’t the half of it. There’s some things so horrible as they won’t even print ’em in the Police Gazette.”

  “I’ll take you where you’ll be safe,” Coralie said. “Long as you behave yourselves. And we’ll send word for ’em to come and fetch you. The quicker the better, I say. Gals who can’t earn their keep ain’t no good to me.”

  Tom had managed to keep on their trail for a good while, for few vehicles, especially a broken-down coach, could move speedily through the crowded streets. But caught in a gnarl of foot and vehicular traffic, he’d lost them near the Tower and was unable to pick up the trail again, despite hours of searching.

  It was late morning when he reported to Lydia. His description of the pair’s garb and sizes left no doubt it was Elizabeth and Emily. Lydia wished she’d had more doubt about its being Coralie who’d captured them, but there was no question of that. From Seven Dials to Stepney, there wasn’t a street arab who didn’t know the bawd—and who wasn’t wise enough to keep well away from her.

  After sending Tom down to the kitchen to eat, Lydia dispatched a messenger to Ainswood, telling him to drop everything and make for London posthaste.

  Then she led Tamsin and Bertie back into the library to formulate a plan of action.

  Until now, they’d been as discreet as possible about the search, for a number of reasons. Gently bred misses who broke Society’s rules by running away would be assumed to break other rules in the course of their flight. Their reputations would be damaged, if not ruined, if word got out.

  That, however, wasn’t the worst of risks. Grenville of the Argus had enemies. She hadn’t wanted her foes out looking for Elizabeth and Emily, and taking revenge on her via them. She’d made this clear to her spy network.

  At present, unfortunately, Ainswood’s wards were already in enemy hands.

  “We’ve no choice,” she told her companions. “We must post a large reward for their safe return and hope greed proves stronger than enmity.”

  She and Tamsin quickly composed the notice, and Bertie took it to the Argus offices. By now, today’s issue of the magazine would be printed. If it wasn’t, Macgowan was to stop the presses and print the handbills instead.

  While Bertie was gone, more messages went out, this time to Lydia’s private network of informants, seeking information regarding Coralie’s current hideout.

  “Not that I expect much results from that,” she told Tamsin when the task was done. “The body of one of her girls was pulled from the river days ago. And that’s hardly the first time Coralie’s been wanted for questioning and managed not to be found. She knows they won’t spend long looking for her. The police—such as they are—are overburdened, their resources are limited, and there’s precious little financial incentive to find the murderer of one little whore.”

  For income, Bow Street detectives, for instance, depended primarily upon reward money, public and private. The Crown wasn’t highly motivated to offer large rewards from public funds to solve such crimes as the murder of persons generally regarded as vermin. In such cases, private rewards were never offered.

  “Wherever she does make her lair, it must be somewhere in London,” Tamsin said. “She has to keep an eye on her girls.”

  “The trouble is, London is one of the easiest places in which to hide and not be found,” Lydia said. She summoned a servant and asked for her bonnet and spencer.

  “You’re not going out?” Tamsin exclaimed. “You can’t be meaning to search for her singlehanded.”

  “I’m going to Bow Street,” Lydia said. “We shan’t have any problem enlisting their help with this. But I want to speak to the officers as well as the hangers-on directly. They may be in possession of clues they don’t realize are clues.” She met Tamsin’s gaze. “Men don’t see the world as women do. Men don’t always see what’s right under their noses.”

  Bess appeared with her mistress’s outdoor garments then. After donning them, Lydia turned to Tamsin.

  “Coralie is not going to play fair,” she told the girl. “If she meant to, we would have had word from her by now.”

  “A ransom note, you mean.”

  Nodding, Lydia took out her pocket watch. “It’s past noon. She’s had Elizabeth and Emily since before daybreak. Why go to the bother of keeping them when she might simply bring them here directly, pretend she’d ‘rescued’ them, and demand a reward?” She put the watch away. “When she thought she might get in trouble, she was quick enough to pretend she’d ‘rescued’ you, recall. If she promptly delivered the girls, she knows I’d have no grounds for prosecuting her, and plenty of reason to express my gratitude in coin of the realm. That would be the practical approach. Since she isn’t practical, I don’t doubt there’s a grudge at work, and trouble in the making. I’m not going to sit here waiting for it—and giving her the upper hand—if I can help it.”

  With that, and a promise to keep Tamsin informed of her whereabouts, Lydia departed for Bow Street.

  Bertie Trent sat in the small office Miss Grenville had occupied at the Argus until her elevation to duchess. He was waiting for the handbills to be printed. While he waited, he was having an exceedingly unpleasant time of it with his conscience.

  On the trip back to London, Tamsin had told him her story. Bertie didn’t blame her for running away. Her mother, clearly, wasn’t right in the head, and her father seemed to have a knack for making himself scarce, using business as an excuse. The man had as good as abandoned his daughter.

  Likewise, there were a great many people—Lord and Lady Mars, for instance—who would think Ainswood had abandoned his wards.

  But Bertie could see how a fellow could get mixed up when it came to family. Kin could drive a man mad. Bertie’s own sister had been an aggravation for as long as he could remember. Still, he would be wretched if anything happened to her.

  In any case, women were often a problem, and when you didn’t know what to do with them, the simplest route was to ignore them, keep away, and avoid unpleasantness. That didn’t mean a fellow hadn’t any feelings.

  Maybe Mr. Prideaux hadn’t realized how bad things were at home.

  Whether he did or didn’t, Bertie couldn’t help thinking the man must be seeing clearer now. If, deep down, he loved his daughter, he must be worried to death.

  After all, Bertie was worried to death about Ainswood’s wards, though he’d never clapped eyes on them. Even Dain was distraught. Bertie had never before heard him ramble on the way he’d done the day the news came. Or behave so strangely—actually packing Bertie’s clothes—Beelzebub, who constantly kept the servants hopping to his bidding.

  Bertie hated to imagine the state Mr. Prideaux must be in, picturing every horrible thing that could happen to his daughter, supposedly en route to America with a man who could be a prime villain, for all he knew.

  Bertie hated to imagine it, but he imagined it all the same, and with each passing hour, his conscience screamed sharper and louder.

  He stared unhappily at the tidy desk, at the inkwell and pens, pencil
s, and paper.

  He ought to ask Tamsin first, but she had enough on her mind, and he didn’t want her conscience ripping up at her as his was at him. Besides, if a fellow couldn’t trust his own conscience, Bertie told himself, who and what could he trust? There was right and there was wrong, and Conscience was pretty plain, at the moment, about what was what.

  Bertie took out a clean sheet of paper, unscrewed the inkwell, and picked up a pen.

  Hours after her departure from Ainswood House, Lydia stood looking at the corpse of an old woman. The remains lay in a cold chamber reserved for the purpose, in the yard of the Shadwell magistrate’s office.

  One of the river-finders, whose profession it was to dredge the river for corpses, had recovered the body last night. Lydia had found out about it during her visit to Bow Street. The constable who’d collected it from the river-finder had noticed the distinctive marks on the corpse and asked for a Bow Street officer to come and compare them to the marks found on the young prostitute pulled from the river some days earlier.

  The old woman’s face had been cut up in the same way. What was left of it, along with the deep wound in the throat—nearly decapitating her—offered clear evidence of the garrote.

  “More of Coralie’s handiwork, do you think, Your Grace?” the young constable with her asked.

  “Her handiwork, yes,” said Lydia. “But hardly her sort of victim. Hers are always young. Why should she attack a mad old woman?”

  “Mad?” Constable Bell’s gaze moved from the corpse to Lydia. “What tells you the deceased was mad?”

  “She was thought so when I was a girl,” Lydia said. “She was a river-finder, I believe. Or her spouse was. She often had violent arguments with people who weren’t there. The children believed she was screaming at the ghosts of the drowned persons. I heard her myself once. An argument about money, I believe.”

  “Perhaps the ghost was chiding her for emptying his pockets.”

  Lydia shrugged. “All the dredgers do that. One of the perquisites of the trade.”

  “I wonder you can recognize her. Though she wasn’t in the river very long, the knife or broken glass did its work well enough.”

  “I saw her some months ago when I was in Ratcliffe, interviewing prostitutes,” Lydia explained. “I was surprised she was still alive. So I took more note of her than I might have done otherwise. I recognized the garish red-dyed hair and the odd tangle of braids. And the dark splotch on her wrist. A birthmark. The only name I have for her is ‘Mad Dorrie.’ But whether Dorrie is her name or a reference to her work in a boat, I cannot say.”

  “Still, that helps,” Bell said. “We’re more likely to get information about ‘Mad Dorrie’ than about ‘Unidentified Female.’ Not that this assists you in your task,” he added as he drew the blanket up over the corpse again. “This woman was dead well before Coralie met up with the duke’s wards. Unless you think there is some significance in this victim’s being different from the others.” He looked up then and discovered he was talking to himself.

  The duchess was gone.

  “Your Grace?” He hurried from the chamber into the yard. Though the sun hadn’t yet set, a fog had rolled in, plunging the area into gloom. He called, but received no answer. He heard footsteps, faint, upon the stones, and hastened in that direction.

  A short time later, the very recently returned Duke of Ainswood was trying to digest exceedingly unwelcome news.

  “Shadwell?” Vere shouted. “She’s gone to the East End alone? Has everyone lost their wits? Can’t you see what Grenville’s up to? The same as she did in Vinegar Yard. She thinks she can handle a pack of cutthroats with nothing but her accursed pocket watch. And without even Susan for company.”

  “Woof!” Susan said.

  Vere glared at her. “How could you let her go alone, you fool dog?”

  “Lydia went out hours ago,” Tamsin said. “Susan was with Bertie then. Lydia has only gone from one magistrate’s office to the next. She had the coachman as well as a footman with her. I’m sure she wouldn’t do anything rash.”

  “Then you’re one sadly deluded female,” Vere said. He stormed out of the library and down the hall to the front door. He jerked it open before the servant could do it for him, and very nearly trod down the constable standing on the doorstep.

  “You’d better have a message from my wife,” Vere told the law officer. “And it had better say that she’s sitting peaceably in the magistrate’s office at Shadwell.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” said the constable. “I do wish I had that message for you, and it’s my fault I don’t. I was with her. I took my eyes off her for a moment, and she was gone. On foot, I’m afraid. I found her carriage, but she wasn’t in it. I’m hoping someone here can help me put the pieces together, as she evidently has.”

  If Lydia was no longer at the Shadwell magistrate’s office, Vere had no idea where to look for her. He made himself calm down—at least outwardly—and invited the constable inside.

  The man’s name was Joseph Bell. He was new to the service, a temporary replacement for an officer injured in the line of duty. He was young, good-looking, and clearly better educated than the usual run of constables.

  He told his story concisely. He was sure that Her Grace knew more about Mad Dorrie than she let on. “She made sure to slip out before I could ask any more questions,” he said. “If Coralie did kill the old woman—and the signs do point to it—we both wondered why. I can’t help thinking the duchess knew the answer. I assumed the old woman was a threat to the bawd. Knew where she was hiding, perhaps, and made the mistake of opening her mouth about it. Or threatening to do so.”

  “Or else she had a fine hiding place that Coralie wanted,” Tamsin said. “Lydia must have had a definite destination in mind. She wouldn’t have run off in such a hurry otherwise.” She frowned. “Yet I don’t understand why she hasn’t sent word of her whereabouts, as she promised.”

  Vere did not want to think about the reason his wife wouldn’t—or couldn’t—send word. This whole day had been a nightmare, ever since he’d received her last message. Mars, exhausted, had stumbled from the carriage during the first stop to change horses. He’d sprained his ankle and had to be left at the inn. Then one of the horses had gone lame. Ten miles from London, a drunkard driving a dormeuse had passed too close and damaged one of their wheels. An exasperated Vere had walked to the next change, hired a horse, and ridden at breakneck speed the remaining distance. Then, when he finally reached home, Vere found his wife wasn’t there.

  The waking nightmares that had plagued his mind all the frustrating way to London now carried his wife’s image as well as his wards’. She’d sent for him. She needed him. He’d come, as fast as he could, as he’d done for Robin.

  Too late, the refrain played in his mind. Too late.

  “Your Grace?”

  Vere came out of the nightmare, made himself focus on Constable Bell.

  “The name ‘Mad Dorrie’ appears to strike no sparks of recognition in present company,” Bell said.

  “A river-finder, according to Grenville,” Vere said. “Last seen in the vicinity of the Ratcliffe Highway.” He wracked his brains, to no avail. “If I ever did see her there, I was too drunk or too busy brawling to notice.”

  “If Jaynes were with you, mebbe he noticed,” said Bertie Trent.

  Vere turned a blank look upon him.

  “Also, he’s London born and bred, didn’t you tell me?” Bertie went on. “If Miss G—meanin’ Her Grace—heard of Mad Dorrie, I’d think Jaynes would’ve, too. Sounds like the old woman were kind of famous once.”

  Vere’s astonished gaze shifted to Tamsin, who was beaming at her intended.

  “How clever of you, Bertie,” she said. “We should have thought of Jaynes immediately.” She rose from her chair and went to the library table. She drew a paper from one of the neat piles there. “He will be starting his evening route in half an hour. You should be able to find him at Pearkes’s oyste
r house, if you set out right away.”

  The three men and the dog were on their way out of the house a moment later.

  Lydia had managed to elude Constable Bell, but she did not elude Tom. When she turned back into High Street, the ragamuffin popped out of a side street.

  “Where you goin’?” he demanded. “Yer fancy coach is back that way.” He gestured with his thumb.

  “Where I’m going, I can’t take a fancy coach,” she said. Or constables, she added silently. The denizens of London’s underworld could detect a “trapp” or “horney”—a thieftaker or constable—from miles away. Upon which discovery, criminals vanished and their acquaintances inevitably had “never heard of ’em.”

  At present, Coralie might be aware she was being sought, but she would think herself safe. Lydia preferred not to dispel that illusion. In the ordinary way, Coralie was dangerous enough. Cornered, she would turn rabid.

  Lydia frowned at Tom. “Did Miss Price tell you to follow me?”

  The boy shook his head. “No, Miss G, I tole myself. On account if you got into trouble, it’d be my fault, on account how I lost ’em.”

  “If you hadn’t spotted them in the first place, I shouldn’t have a single idea where to look,” Lydia said. “But I shan’t argue with you. I’m going to need help, and I reckon you’ll do.”

  A hackney was approaching. She summoned it, directed the driver to Ratcliffe, and climbed inside with Tom.

  Then she explained the situation. She told him about Mad Dorrie, and her suspicions that Coralie had wanted the old woman’s abode as a hideout. Mad Dorrie being a troublesome creature to have about, Coralie had doubtless murdered her and thrown her into the river.

  “The house is important. It’s isolated, on a stretch of riverside only the rats seem to like,” Lydia explained. “But Dorrie had a boat, which is also important. I think what Coralie means to do is send a ransom note, summoning me there. It’s bound to be a trap. I’ve had no word so far from Miss Price about a ransom note, which tells me Corrie means to wait until dark. It’s easier to lay an ambush then, and she’d have no trouble getting away right after, on the boat. My best chance of foiling her plans is to arrive before she expects me.”