Death Under Wrathful Skies, page 9
11
Mr. Keats felt the best way we could progress forward with the case was if we were to divide ourselves.
Two different aspects of the case needed our attention. First, and perhaps foremost, was to uncover more information about Victor Norfolk’s death. As it had been some years since he was killed, Mr. Keats insisted that he take that part of the case. His connections went a great deal deeper than my own, even with the use of my family name, and he knew that he would be able to find the information more quickly than I could.
As annoyed as I might have been, I knew very well that he was right, and due to our time constraints, it would be best for him to go and investigate that part of the case.
That left me with the responsibility to seek information about Christopher Wedley, the first victim in the Hyde Park murders.
“It would be best if you were to go around that part of town under a ruse,” Mr. Keats explained. “Have a reason for being there. If you can get information out of the locals, then brilliant. But have a reason for going.”
“Perhaps I might bring some paper advertisements to hang?” I suggested. “With the name of my business on them. I could ask the shopkeepers if I might hang them in the windows. That way I am still promoting my inquiry business, and yet at the same time, I am also there to ask questions.”
I reflected bitterly on the fact that I was still reliant upon my father-in-law’s generosity, so I spent the rest of the following morning copying my advertisements from the newspapers onto larger papers that could be read from shop windows.
As I stared down at the advertisements I’d been writing up, I worried about the whole affair. There was so much that could go wrong, so much that likely would go wrong. What would happen if we failed to capture the killer before he struck again? What if the string of murders became a never-ending cycle?
I tried to shake aside the thought. Surely we would catch the villain, eventually. We had already discovered perhaps the most important key to understanding the case. It was intimately tied to the death of the victim from so many years ago.
I collected the papers, and summoned Warrington to accompany me. Considering some of the places I might be going, it would have been unwise to proceed alone.
After checking the article about Christopher’s death once again, Warrington and I found ourselves down past the southern part of Hyde Park, a few streets removed.
“The article said it happened in an alleyway to the south of the park,” I murmured.
I peered down a narrower street of shops of varying kinds, staring back and forth between them. “We shall start with this first one on the corner,” I said.
We entered shop after shop, asking first to hang the advertisements for my business in their windows. A few shopkeepers agreed, but most refused. When I did my best to casually ask about Christopher Wedley, no one wished to answer any questions. Two shopkeepers even chased me back out onto the street.
“They could simply tell me they did not wish to speak of it,” I said, glaring back over my shoulder at one woman shaking her fist at me from the front steps. I adjusted my hat, blowing a stray hair out of my face. “Well, this certainly is not a success,” I admitted.
“No, madam, it does not appear to be,” Warrington said. “However, there are still more shops to try.”
“I am beginning to doubt that anyone will actually agree to help us,” I grumbled. “Still, I suppose it only takes one. Let us continue our efforts.”
We walked down to the next door, which happened to be a small bakery. As we approached the front steps, the strong, warm smell of cinnamon washed over me, immediately putting my fears to rest. At the very least, we might be able to enjoy something sweet for all of our troubles.
The front of the bakery itself was quite small, with only two tables and a few mismatched chairs. The glass case at the back of the shop, which held cakes, muffins, scones, and pies, beckoned me with the fragrant aroma of vanilla and bright fruits.
“Good afternoon,” said the woman behind the counter. She was a round, pudgy faced woman, with a kind smile and flecks of flour all over the front of her apron.
“Good afternoon,” I said. “My name is Victoria Ward, and I was wondering if I might put up an advertisement in your window for my business?”
The woman’s face furrowed slightly. “Oh…” she said. “Well, I am not one much for that sort of thing, as I fear it distracts customers from my own business.”
I nodded. “I understand,” I said. “Well then, perhaps you could help me with something else, instead. I am looking for information…”
I glanced over my shoulder at Warrington, who had remained near the door.
“Yes? What is it?” the baker asked.
“This may be rather uncomfortable to speak of,” I said, repeating the same words I had used with the half dozen or so other people I had spoken with in the other shops. “But I wish to ask you about Christopher Wedley…the young man who was killed out here in the alleyway some time ago.”
The baker’s face went pale, and my heart sank. I might as well turn and leave now.
“That was such a terrible day for my family and me…” the woman said, her eyes welling with tears. “He was…he was such a good lad, and what happened to him was unspeakable…”
I looked over my shoulder once again at Warrington.
He nodded, and slipped outside. It had been our agreement that he keep watch while I spoke with the shopkeepers so we were not interrupted. Mr. Keats had suggested it, saying the killer might very well have spies around who would be keeping an eye on previous places they had been.
“You knew him?” I asked, pulling a clean handkerchief from its home tucked inside the sleeve of my dress. I passed it to the woman.
“Thank you…” she said, nodding her head. “And yes, we knew him. Not entirely too well, but well enough. Likely better than most of the others down the street here did.”
“I do not wish to burden you,” I said. “But would you be willing to tell me a little about him?”
She sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief. “Yes, I certainly can. Are you…connected with the police?”
“I am investigating his death,” I said vaguely. “It is my hope that with some new information, the truth about what happened to him could be uncovered. Here, I shall buy a pastry from you, and perhaps a warm cup of tea, and we can sit down together and you can tell me what you know.”
“Very well,” the woman said. Before she turned to make her way back into the kitchen, she gave me a level look. “You said your name was Victoria Ward?”
My heart skipped for a moment. “Yes, I did,” I said. I wondered if maybe she recognized me somehow, or perhaps there was someone else with that name.
She nodded. “I didn’t wish to forget. My name is Margaret Green. My husband and I own this bakery together.”
“It is truly one of the most charming in all of London,” I said with a polite smile.
She smiled in return, and disappeared to fetch our tea.
A short while later, we sat down together at one of the small tables near the window. Each of us had a piping hot cup of tea – I insisted that she have one for herself – and a flaky, buttery tartlet sat before me. My mouth watered, but I refrained for a moment.
“There, now. This is very nice. Thank you, Mrs. Green,” I said.
“It is my pleasure,” she said. “Especially if you can help us get to the bottom of that poor boy’s death…”
“What can you tell me about him?” I asked. “Very little information was obtained about him at the time of his death. Do you happen to know anything of his past? Or perhaps anything of his relationships?”
“We did not know a great deal ourselves,” Mrs. Green said, frowning into her teacup. “He was around twenty-five years of age when we met him, I think. Handsome as well, incredibly so. Many of the young girls hereabouts, including my own daughters, were quite smitten with him.” Her ghost of a smile faded quickly. “When he started coming around here, he had no place to live, and was simply trying to find someone to hire him. It seemed he came from working in the theater. He had been an actor and entertainer, most likely due to his good looks and pleasant singing voice. But after a time, he was no longer needed at the theatre and was thrown out.”
“And he had no family? No friends to take him in?” I asked.
She shook her head. “His parents died when he was younger, just before he joined the theater. He had no siblings, and his grandparents moved away some ten years ago. And all of his friends were in the theater group. When it came down to it, it seemed their loyalties lay with the theater as opposed to one another.”
“How unfortunate for him,” I said.
“Indeed,” Mrs. Green said with a heavy sigh. “When he arrived here, he had been all over the city looking for work. He knew he was a handsome young man, so he realized that he could very well find something of value in the wealthier parts of the city. The jobs he chose never lasted long, though. Some were simple, such as an artist wishing to use his likeness for a painting, which they would pay him quite poorly for. There were others, as well. Some ladies would hire him as extra help to wait on guests at parties or to entertain the guests. They liked his pretty face, but would never keep him around long.”
“So what was it that led to his death?” I asked.
My question was interrupted by the sound of a yelp outside the bakery, causing both of us to jump.
“What was that?” Mrs. Green asked in a terrified whisper.
Another scream, male, echoed from outside.
Immediately, my thoughts leaped to Warrington, who had been waiting outside.
I launched myself from the chair and rushed to the door, not wasting a second.
Hurrying outside, I nearly fell down the stairs when I saw Warrington sprawled out on the street, clutching at his chest.
I came to a halt beside him, kneeling down. “Warrington, what happened?” I cried.
Panting, he stared up at me, moving his hand which he held clutched over his heart. Blood leaked from between his fingers.
12
“Mrs. Sedgewick?”
My eyes shot open, and I jumped from my seat. “Yes? What is it?” I asked.
It was the middle of the night. I had taken refuge in the drawing room on the second floor, the room nearest Warrington’s private quarters. I had fallen asleep in an armchair, the last of the embers of the fire still glowing in the hearth of the fireplace beside me.
Doctor Higgins reached out to help steady me. “Easy now, Mrs. Sedgwick. I did not mean to startle you.”
I blinked the sleep from my eyes, attempting to gather myself once more. “It’s quite all right. How is he?”
Doctor Higgins pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. “He seems to be stable. The wound was not deep, but it was quite long. I imagine the culprit managed to drag the blade across his chest as opposed to burying it in any further, which very well may have saved his life.”
“So he is going to survive, then?” I asked.
Doctor Higgins nodded. “As far as I can see, yes. I expect he is going to survive. He is required, however, to stay on bed rest, and I have instructed Mr. Tulson and Mrs. Bell how to change the bandages over his chest. I shall remain here for another hour or so in case he takes a turn for the worse, but I thought you would wish to know as soon as possible how he fares.”
“Yes, of course,” I said, smoothing out my skirts. “Might I go in and visit him?”
“I can see no reason why not,” the doctor said. “But do not stay long enough to tire him.”
I nodded, and hurried out of the drawing room and down the corridor.
I was not prepared for what I saw when I stepped through the doorway into the butler’s room.
Warrington lay in his bed, pillows propped around him, his arms stretched out over the blankets that were drawn up to his waist. His head was back against the pillows, and his face was as pale as the sheets that were spread out beneath him.
The nightshirt he wore was open at the chest, and a broad white bandage was fixed to the place where the wound was, just over his heart.
I hovered in the doorway. It was the first time since I’d known Warrington that he looked old. In all the time he had been with my family, I had never thought of him as weak or tired. Yet there he was, lying prostrate on the bed, looking as helpless as an infant.
As if sensing my presence, Warrington lifted his head slightly, his eyes opening slowly. “Ah, madam,” he said in a croaky, weak voice. “How kind of you to come...”
I summoned my courage to enter the room. “You must save your strength, Warrington,” I said, going to the side of his bed.
He gave me a weak smile. “I apologize that I cannot get out of bed,” he said. “Doctor Higgins has forbidden me from getting back on my feet for the next three days.”
“I know,” I said. “And you must not apologize. It is completely fine. I wish you to rest.” My calm façade wavered for a moment then. “I am so sorry this happened, Warrington…” I said, my eyes stinging with tears. “I do not even know what to say, what to think –”
The butler looked embarrassed by my display of emotion. “There is nothing for you to apologize for, madam,” he assured me quickly. “No one could have predicted this would happen.”
“We are very fortunate the police reached you when they did,” I said. “I was terrified that the wound was too severe. The amount of blood that you left behind on the street – ”
Those moments after he had been attacked were nothing more than a blur in my mind. Fear had taken hold of my thoughts, and I had been able to do little, apart from attempting to slow Warrington’s bleeding by applying pressure to the wound with my kerchief. Bystanders had gone to fetch help.
Somehow, we had got Warrington back to the house, where Doctor Higgins was sent for. He advised that it would be best not to move Warrington to the hospital or anywhere else, as long as there were sufficient hands to care for him here at the house.
“What happened?” I asked Warrington now. “When I was inside the bakery, how were you attacked?”
Warrington let out a dry, heaving cough.
I waited nervously for him to finish.
His breathing came in wheezes as he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. I noticed that his hands were shaking.
“I was keeping watch, just as we agreed,” he said. “It was very quiet. Not a soul in sight. And in the middle of the afternoon, the most I had expected to see were women finishing errands for their families, or perhaps cooks collecting their goods for the evening…”
He licked his lips, which seemed cracked and swollen.
“Here, let me get you a little water,” I said, turning to the white ceramic pitcher that Mrs. Bell must have brought in to leave on the side table. I poured a tall glass and brought it over to him.
I helped lift his head and let him take a few, feeble sips.
“Thank you,” he said, smacking his lips.
I set down the glass.
“We may discuss this later, if you prefer,” I said. “You truly should rest. It is late, and – ”
“No,” Warrington said, giving a small shake of his head. “I should tell you everything while it is fresh in my memory. I think it important to the case.”
“What do you mean? What did you see?” I asked.
“The man who attacked me,” he said. “He came from behind me, from between the shops. He was a small man, extremely short, and he had only one eye.”
I stared down at him. “One eye? Are you certain about that?” A one-eyed attacker sounded a little too much like a villain from a novel.
Nonetheless, Warrington nodded. “Most of his face was covered when he launched himself at me, but his hood fell backward when I attempted to fight back. He hadn’t expected that, clearly. There was something long and sharp in his hand, almost like a needle. I knocked it away before he was able to stick me with it, which I think was his intention. He managed to get the knife in me before I realized what was happening. Clearly, he was angry that I had spotted him.”
“Why does the one eye sound familiar…” I wondered.
“Because another one-eyed man was in the report of the first death,” said Warrington. “He had been lurking near the body, but vanished before anyone was able to speak with him.”
“So all of these deaths do tie together,” I said.
“I believe they do,” Warrington said. “I am not sure what to make of it all…other than I wonder if I was meant to be the next victim.”
I stared down at him. “You…a victim?”
Warrington nodded. “I wonder in what way I had a connection to the original death. I must have, somehow.”
“Well, you are safe now,” I said. “We will take care of you, and Doctor Higgins said you are going to get well again. You simply need to rest.”
“I know,” he said. “You must not worry about me, madam. You must focus on your own safety. If the killer is beginning to realize that you are investigating, then you may be in danger yourself. Take care, won’t you?”
“Of course, Warrington,” I said. “I promise I shall.”
13
…And now he is resting at home, with doctor’s orders to remain in bed and instructions left for my staff to change his bandages every few hours. To say this has been a trying time would be a drastic understatement.
I looked up from the letter I was in the process of writing, and stared out the window at the warm sunshine streaming inside.
It was just before sunset. After realizing Warrington was safe, I had spent a few hours attempting to get some sleep. It was a futile effort, however. The dreams that haunted me prevented me from any sort of real rest, so instead I fixed my attention on Daniel and on checking in on Warrington while he slept. And sleep he did. After my first visit in the middle of the night, he fell into a deep, hard sleep.
