Down a Dark River, page 18
But how had he known to come here? Was it the constable’s whistle? Or had Tom been on the river? He was up and about early. That much I knew.
Tom started toward me, his hands jammed in his coat pockets. He was a full head shorter than I but broad of shoulder and sturdy. He had a round face, bright green eyes that could look hard as stones, a small nose, and a bald spot that was hidden by his hat.
“Tom.”
“Corravan.” He gave me his twisted smile, wry and yet easy as a nudge, as if we understood each other. As I suppose we did. We both were after the same thing—assembling an orderly series of events—though for different reasons.
“What brought you?” I asked.
He squinted up. “Saw the boat making for the dock and watched them lift her out. This is the closest hospital.”
Fair guess, I thought and headed for the door.
“Who is she?” he asked, keeping pace with me.
“We don’t know.”
“Where’d you find her?”
I dragged the door open. “Downriver by the docks.”
He eyed me askance. “What were you doing at Wapping?”
I gave him a look.
“Blair here?” He tipped his head toward the corridor.
I nodded, and his nose wrinkled. Tom didn’t like Blair.
“I know you have to write something,” I said. “But for now, can you omit that she’s alive? And I’ll share what I can.” I paused. “With you first.”
His mouth pursed. “Don’t wait too long, Corravan.”
“I won’t.”
He settled his hat more firmly on his head and went back outside, while I headed in to find Blair in the foyer. Blair scowled at my presence, and this time my own annoyance flared. “Vincent will want to know,” I said shortly. “And Tom Flynn was outside. He saw the boat come in. He promised me he won’t release details for now.”
I’d done Blair a favor he couldn’t have asked of Tom himself. He nodded a grudging acknowledgment and muttered, “Have to wait while they’re settling her.”
At last a young, dark-haired nurse approached. “Come with me, please.” Blair and I followed her down the hallway, past several wards full of patients, and entered a large room partitioned by gray curtains into private areas. At the far end a doctor stood making notes on a chart. A matronly nurse slipped out between two panels. She saw Blair, one step ahead of me, and shook her head firmly. “She’s in no state for visitors. Certainly not the police.”
In the shape of Blair’s shoulders, I read him waiting for me, the younger, less formidable underling, to step in. I took up my old role as easily as I’d have walked one of my former patrol beats. As Blair headed toward the doctor, I answered the nurse in an apologetic undertone, “We’re here to protect her—though, to be honest, I’m worried about you as well.”
She looked doubtful. “About me?”
“Whoever did this may try to attack her again. And,” I hesitated, “hurt anyone who tried to stop him.”
The starched white apron over her uniform rose and fell with a breath. “Do you truly think he might follow her here?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I hope not. But if we could have a chair placed here,” I pointed, “a constable will keep watch until she leaves the hospital. Could you give us permission for that?”
She nodded. “I’m the head nurse. Nurse Hayes.”
“And keep her identity—” I began.
“Secret, once we know it. Of course.”
I noted down her name in my book. “So often people think we’re just a bother.”
She gave a small, sad smile. “There are plenty of people who don’t want to believe in malevolence. We know better.” With that, she left me.
I watched Blair with the doctor. They were having a conversation of some import, and suddenly Blair’s posture altered in a way that told me the doctor had said something unexpected. Blair replied; the doctor was professing his thanks. Only a few minutes, and we had two allies in the ward.
But our most important ally was being kept from us.
My hands itched to pull aside the curtains, just wide enough to see our victim. Nurse Hayes was out of sight, and I inched closer to the curtains, close enough to part them.
Blair was at my side. “Corravan.” He had me by the elbow and steered me out of the ward.
I muttered under my breath. “I’ll stay here until she wakes up—”
“No. I’ll leave the constable.” He led me into the hallway. “I have her name. Charlotte Forsyte Munro.”
I halted mid-stride. “The doctor knows her?”
“Knows the family,” he replied. “Husband’s away for work in Paris, father’s another doctor. I told him we’d notify her parents.”
“Did he think she’d been left alive on purpose?” I asked.
“Could be. Thinks she might be with child.” He saw my surprise and added, “Only a few months along.”
“So that stopped his hand?” My voice cracked in disbelief. I remembered her dress, cut from neck to hem. “Is the baby all right?”
“Can’t tell yet.”
A groan escaped my mouth.
“I’ll give Constable Hartley instructions,” he said. “Meanwhile, you see her family. Purdy Street, number 12. Marylebone.”
My hackles rose at his peremptory tone.
Blair rubbed a hand over his face. “And stop in at the Yard and let Vincent know what’s happened.”
“It’s not on the way—” I began.
“I know,” he snapped. “But damn it, Vincent doesn’t like being kept in the dark. And I don’t want him barking at me again.”
Again? I wondered.
We’d reached the foyer, where the constable had materialized, and the two of them started back toward the ward.
I hailed a cab and told the driver to take me to the Yard.
But after a mile, I banged on the cab ceiling and asked to be taken to the Forsyte house instead. I didn’t much care if Blair had to endure some barking, and I’d have more to tell Vincent after I saw her parents. Besides, if Vincent was occupied, stopping in to see him could take an hour, or even two. Mrs. Munro might not live that long.
CHAPTER 27
The house in Purdy Street, just outside Mayfair, was more modest than those of the other victims. The couple who entered the parlor, where I’d been put to wait, were dressed well but not expensively. Mrs. Forsyte seemed a delicate sort, with a timid manner, while her husband clearly resented my interruption of his day. They both remained standing.
“Dr. and Mrs. Forsyte,” I began in my most respectful manner. “I’m Inspector Corravan of Scotland Yard, and I’m afraid I have some unfortunate news.”
Her father pinched the edges of his waistcoat. “Well, I don’t imagine your sort brings any other sort of news.”
I curbed a retort. “It concerns your daughter, Mrs. Munro. She is alive and at Denmark Street Hospital in Wapping, but she was attacked last night.”
Mrs. Forsyte’s eyes became black pools of panic, and her hand groped feebly for the high back of an upholstered chair.
Her husband took a step toward me. “Look here, are you sure? You Yard men are known for your wrongheaded reports—”
“Dr. Masterson recognized her and sent me here to tell you,” I interrupted, spreading my hands in a gesture meant to calm him. “Your daughter is being cared for, but she’s not able to speak yet. I was hoping you could tell me where she was last night.”
The two of them looked at each other. Mrs. Forsyte’s face was full of despair. Dr. Forsyte’s expression was a mix of fear, shock, and consternation.
“She was here,” Dr. Forsyte said abruptly. “All evening.”
“Until just before nine o’clock,” Mrs. Forstye whispered.
“After nine, Margaret,” he snapped.
“Did you see her home?” I asked.
He drew back as if insulted. “Why—what do you think, at that hour?” He scowled. “How was she attacked? And where?”
“Someone assaulted her and put her, alive but likely unconscious, in a small boat. She was discovered this morning downstream from Wapping Division.”
“In a boat!” gasped her mother. “Why would someone put her in a boat?”
“How badly was she hurt?” Dr. Forsyte demanded.
I hesitated. “He bound her hands and mouth. She may be concussed. That’s all I know as of now.”
Mrs. Forsyte crumpled into the chair and began to sob. Dr. Forsyte stalked to the mantel and seized it, bowing until his forehead nearly touched his hand. Despite his unpleasantness, I pitied the man, full of anguish for his injured daughter.
But then he looked up, and I saw I’d been mistaken. His eyes glittered not with grief but with fury. And he was looking not at me, as I’d expected, but at his wife.
His voice was a snarl. “I told you she’d get hurt. All those nights with that filth on the street—of course this happened! We should thank God she wasn’t killed for her foolishness—and yours!” He hovered over her, his voice heavy with contempt. “All along, you encouraged her, just so you could be her favorite. See what it has earned you!”
She didn’t look up. She only rocked, sobbing, her palms flat against her temples. His arms were clenched to his sides, as if in restraints. Then he stalked out of the room, slamming the door so hard it flew open again.
Whatever reaction I had expected, this wasn’t it.
From behind me came a strangled moan.
I went down on my knee beside her. “Mrs. Forsyte.”
A young maid with reddish hair materialized in the doorway and rushed to her mistress’s side. Her hand rested on Mrs. Forsyte’s shoulder, and her voice was soothing in the older woman’s ear.
She met my gaze. “She’s very upset,” she whispered. “You should go.”
I stood and stepped away. Poor Mrs. Forsyte’s face was a ghastly gray. Reluctantly, I let the maid herd me out of the room and toward the front door. “What did he mean?” I muttered. “His daughter spent time with filth on the street?”
Dr. Forsyte appeared, buttoning his overcoat, no doubt on his way to visit his daughter. “That will be all, Inspector.”
“Doctor—” I began.
He drew himself up. “That is all.” The words came out between his teeth. He turned to the maid, his voice hard. “Don’t speak to him. I will put you out—and anyone else who is indiscreet.”
The maid bobbed her head and opened the door. “Yes, sir.”
I stepped aside, allowing him to precede me. “Dr. Forsyte, she could have died last night. But she’s alive.”
He paused at the threshold. “Don’t you dare tell me she’s lucky.”
The maid averted her eyes. As Dr. Forsyte stalked out, I saw the resentful look she directed at his back—and then her eyes locked on mine.
She could tell me things. I could see it. But I would have to wait to find out what they were.
CHAPTER 28
For the second time, I hailed a cab and asked to be taken to the Yard. I was grateful for the twenty minutes to reflect and arrange my thoughts.
Vincent must have been watching for me because I hadn’t been inside my office ten seconds before he entered. He pushed the door closed behind him and looked at me expectantly. “Were you at Wapping?”
I sat in the chair behind my desk as he took the one opposite. “Yes. There was a third this morning.”
His eyes closed, and his fingertips rubbed at his forehead, leaving it red. “Every Tuesday, another woman.”
“There were differences,” I said quietly. “The most important is she’s alive.”
His eyes opened. “What?”
“She’s at Denmark Street. And we were lucky. One of the doctors knows the family. Her name is Charlotte Forsyte Munro, her husband is in France, and she might be with child.”
“With child,” he echoed hollowly. “Good Lord.” Vincent stood, paced the two steps my office allowed, and then stepped behind the chair, curling his long fingers around the top and meeting my gaze. “And then you went to see her family.”
“Her parents, yes. In Purdy Street.”
A pause, during which he studied his hands on the chair. At last he looked up, and his expression and voice were composed. “Corravan, in the future, I would like you to communicate your whereabouts.” He raised a hand to forestall my protest. “I understand why you went to Wapping first. But it would have taken you only a moment to send a message from there, so I knew what had happened.”
“Yes, sir.”
My tone was dutiful, but he heard a note that brought a spark to his eye. “You mistake me. It is not merely a matter of courtesy, Mr. Corravan. We—the Yard—cannot be caught flat-footed if someone inquires.”
“I thought it best to have more to report, sir.”
His eyes held mine. “I understand. But next time, send a message. In a timely fashion. Will you, please.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, continue.”
I recounted everything, saving Tom Flynn’s appearance for last.
Vincent’s expression was chagrined.
“At least it’s the Falcon, not the Beacon or Reynolds’s,” I said. “And Tom won’t purposefully publish something that’ll hurt our investigation.”
“But if he writes anything up tonight, it’ll be in the other papers by tomorrow,” Vincent said—and he wasn’t wrong. “Uncanny the way Flynn appears, just when something’s happening. Like those burglaries last month in Westminster.”
“He’s clever,” I acknowledged. “But Blair left one of his constables at the hospital. He’ll let us know as soon as Mrs. Munro wakes up. Her testimony could be all we need to stop this.”
Vincent pinched his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger. “We absolutely cannot let Tom Flynn—or anyone—learn about the other two women. It would unleash an uncontrollable panic throughout London, and the man might alter his methods. Although leaving her alive is already a marked difference.”
“I want to find out what her father meant about the filth on the street,” I said.
“It sounds as if he’s beside himself,” Vincent said. “Perhaps give him a day or two before you see him again.”
I made no answer, and Vincent crossed to look out my window. When at last he spoke, his voice had an odd, remote quality. “I think our country sinks beneath the yoke. More suffer, and more sundry ways than ever.”
I stared at his back. “Beg pardon?”
“Malcolm’s prophecy in Macbeth.” He remained staring out the window. “Just some days it seems there’s new kinds of evil out there. More vicious.”
His words were an eerie echo of my own worry about a new, modern sort of crime, but I pushed them aside, not least because I don’t place much stock in uselessly quoting the words of dead playwrights. Besides, I was hopeful. Charlotte Munro could change everything, if we could talk to her in the next few days.
Vincent headed for the door but paused with his hand on the knob. “Did you look into Nate McLoughlin? The Whitechapel case?”
I winced inwardly. “Not yet, but I will,” I promised. “I have someone who might know where I can find him.”
He opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it and merely nodded.
After he left, I should have spent an hour recording the day’s events in my diary. But suddenly weary, I shrank from the task. Instead, I wrote a letter to Seddon Hall, inquiring about Mr. Drew, and posted it with a feeling of dread. Then, for the first time in over a year, I stopped at a pub on the way home, and—shouting to make myself heard over the singing—I found myself asking for a shot of whiskey.
Why? I still can’t say. Might have been that Vincent’s hopelessness reminded me too closely of my own. Might have been because I knew I was responsible for Sidney’s second attempt on his life. Or because I balked at going back to Whitechapel as an inspector to lean on people I loved for information about one of our own.
Never mind that I hadn’t had spirits in months. My body knew how the cheap whiskey would unfurl a warmth that would make my nerves stop twitching in a matter of minutes.
Sure enough, by the end of the next verse of the bawdy song, it worked.
CHAPTER 29
As I reached my house, I saw firelight flickering through the front window, which meant Harry was home. I considered walking about until Harry went to bed, but it was too dank and cold. To my surprise, when I opened the door, I found not just Harry but James, too, drinking coffee by the fire. Harry looked at me apprehensively, and his eyes fell on the evening Falcon sitting on the table. The modest headline, just below the fold, made me cringe: BRUTAL ASSAULT ON THE THAMES. But I saw it was only a short notice, and I unbuttoned and hung my coat before I took up the paper.
James gestured with his pipe. “You’re mentioned by name.”
I turned up the lamp, so I could read.
This morning, the Thames witnessed a brutal, bloody assault on a well-dressed woman of approximately twenty-five years of age. She was found by the River Police among the shallows in the Lower Pool near the London Docks. She had been placed in a lighter boat, with flowers and leaves, as if in a tableau.
A group of police, including Chief Inspector Michael Corravan of Scotland Yard, is investigating. Readers will no doubt recall that Mr. Corravan solved the Beardsley murder in January. Surely he will discover the man responsible for this wretched crime.
I dropped the newspaper back on the table, mentally sending Tom a nod of thanks. Not only had he reminded people of a recent success of mine. He’d neglected to mention that the woman was still alive and the name of the hospital where she’d been taken, which was decent of him. Yet I knew he’d included my name as a nudge, meaning, Do you see this favor I’ve done for you? I could almost hear his gravelly voice, a sing-song in my ear: I’m waiting.
