Down a Dark River, page 19
James took a pull on his pipe. “So this is the second.” Seeing my puzzlement, he added, “You told me about the first, and I said it reminded me of a Viking funeral.”
“That’s right,” I said, remembering. “But it’s actually the third. Each of the past three Tuesdays.”
“Sequential murders,” James breathed. The firelight reflected off his spectacles, but I knew if I could have seen his eyes, they’d be bright with scientific interest.
“What would cause a man to do something like this?” Harry asked, his face screwed up with revulsion.
I looked at James. “You always say it’s one of four motives.”
“Four?” Harry asked.
I sank into the remaining chair, the least comfortable of the three. “Fear. Revenge. Passion. Greed.”
James nodded. “But the violence together with the flowers suggests a peculiar mix of brutality and an almost romantic attentiveness to spectacle. My mind jumps to a disease—syphilis, or childhood scarlet fever—an organic derangement—”
“That hardly matters,” I retorted. “For God’s sake, I just want to catch him before he—before he assaults someone else.”
James wore an injured expression, but Harry said thoughtfully, “I noticed the paper used that word, ‘assault.’ It doesn’t say she died.”
My eyes flashed to him in surprise. Damn, he was quick.
James peered at me. “Corravan, is Harry correct? She’s alive?”
I felt a mix of irritation, shame, and annoyance. If I hadn’t stopped for that drink, I’d have managed this better. But there was no help for it now. Both Harry and James were waiting expectantly.
I gave them an account, being careful to omit the women’s names. By the end, Harry’s eyes were round, and when a log snapped, he flinched as if a spark had singed him.
“And the first two were sent down the Thames in a boat as well?” James asked.
I nodded. “With leaves and flowers. Sort of like the ‘Lady of Shalott.’”
James looked incredulous. “When did you take up reading poetry?”
“You know damn well I don’t. Belinda told me about it.”
“I don’t know that poem,” Harry ventured.
“You wouldn’t have studied it,” James replied. “It’s modern. Tennyson.”
“There’s a painting of her, too,” I said. “In Liverpool.”
James turned to Harry. “It’s about a beautiful woman who spends her days weaving a tapestry, under a fatal curse that she may never leave the tower in which she’s been imprisoned.” He waved the pipe, as if gesturing to something in the distance. “One day, through the window, she sees the knight Lancelot and promptly falls in love. Desperate for him to see her, she puts herself in a rowboat with some flowers and sails down to Camelot.”
“And dies of grief,” I added.
Harry looked indignant. “That story’s not modern! It’s from Morte D’Arthur. Tennyson must’ve poached it!”
“Morta what?” I asked.
“Morte D’Arthur. It’s French. It means—that is, it—it means—er, Death of Arthur,” Harry muttered, evidently expecting me to snap at him for showing off.
“So a Frenchman wrote it?” I asked, my voice neutral.
Harry’s expression eased. “Actually, Sir Thomas Malory was English, born in the fourteen hundreds. He was imprisoned in Marshalsea for murder, and to pass the time he gathered legends about King Arthur and put them down in English. Most came from old French poems and stories. I had to read some at school.”
“What’s Malory’s version?”
“It takes place in Astolat,” he replied. “Lady Elaine’s father organizes a jousting tournament, and all the knights come, including King Arthur and Lancelot. Then Elaine meets Lancelot and asks him to wear a token—a handkerchief, I think—”
“Wait,” I said. “Her name is Elaine?”
“Yes. Lady Elaine of Astolat. Why?” Harry looked at me oddly.
There was something about the way Harry had pronounced “Elaine” that drew up a recent memory of Stiles’s mild voice: “A lane.” I doubted Mrs. Beckford’s troubled mind was occupied with an Arthurian legend. But perhaps she’d been saying “Elaine” instead of “a lane.” So far as I’d heard, Stiles hadn’t had any luck in his inquiries on either of the lanes near the Beckfords’ house. I’d have to remember to mention the possibility to him.
I shook my head. “Go on. Elaine gave him a handkerchief.”
Harry obliged. “Well, Lancelot knows if Guinevere finds out, she’ll be jealous, so he has to joust in disguise. Lancelot wins the whole tournament, but he’s wounded, and when Elaine nurses him back to health, he offers to pay her. She’s insulted, and that’s when Lancelot realizes she loves him. He’s rather an idiot,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “When he leaves, Elaine dies of a broken heart. So the villagers put her in a boat with a letter that explains everything and send her floating down to Camelot.”
“Now I recall.” James drew gently on his pipe. “I read some of the stories last year when they were published in Westly’s Miscellany—in present-day English, of course. But why would a murderer re-create a scene from an Arthurian legend?”
“He could be a writer, trying to bring the story to life,” Harry suggested.
James nodded thoughtfully. “He might have delusions of being Lancelot.”
“Or he hates beautiful women, like that man in Carpenter’s book,” Harry added.
I found myself gaping at the pair of them. “God help me.” I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. “Now that the papers have it, we have a week before London falls into a panic about another Le Loup.”
We were all silent for a minute, and then James rose. “You should go to bed, Corravan. You look exhausted.”
“You can sleep here,” I replied. “You might not find a cab at this hour.”
James looked at me oddly. “We brought the hospital’s. Didn’t you see it outside?”
I stared. How had I missed a horse and a carriage outside my door?
The whiskey was partly to blame. But it had worn off, and I was so tired the room was starting to swim before my eyes.
I went to bed with half my clothes on. It was midnight. I’d be up in six hours. What was the point of changing?
CHAPTER 30
The next day I went to the hospital, walking in just as Tom Flynn walked out.
“She’s gone,” he said bluntly. “Went home last night. And Masterson won’t be in for another hour.”
So Dr. Forsyte had not come to visit his daughter; he’d come to retrieve her. Damn, I thought. I should have guessed he would.
Tom eyed me. “What’s so special about this woman? She’s not even dead.”
I shook my head. “Can’t say yet.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “You know, I could use this.”
“I know. But I’m asking you not to.” I paused. “I won’t talk to anyone else, I swear.”
“This case could matter. To more than just her family. To London. Maybe even the nation.”
“Why do you say that?”
He shrugged. “A respectable middle-class woman, a strange attempted murder? It’ll catch the public’s eye. And after the trial last fall, people need reassurance. It’ll reflect badly, if you don’t solve it.”
“Believe me, I know. Vincent feels it. Makes all of us feel it, too.”
He gave a short laugh. “I’ll bet he does.”
Vincent’s dire words still hung in my ear. And despite myself, the question slid out. “Do you think there’s a new kind of crime in London now? More vicious? Or am I imagining it?”
To his credit, Tom didn’t scoff. “I’d say there is. Natural result of too many people fighting over too little, it seems to me.”
That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I grunted and took a step back. “I’ll come see you soon.”
“Yah.” He walked off down the street, the ends of his coat flapping.
I went inside, where the desk clerk confirmed Dr. Masterson wouldn’t be in until ten o’clock. But there was no point in going elsewhere. I fidgeted in a chair near his office for the entire hour plus nine minutes, until he finally appeared.
“You let her go home,” I said without preamble. “Was that wise?”
A resigned look came over his features. “Her father insisted.” He opened the door and unbuttoned his coat. “In truth, it doesn’t matter, so long as she has a nurse at home. She has no internal injuries; her contusions and bruises will mend. She needs rest more than anything.”
I took a seat. “I had an unusual interview with her parents yesterday.”
He took his time hanging his coat, fussing with the collar, as if he were trying to avoid looking at me.
“Her father said the attack was a result of her association with the filth on the street,” I said. “And he blamed his wife for encouraging it. What did he mean?”
He sat and rested his elbows on his desk, rubbing his hands over his face, roughly enough to pull at the flesh. At last, he met my gaze wearily. “Mrs. Munro is an unusual young woman. Ever since she was young, she has taken an interest in social causes.”
“Do you mean philanthropy?” I asked.
He leaned back and clasped his hands at his waist. “She doesn’t just donate money. She works at Our Lady of Perpetual Help’s Home for Fallen Women.”
I stared. “Do you mean the church on Underwood Road, in Lambeth?”
“Yes. The home was added five years ago, in a building nearby.”
Now I understood. “She was trying to reclaim prostitutes.”
He nodded. “She’d go out in the evening to find them. Then she’d give them food and bring them back to Our Lady. She helped them find respectable work.”
“Admirable,” I said, and I meant it. “And she continued after she was married?”
“Oh, yes. Her husband is a crusader for social reform as well, although his interest is in abolishing slums and improving sanitation. But I’m not certain Mrs. Munro would have continued the work for much longer.” He paused. “Being that she was with child.”
Was.
My mouth went dry. “You mean she lost it?”
His eyes widened. “Oh, God—no! I simply meant when she was attacked. So far as I could tell, the child is unaffected.”
“Dr. Masterson,” I said, “this is important. Is there any sign that she was raped?”
His head tipped forward. “No. Why?”
“Her dress was cut open.”
He took a deep breath. “My good man, I’m sorry I wasn’t clear. Mrs. Munro was struck in the face, and her mouth and hands bound, as you saw. But there was no sign he outraged her.”
Relieved, I asked, “How did you know she was with child?”
“When I examined her, I detected a swelling in her abdomen. She confirmed it.”
My heart leaped. “She spoke?”
He shook his head. “I asked, and she nodded. That was her only communication all evening.”
“Is she able to talk now?”
“Well.” He looked dubious. “She’s still in shock, but there is no anatomical reason she can’t speak with you. I’d only ask that you be patient and tactful. She is a woman of strong character, but she’s undergone a terrifying ordeal.”
As I rose, preparing to bid him goodbye, he cleared his throat. “Don’t be surprised if you’re turned away.”
“What? Why?” I asked. Dr. Forsyte had made clear his lack of respect for the Yard, but surely he would want me to find the culprit. “Because he doesn’t trust Yard men?”
He studied his fingernails. “Mr. Corravan, Dr. Forsyte and I were colleagues until recently, when he sold his practice. He is a difficult man, rigid in his thinking, highly suspicious of others’ motives, and obsessively aware of his standing in social circles. He was mortified about his daughter’s work.” His eyes met mine. “He will consider this act against his daughter as something that must be silenced, lest it become yet another piece of shameful gossip attached to her—and to him. My guess is he’ll try to keep her from speaking to you.”
The muscles across my shoulders tightened. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
CHAPTER 31
When I knocked at the Forsytes’ door and explained my errand, I was admitted by a butler, taken to the parlor again, and asked to wait.
Wait I did, for nearly half an hour, during which I inspected the room more closely. Green baize paper on the walls. Four paintings, two of stern men in their dotage and two of hunting scenes, all in heavy gilt frames. A large mirror over the fireplace. At the hearth, wrought iron pieces, recently blackened. Silver candlesticks. The buttery smell of wax, not cheap tallow. A curious box made of brilliant green jade with a lion carved into the top.
“I told you yesterday I didn’t want you here,” came a man’s voice behind me.
I turned. “Dr. Forsyte,” I said calmly, “I understand your anger at what happened to your daughter—”
“Don’t patronize me. Your repeated appearance here only serves to provoke gossip.”
“But surely you want to know who hurt her,” I said, spreading my hands. “I only want to ask a few questions. She could provide a description—”
“She’s not speaking to you.”
“Because she can’t? Or because you won’t let her?” Despite my best efforts, my voice rose with frustration.
His face flushed with rage. “My daughter wishes to put this unfortunate episode in the past, and I shall respect her wishes!”
“If your daughter won’t speak with me, then will you answer some questions on her behalf?”
He looked at me askance, taking my measure. “If you promise this is the end of it.”
I assented and sifted my thoughts quickly for the most important matters. “Has she said anything to you about the attack, how she—”
“No. I gave her a sleeping draft, and she hasn’t awoken since I brought her home.”
Home? I wondered. This was his home, not hers. Did the doctor dislike his son-in-law? Resent her marriage?
I opened my pocketbook. “On Monday, when did your daughter arrive?”
“At tea time. Around half past four.”
“And she remained for dinner?”
“Yes. Then she began to feel tired. She left just after nine o’clock.” Color came into his cheeks. “As I told you yesterday.”
There’s something here, I thought. Some uncertainty. Some guilt.
“And why is her husband in Paris?” I asked.
“He’s an engineer for the Thames. He believes he has something to learn from the French about drainage.”
That is a strong connection to the river, I thought. “Was Mrs. Munro ever attached to another man, before her husband? Engaged, or married?”
“No.”
“Can you think of anyone who would be angry enough to attack her? A spurned lover? Someone she’s hurt somehow, without meaning to—”
“My daughter is a kind, Christian woman. She has never hurt a soul in her life.”
I let that dubious statement pass. “Does your family have any particular connection to the river?”
He stared blankly. “Such as?”
“Shares in a joint-stock company—a shipping concern or a metalworks company such as Baldwin’s?” A decided head shake in the negative. “A warehouse such as Terrington’s or Preston’s?” More shakes of the head. “Or the Yellow Star Tea Company?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“What church do you attend?”
“Our Lady of St. John’s Wood.”
Different from both the Alberts and the Dorstones. “And you were a medical man?”
“I am a physician.” His mouth tightened. “University trained.”
“Ah. Still practicing?” I asked innocently.
“I retired several years ago.” He tilted his head back, so he could look down his nose. “I received an inheritance from my father. No doubt you’d like to invent some pernicious history, but he died of a heart attack, in his sleep. I had nothing to do with it.”
“I’m sure you didn’t.” To keep up the pretense of calm, I feigned writing a note, though my meaningless penciling carved the page. “And your daughter. Does she speak or read French?”
“Some,” he said irritably. “Like any properly educated Englishwoman.”
I sensed his patience coming to an end, and though I knew Vincent would never have approved, I asked, “Have you ever heard the name Rose Albert? Or Jane Dorstone?”
“Who?”
I repeated the names more slowly.
“No. Why?” He sneered. “Were they prostitutes?”
“No. But speaking of them, I understand you didn’t approve of your daughter’s work at Our Lady.”
“Of course not!” His eyes flashed. “Let me speak plainly, Mr. Corravan, and then perhaps we can be done. My daughter is foolish and idealistic, and from the first day she went to that place, she was put in deadly peril for the sake of depraved women who choose to abandon their God and live a life of sin—and now they want to be taken care of, to have their pillows gently smoothed and hot soup spooned into their dirty maws. Bah!”
I bit the inside of my cheek, hard. God knows most prostitutes did lead indecent lives. But I’d known good women in Whitechapel who’d had little choice when they had hungry mouths to feed.
“They’re diseased.” His face was hard, his eyes glittering. “Corrupt in mind and body, and that corruption nearly destroyed my daughter.”
Usually I keep my cards close, but there are moments when it’s suitable to show one or two.
“There’s something you don’t know, Dr. Forsyte.” I paused. “After I tell you, if you still want me to go, I will.”
“And you’ll promise to leave us alone.”
“Yes.” I tucked my pocketbook away. “Your chief concern is your daughter, of course. But others are in danger as well. Your daughter is the third woman to be assaulted in recent weeks.”
