Down a Dark River, page 22
“It’s a terrible delusion,” he continued as we walked toward his office. “He thinks that being shorter will make him less noticeable, and yet, of course, cutting his legs brings about the very attention he dreads.”
“Poor bloke,” I said sincerely. “But I meant Harry.”
He looked at me askance. “Harry?”
“He ignored me just now.”
We reached James’s office and sat in our usual chairs. “I expect he’s feeling put out.” He peered at me over his spectacles. “You know, Corravan, the boy is a lot like you.”
“That’s what Belinda says.” I heard the slip on the second “s” and felt a spike of wariness. James didn’t seem to have noticed, but I knew what he’d say about my drinking. I bit down on the end of my tongue, hard, knowing from experience that pain would sharpen me up, keep my words crisp.
“Well, she’s right, as usual,” he said. “He’s clever, and he cares about doing some good in the world.” He rubbed his fingertips along the edge of his desk. “He’s also prickly as a thistle when he thinks someone finds him a burden, and that trait alone makes him more like you than anything else. You’ve taken no time to get to know him.”
“What does he need me for, when you’re so fond of him?”
He glowered at me. “Don’t be an idiot.”
“I’ll get to know him after this case is over, all right? There’ll be time then.”
“He doesn’t need a nursemaid,” he protested. “But he shouldn’t have to beg for simple acceptance.”
“Oh, for God’s sake! Don’t you start! You think I should feel guilty? He’s nearly sixteen! Do you know what I was doing when I was that age? I was loading cargo on the bloody docks! And you know how hard I’ve been working—”
He threw up his hands in protest. “Don’t vent your spleen at me! You asked why he’s ignoring you, and I told you. Why must you always, always explode?”
That last word, a near-echo of Vincent’s, made me slouch back into my seat.
He broke the silence: “In happier news, Mrs. Beckford seems to be coming around. She trusts both Stiles and Harry.”
“Well, that’s something,” I said. A thought swam up into consciousness. “By the way, did Stiles mention that the Beckfords have a private inspector looking for her? His name’s Taft, in case he comes your way.”
“Yes, Stiles made a special trip to tell me. Taft hasn’t appeared, but if he does, he certainly won’t be admitted.” He gave a flick of his hand, as if the man were an insect, easily brushed away. “Mrs. Beckford spoke again last night. Harry heard the name ‘Rachel,’ very distinctly.”
“Rachel?” The word slurred out as “Ray-shell.” I wasn’t so far gone that I didn’t hear it.
James studied me for a moment, and his expression grew dismayed. “Have you been drinking spirits?”
“No. I’m just exhausted.” I carefully enunciated the lie. “And frustrated. Quartermain has been complaining about me not being tactful, and Vincent’s not happy with how the case is going, so today he told me I have the manners of a Whitechapel bully, among other compliments. And then he passed the lead to Stiles. I’m being allowed to assist.”
If I hoped to be seen as the victim, I should have known better.
“Ah. Well.” James turned up a hand, as if to suggest it was no more than he expected.
My annoyance flared, but I needed his help, so I changed the subject. “Do you know a doctor by the name of Forsyte?”
“I’ve heard the name.” He gave me a keen look. “Why?”
“It was his daughter who was our third victim, this past Tuesday.”
“Ah.” His eyebrows rose. “How is she?”
“Recovering, I presume. But she won’t talk to us. Or, rather, her father won’t let us talk to her. He’s got her locked away upstairs in his house, like that lady in the tower.” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “There’s something bloody odd about that family, James. Mrs. Forsyte seems scared to death of her husband. And Mrs. Munro hasn’t been to see her parents in months.”
“Munro?” he repeated. “So Forsyte’s daughter is married?”
“Yes. Charlotte Munro. She tries to reclaim prostitutes …” My voice faded at the stunned look on his face.
“I know who she is.” His voice rasped as if something had caught in his throat. “Two of my nurses are women she sent to us.”
I sat back in my chair. “Well, that’s a coincidence.”
“Not really. Mother Louisa knows doctors at all the London hospitals. She asked me last year if I’d be willing to give a chance to two decent young woman who’d been driven to desperation. Mrs. Munro brought them here.” He added slowly, “I didn’t know Forsyte was her father.”
I frowned. “Is there any chance you might convince him to let his daughter talk to me? As a fellow medical man? Nothing I said carried any weight. I even told him that his daughter wasn’t the first victim—that this murderer was out to hurt other women in London as well. He didn’t care.”
“Of course not. This section,” he tapped the front right area of his head, “cares deeply about protecting kin. As I’ve told you, it’s a core element of the mind, and when it is preoccupied, nothing else matters.”
“Do you know anything about him? Anything I could use to bring him around?” His look of surprise made me pause, but I kept on. “Someone hinted there was a scandal he’d taken pains to hide. Could be something involving a trial.”
His expression grew incredulous. “You intend blackmail?”
“No.” I waved a hand. “Influence.”
He drew back. “My God, Corravan.”
I leaned over the desk. “Mrs. Munro probably doesn’t even know what happened to those other women—and what might happen to dozens more if she doesn’t talk.”
“Well, she knows what happened to her. That might be as much as she can consider right now.” His voice carried a warning. “You can’t force her to speak before she’s ready. You’ll end up with someone like poor Mrs. Beckford, unable to speak at all. You need to be patient.”
“He kills on Monday nights, and it’s Friday,” I retorted. “It’s bloody hard to be patient when five minutes with her would make all the difference.”
“Badgering her and her family isn’t going to help,” he said sharply. “You can’t just issue commands to people! You can only ask—and respect their decisions.”
“I don’t issue commands!”
“Yes, you do! I’ve been on the receiving end!” His hand slapped the desk. “I’ve known you for ten years, Corravan, and you’re like a dog with a bone—which is an asset most of the time. But right now that bone belongs to a person—a woman who has just experienced a threat to her life. Get hold of yourself!”
“For God’s sake, you sound like Vincent!”
“Perhaps he’s right for once. Did you ever think of that?” he blazed back. And then, as he looked at my face, the fight seemed to go out of him. He passed a hand over his eyes wearily. “There is no point in this. And I don’t have the wherewithal to cope with your intransigence today.”
His voice dropped off, and his face was heavy with more than fatigue. I saw despair mixed with guilt and revulsion. James had worn the same expression the night he had come to me, fearing for his nephew Maurice’s life. Following a hint from one of the boy’s friends, I’d combed half a dozen of the worst brothels in London before I found Maurice and carried him out, naked and covered in blood but alive.
Oddly, recollecting what I’d done for Maurice softened the hardness in my chest more thoroughly than remembering anything James had done for me would have, and my voice was mild when I asked, “What’s the matter?”
He fiddled with some tiny pins on his desk, gathering them into a pile between his thumb and forefinger with the same delicacy and precision as he wielded his surgical instruments. “I lost a patient last night. I thought his condition was improving. And—well, there’s someone I should have consulted. It’s my fault.”
“I’m sorry, James. Truly.”
His sigh stretched the black buttonholes of his waistcoat. His exhalation returned them to their proper location behind the pearl buttons.
The mantel clock chimed the half hour, and James stood and reached for his coat. “I’m going home,” he said. “Don’t start up drinking again, Corravan. It leads nowhere good.”
“I’m not drinking,” I said. “I have work to do.”
I kept the slur out of my voice, but he looked at me with a mix of resignation and disappointment.
I stalked out and found a pub with a stool very much like the one I’d inhabited earlier. Part of me knew James had a right to his disgust.
But by the third whiskey, I didn’t despise either of us anymore.
CHAPTER 35
In the past I’d always been able to hold my liquor, but I was out of practice, and it took me three tries to slide my key into the lock. I pushed the door open and stumbled over the threshold. Cursing, I started to undo my coat.
The light from a fire on the hearth flickered across the wall. Harry? Here? That would be strange, given the way he behaved at the hospital.
Still, I called out, “Harry?” as I hung my coat and walked toward the sitting room.
“No,” said a woman’s voice.
Belinda was in a chair by the fire, her feet tucked up under her skirts, a cup of tea at her elbow. Despite my being drunk and surly and spoiling for a fight, the sight of her brought me to a standstill. Belinda’s beauty had never been the sort that she made up at her dressing table. It was in the curve of her cheek, the angle of her jaw, the arch of her brow. Bone-deep. Tonight, she’d dressed with care. Her hair fell in waves across her shoulders, and her dress of pale sea-green was one of my favorites. Her eyes were dark and sparkling in the light from the flames. She looked as lovely as I’d ever seen her.
I should enjoy this, I thought dully. It might be the last time I’d see her for a while, if she caught on to the fact that I’d been drinking.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“What are you doing here?”
Her eyes widened. “I might ask what you’re doing here, given that you were supposed to be at my house last night.” She paused. “It’s Friday, Michael.”
“I know what day it is.” I sat down to remove my boots.
“You didn’t come, and I was worried,” she said softly. “And you smell like a pub. Where have you been?”
Head down, I unbuckled the second boot and drew it off. Drunk as I was, the working part of my brain knew that if I spoke more than a few words, she’d realize I’d had more than a pint. I wanted to hide it. Stupidly, I just shook my head.
“Michael.”
I sighed and sat up. “I’m tired, all right?”
She eased herself out of the chair and came toward me, cupping my chin so I had to look up at her. Her expression changed instantly. “You’ve been drinking spirits.” She dropped her hand, and the light of surprise in her eyes dimmed to disappointment.
The room spun clockwise, and I fought to turn it in the other direction.
“I’ll make some coffee,” she said and vanished.
I groaned and closed my eyes. I didn’t want coffee. I wanted to go to bed. But back she came, with a hot cup, which she put in my right hand. She drew an ottoman near, so she could sit beside me.
“Why?” she asked.
“Why what?” The two words slid together.
“You haven’t had a drink in months. Is it because of what was in the paper?”
I halted the cup at my mouth. “What’d it say?”
“That young women of means are being murdered. And … the Yard is covering it up.”
So Forsyte had talked. “Jaysus.” The curse came out the way I’d have said it in Whitechapel. I stared at the black liquid inside the cup.
“What happened today?” she asked.
“What happened?” I snorted. I took a gulp of the coffee and plunked the cup on the table. “Well, the third victim’s father won’t let me talk to her because God forbid anyone help the police put away a murderer. And Vincent ripped into me for my bad manners. And James accused me of mistreating Harry. And now you’re going to start in—” I was being unfair, but something ugly was pushing me on “—and I don’t need another bloody lecture!” My voice had risen to something close to a shout.
Her body stiffened. “I’m not going to lecture you. My God, Michael. After all this time, you still don’t know me.”
Through the haze of the drink, I felt a sense of alarm, and a knowledge that I needed to try to be rational, to not say something blitheringly stupid. “Of course I know you.” I heard my voice slur over the words. “I’ve been drinking, but I haven’t lost my mind.”
She laid her hand against my cheek, and her eyes, wide and serious, held mine. “Do you remember the story you told me once? About the time you were boxing in that horrible place, for O’Hagan, and you looked around and realized that everyone in the whole place wanted you to lose because they’d bet against you.”
I nodded dumbly.
“Sometimes when things aren’t going well, you act as if you’re right back there,” she said softly. “It’s you, all alone, against everyone else. You even fight with your friends. But you’re not in a boxing hall anymore, and I’m not your adversary.”
The image of her with her small fists raised called up a short laugh. “Bel, don’t be ridiculous. I know that.”
Her hand dropped from my cheek. “Do you?” she asked, without a hint of a smile. “I don’t think you do. What’s more, I don’t think you want to. So long as we’re all on the other side, you can be the lone rescuer of the world, can’t you? The invincible Perseus to every desperate Andromeda chained to her rock.” She spread her hands. “And that makes you feel better.”
I opened my mouth to argue—though I had no coherent thoughts in my head and only the vaguest idea who Andromeda was—but she stopped me. “No, let me finish. I’ve known you for years, Michael, and tonight I finally realized something. Being the rescuing hero means you don’t ever have to face your own weakness.” She was shaking her head. “You don’t have to sympathize with anyone who’s powerless or afraid. All you have to do is save them.”
I bristled. “So saving them is wrong?”
“It’s not wrong. But not being able to admit your own humanity is almost …” The word came out reluctantly: “Cowardly.”
“Cowardly?” I jabbed a thumb toward the door. “There is nothing cowardly about confronting people out there who are trying to murder and—”
“That’s not what I mean.” Her voice was keen with exasperation. “But it’s as if you have only two ways of being with people. You’re either fighting them or rescuing them, and neither allows for your humanity—or—or feelings of loneliness or fear or uncertainty! Thus far, in your life, it has served you because whether you’re fighting or rescuing, you usually win, either by strength or sheer—” She shook her head, struggling to find the word, “—relentlessness. But it means that when you find yourself afraid that you might not be able to solve a case, or to save a young woman from dying, or to save a dozen young women from dying”—she spread her hands again—“you won’t let me, or anyone or anything, help you. Except whiskey. And when someone does manage to help you, you can’t even say thank you.” She shook her head hopelessly. “You mean well. I know you do. But why can’t you be a little humble, stop acting as if you and you alone are saving the world? Walk around on the ground like the rest of us? Can’t you see that a shard of uncertainty, a trace of fellow feeling for someone who’s desperate or—or vulnerable—would make you a better inspector, a better man?”
Suddenly I couldn’t stand it anymore. “I’m not some character in one of your novels, Bel. You can’t just write me to be different than I am. And I’m a bloody good inspector—no matter what Vincent or any of you think.”
She opened her mouth and shut it again with a sigh. “Never mind,” she said and stood, gathering the cloak she’d laid across a chair. She paused, looking down at me. “Your problem with Vincent is you can’t fight him, and he doesn’t need rescuing. But I can’t have this conversation with you. Not now.” She wrapped the cloak around her shoulders and said, with some satisfaction, “You’re going to feel rotten tomorrow morning.”
Her logic was all wrong, though I couldn’t say how. So I plucked out a piece of the fight I knew I could win. “I do walk around on the ground,” I muttered. “Because I wasn’t born with a carriage to keep my pretty slippers out of the muck, remember?”
It was a low jab and wholly unfair. Even through the haze of drink I knew that. She’d been born wealthy, but she’d never cast my beginnings up to me. And Belinda’s family had seen their share of unhappiness. Money hadn’t kept it away.
Her face went still, and she opened the door. “Come outside with me.” Her voice was cold. “I need a cab.”
“You didn’t bring your carriage?”
“I didn’t think I’d be leaving.”
I heard the rebuke, but rather than trying to undo the mistake I was making, I shoved my feet back into my boots without buckling them and stalked beside her to the corner, where I hailed a cab and put her inside—God, I’d done this a thousand times, felt the warmth of her fingers through her gloves, had never liked the sensation of cold loss when she withdrew her hand from mine—and gave the cab driver the address. I had to repeat it three times. I could feel my mouth forming the words badly. But finally he understood me.
As the cab pulled away, I went back inside and locked the door, kicking off my boots and swearing savagely as one stayed on my foot. I pulled it off and hurled it against the wall before I thrashed my way upstairs and sank onto my unmade bed.
We’d argued before. But even in my stupor, I knew this time was different. The ache in my chest told me that.
CHAPTER 36
I was woken around midday by a persistent banging in my skull.
I ignored it for as long as I could, until I realized the pounding wasn’t in my skull. It was at my front door.
