Down a Dark River, page 27
“You believed him?” Vincent asked.
“I tended to, yes,” I said. “Blair’s loyal. And it’s not as if losing two good River men would bring Kevin Walsh back.”
Vincent leaned back into his chair, and it was then that I realized he’d held himself motionless since I began. The times when I’d unfolded a story like this to Blair, he’d stand behind his chair, fingers curled around the top, rocking forward and back until I concluded.
“You never confronted Blair, even in a roundabout way?” Vincent asked.
“I had no proof that would stand up,” I said.
Vincent’s gaze sharpened in a way that told me he noticed I’d dodged the question. When I remained silent, he inclined his head as if waiting, but this was where I drew the line. There was nothing else he needed to know, no good that could come of replaying that last, wretched, curse-filled conversation between Blair and me.
“Then you transferred to the Yard,” Vincent concluded.
My eyes dropped to my hands clasped at my waist. They were quick, strong hands, but they’d been powerless to obtain any sort of justice for Kevin Walsh, or to hold Pye or Wick or Blair himself to account. Powerless to do anything but leave the whole mess behind. The shame of it flared so hot that sweat broke out along my scalp.
“You couldn’t stay,” Vincent said. “Could you?”
“No,” I said.
Vincent steepled his fingers, touching the tips to his chin. “When I first mentioned Blair just now, you looked as if you wanted to ask something.”
“Did you send me to Wapping, the morning we found Rose Albert, because I’d know to keep an eye on him?”
His eyebrows rose. “No. It’s only recently I learned most of this, although you’ve filled in some gaps. I sent you because you know more about the river than anyone here. Or so people tell me.”
I didn’t dispute that. “Do you think Blair squealed to the papers to discredit you, or me? Or both of us?”
“I’d say both of us,” he replied. “I imagine he resents my oversight, and this was his way of trying to get out from under it. He’s also probably scared of this.” His index finger pointed to me and then back to himself. “That you’d trust me enough to explain why you left.”
Yes, Blair had done what he could to undermine that trust, implying Vincent leaked my Seddon Hall visit.
“Kevin Walsh’s case was five years ago,” I said. “I’m surprised anyone would still be thinking about it.”
“Some members on the Commission have long memories.” Vincent gave his quiet smile. “That’s why the River Police was discreetly tucked within my purview when I was brought on.”
“I see.” It was on the tip of my tongue to ask what Vincent would do with this information, if this would have repercussions for Blair. But it was really none of my concern. And with that thought came an unexpected wave of relief.
“Thank you for telling me,” Vincent said. “Though it certainly took some prodding.”
There was a glimmer in his eye that reassured me. “Yes, sir. Beg your pardon.”
“I also appreciate you going to find Nate today, though it must have seemed a fool’s errand.” His left elbow on the chair arm, he touched two fingertips to his chin and rubbed.
“I know why it was necessary.”
A knock at the door, and a sergeant appeared. “Beg pardon, sir, but they just came in, and both said they were urgent.”
To my surprise, the sergeant held out two messages, one to Vincent and one to me.
Vincent opened his, and I unfolded mine.
I recognized Tom Flynn’s scrawl: “Griffiths has served as counsel for several large companies on the river—shipping, warehousing, manufacturing—including Baldwin’s. Try Cecil Lowell, member of the board.”
My heart tripped. So Griffiths, Dr. Forsyte’s barrister, was linked to Baldwin’s.
“Damn,” Vincent whispered. “It’s Stiles.”
I tore my thoughts away from Tom’s message. “Is he worse?”
“Yes. He’s in hospital and asking for you,” Vincent said.
“In hospital?” I stared.
“St. Anne’s.”
So he was with James. My worry, which had flown high, dropped a notch.
I handed over Tom’s missive. “Sir, I think I should try to find Mr. Lowell.”
He passed the message back. “I’m acquainted with the man,” he said. “You may find him at his club. Boodle’s in St. James’s Street. But see Stiles first. He’s cool-headed, not the sort to ask for you if it isn’t important.”
I wondered if this were a veiled criticism of myself, but I let it go. Vincent turned his message, so I could read the three lines. The terseness of James’s message, so unlike his usual eloquence, was warning enough:
Dear Mr. Vincent, Your man Stiles is here at St. Anne’s, very ill, but asking for Corravan. I’ve written, but he has not replied. Please send him with all haste.
* * *
At the hospital, I went straight to James’s office. “How ill is he? Is it influenza?”
He looked at me with an expression equal parts exasperation and anxiety. “Where the devil have you been? I sent for you hours ago! It’s pneumonia in both lungs.” He rose from behind his desk and stalked past me through the door I’d left open. “I wanted to give him something to alleviate his cough and help him sleep, but he insisted on staying awake to see you.” He spoke those words over his shoulder as he hurried along the corridor. I caught up to him on the stairs, and he led me to a curtained corner.
Stiles’s fair curls were shining with sweat at the temples, and his face was gray against the pillow. The curtained area reeked of the onion poultice on Stiles’s chest. Stiles saw me and smiled weakly, turning his head. The very movement caused a series of coughs to explode out of him, and his entire body shuddered with the effort to suppress them.
I stepped toward the bed, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Stiles. I had no idea.”
“Alone,” he whispered, closing his eyes.
“Be quick about it,” James said as he stepped outside the curtain. “Every cough damages his bronchial tissues.”
“What can I do, Stiles?” I asked.
His hand came to his chest, as if to hold his lungs steady while he tried to speak. “See Rachel tonight.”
My breath caught. “You found her?”
“Maid … at Beckford’s.” His coughs convulsed him, and it was a minute before he lay back on the pillow. “She left … same night Madeline went missing.”
I took a cloth and wiped the spittle from his mouth. Mindful of James’s warning, I didn’t ask how he knew. “Where is she now?”
“New position. With Mrs. Sudbury,” he whispered. “Harriet had to convince her to talk to me. Skittish. If I’m not there … won’t be another chance.”
“What’s Rachel’s surname?”
“Wells.”
Briefly I wondered how she’d found a new place without a written character. But there were men in Selwich Street who forged one for a price.
“S’posed to meet outside the house. Tonight’s … only night … could get away.” He closed his eyes, exhausted.
Outside the window, it was beginning to rain. The last thing I wanted to do was stand outside a house waiting for a maid, especially when I wanted to find Mr. Lowell at his club.
But I’m more potato than rot.
“I’ll see her,” I promised. “I’ll tell you everything she says, and if you want to talk to her later, you can.”
He winced. “Tell her … sorry I couldn’t come. Explain.”
“Of course.”
He gave me the address. “Wait on the street … near servants’ door … seven o’clock.”
I repeated the address to reassure him, then stepped outside the curtain. “Is he going to be all right?” I asked James in a low voice.
His face was tight with worry. “I don’t know. He should have come in days ago.”
“How did this happen? I thought it was just a spring cold.”
James shook his head. “Apparently he’s been out every night, walking about London in the rain. He’s worked himself nearly to death, literally.”
The nurse parted the curtains and stepped inside.
“Why was he out walking?” I whispered. “Did he tell you?”
“He was following someone,” he replied, his murmur nearly drowned out by Stiles’s hacking cough.
Following Rachel? The Beckfords?
But no case was worth this.
Perhaps James saw the depth of my worry, for he touched my arm in a rare gesture of rapport. “I’ll send word if he takes a turn. One way or another, the fever should break within the next forty-eight hours.”
From behind the curtain came the sound of retching, and bile rose in my throat. I swallowed it down and sent one of Ma Doyle’s short prayers heavenward, on the off chance it might tip the scale.
“I’ll see Rachel, just as he asked,” I said. “Don’t let him worry about that.”
He nodded and stepped inside the curtain.
I climbed into a cab. Naturally, I’d forgotten my umbrella. My heart twisted, thinking of how Stiles would’ve made sure I had it, and I felt a pang of remorse. He wasn’t just a skiff bobbing in my wake. What rubbish. If I thought of him that way, it was only because it allowed me to shore up a particular vision of myself. No, Stiles was his own boat, making his own wake.
Damn it, he couldn’t die.
“Where to, guv?”
Whatever Stiles wanted me to find, I’d do my best for him.
I gave the driver Mrs. Sudbury’s address in Thurlow Street.
CHAPTER 42
It was a pleasant road, and though it was not yet dusk the gas lamps were lit when I arrived at a quarter to seven. With the rain coming down in earnest, I strode along the iron fence to a side alley. Between the bars, I studied the back door, in shadow under an awning, before I retreated to the meager shelter of a nearby tree to wait.
For half an hour, I stood in a rain that ripped down through the branches and chilled me to the bone. The muscles down my back ached from clenching them against the cold.
Finally the rain thinned to a mist.
The shadows had thickened, and the gas lamps hissed and flared, casting a weak, wavering glow on the wet cobblestones. A few pedestrians hurried by, their umbrellas lofted. A lone cab churned the puddles, sending ripples along their surfaces. A scrawny gray dog sensed my presence under the tree, gave me a wide berth, and slipped around the corner. Still I waited, and still Rachel didn’t come. When the church bells tolled half past, I began to worry: Had I missed her? Had she gone out a different door? Left early? Changed her mind about talking to Stiles?
Damn everything twelve times over. But there was nothing to do but to wait and hope she’d come. I’d give her until eight o’clock, at least.
Finally, as the church bells tolled three quarters, the back door opened and a young woman appeared and exited the gate. Of medium height, she wore a dark hooded cloak around her shoulders, with skirts showing underneath. By the light of the gas lamp, I could see her peering up and down the street. Her black hair was pulled back from her young, pretty face.
I came out from the shadows. “Rachel Wells?”
She drew back distrustfully. “You’re not Mr. Stiles. Harriet told me he was young and fair.”
Another time I might have minded, or laughed, that she thought of me as old.
“Please don’t be afraid,” I said, using my gentlest voice. “I’m from Scotland Yard. Mr. Stiles is in hospital, so he sent me.”
“How do I know tha’s true? Harriet said he was to come hi’self! Stay away from me! Stay away—” Her voice trembled, and with her eyes fixed on me, her left hand groped for the gate latch.
I drew out my warrant and held it up, my other hand palm forward, in a gesture of surrender. “This is my police warrant. If you’d like, we can go to the nearest division, where they’ll vouch for me.”
I walked toward her slowly, offering it.
She hesitated and shook her head. “I cain’t read it, and I ain’t going to a division.” Her face was pale, but her chin was up, and her eyes searched mine. “Is Mr. Stiles really sick?”
“He has pneumonia in both lungs. He’s very sorry he couldn’t come himself.” I replaced the warrant in my pocketbook. “Did Harriet tell you why he wanted to talk to you?”
Her hand clutched at the neck of her cloak. “About—the Beckfords.”
“Could we go somewhere quiet?” I asked.
Her expression was instantly wary again. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere alone with ye.”
“Of course not. I just want to get out of the wet. Is there a tea- or coffeehouse nearby, perhaps, where women are allowed? Or a pub? Somewhere you’d feel safe.”
She studied me. Then she nodded, cautiously. “I know a place. ’Tisn’t far.”
“Wherever you like.”
She led me down the street and turned right onto another. She passed the King Henry, from which came the sounds of raucous laughter, and pushed open the door of the Blue Swan, a smaller place at the corner. The wooden sign had weathered, and the poor swan was missing her tail feathers. But the room was sedate, with a dozen people at scattered tables. I bought us two tankards of ale, and we found a quiet corner. The table wobbled, sloshing my ale over the rim. I drank enough so that it wouldn’t spill again and watched as she removed her hood. In the light from the lantern above our table, I could see her delicate complexion, her large dark eyes, the curve of her cheeks, a few dark glossy brown curls that escaped their pins. She wasn’t just pretty; she was lovely.
I felt a warning prickle down my arms.
“What d’ye want to know?” she asked.
“Rachel, when did you leave the Beckford house?”
Her eyes slid away from mine. “Near six weeks ago now.”
“The same night Mrs. Beckford did.”
She gave a cautious nod.
“Did they ask you to leave, or did you leave on your own?”
She said nothing, merely studied me with a distrust that brought to mind Madeline in the cab on the way to the hospital. The similarity in their expressions was unnerving—and it planted a suspicion that twisted the soft place under my ribs.
“What happened, Rachel?” I kept my voice gentle. “Did something frighten you?”
She gave a low snort but kept her voice just above a whisper. “Why do you want to know now, when it’s too late? How do I know this isn’t some sort of trap to—to—catch me out for summat else?”
Something like forging a character? I thought. “I’ve no desire to catch you out,” I assured her. “But I’ve a feeling you’re a sensible girl, and you wouldn’t leave unless you had a good reason.”
Like an ebbing tide, some of the wariness left her. But still she didn’t speak. And why should she trust me, after all?
I leaned forward. “I found Mrs. Beckford, Rachel. She’s alive.”
Her eyes lit with surprise and relief. “But Harriet told me she’s still missing! Where is she? Is she all right?”
Rachel’s concern seemed genuine. Whatever had happened in that house, Rachel didn’t blame her mistress.
“She was in Holmdel Asylum,” I said. “I don’t know how she ended up there, but she was wretched. Half starved and unable to speak. I took her to a hospital where there’s a doctor I trust. But she’s so overwrought that she only talks in her sleep. And she says the same words over and over again. Something about a table and a red stone and a knife.” Rachel’s eyes widened, and her lips parted. The skin on my arms prickled anew. She understood the significance of those words. “And your name,” I concluded.
Her eyes dropped down to her hands in her lap, and a shiver shook her whole frame.
“She spoke mostly in French,” I continued, “so it took us a while to understand.” I sat back. “I’m gathering something terrible happened. Was Mr. Beckford part of it?”
“I’ll say he was.”
The way she said that, low but with such loathing, I was gaining a sense of what he’d done. But still, I needed her to tell me. “What happened, Rachel?”
She looked up. “After Mrs. Beckford said my name, how’d you find me? You didn’t ask him, did you?”
“No. Mr. Stiles only talked with Harriet. She’s a loyal friend, Rachel. He had to do a fair bit of work just to convince Harriet to relay a message to you.” I saw her jaw soften. “Now, I want you to assume I know nothing. I don’t even know the right questions to ask. So go back as far as you need to, and—and take your time. I’ve all night for you, if you want it.”
She sat still, gnawing at her lower lip so cruelly I thought it might bleed.
I changed tack. “What can you tell me about Mrs. Beckford? Was she going mad, the way her husband said?”
“Course not!” she said witheringly.
“He told us he was worried about her. He wanted to protect her.”
A hard snort. “He hated her. Married her for her fortune. I heard him say so.” The door opened, bringing in a gust of cold air, and Rachel watched a family of three find seats near the fire.
“Rachel, the doctor—Dr. Wallis—who’d been treating her, agreed with Mr. Beckford. And Mr. Spear, and Mr. Beckford’s brother.”
“They’re all liars,” she spat out.
Liars who had orchestrated their stories well, I thought, remembering how neatly their accounts had folded together with only minor inconsistencies.
For the third time, I asked, “What happened?”
Her gaze was full of accusation. “Why would you believe me?”
“Do you see this?” I pointed to the small scab that remained on my cheek and pushed my hair back from my forehead to reveal the bare patch. “When I tried to take Madeline home, thinking that’s where she’d want to go, she fought me so hard she pulled my hair and drew blood. Struck at me with my own truncheon. She would’ve killed me before she went back inside. So I’ll believe anything you tell me about what happened in that house.”
At last she spoke, her voice low: “He come at me.”
