Down a Dark River, page 28
“Stephen Beckford?”
She hesitated. “The first time, it was his brother—Robert. He come at me with a knife in the kitchen.”
I knew better than to pull out my pocketbook and pencil, but I had to remember every single word of this; she wasn’t going to say it again.
“He—he’d grab me, mean like, and kiss me and touch me, and then he’d give me a pound and laugh afterward.” Her lips trembled. “I tried to be careful so I warn’t ever alone, and mostly I could, but he’d catch me coming or going sometimes, or if it was late and no one else was about. And he—he did more each time.”
“How many times?”
“Four.” Her expression was at once pained and pleading. “You prob’ly think I’m no better than a—a—common whore, but it warn’t like that. My parents are dead. I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
“I don’t think you’re a whore,” I said tightly. “I think he’s a bloody savage.”
She started at the venom in my voice.
“Go on,” I said. “What happened the last night you were there? What did he do?”
“Not just him. Both of them. Mr. Beckford and his brother.” She swallowed. “Close your eyes.”
“What?” The word slipped out.
“Close your eyes,” she repeated, her voice breaking. “I can’t have you looking at me when I tell you this.”
I’d never been asked that before, but I understood. There had been times in my life when I’d wanted the same.
“All right.” I shut my eyes and put my palm across for good measure. My hand smelled faintly of Stiles’s onion poultice. “I won’t look until you say you’re finished.”
“Oh, you’ll know,” she said.
Every nerve of mine was strained toward her, to catch every word and nuance of tone.
She began haltingly: “That day, the chimney—the one in the library, I mean—it had been smoking, and we’d had a sweep in to clear it out. It took him hours, so I didn’t get to clean that room till after dinner. It must have been near ten o’clock. When I finished, I came into the kitchen to eat the supper Cook left, and Mr. Beckford and his brother came in and found me at the table. I’d stupidly lit a lamp.” Her voice thickened with anguish. “They were real quiet like, but I could smell the drink on their breath …”
She told me then, the things they did to her, things so vile that waves of heat and ice ran from the top of my head down every nerve. My heart thudded sickeningly inside my chest, and I longed for the end. But I’d asked, after all. So I clamped my teeth on the inside of my left cheek until at last it was over.
I took away my hand to find her eyes full of fear that I’d doubt her.
“I believe you,” I said hoarsely. “I believe every bloody word, Rachel.”
Her lips parted and tears sprang to her eyes. She dashed them away with her fingertips.
“Did Madeline—Mrs. Beckford—did she know about this?” I asked.
Rachel sniffed. “That’s why they stopped. She came down to the kitchen. She must’ve heard summat, or knew … somehow. She opened the door and saw—everything—and screamed.”
I could imagine it. Rachel atop the kitchen table, the men assaulting her—and Madeline at the doorway, her mouth open wide.
“What happened next?”
Rachel exhaled so deeply I smelled the ale on her breath. “Mr. Beckford—Stephen, I mean—he let go o’ me and went toward her, but she took one of them big knives from the wood block by the sink and kept him away. She told them to let me go, or she’d kill them—and she might not be big, but she looked scary then, like a witch, her eyes flashin’, and her hand waving the knife, screeching to raise the dead. It warn’t enough to scare ’em after the first startle, but they let me go, and I got myself over to her. She told me to run, so I collected my things from my room and took off out the back.”
Her words silenced me. But at last I understood the depth of Madeline’s terror at the thought of going back to that house. Her husband was a monster. And what would he have done to her, knowing she’d witnessed his crime?
Rachel added, “I’ve thought about it, over and over since then, and I think she suspected. Don’t you? Else why would she come looking for me?”
Why indeed? Unless it had happened before.
I made my voice very quiet. “Rachel, did Madeline know anyone named Elaine?”
Her eyes were incredulous.
Hurriedly, I added, “One day Madeline muttered something about ‘a’” —I exaggerated the pause—“‘lane,’ and we thought she meant a street. Only later did I realize it could be ‘Elaine,’ and when you said just now that Madeline suspected—”
She shook her head in bewilderment. “How could you not know? You’re police!”
“We have hundreds of cases, and if it wasn’t one of mine, I wouldn’t have heard.” I leaned forward. “What is her surname?”
“Price,” she said. “Her name was Elaine Price.”
“Was,” I repeated, and she nodded unhappily. “Who was she?”
“The other kitchen maid ’sides Harriet. ’Twas last summer, ages ’afore his brother and him started on me. Only she accused him.” She took a breath. “See what it got her.”
Suddenly I remembered; Stephen Beckford had listed Ellie Price among the servants who’d left.
“What did she get?” I asked.
“Nothin’, o’ course!” Her voice was disdainful. “She went to trial, though she shouldn’t ha’ bothered. We all said so. Beckford had the doctor and all the rest on his side. The judge gave her two pounds ten and sent her away.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My breath quickened as my mind began to rearrange the pieces, working them all in. The judge—Albert? A doctor—Forsyte? Elaine—the Lady of Shalott? The river. The boats. The rope around the wrists. The torn, bloody skirts. The red stone? Robert’s ring.
In that moment, I felt the case change course, as surely as I’d ever felt the tide turn under my oar.
“Tell me more about Elaine Price,” I said. “What happened to her after the trial?”
She looked askance. “If I tell you, you won’t tell him, will you? He’d just laugh.”
“I promise.”
With a sigh, she ran her thumb along a ridge in the glass. “Elaine knew she wouldn’t find another place, not here in London, anyway, with Beckford sayin’ she was trouble. Besides, she’d start showin’ soon.”
“She was with child?” I asked sharply. “You’re certain?”
She nodded. “She told Harriet. They stayed friends, even after she’d gone. Elaine’s monthlies had stopped, and she was sick every morning. Only the baby came too early, and it died. Near six or seven weeks ago, not long ’afore I left. Elaine kept bleeding after it came, and she died, too.” She rested her elbow on the table and fidgeted with her hair. In doing so, her sleeve slipped off her wrist, revealing scars from the ropes one of the Beckford brothers had used.
I found myself staring at the skin, thin and red and puckered.
She caught me looking and pulled her sleeve down. “Sometimes I think mebbe Elaine’s the lucky one,” she muttered, averting her eyes. “At least she don’t remember anything.”
“I’m so sorry, Rachel. For you and for Elaine.”
She nodded without looking at me.
After a moment, I asked, “What about the other servants? Beckford told me two others left last summer as well. A footman and another maid. I think her name was Annie. Did he assault her, too?”
“No, but he dismissed them ’cause they knew what he did to Elaine. They both had families to take ’em back in.”
Unlike you, I thought.
Rachel wrapped her cloak more closely around her. “The Beckfords hired someone to root them out.”
“Root them out?”
“Scare them out of London, so they couldn’t make trouble.” She sniffed. “A detective, or summat like one.”
My breath caught. “Was his name Taft?”
“I dunno. But Harriet said he come to the house again, a few weeks back.”
Yes, that was likely Taft. If the servants had been run out of town, they’d have left without a character, like Rachel. Whether they had families or not, they’d have diminished prospects of employment. So these were yet more people Beckford had left injured in his wake. But for a man like Beckford, there would always be more.
“And Harriet? Did they ever come after her?” I asked.
She shook her head. “She’s the butler’s niece. Quincy would never stand for it.”
“Did Quincy know? And the housekeeper?”
Her lip curled. “They know what side their bread’s buttered on.”
I leaned back into my chair and blew out a sigh at the wickedness of it all. “Rachel, you need to make a formal report. Or it’ll happen again. If not to Harriet, to someone else.”
Her eyes widened, and panic came over her face.
“It would be different this time—” I began.
She leaned over the table, her hands wrapped tightly around the edges. “I told you because I thought it would help Mrs. Beckford. But I’d hang myself before I speak of it to a group of men who’d laugh at me, or worse! And just when I’ve settled into a new place? No, I won’t do it! I won’t!”
Her voice had risen to a shrill pitch. People were staring. I muttered, “All right, Rachel. I won’t make you.”
“Swear it!”
“I swear!” I replied, my voice as vehement as hers.
The room had gone silent. We sat quietly until all the stares drifted away, and I added softly, “I will never make you speak of it again, anywhere or at any time.”
A sheen of sweat had appeared on her beautiful face. Tears filled her eyes again and ran down her cheeks. “I thought you understood!”
“I do. I do.” I dug in my pocket for a handkerchief, relieved that I’d put in a fresh one the night before.
She looked at the folded square uncertainly.
“It’s clean,” I said.
She took it, opened it to its full size, and pressed it to her eyes.
At last she took it away. “I mean it,” she said slowly and distinctly. “I will take my life rather than repeat that story in court, just to be laughed at.”
Again, I believed her. Every bloody word.
* * *
We parted at the doorway of the pub. I thanked her, put one of my cards into her hand, told her that if she ever needed anything, ever, to call on me, and turned away, my mind churning.
The Thames wasn’t the river in the poem, and London was no Camelot. But it was Elaine’s story just the same.
The two cases were flip sides of the same coin. Elaine—the maiden, Elaine—the maid …
Thank God Stiles had convinced Harriet to trust him, I thought fervently.
I crossed two streets before I realized my stupidity. I’d been so damned swept up in Rachel’s wretched story, I’d forgotten to ask. I spun and raced back to the pub, then kept running, shouting her name.
“Rachel!”
At the end of the street, I found her, put my hand on her shoulder—
The face was that of a much older woman, pale and fearful.
I apologized profusely and turned away.
Dear God, where was she?
“Mr. Corravan,” she said, hurrying toward me from across the way. “For mercy’s sake! What is it?”
Between gasps, I asked, “Did Elaine have a suitor? A fiancé?”
She shook her head. “Don’t think so. She was shy.”
My heart sank. I’d been so sure.
Then who would have taken revenge on her behalf?
The image of Sidney Dorstone popped into my head.
“What about a brother?” I asked. “Or—or a father?”
Her expression changed. “Oh, a father to be sure. She met him every other Sunday for a walk, on her afternoon off.”
A father.
My heart jolted. “Do you know where they’d go? Or where I can find him?”
She shook her head.
I took a breath. “All right. Thank you again.”
She nodded. And then, reluctantly, “And thank you. It don’t fix nothing, but I’m glad you know.”
We parted again, and I turned for home, my feet moving of their own volition. Like easing a boat into its berth, I was slipping into Mr. Price’s mind. It might have taken longer if I hadn’t been in Whitechapel that very morning. But my experience years ago with O’Hagan had driven into my bones how it felt to be at the mercy of someone cruel and infinitely more powerful. It was nothing for me to imagine Mr. Price’s feelings, as he sat through a mockery of a trial, and then endured his poor daughter’s death.
The transcript of the trial might have Elaine’s former address, which might lead me to her father. But that wasn’t the only reason I needed to see the document. A trial required more than a judge and a doctor and a witness or two. God only knew how many other daughters Price was planning to kill.
CHAPTER 43
The next morning, I was out the door early to see Vincent. The walk to the Yard gave me time to organize my thoughts afresh, and they weren’t comforting.
First off, from the beginning, Beckford had taken me in as surely as a street trickster plays his mark. Belinda had said I longed to rescue people. Thinking back to Stephen Beckford’s initial visit to the Yard, I wondered if he had sensed that tendency in me. But whether he had or not, he’d produced every sign of helpless uncertainty and despair, of being the victim in desperate need, and I’d risen to the bait like a fish.
Second, Vincent still didn’t know that Madeline was hidden in James’s hospital. My heart sank as I realized I would have to tell him today. He’d be furious with me, again, rightfully so, for skirting the law and keeping this secret. But perhaps if I knew precisely how Madeline Beckford and the river murders were related, he’d be more forgiving. In the cold light of morning, the certainty I’d felt last night about Mr. Price had faded some. I needed to be sure of my facts.
My steps slowed as I approached the Yard. It would take hours to find the trial records, but I could at least keep Vincent apprised of my whereabouts, in a timely fashion, as he would say. I scrawled a few lines on a page from my pocketbook and folded it over. I hovered near the stone arch until I saw Sergeant Cole approach, and I greeted him.
He came toward me. “Mr. Corravan, what are you doing out here?”
“I have to go to the Home Office and the Old Bailey. I’ll be back soon. But could you ask the desk sergeant to deliver this to Vincent?”
He looked at me oddly, no doubt wondering why I didn’t want to walk the hundred yards and deliver it myself, but he slid the paper inside his pocket.
I’d only reached the next corner when I heard my name shouted behind me. It was the sergeant, and his face was pink from hurrying. I met him halfway, and he handed me an envelope. “This just came for you.”
It was addressed in a feminine hand: “Mr. M. Corravan, Scotland Yard.”
It wasn’t Belinda’s writing, but my hand shook as I opened it and read: “Yesterday afternoon, we noticed a man who appeared to be keeping his eye on the house from across the way. He remained until evening, though he is gone this morning. In addition to bolting our doors and drawing our curtains, we’ve taken the precaution of hiring an armed man for protection. We felt you should know.” The note was unsigned. But it was clearly from Catherine.
“Something the matter?” Sergeant Cole asked, his expression worried.
“This came just now, you said?”
He nodded. “Some chap left it on the front desk. I figured it might be important.”
I thanked him, shoved the message in my pocket, and turned away.
No one but me had known where Belinda was. So Price had followed me to Catherine’s, and I’d endangered Belinda yet again. The rabid bear barreling through the woods. What a damned fool. I reached up and gave my hair a vicious tug, relishing the pain in my scalp, feeling it was the least I deserved.
I strode along the pavement, imagining the worst possible outcomes. In my mind, the hired man had been shot and Belinda had been abducted and tortured and taken out of London in half a dozen ways by the time I reached the Home Office. But the civil greeting from the guard, the usual protocol of entering signatures, dates, and times in the record book, and even the warm, musty air brought me back to the present, and I marshaled my wits. The fact that they’d noticed the man lurking meant that Belinda and Catherine were on their guard, and they had protection. There was nothing to do but put my head down and find Mr. Price; it was the only way Belinda and any other women connected with the trial would be safe.
It took nearly an hour for the clerk to find the notation in the Criminal Registers, which held the trial calendars for both the Central Criminal Court and the Sessions Courts for London. Making a note of the indictment numbers, I headed for the Old Bailey.
I made my request, and it was another tortuous hour before the documents were delivered. I sat by a window and began to read the trial transcript for one Stephen Beckford, a gentleman, accused of rape by Elaine Price, a maid in his employ.
Presiding judge: Hon. Judge Albert.
I’d expected it, yes. But still, I read only that far before my hands started trembling so hard I had to lay the pages on the table in front of me.
* * *
Half an hour later, I’d read the entire transcript through, some parts twice over. The gist of it was that Judge Albert had presided over a trial that, on the face of it, seemed quite ordinary. Had I not heard Rachel’s story—had I not seen how the thought of returning to the Beckford house had driven Madeline into a frenzy—I might have believed the verdict because the evidence of Stephen Beckford’s innocence and of Elaine’s supposed deception was assembled so convincingly. I, too, might have believed, as the jury did, that Elaine had falsely accused her employer, in order to extort money. That she needed it because her father had lung disease and medicines were costly, and she was beautiful enough to tempt any man. I would have been convinced by all the witnesses assembled by T. Bartholomew Griffiths, Esq.—the man who’d had the hospital wing named for him, thanks to the Beckfords, but who was a barrister, not a solicitor, as James thought. Dr. Forsyte had testified that Elaine had never been forcibly raped but must have offered herself willingly. Three witnesses, Sidney Morris, Alan Montooth, and William Speare—of course, I realized grimly, remembering how he’d embellished upon Madeline’s “peculiarities”—had verified that Beckford was at their gentleman’s club, Clavell’s, the entire evening that the rape was alleged to have occurred.
