Down a Dark River, page 33
His voice grew tender. “Till I kissed her for the last time and let ’er go.”
His words were harrowing my heart, but there was more I had to know. “How did you write the letters?”
“I’ve a friend who c’n write proper. And it don’t take long to find out from servants what’s happening in a house.”
“And then you used chloroform and cut the women’s wrists.”
His chin came up. “Only after they was dead. That warn’t half what that man did to my girl.” His voice became pleading. “It was just to show ’em! I did it so’s they could see for themselves.”
The image of Elaine prone on the table, with Beckford looming viciously and hissing in her ear, rose again in my mind as clear as a painting, and, God help me, my horror at what Bernard Price had done to his victims was momentarily outweighed by sympathy for his daughter, the shift as evident as the movement of scales at the docks when one too many sacks of grain landed on the plate.
But there was no way to balance this scale. Nothing Mr. Price could do, and nothing anyone could do to Mr. Price, could make amends for the deaths and suffering of his victims. And nothing could be done to make amends to Mr. Price for what had been done to Elaine. I felt the futility of it, and for the first time in my life, I understood what Ma Doyle meant once when she said that finding folks innocent or guilty is sometimes a poor way of righting the world. What could possibly be a just end to all of this? What could be done in the courts? I could think of no result that held justice or even decency, much less atonement. I stood in the path of the cold wind racing down the dark river and felt a profound sadness, for all of them, and a desperate wish to do no further harm.
As if he were following the train of my thoughts, Mr. Price asked, “What’re ye going to do wi’ me?”
Quartermain’s voice erupted into my ear: “If you let him go, I will punish you to the furthest extent of my reach.”
“Mr. Price,” I said quietly. “If I do my duty and bring you in, you will stand trial. You’ll have to tell Elaine’s story. To men who will care even less.”
Horror swept over his face, and I saw the whites of his eyes. He threw back his head and let out a howl. “I can’t do that. I won’t—I’ll be damned if I—I won’t—I won’t—” His voice rose to a shout, and he broke into a spasm of coughing.
I had to come close to make myself heard. “But I can’t set you free either.”
He clamped his mouth shut, and his black eyebrows lowered in bewilderment.
“I’ve heard that if you hit the water from this high, you don’t feel anything else,” I said.
After he drew a quick breath, a gurgle came from the back of his throat. His expression was a mix of wariness and wonder. “You’d—you’d be—lettin’ me—” He fell silent. Then he leaned over and studied the water. “Here’s one of the deepest parts.”
“Yes.”
His shoulders straightened as he moved his bound wrists. “No cause t’ worry. I cain’t swim with these.”
“No.”
He licked his lips. “You could be hanged you’seln, if they don’t believe I got away.”
“You’re a large, powerful man. When I tried to take you into custody, you smashed me in the head and flung yourself over the wall before I could stop you.”
He considered that. “Why’re you lettin’ me go?”
I chose my words carefully, to be sure they expressed the truth as I saw it. “What you did to those innocent women was wrong—terribly wrong. Rose Albert, Jane Dorstone, Charlotte Munro, and Emma Montooth were loyal friends and daughters. Decent, kind people who took care of others, who tried to do some good in the world. And there are people who loved the dead women dearly and who will never, ever recover from the loss.”
He flinched.
“But making you go through a trial isn’t going to bring them back, and the courts have injured you enough.”
His breath came in quick pants. “What about Beckford? I can’t—”
“He’ll be dealt with. He and his brother go to a brothel on Thursdays.”
He nodded. “Yah. In Hampstead.”
“The police raid it on occasion.” I paused. “The next time may be on a Thursday.”
His panting halted.
“Once word gets round what they’ve done, they won’t survive prison.” My voice was thick with feeling. “Trust me on that.”
Relief flashed over his features, and one deep, ragged breath and then another swelled his chest. Then he stepped on a stone beside the parapet.
“Wait.” I came close. “You need to knock me on the head.”
“That’s right,” he said and began to draw back to do so. Suddenly he stiffened, the shoulders of his coat bulging, as though he had tried to free his hands. “Do you have a knife?”
“A knife?” I shook my head. “I can’t—”
“No,” he said impatiently. “Not for that. I want you to take what’s round my neck.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a medal. Used to be hers.” He tipped his head sideways, revealing a narrow strip of leather against his throat. “I don’t want it to go down with me.”
I drew out my knife and ran the blade underneath the thong. It clove in two, and I caught the ends. Threaded onto the leather was an oval bit of pressed tin. My thumb detected bumps and ridges. A saint’s medal, perhaps. Like the silver one Belinda had given me, of Saint Michael, patron saint of police, that I refused to wear, leaving it in a box at home. It came to me, in a flash of insight, how pathetic that was, that I wouldn’t even accept a symbol of assistance.
“Who is it?” I asked.
“Saint Zita. Patron saint of maids and servants.” His voice was low. “Not that it helped her any.”
Dear God, if only it had, I thought.
“Will ye keep it?” he asked. “I ain’t worth rememberin’. But she was.”
His words made my throat constrict. “Of course.”
I put the medal carefully in my pocket, so he could see I had it safe. Then I stood still, ready for the blow.
He made a good job of it, his forehead smacking mine hard enough that everything went black and pain razored from my neck down my spine. Anyone looking would have seen me stumble backward, fall, and take time before I stood. Through a blur, I saw his bulk lurch sideways and vanish.
By the time my vision cleared, I was alone.
I struggled to my feet and leaned over the parapet. Below, a dark shape disrupted the moonglow that flickered over the river. Then the shape sank, and the surface ripples recovered their rhythm, running the pale silver light all the way to the shadowed shore. A fierce uncertainty hollowed out a space in my chest.
I wished I knew if I’d done the right thing.
CHAPTER 48
The next morning, as the bells struck six, I sent a message to Catherine’s to say the man had been found, and she and Belinda were safe. I reached the Yard early enough that I found only the desk sergeant and a constable.
It was yet another Tuesday. But this one would be different.
I stood in the doorway of my office and watched as Vincent entered. In all the months he’d been at the Yard, it was the first time I’d taken the opportunity to study him as he made his way through the main room. His very stride and gaze bespoke prudence, evenness of temper, and intelligence. Perhaps from the beginning he hadn’t given me enough credit for my virtues, but I hadn’t acknowledged his either. That morning, I fully recognized how well suited he was to the task at hand—rebuilding public trust, fending off the Quartermains of the world, taking a position of civility with the newspapers, and managing men from all sorts of backgrounds.
His eyes caught sight of me, fixed on the bruise on my forehead, and he said, “Give me ten minutes, Mr. Corravan.”
“Of course, sir.”
My subdued tone, perhaps more than the words, made him pause before he disappeared into his office, closing the door. I returned to mine where I simply sat. Sometimes waiting is what must be done. At the prescribed time, I knocked, and he bade me to enter.
Vincent stood behind his desk with an opened letter in his hand. Although I’d given him his full ten minutes, he was still in his overcoat. My entrance roused him from his reverie, and he exhaled audibly through his nostrils as he greeted me.
He folded the paper. “It’s from the hospital. Stiles is all right. His fever broke.”
A profound sense of gratitude wiped all other thoughts from my mind for a moment. “Thank God,” I said fervently.
He nodded toward another written message on his desk. “And the body of a large dark-haired man in handcuffs was found near Blackfriars Bridge this morning.”
I kept my face expressionless as he hung his coat on the creaking rack.
Vincent sat, gestured for me to follow suit, and folded his hands across his waist. “I heard that you were at Mr. Griffiths’s last night. The sergeant stationed there said you ran after the family cab and sent the two women home.”
“Yes, sir. The young man was watching the house conscientiously. And it was he who alerted me to how Price would capture the two women.”
“But you caught him.”
I gave him a clear and concise account of the exchange between Mr. Price and myself, up to a certain point.
“He confessed all of this to you,” Vincent observed. “Where were you standing?”
I had my answer ready.
“On the bridge, sir. I’d put him in cuffs. He told me he would talk, but I’d have to keep my distance. He said he’d throw himself into the river otherwise.”
His gaze sharpened. “You believed he was so casual about his death?”
“He was already dying, sir. Black lung. He worked in the coal mines as a child, and at times he could hardly speak for coughing.”
“Hm.” Vincent looked thoughtful. “Letting Charlotte Munro live for the sake of her child. Strange bit of decency, wouldn’t you say?”
“I think he was a decent man before his daughter died. Some of it remained, I suppose.”
Vincent went very still, and I had the feeling, suddenly, that I had revealed too much of my ambivalence. But he only asked, “What happened next?”
“I explained that he would have to stand trial for the murders. He said he would rather die. That he had sat through Elaine’s trial, had seen her disbelieved and laughed at by the judge and barrister and the rest, and he was damned if he’d repeat the experience.”
“I see.”
“It became clear to me that I’d have to seize him in order to bring him in alive,” I continued. “I came toward him as he finished speaking, and he smashed me in the head so hard I fell backward.” I touched my forehead, where the bump was purplish and very evident. “And then he flung himself sideways—so quickly that I didn’t have time to grab him.”
A frown creased his brow. “Is it your belief that he planned to do so all along, after he explained himself?”
“Yes.”
“But why would he do that when Beckford is still free?”
I took a deep breath. “I told him we knew about the brothel, and it was a prosecutable crime.” Vincent’s expression was inscrutable, and I added, “So long as we keep mention of Mr. Price out of the papers, the Beckfords won’t be alerted. They’ll go to Rose Cottage as usual on Thursday.”
Vincent pushed himself out of his chair and went to the window. Into the closed room filtered the morning murmur of other men’s voices, the muted blare of boats on the river, the banging of a door in the corridor upstairs.
“I’ll authorize the raid,” he said finally. “But I want Mills to handle it. Especially given what happened with Mr. Price, there can be no appearance of you meting out justice to the Beckfords.”
Relief blazed along my nerves.
“And the Beckfords will be the only ones Mills captures,” he continued. “Unfortunately, it’s not unlikely we’ll find men of prominence at Rose Cottage.”
“Yes, sir,” I said and began to stand, hoping he would not ask.
“Mr. Corravan.”
I sat back down.
“You left the sergeant at Griffiths’s and went after Price alone.” His eyes—intent—met mine. “Did you seek that private interview?”
I had spent most of the night honing my answer—an honest one for myself, but also an honest one I could give Vincent. Had I wanted to confront Price alone because, as Belinda said, I always wanted to be the sole rescuer? To affirm my own strength? So I never had to admit my own weakness? Perhaps. But the closest I could come to the truth was that from the moment I spoke with Rachel and heard Elaine’s story, my revulsion toward Price had been tempered with understanding. Certainly, I wanted to hear Price’s story to bring a successful close to the investigation. But there was another reason, too: I wanted Price to tell Elaine’s story, just once, to someone who would listen.
I gave Vincent the truthful reply that would serve him: “I was afraid seconds would matter, sir. I didn’t want to lose the carriage, and if, as I suspected, the driver had been thrown off, I thought the sergeant should find him and ascertain he was all right.”
Our eyes met and held for a long moment. I could have sworn I saw a flicker of approval, even admiration. It seemed both of us felt justice had been served—though neither of us, for different reasons, would ever say so aloud. He could report a successful result to the Commission, and perhaps it would keep the Yard whole for the time being.
Vincent tapped his fingertips lightly on the desk edge. “Your handling of this has been … adroit. I would suggest that next time you do your best to have a witness to a confession. But your explanation accords with the sergeant’s.” He cleared his throat. “It is not lost on me that you are making an effort to tamp down your … tendency to barrel.” The shadow of a smile appeared. “Please write the account exactly as you’ve described it.” He nodded to dismiss me. “That is all.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I left the room, closed the door, leaned against the frame, and breathed.
There would be a next time.
CHAPTER 49
That afternoon, I went to the hospital to visit Stiles. He’d recovered sufficiently to be wheeled by chair into the sunroom. The golden warmth cast its light over half a dozen patients seated or walking with the assistance of a cane or a nurse. To my surprise, Madeline was there as well, sitting beside Stiles, in a rocking chair. A nurse stood nearby, and Madeline held a tiny baby in her arms. Not wanting to disturb them, I kept out of sight.
The nurse nodded in approval. “This is such a help, Mrs. Beckford. Mrs. Kipp needs her rest.”
Her words put a sweet, gratified expression on Madeline’s face.
Stiles leaned forward in his chair, and Madeline looked over at him with a shy smile before returning her gaze to the infant. I had a curious feeling then, looking at the three of them. They could have been a family. Though Stiles was thinner than usual, pale and unshaven, he had something of the attitude of a doting father, and Madeline looked like an affectionate mother. It was a false picture, of course, but true in a way; the kindness the nurse and Stiles had shown Madeline, and the tenderness she was showing the baby, were very real. My heart lightened. Madeline would be all right and Stiles was on the mend.
I turned away to find James, to tell him that the case was finished and that eventually, Madeline would be able to go home to her house without fear.
* * *
The raid at Rose Cottage went off perfectly under Mills’s supervision. Twenty-four men were caught in situations that left them open to scandal and incarceration. Through a remarkable amount of bumbling and fumbling in the dark, twenty-two of them managed to escape out the back door, many of them in embarrassing states of undress. Two of the men, however, were caught and put on trial for committing sexual acts with five girls younger than eleven. Stephen and Robert Beckford were sentenced to thirteen years in prison, with no possibility of parole.
* * *
As Mills was preparing the raid on Rose Cottage, I made two calls. The first was to Tom Flynn, which took the better part of two hours. The second was to Mrs. Munro.
Earlier in the day, I’d sent a note asking if I could visit at her convenience. She sent back a reply asking if I might come that evening, as she was most eager to speak with me.
I could understand that. When I arrived, we sat in the parlor, and she offered me tea or coffee. “We don’t have spirits in the house,” she apologized.
Given her father, I could understand that.
“Coffee will be fine. Thank you.”
As she made the request of her maid, I couldn’t help but think of the day when I was sitting in a different parlor with Lucy Marling, scribbling in my pocketbook. It seemed months ago.
After the maid brought in the tray, and we were left alone, Mrs. Munro smiled at me. Her face still bore traces of bruising, and the gown she wore covered her neck and her wrists. But she had a glowing, joyful demeanor that I’ve noticed in other women who were with child, and I wondered how I’d ever thought her plain.
“My husband is on his way home,” she said. “He arrives next Saturday.”
There was a brief, awkward pause. Not for the first time I thought, There is no easy way to begin a discussion about a murder.
“I’m here,” I began, “because the case has come to an end.”
Her hand set the teacup into the saucer with a gentle clink. “I imagined so, when you asked if you could visit. Although I’ve seen nothing in the papers.”
“No, we won’t be releasing it until tomorrow, for various reasons. Some parts of this story are very distressing,” I said cautiously. “But I’d like you to know it, so you can see just how important a role you played.”
“I’m glad I could be helpful.” She settled back in her chair, the cup and saucer in her lap. “Was it the trial, as you thought, that drove him?”
