City of Darkness (City of Mystery) (16 page)

“I must bathe,” said Hannah, not at
all self-consciously, and the other ladies were also filing upstairs in giggling
groups of two or three to change into day dresses. “Cousin Marguarite plans to
play her violin in the south parlor for our amusement, and amusement is indeed
the right term because she’s dreadful.  Should I expect you to wait for me?”

“Eternally,” Cecil said fervently. 

Hannah turned steady grey eyes upon
him.

“Half an hour should be enough,” she said,
rising.  He was certainly handsome, she thought fleetingly, and he said the
right things, but did she really want to look at him across the breakfast table
for the next forty years?  Hannah sighed, dreading the moment she would have to
exchange riding gear for the constrictions of a corset and stays.  Dreading the
moment she would have to trade girlhood for the constrictions of wifedom and
motherhood.  But the day was coming soon enough, for she was past twenty and
she had faced the fact long ago that any man who married her would be doing so
for her money.  She was rich and she was plain and there was no reason to
pretend otherwise.  If not Cecil, it would be some other suitor, equally poor
and handsome and eager, and her father made it clear that the one thing he
expected from his cherished daughter was a brood of grandchildren.  Perhaps Cecil
would at least have the prudence to get her with child and then leave her
alone.  He seemed a sensible sort, beneath all that lace and velvet.

The remainder of the riders straggled
off to change, the servants trudging along behind them to provide basins, water,
and towels.  Cecil was left alone once again in the portico.  He took up his
sherry and looked around for the yellow-haired maid.

“Thought you was to marry Miss
Hannah,” whispered the girl, squirming a bit as Cecil worked his hands beneath
the tight ribcage of her bodice.

“Who told you that?” he answered
breathlessly, finally managing to pull her down beside him.  These rosebushes clustered
in back of the stables provided a safe hiding place.  He would have to remember. 

“Slow down and do it proper,” said
the girl, as arrogant as Hannah in her way.  “You’re going to rip it,” she
added primly, rising back to her knees and beginning to unhook the miniscule
buttons with swift, sure hands.  “There, we can loosen it up a bit, but I
daren’t take it all off here in the daylight.  And everyone knows about you and
Miss Hannah, even the deaf girl who does the mending.”

“I don’t care for her,” Cecil said,
watching the girl daintily lift up her black cotton skirt to expose two ivory
garters.  “It’s a business arrangement, pure and simple.”

“Who do you care for?”

“No one.  You.  I care for you.  What
did you say your name was?”

The girl giggled, letting him pull
her back down on top of him.  “I’m June,” she said.  “Remember that name when
you’re master of the house, won’t you, Love?”

Cecil mumbled something incoherent
and then they both were silent.  The heat of Indian summer mixed with the
nearly overpowering scent of the roses and the surprising sureness of the girl
was too much for him.  She seemed to sense this.

“Lie back,” she said throatily. 
“I’ll take care of it.”

Ah, yes, Cecil thought, letting his
head roll to the grass with an inelegant thud.  This is how it should be.  The
master of the house should lie back and let the serving girl take care of it.

“Hush,” said the girl, her face
suddenly frozen in fear.

“Hmm,” murmured Cecil.  He hadn’t
said anything.

“Hush,” June whispered.  “I hear
someone.  Bloody Bob, he works in the stable and he thinks he owns me.”

Cecil froze too, for there were
unmistakably the sound of footsteps approaching, soft in the grass but
distinct.

“There,” Silas Wentworth was saying. 
“These are the rosebushes I wanted you to see.  We keep them out back where the
sun is a bit better, but they are Hannah’s pride, aren’t they, darling?”

“Yes,” answered the familiar voice,
calm and self-assured.

“Oh God,” Cecil thought, the blood
suddenly deserting the lower limbs of his body and rushing back to his head
with such veracity the thought it would explode.  June was lying immobile
beside him, her eyes and legs wide.

“My grandfather grew roses,” William
said.  “He took several prizes, didn’t he, mother?”

“Indeed,” Gwynette said, although
Leonard Bainbridge’s horticulture experiments had never been quite such a
social asset before.  “You must come with us sometime to Rosemoral, Hannah, and
gather cuttings for your own gardens…”

The voices faded and for a dizzying
moment Cecil thought he was safe.  Then he heard his brother - fat, wretched,
stupid, hopeless William - say mildly “I do like that peach colored variety
over there.  I say, Miss Wentworth, is that one of your specialties?”

“The color is nothing compared to the
scent,” Silas Wentworth said proudly.  “I shall pluck you a sample…”

And then the bushes parted as the
gates of hell and four startled faces looked down at the couple sprawled
beneath them.  With a muffled shriek June leapt up and sprinted toward the
stables, buttoning her dress as she ran, but Cecil could do little more than
gape up at the expressions of his accusers.  Wentworth speechless with fury,
his mother ashen with shock, William unaccountably amused, and finally Hannah. 
Her face, as always, was difficult to read and Cecil was in no condition to be
perceptive.

Drat it all, Hannah was thinking.  I
shall have to go through this tedious courtship process yet again.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

2:50 PM

Eager to inform Davy of his
unofficial promotion, Trevor scoured the Yard for the lad and finally found him
having a smoke with some other bobbies at the back entrance.  Praise
youth, Trevor thought wryly.  Davy looked none the worse for his grisly early
morning experience and he snapped to attention when Trevor motioned him over.

"Davy, I don’t know if I
expressed my gratitude adequately to you last night.  Securing the area,
keeping back the mob, the bit about the chalk message.  It all adds up to good
police work.”

“Just my job, Sir.”

“And now I have one more request. 
That you go to your flat this instant, change out of that uniform, and be back
here in one hour in plain clothes.  You've been assigned to me for the
rest of the investigation."

Davy's face went from puzzled to
shocked as he stammered for something to say.  He lacked at least two
years of being qualified to work in plain clothes and this would certainly make
him the envy of all the other bobbies.   "I hardly deserve it,
Sir, it was just a matter of being in the right place at the right
time..."

"And doing all the right things. 
Don't sell yourself short, Mabrey, there are plenty of people willing to do
that chore for you."

"Thank you, Welles, I mean
Sir.  I...I..."

"Don't just stand there, boy, be
off.  And report to the interrogation room at four.  We’ll be questioning
people the rest of the afternoon.  Not suspects, mind you, just witnesses.  God
only knows how valid their observations are, but Eatwell wants them duly noted,
every one. "

As Davy took off like a man
possessed, Trevor was hit with a sudden wave of exhaustion.  The two
shallow hours of sleep he’d snatched at dawn wouldn’t see him through this day,
he suspected, and he wondered if he might grab a quick nap in his office before
the interviews began.  He glanced at the members of the press milling about the
lawn and they looked back at him hungrily.  The rule was they couldn’t come within
twenty feet of the doorways of the Yard, but there had been few details in the
morning paper.  With two murders, nice and fresh, they wanted more gore for the
next day’s editions.  Trevor watched them with narrowed eyes and decided that
yes, perhaps there was time for at least twenty minutes of a nap.  The center
square clock was striking three.

Forty-five minutes later, a red-faced
Davy Mabrey was walking down the corridor in his Sunday best suit - his only
suit for that matter - and manfully trying to ignore the shrill whistles of his
fellow bobbies.  Although his cheeks flamed, Davy took it all in good
spirits because he too would have made fun if any of them had enjoyed such a
dramatic twist of fortune.  As he approached the interrogation room he
noticed some of the witnesses had been assembled outside on a bench.  It
was a motley crew to be sure.

Trevor, mercifully, did not tease him
at all, but simply pointed out his first desk.  A regulation issued brown box,
but Davy ascended to it as if it were a throne.

"Here are some blank reports and
pencils, Davy.  Just listen to what each has to say.  If you feel it
pertains even remotely to the facts in the case, then write the statement down
and get their names, address, and where they work.  Don't write down
everything everyone says, for a good part of our job is the ability to
distinguish the crackpots from those who look like crackpots but who have
useful information.  No matter how daft they seem, be polite."

"Aye, Sir. Be polite."

“My desk is in that corner, so I’m
close at hand if anything unusual arises.  Gad, what am I saying, it will all
be unusual.  I mean unusually unusual.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Davy and motioned to
the sergeant stationed at the door to send in the first witness.  She entered,
clearly a lady of the evening who was translating none too well to full daylight. 
She smiled a slack-mouthed grin at Davy, and Trevor was pleased to see he
greeted her in a professional manner.

Trevor's first interview was with a
shabbily-dressed man with a pronounced limp and the smell of urine about
him.  Nevertheless, Trevor sat the poor, small creature down in the chair
beside him with grave dignity, and leaned back as far as possible.

"I did it, Guv'ner! I did!"
said the little man, grinning broadly and not bothering to wait for a question.

"You did what, my good
man?"

"Killed 'em.  Murdered each
‘un in cold blood!"

"Who?" asked Trevor, his
face still suitably serious although he doubted this man could hurt a flea.

"Why, ‘ose bitches from Whitechapel,
of course." he said, spraying Trevor's papers with spittle. 
"Did 'em all in.  Two last night."

"And how, may I ask, did you
kill the two last night?  Excuse me, I didn't get your name."

"Why, Hoppy!  Hoppy Darby, of
course!  Oh, it was bloody, Guv'ner, bloody indeed.  The first one, I
snuck up behind 'er and slit 'er throat 'fore she knew it.  Then I stayed
and serenaded ‘er on me mouth harp while she bleeded to death.  But she went
too quick and that wasn't ‘nough for me.  Hadn't finished me song. 
That' why I went for the other one."

"And how did this second poor
girl go?"

"Pulled ‘er arm off with me bare
hands.  Then I beat ‘er over the head with it til she passed out, I
did."

"Indeed?" said Trevor. 
"Dreadful."

"Aye, dreadful," Hoppy said
happily.

"And then, Hoppy, what did you
do with the woman's arm?"

A brief pause.  A wrinkled brow.

"I took it home, cooked it up,
and ate me fill, I did.  I even fed the bones to me dog.  So Guv'ner,
you'd better lock me up and throw away the key.  I’m no good at all, ye
see?"

"Lock you up!" Trevor
shouted, slapping a palm to his desk and rising so forcefully that even Davy
from across the room drew back a bit.  "Hoppy, you have been very
naughty indeed!  We hang people for crimes like these, hang them as soon
as possible." Trevor started leafing through his calendar on his desk.

"Hang me!" Hoppy gasped,
clutching his throat in retreat.  "Who'll feed me dog?  Why
canna you just put the both of us away for the rest of our born days?"

"I'm sorry Hoppy, for your crime
it's hanging.  Are you ready?  We can hang you and your dog this
afternoon."

"Hang me mutt, too?  Why, 'e's
done nothing."

"You said it yourself, the dog
ate the evidence.  So we'll string him up there alongside you.  Where
is this criminal canine anyway?"

Hoppy got up from his chair and took
a few shaky steps backward.  "I made it all up, Guv'nor, didn't kill
anyone.  Please don't 'ang us.  Didn't do it, was a story."

"And now you're saying you're a
liar too?  Hoppy, I'm so disappointed in you.  Well you'd better
be out of my sight or I'll arrest you and that damn dog both, just for lying.”

Hoppy could barely get the door open
in his haste.  Trevor followed and laughed as he watched the tattered
figure jerking down the corridor.  The people on the bench observed the
exit with impassive eyes and once Hoppy was out of sight they turned back to
Trevor, whose expression had changed from smiling to sternness again as he
shouted, "Next!"

By the time Trevor had returned to
his desk Davy was interviewing another witness -  Robert Spicer, a constable
Davy knew from the East End.