City of Darkness (City of Mystery) (34 page)

“Davy,” Trevor said quietly.  “Thank
you.  I have made many mistakes in this investigation, but the one thing I will
never regret is choosing you as my assistant.  Find the assignation sergeant
and tell him I want round-the-clock surveillance of the Bainbridge house and a
tail on John Harrowman.  As of now, we will treat him like any other suspect.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

November 10

5:50 PM

Cecil Bainbridge stood outside the
Pony Pub that and watched people crowd their way into the small establishment.  Tonight
was a special celebration, for not only was it the wake for Mary Kelly, but the
owner had promised free food and beer.  They would drink till dawn, damn the
Ripper, and take the morrow on the morrow.

With a deep breath, Cecil pushed open
the door.  After the events of the last twenty-four hours, God knows he was as
ripe as anyone for a drink.  

The night before, when he had entered
Neddy’s box at the track, two strangers had been waiting.  Bill collectors, as
it turned out, hired and sent there by Cecil’s own dear friends, and Neddy had
even bragged that it had been a kindness to trap him with a social invitation. 
“The alternative, old chap,” he’d said, slapping Cecil’s shoulder as if this
were all some sort of grand joke, “would have been to send them to your home
and I would not insult your mother in such a way.”

Was he supposed to thank them for
confronting him there at the track, with the townspeople gaping on, rather than
in the privacy of his own home?  They knew he had no way of settling his bills
on the spot, but Neddy had explained – while Cecil’s so-called friends stood
silently in the background – that his mother had been seen in her diamond and
opal brooch on the unfortunate afternoon of the Wentworth hunt.  An admirable
piece, was it not?  Selling it would not bring enough to settle all his
accounts, but it would be a start.

The brooch was the last fine thing
they had.  The final remains of a love match gone hopelessly awry, and the one
item Gwynette had refused to sell.  She would do without the carriage and walk
to town if she must.  She would fire the staff and wash her own stockings, but
she would not release her grip on the diamond and opal brooch.

“I’ll get it for you,” Cecil had
said, although he wasn’t sure how.  “I’ll have it at your office, Neddy, 10 am
tomorrow.”  And then the man had shown the audacity to offer Cecil a glass of
champagne, to urge him to take a seat.

Cecil had walked home alone that
night, stumbling in the darkness.  At one point a carriage passed and – rather
than be spied in his pitiable state – he had hidden behind a tree.  He supposed
he could get the brooch while his mother slept, but what good would it do to
deliver their only valuable object into the graceless hands of Edmund Solmes? 
Within weeks, the notes would all be due again, this time with nothing to keep
the creditors at bay.  He’d come to a new low, he had, and as he walked Cecil
talked aloud to himself, constructing a plan.  It was audacious and risky, but
he could think of nothing else.  The brooch was the last solid place on which
to stand while he built a new life.  

When Cecil had arrived back in Winter
Garden, his mother, William, and the cook were all asleep, just as expected. 
He packed his satchel in the darkness. It was not difficult to slip shoeless
into his mother’s bedroom, nor to find the brooch in the top drawer of her
vanity.  What proved more challenging was laying his hands on some actual cash. 
The account box was empty except for a few shillings.  Whatever had William
done with the proceeds from selling the carriage? 

Try the obvious, Cecil had thought,
and he had moved next into William’s room.  He was almost to the bureau when he
caught sight of William’s jacket, hanging over one of the posts of the bed and
Cecil had smiled to himself in the darkness.  There were benefits to having a witless
brother.  Cecil slipped a hand into one pocket and then the other while William
gently snored. 

From there it had been simple enough
to walk to the station, to sleep on the bench outside.  To catch the earliest
train to London and to find some cheap and nondescript inn where he might stash
his bundle and lay his head for an afternoon nap.  What was happening at home
did not concern him.  When he did not arrive at Neddy’s office at ten, he could
presume the man had sent his unpleasant minions to Winter Garden where William
and Gwynette could quite honestly proclaim to have neither any knowledge of
Cecil’s whereabouts nor those of the diamond and opal brooch.

And this, he thought as he claimed a
barstool, was the last place anyone would expect to find him.  He looked
nervously about but luckily the singing and drinking had already begun and his
awkwardness went unnoticed.  Cecil accepted a beer, slumped forward and began
to listen to the stories about Mary.  There were some tears, for Mary had been
truly liked by many in the East End.  Cecil hoisted his mug to every stranger,
honoring a woman he had never met.  Accepting the buss of a weeping girl in ripped
black satin who obviously mistook him for a former client, he tilted his head
toward the two men sitting behind him, who were deep in conversation. 

“Mary ‘ad family, you know?”
sputtered a small sandy-haired man who had pulled a cap over his eyes in a
concession to mourning.  “Wealthy one’s, they were.  Lived up on Mayfair.  She
used to walk up there at times to check on ‘em.  I went with ‘er once, I did. 
I ‘ate the sons-of-bitches.  Mary ‘ad a sweet ‘eart, she did.  Always a smile
for ‘ol Georgy.”  With tears in his eyes, he drank down half the pint and
signaled for another.

“Mary ‘ad fam’ly in Mayfair?”  His
friend did not openly challenge Georgy’s story, but his tone was skeptical.

“That she did.  A sister.  Emma was
‘er name.  Mary worried ‘bout ‘er all the time.  And ‘er in that fancy house
and Mary on the street.  Sickens me to think.”

So Mary indeed was the sister of the
girl Leanna had befriended, just as Cecil had expected and hoped.  And he was
not the only one who knew this.  His mind spinning with a hundred small
adjustments to his plan, he turned toward the men.  “Someone ought to get even
with that Mayfair bitch,” Cecil said.  “Teach that Emma Kelly a lesson.”

Georgy nodded so vigorously he nearly
slipped off his stool, but his more sober friend’s face was still full of doubt. 
“Like what?” he asked.  “What could the likes of us do to a lady who had found
‘er way to Mayfair?”

Georgy gulped down his remaining ale
and slammed down his mug in disgust on the table top.  “Dunno, but ‘e’s right,
the man is.  Mary deserves better.”

Cecil smiled at Georgy, who would
clearly prove useful before this affair was done.  “Well, Sir, it looks like
you’re about ready for another pint.”  He passed his own mug toward Georgy and
signaled to the barkeep for a replacement.

“Sir?  I’m no sir,” answered Georgy,
looking up at Cecil.  “But I am thirsty.  Thanks, mate.”  He grabbed the mug
and swallowed almost half in the first gulp. “Don’t think I seen ye before,
mate.”

“I’m not from London, but I knew Mary
from a long time ago.  Damn that Ripper, she was such a sweet girl.”

“I know, Mary and me was close.  I’ll
miss her more ‘an anyone in this room.”

“And to think she was living so poor
but had family in Mayfair,” Cecil reminded him.  Essential to keep the man on
track.   The friend, with some eye rolling, stood and departed in search of
livelier conversation and Cecil slid smoothly onto the stool the man vacated.
“Undoubtedly Mary’s heart was bigger than their whole house. What did you say
the sister’s name was, Emma?  And you know where she is?”

“Not ‘ere, that’s for sure,” Georgy
said, looking about wildly.  “Safe on ‘er cushion, takin ‘er tea, too fine to
give poor Mary the time of day.  I’d like to fix ‘er fancy bottom.”

“Family is family,” Cecil said
sanctimoniously, as Georgy drained his glass.  “Mary might be alive today if
Emma had helped her.  But what could we do?”

“I be thinking,” Georgy promised,
foamy spittle in both corners of his mouth. 

“And I’ll help you.  You know, I
think we should put a real scare in them.  Let them feel terror the way Mary
did,” Cecil said.  “What about this? We could send a letter to Mayfair.  Tell
them Mary had a baby and we’d been caring for the tot since her death.  We’d
tell them they should have the baby since they’re blood family, but for our
trouble we’d want a hundred pounds.  We’d have them meet us down here.  Then
we’d hire someone to rob them and rough them up a bit.  We could split the
money and buy sweet Mary a proper tombstone.  That would be getting even. 
Wouldn’t you say?”

“I like the idea, rough’em up a
mite,” said Georgy, his face lightening, then falling.  “But ‘ey didn’t care
for Mary, so why should ‘ey care for ‘er baby?”

Funny time for the dolt to begin
getting logical, Cecil thought.  He’d been relieved to note that up to this
point Georgy had asked no questions about his accent or his clothes.

“Because it’s a baby.  Everyone cares
about a baby.  Anyhow, it’s worth a try.  For Mary’s sake.  If it doesn’t, I
mean, if it don’t work we’ll think of something else.  You can’t turn your nose
up to fifty pounds each, can you?”

“Fifty pounds could buy ‘ol Georgy a
proper holiday.”

“First we have to find someone who we
can hire to do the robbing and roughing up.  Do you know anyone, Georgy?  This
is my first trip to London.  I haven’t a friend.”

“Lemme think.”

“Someone big and scary looking.”

“Know just the brute,” Georgy said,
rising unsteadly to his feet and waving down a passing man.  “Hey chap,” he
said, “Whassa name of that ugly Pole from the slaughterhouse?”

The man turned to consider both Georgy
and Cecil.  Cecil felt his confidence erode a bit, since it was clear this
fellow was completely sober, perhaps the only person in the bar who could claim
that distinction.  When he had looked at Cecil, he had clearly noted the gilded
buttons on his jacket and the cleanliness of his hands.  

“You want Micha,” he said.

“Micha, that’s the one,” Georgy said.
“‘e’d put the fear in the devil himself.”

“’True,” the man said slowly, still gazing
at Cecil.  “Micha will do anything.”

Cecil felt a strange chill, although
he couldn’t have said precisely why.  His plan was coming together with
lightning speed, as if ordained by the angels themselves, and yet there was
something about this fellow that made it clear he was not deceived by Cecil in
the least.  He had stretched out the word “an-y-thing” with a strange sort of emphasis. 
Of course, he seemed foreign, with that dark skin and the ridiculous girth of
his mustache, quite possibly a Pole himself, so perhaps he was simply
over-enunciating a word that was not common to him.  Cecil feigned interest in
his beer and the man slipped away into the crowd. 

Georgy was pounding the table in
delight.  “Micha, yeah, ‘e’s as big as Gibral’eer.  And mean enough to murder
‘is own mum for ten pounds.”

“How do we find this fellow?”

“Leave it to ‘ol Georgy.”

“Good.  Then I’ll draft a letter and
have it sent to the Mayfair home.  Could you show me where it is?”

“I’ll take ye in the morning.  Mary
will ‘ave a beautiful tombstone to lay at ‘er ‘ead.”

And Leanna will jump at this bait
like no other, Cecil thought, quite pleased with himself.  A do-gooder like his
little sister wouldn’t let a maid venture to Whitechapel alone, and venture for
a helpless baby they surely would.  Cecil sat back and smiled at Georgy.  Life
was so much easier when you were surrounded with idiots.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

November 11, 1888

4:40 PM

Trevor watched the mortuary assistants
lower the torso inside the regulation coffin.  The girl’s clothing had all been
burned so they had wrapped her in the same mummy-like white muslin the coroners
used to bind wounds.  One leg had never been found and the other had been
reserved for research. 

“Should we put in the face?” Trevor
asked hopelessly, thinking of the neatly-trimmed oval of skin he had found on
the bedside table.

“There’s nothing to be gained by
keeping it,” Phillips said.  “But since we’re bereft of a skull….”

“Perhaps this, Sir?” Severin said,
holding up a wooden head and neck.  “I knew she was going in the box today and
I fetched it from a hatmaker.”

“Good thinking,” Phillips said, and
they stepped back as the man laid the wooden head at the top of the torso and
deftly draped the leathery skin of a woman’s face across it. Trevor bit his lip
to hold back a bark of hysterical laughter.  This was the point in the process
where they normally photographed the dead, but in this case no one suggested
they do so.

Everyone said that Mary Kelly had
been beautiful.   The newspapers had paid for a sketch artist to reproduce her
features from the memories of friends.  It was this image of a pretty, smiling
girl that Trevor tried to focus on as Severin lowered the coffin lid for a
final time.   Presumably Geraldine, with her ample funds and even more ample tendency
for guilt, would replace this pauper’s box with a handsome coffin and Trevor
did not envy the unsuspecting Mayfair undertaker who would pull out the nails
and open the lid to find what was waiting for him inside.