Nine Buck's Row (14 page)

“I should think he'd be perfectly suited for politics,” I remarked.

“A lot of people thought so, but Nicky doesn't have the necessary patience nor, I might add, the diplomacy. He's a lone wolf and would never be able to work with other people. Besides, he's accomplishing much more this way, and with a wife like Valerie—scandal, you know, all that gossip and those deplorable headlines—” Maggie shook her head. “It wouldn't have done for someone in politics.”

“Maggie—” I asked abruptly, “was his wife beautiful? Valerie—was she really beautiful?”

“Outrageously beautiful,” she replied, fussing with her napkin.

“Did he love her very much?”

“Very much. I've never seen a man so in love.”

“She hurt him terribly, didn't she?”

“Terribly,” Maggie said. “These preserves are delicious, aren't they? Would you believe I put them up myself? The kitchen was in a terrible mess when I finished, and I put too much sugar in the first batch—several of the jars exploded, strawberry all over the ceiling, but—”

She chattered on, making an amusing story out of the incident, and I could tell from the way she had changed the subject that she had no more to say about the mysterious Valerie. I was maddeningly curious about the former Mrs. Nicholas Craig. Had he been so chillingly remote before Valerie? Was she the cause of those bitter lines and that sarcastic attitude? Had he always been so arrogant and aloof? I wasn't going to find out from Maggie. He had probably forbidden her to talk about the marriage, and, for all her love of lively talk, Maggie was no gossip.

I had not seen Millie in a week and a half, since the day of the Chapman murder, and I decided to go pay her a visit that afternoon. I left the house around three o'clock and walked up Buck's Row, passing the slaughterhouse with its foul smells and the distressing noises coming from the rear of the building. Men in bloodstained leather aprons lounged against the front wall, smoking cigars while they were idling. I averted my eyes, hurrying on to Brady Street.

I turned right on Brady and walked down to Whitechapel Road. The sky was a pale, powdery blue, and radiant silver sunlight spilled over the soot-stained gray buildings. It was a lovely day, the first hint of autumn in the air, and it was hard to believe that these same streets, bustling with color and congestion, would become dark pathways of terror at nightfall. I strolled down Whitechapel, peering into shop windows, watching the urchins at play on the sidewalks, their cries drowned out by the shouts of hawkers and the noise of carriages rumbling down the street. Peddlers stood behind carts laden with ribbons and bright gewgaws, old women sold apples, and a man in a tall white hat was selling delicious-smelling sausage rolls. Tonight the street would be deserted, veiled with fog, sinister.

“Afternoon, ma'am,” a familiar voice said, and I turned around to see Jamie Caine in his dark uniform and short, shiny black cape, the strap of his helmet fastened securely under his chin.

“Well, hello,” I said, smiling. “How nice to run into you. Are you on duty?”

He nodded gravely, his blue eyes stern.

“I'm just on my way to see Millie,” I said pleasantly. “I haven't seen her in days. How is she?”

“I wouldn't know,” he said, scowling. “Guess I'll walk a piece with you, Miss Susannah. There's always a bunch of hooligans hanging about in front of that bloody waxworks. Out of the way, brats!”

“Have you and Millie had a quarrel?” I inquired.

“Aye, you might say that. Sent me packing, she did. Said she didn't have time to waste on the likes of me. I went to see her, a week ago it was, and she was rude and uppity for no reason at all. No reason at all,” he repeated, his mouth tight.

He squared his shoulders, bearing his hurt like a man, but the hurt was quite clearly there. The poor fellow was desolate, unable to comprehend her treachery. I shook my head, sorry for Jamie but not at all surprised. Millie was as fickle as she was frivolous, shockingly inconstant in matters of the heart. Jamie had captured her fancy with his stern manner and manly bearing, but she had undoubtedly met someone new, a college student, perhaps, or a clerk from one of the law offices. I'd probably hear all about him when I saw her.

Jamie moved closer and placed a protective hand on my arm as we neared the waxworks museum across the street from London Hospital.
HORRIBLE WHITE CHAPEL MURDERS
a gaudy banner announced, and people were shoving to get inside. It was a shoddy place and had done dismal business before, but when the proprietor pulled out some old wax figures, splattered them with red paint and arranged them in a graphic tableau, business had boomed, customers pouring in like flies. The police had closed the place down once in the name of public decency but had been unable to keep it closed. It had quickly reopened, drawing in even more crowds after the notoriety. As we passed there were delighted screams as schoolgirls viewed the lurid exhibit.

“Dreadful place,” Jamie said, glowering at the crowd. “Horrible way to make a few shillings. You'd think people'd have more respect. Wouldn't surprise me at all if some of the vigilantes don't burn the place down one of these nights.”

“Have the vigilance committees been any help?” I inquired.

“Great bumbling lot of fools,” Jamie retorted, leading me across Baker's Row. “These matters are best left to the police, people who know what they're doing. These vigilantes only make things worse, roaming around the streets at night, playing at being bobbies, sounding an alarm at the drop of a hat. A group of 'em ran in one of our own plainclothes men last night, convinced they'd caught the fiend.” He shook his head, eyes full of disapproval.

Deeming the police force inadequate, a number of groups had banded together to help trap the criminal. Tradesmen whose business had suffered because people were afraid to shop after sundown, college students in search of excitement, settlement workers from Toynbee Hall and numerous others had formed patrols, and their amateur policework had added a comic touch to the grim situation. The newspapers were constantly reporting on their shenanigans. The night was shrill with the sound of alarm whistles blowing in the foggy backstreets, they reported, and hardly fifteen minutes passed that some fervent citizen wasn't yelling for help, convinced he'd grounded the arch-criminal in a shadowy courtyard.

“At least they're trying to do something constructive,” I said. “You can't blame them for that.”

“That may be so,” he replied, unyielding, “but they're only hindering things. If he's caught, it won't be by one of
those
idiots.”

I smiled at his vehemence. Jamie was remarkably loyal to the force, I thought as we stopped at the corner of Osborn Street.

“I'd best turn around here,” he said. “You can go the rest of the way alone.”

“Thank you, Jamie. There was really no need for the escort.”

“Mind you get back home before it starts gettin' dark,” he cautioned in a severe voice.

“I will,” I promised.

He gave me a sharp salute and turned to walk back up White-chapel, his back ramrod straight, long wooden truncheon swinging at his side. I hurried up Osborn, turned on Old Montague and was soon climbing the stairs to Millie's flat. She seemed surprised to see me, and I noticed that her vitality was slightly dampened, some of the sparkle missing as she led me into the shabby front room.

“I've been ever so busy,” she explained, talking rapidly. “You have no idea how much time it takes to look after an absent-minded oaf like Daddy. Always misplacing things! Yesterday he forgot his lunch pail and I had to race all the way down to the docks to take it to him. I've been mending his socks—they're in a notorious state, full of holes! Sit down, Suzy. Would you care for some tea?”

“Don't bother, Millie. You—you seem nervous.”

“Nervous? Me? What a preposterous idea. Really, Suzy, you do say the oddest things. Here, have a biscuit. They're delicious. I'm sorry I haven't been to see you, really I am, but—” She plopped down on the sofa, leaving the sentence dangling in midair.

“I've been busy, too, helping Maggie in the shop.”

“That must be fascinating. All those lovely bonnets!” She curled her legs under her and spread out her faded lilac skirt. Her face was slightly pale, the golden brown freckles prominent, and her brown eyes weren't as lustrous as usual.

“Have you been brooding about Jamie?” I inquired.

“Him! Brood about him? I should say not! I ditched him, and all I have to say is good riddance. I've never
known
anyone so bossy and strait-laced.”

“You look rather upset.”

“Bosh! I'm just tired. Scrubbed all the floors this morning and dusted all the furniture, on top of the mending. A person can't scintillate
all
the time, Suzy.”

“I just talked to Jamie. He told me about your quarrel.”

“Where did you run into
him?
”

“On Whitechapel Road. He walked part of the way with me.”

“It's a wonder you're not limp from boredom. I don't know what I ever saw in Jamie Caine. Can you imagine being
married
to someone like that? A person would go berserk after the first week.”

“I suppose you've met someone new,” I said.

I expected her to burst into a paean of praise about the charms of the lad who had supplanted the unfortunate Jamie, but Millie merely sighed and ran her hand through the luxuriant copperred hair, winding one long curl around her finger. I had rarely seen her so listless, and I suspected the quarrel with Jamie had affected her far more than she cared to admit. She looked exactly like one of the lovesick heroines in the novels she was always reading.

“And how is your guardian?” she asked.

“Just fine. I haven't seen too much of him.”

“I suppose he's still visiting those wicked places, staying out half the night?”

“He's still gathering material for his report, yes.”

“There's something odd about that, Suzy.”

“He's a sociologist, Millie. His interest is purely academic. I rather admire him for what he's attempting to do.”

“Oh?” she said innocently.

“He's a wealthy man. He doesn't
have
to do this kind of work. He could be leading a life of lazy indulgence, frittering away his time with hunts and house parties and country balls, living off the income of his land and the paper factory, but—”

“You
do
admire him,” she interrupted.

“Yes, in a way.”

Millie wandered over to stand at the window, peering out at the cloudless sky. Soft rays of mote-filled sunlight spilled about her, creating an unusual lighting effect, and, in profile, she had an ethereal kind of beauty. I wondered if the flirtatious Millie had, at long last, actually fallen in love. She had certainly never acted this way when she had broken off with her other beaux.

“By the way,” I said, “how did you enjoy your walk with Daniel Lord?”

“What? Oh—him. He's all right, I suppose.”

“You seemed extremely impressed when we were in the courtyard.”

“He's nice looking, and interesting, but—”

“He's not Jamie,” I finished the sentence for her.

Millie didn't answer. She began to bustle about, insisting I have the tea I had refused earlier. Later on she told me about the dress she intended to make and pulled out the material, red silk, patterned with tiny black flowers. Frightfully expensive, but she'd been saving up, she explained. She'd always wanted a red silk dress. Some of her usual animation returned as she caressed the sumptuous cloth and described just how the dress would look.

“Just like a lady,” she exclaimed, “a real lady!”

“Real ladies don't wear red silk,” I said.

“Oh, Suzy, you're such a tease!”

It was after five o'clock when I returned to Nine Buck's Row. I hadn't told Millie about my theater engagement. I'd wait till later, when I could describe the event itself. Nestling Scrappy in my arms, I stared out the window, strangely pensive, strangely elated as I thought about tomorrow night.

10

I cast a final look in the mirror, eyeing myself critically. I could find no fault, yet I was apprehensive just the same. What if he didn't like my dress? What if he didn't like the way I had arranged my hair? For some reason it was terribly important that I see admiration in my guardian's eyes tonight. I wasn't a gauche young girl. I was almost nineteen, old enough to be married already, and it was imperative that he understand that.

The dress was one of Marietta's she had had altered to fit me in a moment of folly, a bronze taffeta with long tight sleeves, square-cut neckline and form-fitting bodice, the stiff, full skirt rustling crisply. The rich cloth shimmered with gold and brown highlights, changing colors as I moved. It was far too grand and sophisticated, and I had never had occasion to wear it before. My hair was pulled back severely, fastened with a brown velvet bow over my left temple, three long ringlets dangling down to touch my shoulder.

Although I had seen the music hall acts several times, I had never been to a real theater. There would be splendid ladies and handsomely dressed gentlemen, a polite, formal atmosphere of culture and good breeding. I hoped I could contain my excitement. Nicholas Craig would be at ease in those surroundings, and he would expect poise. Although I looked cool and elegant on the surface, I was light and giddy inside, my pulses leaping.

I put on the matching bronze cloak trimmed with gray fur and picked up the large gray fur muff. He would be waiting for me in the parlor. My heart seemed to flutter as I went downstairs, my skirt crackling with the sound of dry leaves. Feeling like a child on Christmas morning, I stopped in front of the parlor door to catch my breath, then stepped inside.