Authors: Victoria Lynne
The bells rang on and on. Julia hugged herself tightly, drawing her hands up and down her arms as though to banish a chill. With nowhere else to go, she stood in silence beside her husband and watched the flames burn.
Unfortunately the blaze was not a singular occurrence. Three nights later Julia was once again roused from her bed by the shrill ringing of fire bells. The first fire destroyed the property of Lord Alfred Deerce. Four died in the blaze, including Deerce’s invalid wife. The second fire ravaged the home of Sir Richard Wibberly. That conflagration resulted in one death and scores of injuries. Both fires had been deliberately set.
Julia glanced at the headlines of the papers that sat in the morning room: ARSONIST TERRORIZES LONDON. FIRES RAGE THROUGH CITY, WHO WILL BE NEXT? The entire city was abuzz with apprehension. It was happening all over again. Lazarus was back, and he was winning. London was held in a grip of terror.
By midafternoon of the fourth day, she could well feel the toll of the past week. She was edgy and exhausted, terrified of what the coming evening would bring. Those same emotions were reflected on the faces of the small group gathered around her. Morgan stood with one shoulder propped against the window frame, restlessly sifting the coins in his trouser pockets. Mr. Chivers and Mr. Goodington, a dour-looking man from Scotland Yard who had accompanied the Home Secretary, toyed with their cups of tea. Mr. Randolph, who had just delivered the latest batch of letters that had been sent to The Tattler via the
London Review,
sat utterly still, his expression appropriate to one who was witnessing a funeral procession.
The room was hot and stuffy despite the open windows. A somber heaviness filled the air, although all present made their best appearance of casual nonchalance. Determined not to belabor the moment any longer, Julia lifted the slim stack of envelopes from the sterling silver tray on which they rested. She opened the first note and scanned the page.
A small, fluttering smile crossed her lips as she looked up at the room at large and said, “Lady Georgina Chatham writes to inform me that her husband has been forcing his attentions on their chambermaid. She hopes that I might make his activities known in my column, in order that he might see what a fool he is making of himself and stop his ridiculous behavior. Apparently she has grown quite weary of replacing the never-ending parade of servants his behavior has necessitated.”
Polite, empty smiles greeted her words. She set the letter aside and moved on to the next. She scanned the contents and let out a sigh. Briefly she summarized that Lord Daniel Franklin found the report of his liaison with a certain French chanteuse to be both libelous in nature and grossly erring in fact. Apparently the woman in question was an actress, not a singer, and the evenings he spent in her company — while his heiress wife was away visiting relatives in Dover — were purely platonic in nature. A retraction was demanded immediately. The letter had been signed by both Lord and Lady Franklin.
The next note was a personal missive that had evidently been jumbled in with those addressed to The Tattler. She skimmed the contents and quietly set it aside. Following that was an anonymous letter from a woman who identified herself only as a matron at one of London’s largest foundling homes. She wrote to express her gratitude for Julia’s scathing expose on the plight of the children housed there. Since the column had appeared, the quality of the children’s food and care had improved dramatically.
Julia shifted impatiently and set the note aside. Normally a letter of that sort would have filled her with a sense of purpose and accomplishment. At the moment, however, she barely gave it any attention. Her heart in her throat, she reached for the fifth and final letter. As she scanned it, a rush of relief swelled within her. “Yes!” she exclaimed breathlessly, scooting to the edge of her chair. “It’s from Lazarus.”
Returning her gaze to the letter she held, she read aloud,
Flame,
Crusading angel. Beacon of light and righteousness. I have followed your words and done as you directed. Through fire we will purify this wretched city. The Lord has brought us together so that His work might be done. The guilty shall be punished. The evil that pervades our society shall at last be cleansed. Fear shall grow in the hearts of those who sin.
In return for my toil, I ask but a simple sign of your trust and fidelity. It pains me to see you in gowns of insipid blue
—
the mark of St. James, no doubt. Wear the colors of fire for me, my love.
Crimson. Gold. Orange.
So pure. So brilliant. So beautiful.
Lazarus
Home Secretary Chivers crossed the room and stood before Julia. “May I?” he asked, holding out his hand for the letter. She obediently passed it to him. Chivers scanned the note. “The blue gown he’s referring to,” he said. “Do you know which he means?”
“Blue?” Julia knit her brows in thought. “It’s not a color I generally wear.”
“You wore blue to Lord Attmark’s boating party,” Morgan said.
“Yes, you’re right,” she replied, sending him an appreciative smile. “I remember now. The gown is not one of my best, but it is quite comfortable and perfectly adequate for an afternoon party. As I think on it, the day was dreadfully warm, and—”
“Do you recall wearing blue at any other time in recent weeks?” interrupted Chivers.
She shook her head. “No. Just to Lord Attmark’s.”
Chivers shot a glance at Morgan for confirmation. At his nod the Home Secretary smiled. “Very good. It may not be much, but at least it gives us a place to begin. Now then, who attended Lord Attmark’s party?”
“Half of London,” Morgan replied flatly.
Undaunted, Chivers turned to Mr. Goodington and said, “Pay Lord Attmark a visit and see if he would be kind enough to provide you with a list of everyone who was in attendance — not only the guests, but the servants as well. Then pay a call on Lord Winterbourne and see if you can secure the same information from him. We shall compare the lists and narrow our suspects down to those who attended both events.”
“Your suspect list may well be in the hundreds,” Morgan pointed out.
“Perhaps,” Chivers replied with a shrug. “Hundreds in a city of a hundred thousand. At least we are narrowing it down, are we not?”
That said, he gave his man a nod, silently dismissing him. Mr. Goodington bade them good day and stepped from the room. Mr. Randolph, after promising his assistance anytime they should need him, left as well. As the sound of the front door closing echoed back to them, Morgan asked tersely, “Is that all you intend to do? Compare party lists?”
“Not precisely. There is another peculiarity contained within that letter; one that is even more striking than his reference to the viscountess’s blue gown.”
“‘I have followed your words and done as you directed,’” quoted Julia, beating him to it. “What does he mean?”
“In the past Lazarus has always selected his own victims. This time he let you do it for him, Lady Barlowe.”
“Me?” she echoed, appalled.
“As you are aware, two fires were deliberately set in the days following the publication of your column. The first occurred on Lord Alfred Deerce’s estate, the second on Sir Richard Wibberly’s property.”
“What has that to do with my wife?”
“In addition to planting the message for Lazarus and the society news that surrounded it,” responded Chivers, “the central theme of Lady Barlowe’s column was the abysmal conditions found in the workhouses. Specifically, Robert’s Home — the workhouse located just off Garner Row. It did not take a great deal of investigating on my part to discover that both Lord Deerce and Sir Wibberly serve on the board of guardians for Robert’s Home.”
Julia sank back into her chair, struck by a weight of guilt so heavy, she nearly felt ill. Five dead. The direct result of a column she had written. “I never expected that he might—”
“There was no way for any of us to predict it,” Chivers reassured her immediately. “Nevertheless, it is a most interesting development, however, is it not?” He stood and began to pace the room. Despite the dismal circumstances, he looked challenged and almost delighted.
“In the past,” he continued, “his letters to you have always contained a note of passion and adoration, but it was clear that he regarded you as a compatriot of sorts. A woman whose zealotry for reform neatly dovetailed with his own ideals and religious fervor. Judging by this last letter, that has changed. Now he is relinquishing the lead to you. He is doing your work and looking for a sign of acknowledgment and praise from you in return.”
Julia shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “It was never my intention to inspire this sort of… zealotry, as you put it, Mr. Chivers.”
“But the fact remains that you have, Lady Barlowe. To my way of thinking, it is quite wonderful that you have. It is incumbent upon us to seize this opportunity and capitalize upon it.”
“What do you mean?” Morgan asked.
“Until this moment we have been in the frustrating position of waiting for him to strike, then searching among the embers for clues to his identity. In sum, he has controlled our actions. Now for the first time we may be able to control his. If this is any indication of Lazarus’s current state of mind, Lady Barlowe is in a unique position to not only inspire the man’s next move but to actually direct it.”
“I see,” Julia said, shooting a glance at Morgan. Judging by the grim expression on his face, Chivers’s meaning was undoubtedly as clear to him as it was to her. She turned to the Home Secretary and asked briskly, “What did you have in mind, Mr. Olivers?”
“To put it in plain terms, a trap. If Lazarus is in fact taking direction from your column, we should waste no time in taking advantage of that. After discovering the connection between Sir Wibberly and Lord Deerce, I have been so bold as to presume that you would consent with my plan, Lady Barlowe. To that end I have selected a target for Lazarus.”
“And that is?”
“I would ask that you write about a certain house of ill repute. If I may be so crass — a brothel. The site I have in mind strikes me as ideally suited to our purposes. The Cat’s Paw. It’s a rather isolated structure at the end of Canal Street. It houses less than half a dozen souls, all of whom could easily be cleared from the building in case of fire. Furthermore there are several abandoned buildings nearby in which my men could station themselves to watch for Lazarus.”
She gave a tight nod.
“I have taken the liberty of assuming you would agree with this plan and written down the particulars for you,” he continued, removing a sheet of paper from his coat pocket and setting it on the table before her. “If that information does not suffice, you may of course contact me.”
Julia lifted the sheet and scanned the contents. As she did, a shiver of dark foreboding raced down her spine. “And if this fails?”
“To my way of thinking, we will have lost nothing,” Chivers returned with a shrug. “But I believe it behooves us to take that chance, don’t you? When does your column run next?”
“Not for another three days.”
A flash of disappointment showed on Chivers’s face. “A shame. I had hoped it might be sooner.”
“I could contact my editor and see if he might place the column in tomorrow’s paper—”
“No,” interrupted Morgan. “To do so may very well arouse suspicion.”
“I quite agree with Lord Barlowe,” concurred Chivers. “Better that we take no irregular action, or do anything that might arouse Lazarus’s suspicion. In the meantime, may I suggest that the two of you continue in the same vein that you have been? Attend as many social events as you are able, see and be seen. Perhaps luck will favor us, and Lazarus will say or do something to reveal himself sooner than we expect.”
His business apparently finished, he flashed a quick, preoccupied smile, reached for his hat, and stepped toward the door. “Let us dangle the bait and see if he bites, shall we?”
Morgan moved to follow him. “I’ll see you out.”
“Not at all,” Chivers returned, waving him off. “I shall put my powers of memory and deductive reasoning to work and find my own way. Good day to you both.”
At the sound of the front door closing, an air of somber heaviness seemed to settle over the room.
Too restless to sit any longer, Julia rose and moved to the bay of tall windows that overlooked the gardens, standing a mere arm’s length away from Morgan. “Events are escalating so rapidly, are they not?”
“You sound as though you regret that.”
Until that moment her gaze had been focused on the gardens. Now she turned to face her husband. “We’re forcing Lazarus’s hand. I can’t help but feel a sense of foreboding in doing so.”
“Perhaps we’re bringing things to an end.”
“Perhaps.”
He regarded her in silence, then said flatly, “We can call it off.”
She let out a sigh. “And live like Sarah Montgomery? Spend every day waiting and wondering what might have happened had we done something? No. We should proceed as Mr. Chivers suggests.”
He nodded in agreement and turned away, glancing about the room as though looking for an excuse to change the topic. “You had a letter that wasn’t related to your column,” he said, nodding toward the stack of parchment envelopes that rested on the sterling silver tray. “May I be so bold as to inquire who it was from?”
Julia regarded the tray in confusion, then abruptly recalled the letter she had set aside. “Oh, yes. Henry. He asked if I would pay him a call this afternoon.”
“Henry?”
“Henry Maddox. My father’s former bosun. You remember. He runs the warehouse down by the docks.”
“I’ll go with you.”
A soft smile curved her lips. “If you’re thinking that I need protection, you’re mistaken. Henry could not possibly be Lazarus.”
“Nevertheless, I would like to accompany you.”
For a moment she allowed herself to believe that he might actually want nothing more than to enjoy an hour or two in her company, away from the constant strain of contemplating Lazarus’s next move. But his next words quickly disabused her of that fanciful notion.