Death at Whitechapel (32 page)

“Arthur was your brother?”

“Yes. He hanged himself in Father's barn.” Kate could hear the bitterness that crept into Maude Raeburn's voice. “After he and Mannie were driven out of the Hussars. That was his dream, you know. Arthur lived for the adventure of soldiering.”

“I'm so dreadfully sorry,” Kate said quietly. “It must have been awful for you.”

Miss Raeburn gave a little nod of acknowledgment. “But life goes on,” she said. “At least, it has done for me. Father couldn't bear the disgrace. And Mannie—” She turned her head. “I'm not surprised he chose his own solution.”

Kate took a breath. “The men who were there, my husband, Winston Churchill, the policeman—they tried to stop him, but they couldn't reach him in time.”

There was another long silence, and then Miss Raeburn said, “Mannie loved Arthur more than anything in his life. They dreamed of a military life together—brother officers gloriously defending the far-flung borders of the Empire.” She laughed, sadly. “From the time they were children, that was all they ever talked of. Father tried to tell them that it was nonsense, that farmers' sons could never be officers, but they wouldn't listen. They would saddle Father's draft horses and ride out across the meadow with long, heavy sticks for lances, pretending to be cavalry officers leading their regiment to relieve General Gordon. Then Uncle Oliver died—he was my mother's brother and had made a small fortune as a bicycle manufacturer—and left Arthur and Mannie three hundred a year each. They insisted on using the money to enter Harrow. Father pointed out that a military career was beyond their reach, that the money would be barely enough to keep a horse and pay mess bills, but eventually he gave in. So Harrow it was, and then Sandhurst.” Her lips quirked. “Harrow is where they had their first skirmish with the Little Napoleon.”

“That was their name for Winston?” Kate asked.

“Oh, not just theirs—everyone's! He was such a bossy, arrogant boy, so impressed with himself. No one liked him, you see, while Arthur and Mannie had any number of friends. I daresay there was more than a bit of jealousy there, and worse at Sandhurst. Arthur was gifted in military strategy, and easily bested Winston on the examination. Mannie was quite a strong horseman, and snatched the riding prize out of the Little Napoleon's fingers.”

“I see,” Kate said gravely. Knowing how competitive Winston was, how he measured his own worth against the performances of others, she could begin to understand his animosity toward the Raeburn brothers.

Miss Raeburn eyed her. “Are you sure you want to hear any more of this? It's sordid—in its way. Oh, nothing like a crime, I mean,” she added. “Just your ordinary gentlemen's bullying and brutality.”

“I want to hear it,” Kate said. “I want to understand.”

Miss Raeburn nodded. “Well, then. Somehow, Arthur and Mannie got into the Fourth Hussars and found themselves at Aldershot. But it was very like belonging to a gentlemen's club. In addition to keeping a batman and groom, they had to pay for coach subscriptions, band subscriptions, theatricals, a wine cellar, even a pack of hounds. Not to speak of their uniforms and kits, which came to something over seven hundred apiece.”

Kate gave a smothered exclamation. She had known that it required money to enter the military, but she had no idea how much.

“Indeed,” Miss Raeburn said dryly. “It was completely ridiculous, but they couldn't see it. They were so pleased to have been commissioned into the Fourth. Their fellow second-lieutenants weren't at all pleased, however, because of course Arthur and Mannie weren't gentlemen. They were asked, politely, at first, to resign their commissions. When they refused, they were bullied and badgered. They never went to sleep in a dry bed, their possessions were smashed and pilfered, and they were flogged and held head-down in a horse trough, where Arthur nearly drowned. The end came when they returned from exercises one day to find their bags packed and loaded onto a cart. Mannie tried to convince Arthur to stay and brave it out, but he was a sensitive young man, and was completely broken. He resigned his commission that day. Two days later, he was dead.”

“But what about the commandant?” Kate exclaimed. “What about the upper levels of command? Didn't anybody see what was going on? Couldn't they
stop
it?”

“Why?” Miss Raebum asked, with a toss of her head. “The ideal of the ‘brotherhood of officers' exists at all levels. If a man isn't of the right sort, he doesn't belong, and the sooner he realizes that and gets out, the better.” Her lips had an ironic twist. “Perhaps that is hard for you to understand, being an American.”

“Perhaps,” Kate said. She frowned. “You didn't mention Winston Churchill. Was he involved in the bullying?”

“There were four or five others, but he was the ring-leader,” Miss Raeburn said shortly. “The worst and cruelest of the snobs.”

Kate was not surprised at Maude Raeburn's opinion. But she felt she had to say something in Winston's defense. “I think,” she said, “that young Mr. Churchill's military service has changed him.”

“Do you? I don't. I believe that he is using the Army as a platform for a political career—a career which he can scarcely finance, any more than my brothers could finance their cavalry commissions. And I certainly didn't find anything in his military reporting to suggest that Mr. Churchill is anything but manifestly ambitious for himself and willing to sacrifice others to gain his own ends.” Miss Raeburn fell silent for a moment, staring at the fire. “God help England if he should succeed in his ambitions. Can you imagine the consequences if that young man should be called to serve with the Cabinet, or as Prime Minister?” She shuddered.

After that, there was hardly anything more to say. A few moments later, Kate murmured her goodbyes and left. As she walked down the street toward Bayswater Road to hail a cab, she reflected on the course of events, the terrible chain of causality that had led from a boy's jealousy at Harrow and Sandhurst, to a young man's bullying at Aldershot, to a suicide in Shropshire, thence to a murder in Cleveland Street and finally to another suicide in Fleet Street. Arthur Raeburn had died by his own hand. Manfred Raebum, bent on avenging his brother, had killed Tom Finch to obtain the photograph he intended to use to destroy Winston's political ambitions. And now Manfred was dead. Was that the final conclusion? Had they arrived at the end of the terrible trail?

 

S
arah Pratt stood beside Mr. Hodge in the morning room, her hands clasped and her head bowed, as he began his recital to her ladyship. The tragic story seemed to go on endlessly, from Dick Pratt's first astonishing appearance at the kitchen door, to his demands for food, drink, and clothing, and finally, to his sudden, shocking death.

“He drowned?” Lady Charles asked, in a horrified tone.

“He was attempting to cross the Stour by walking across the lock gates,” Mr. Hodge said with a disapproving frown. “It was a very foolish thing to do, for the man was so apparently inebriated that he could scarcely stand, much less balance himself. This is according to one of his drinking partners,” he added. “Once in the water, I fear he was doomed. He was encumbered by Lord Charles's riding boots, which he obtained from this house by extortion.”

Her ladyship shook her head. “What an irony,” she said sadly.

Sarah Pratt was not sure what iron had to do with it since the boots were made of leather, but it did seem to her to be eminently just that Pratt's greed for drink and fine boots should have sunk him. She had been enormously relieved when she discovered that Pratt had indeed died by drowning (rather than rat poison) and that the constable had come to escort her to the jail so that she could identify the mortal remains. Still, her relief had been colored by her consciousness of her own dreadful guilt, and she could not feel easy until she confessed her thefts to Mr. Hodge, who had been quite stern with her, as he should. And to her ladyship as well, with a true remorse for her theft.

But Lady Charles, having now heard the entire story, was not stern. She turned to Sarah with a sympathetic look. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Pratt, that you have lost your husband.”

“Oh, please don't be sorry, your ladyship!” Sarah burst out. “‘Ee was a bad man an' got wot 'ee deserved.” She could not say how glad she was to have been returned to the comfortable estate of widowhood, but she could say something else. She twisted her hands, her voice breaking. “I'm so dreadf‘lly sorry to've took wot didn't b'long t' me, on 'is account. It wuz wrong o' me, very wrong!”

“Yes, it was wrong, Mrs. Pratt,” Mr. Hodge said firmly. “And it was wrong to lie to your employer about your situation. I think, under the circumstances—”

Sarah was never to know exactly what Mr. Hodge thought because Lady Charles interrupted him, in a gentler tone. “I think, under the circumstances, that Mrs. Pratt's earlier marital condition should best be forgotten. And it is no great crime to give food and drink and clothing to the poor and needy—in fact, I recall the vicar exhorting us to exactly that endeavor not two Sundays ago.” She smiled. “But I do hope that in future, Mrs. Pratt, you will not hide your light under a bushel, as it were. When you offer gifts of food from our kitchen, please make Mr. Hodge aware of your good works.”

“Oh, yer ladyship, yes, yer ladyship,” Sarah cried eagerly. “Oh, I
will,
yer ladyship, I—”

“Thank you, Sarah,” Lady Charles said. She turned to Mr. Hodge. “With regard to our kitchen staff—”

“I'm afraid I have bad news, m'lady,” Mr. Hodge said. He cleared his throat, not looking at Sarah. “Mary Plumm has given her notice. In fact, she has already left.”

“My goodness,” Lady Charles said, with some surprise. “She didn't last long.”

“I think,” Mr. Hodge said carefully, “that on balance she was not an entirely suitable person for the position. She was—” He cleared his throat again. “I am sorry to say, m'lady, that she was quite impertinent to me, when I had occasion to remonstrate with her about walking out late last night with one of the stableboys. And while Mrs. Pratt herself showed great forbearance with the young person, I hardly think that she was a helpful addition to the kitchen staff.”

Sarah could not have said how grateful she was to Mr. Hodge for keeping to himself the whole circumstance of Mary Plumm's explosive departure. She did not want her ladyship to know that she had allowed herself to be manipulated by a mere kitchen maid, and that she had given in to the girl's blackmail. With a warm look at Mr. Hodge, she said, “It don't matter if it takes a week or two t' find another maid. I kin do th' work by myself.” The fact was that she had been doing it herself for the past week, with a heavy dose of Mary Plumm's insolence to boot.

“Your cooperation is commendable, Mrs. Pratt,” Lady Charles said, “but I should like to offer an alternative. I have just received a post from a young lady I met in London. Her name is Ellie. To be quite honest, she has ambitions for the stage and might not be with us long, but she strikes me as a willing worker. And if she has another trade besides acting, she might find life a bit easier. Will you give her a chance?”

On an earlier day, Sarah Pratt might have expressed her dismay at being asked to teach an aspiring actress how to make potato crulles and strain the soup. But today she was so full of gratitude toward her employer and Mr. Hodge that she bobbed her head and exclaimed, “O' course, yer ladyship! A chance she shall have! I'll do my best t' see that she learns an' does a good job an'—”

“Thank you, Mrs. Pratt,” Lady Charles said, smiling. “And thank you, as well, for the loan of your clothing. It was very kind of you to allow Lady Randolph and me to make off with your best hat, in the rain. It served us well. By way of thanks, Lady Randolph has sent you this, from her very own wardrobe.” And with that, her ladyship produced a fancy cardboard hatbox, with the words “Paquin's Distinctive Parisian Millinery.”

Distinctive Parisian millinery! Sarah could scarcely draw her breath. She took the box with trepidation, lifted the lid, and peeked at the marvel of pink tulle and silk roses inside. “Oh, yer ladyship,” she breathed, “it's beautiful! I'll wear it t' chapel on Sunday, I will.” Then she felt a surge of disappointment, remembering Dick Pratt, scarcely cold in his grave. “Oh, but I can't. It's too gay fer a widow.”

The corners of Lady Charles's mouth quirked. “Put it away for a time, then. Since your husband was absent for a very long while, I don't think you should be expected to observe an extended period of mourning.”

One more peek, and Sarah closed the lid. “Yes, yer ladyship,” she said somberly, but inside, her heart was singing.

“Very well, Mrs. Pratt,” Lady Charles said. “You may go, and I shall send Ellie to you directly.”

Still whispering her thanks, Sarah took her box and departed.

 

 

Bill Albert writes about the Whitechapel murders:

Writing an historical mystery is not the easiest task in the world. Writing a mystery that contains an unsolved historic mystery is even more difficult, especially if the writers intend to explore a possible solution. And when that historic mystery is the infamous serial murders of Jack the Ripper—about which dozens of books and many hundreds of articles have been written—that difficulty is further compounded.