CHAPTER FIVE
HENRY HANDED OVER THE article she’d written about Inspector Harlow examining the death scene in the dark. Her editor had given it back to her three times, demanding she make it more dramatic. Her editor’s balding pate leaned over her copy and he marked on it. She sighed. He was going to give it back to her. Again.
He was never going to let her be a serious reporter. The time and day of Redding’s death seemed less important to him than the eeriness of inspecting the murder scene in the dark. Nonetheless she’d managed to keep the facts in each revision.
“This is good,” he said instead. “It’ll be in Thursday morning’s paper. Commemorate the one week anniversary of the discovery of the body. Unless you have confirmation from the inspector that Coleraine is his only suspect.” Her editor wouldn’t let her say that Coleraine killed Jane Redding. He was too afraid of a libel suit.
“I’ll keep on him.” Except she hadn’t seen the inspector in two days. Maybe he’d learned she was a reporter. Her insides knotted and frayed.
The editor gave a short nod. “Let me know when you have something new. We have to stay ahead of this story.”
She huffed. He wouldn’t run her new information until he’d made certain every i was dotted and every t crossed. By that time, her story was likely to get scooped by another paper. “I’m still working on the other women who are missing.”
“It’s an interesting angle, but...“ His lips twisted to the side. “The worst thing we could do is run a story with their names and then have them turn up. So I want interviews of friends and family before we run it. By the way, there is a new hair salon opening on Old Kent Road. Write a piece about it.”
Henry’s neck tightened. “But I’m working on the Redding murder.”
“Do both.” Her editor leaned down and opened a drawer, obviously dismissing her. “I’ll give you a byline.”
She rolled her eyes. The last thing she wanted was a byline on a piece about a hair salon.
“Or if it is too much for you, give your notes on the Redding murder to one of the other reporters.” He didn’t say one of the male reporters, but he meant that.
“I’ll get it done.” She’d write the best hair-dressing article in the world. Gathering her coat and slapping her hat on her head, she left the office. And she’d continue tracking down former friends and relatives of the missing women. Thus far none were willing to be quoted in the newspaper or say they had suspected murder before Redding’s body was found, but they had at least confirmed that the women hadn’t been seen or heard since they left Coleraine’s protection. If that didn’t indicate his complicity, she didn’t know what would.
The proprietor of the hair salon first told her they weren’t open. But when Henry told her she was writing an article for the Southwark Chronicle, the woman wanted to demonstrate every piece of equipment on Henry’s hair. Fortunately the stove to heat the waving irons wasn’t lit, so she ended up with a fringe of hair cut across her forehead and a more elaborate coiffure then she’d ever manage at home.
If only Inspector Harlow could see it, but she had no idea if she’d ever see him again. She couldn’t seem to get his kisses off her mind. Or the way his smile transformed his face. Her breath grew short and she tingled down low every time she thought of him. Did he ever think of her? If he didn’t come to her soon, she’d have to go to him—for work. Her stomach turned over at the idea of having to approach him again.
After several hours of questioning people who might have information, Henry headed toward the pub where she had first encountered the inspector. Her heart sped up. She wasn’t going with the hope of finding him, but of finding the two women she had talked to. But with her hair newly styled, the hope that Barnabas was there made her stomach tickle.
She shook her head as she entered the neighborhood pub. She was here to question the prostitutes, she told herself firmly. Waiting until evening to look for them made sense. She hadn’t delayed to encounter the inspector. Patting her hair under her hat to make sure the elaborate coiffure was still where it should be, she walked into the taproom.
He wasn’t there. A breath she hadn’t realized she was holding escaped her lips. The women were, and while that should make her happy, she was curiously deflated. Steeling herself, she walked to the counter and greeted them.
“See you got your man, didn’t you?” said the woman of the overly rouged cheeks.
Henry nodded, but she wasn’t certain she’d accomplished much. “Can you keep a secret?”
The two women turned toward each other and smirked. “We keep a few secrets.”
“I’m a reporter for the Southwark Chronicle.” She handed over a card with her name and the newspaper’s masthead on it. “The inspector will never talk to me again if he knows.”
“Mums the word,” said one of the women.
“With his help or without it, I am determined to get to the bottom of Jane Redding’s murder. She shouldn’t be forgotten just because she was the mistress of a nob. This is my neighborhood, too, and it should be safe for everyone.”
The two women nodded in agreement.
“I just had the feeling that when I talked to you the other day, you knew something.”
They exchanged glances again, but didn’t add to the conversation. Had Barnabas told them not to talk to reporters just as he had told her?
“I know the inspector wants the story to fade away and then everyone can pretend like it didn’t happen. But the newspaper can expose Coleraine. It is probably the only way he’ll be brought to justice. Only I have to have new information to report or the story will die.”
The rouged woman squinted at her.
“What is it?” Henry asked.
“We didn’t see his lordship that night.”
“The night the inspector asked about,” the toothy woman said. “We sees him on his way home most nights in the wee hours, but not that Monday.”
Henry rattled right down to her ribcage. Had he been later than normal because he was disposing of the body? But according to the inspector, Coleraine had left earlier than normal. The women should have seen him. She drew a deep breath so she could respond calmly. “Is it possible he went by earlier?”
The women exchanged looks.
“Had customers steady on from nine until midnight. There’s some that favors the darkest nights,” the toothy woman said while her companion nodded. “Could have gone by whilst we was busy.”
Henry’s shoulders fell. “But wouldn’t you have seen him even if you were...uh, occupied?”
The red-cheeked one cackled. “Don’t just go at it in front of the church. Find us an alley or dark courtyard.”
“Or a stairwell,” added the other.
Heat rose in Henry’s face. If she wanted to be treated like one of the men, she couldn’t be squeamish about the seamy side of life. Prostitutes were often in the best position to see things out of the ordinary, so she would have to get used to talking to them. Especially if she wanted to write about crimes in the future. Right now she just wanted to see justice served to his lordship.
Henry knew Coleraine was guilty. Knew it down to her bones. She’d learned he was evil when she’d caught her sister coming out of his house. Rachel had muttered about how she couldn’t do what he asked, that she’d thought he would help, and more ominously, her life was over. Henry had led her home, drawn her a bath, and gone to fetch their mother from work to find out what was wrong with Rachel. She’d never thought that Rachel would slit her throat before they returned home. While Henry shouldn’t have left her alone, Coleraine had done something horrible to make her sister take her own life. Rachel had been too sweet to destroy herself without provocation.
“He was killing her, weren’t he?” said the toothy woman with an eagerness that slapped Henry back to the present. “That’s why we didn’t see him that night.”
One man just couldn’t be associated with so many missing or dead woman and not be the cause. The earl was probably smart enough to go home a different way so the people used to seeing him couldn’t expose him. “I’m sure he killed her, but I need evidence.”
“Or a good story for your paper,” sniped the red-cheeked woman.
“Both,” acknowledged Henry. “But in the grand scheme of things, getting that murderer off the streets is more important. So tell me what you know about Coleraine.”
The man was smart. Perhaps he’d left the house when he said he had, but he’d returned to Southwark later by another route. Or perhaps he’d never gone home at all. Either way, he had lingered until the servants were asleep before going back inside to murder her.
If Jane Redding’s body hadn’t snagged in the sewer no one would know she was dead. The man in charge of clearing the sewers had said that it was a fluke that the body hadn’t washed out to sea. Coleraine must have killed her. Henry suspected he’d killed more than one woman and disposed of them in the same way. That was the only thing that made sense.
“I don’t know,” said the other. “They say if a woman wants to get out of the trade or if her pimp is a little rough, the earl will help,” said the red-cheeked woman.
Henry’s muscles tensed and she jerked back. “What?”
“They say that, but I ain’t never again seen one of them what went to him for help,” said the toothy woman.
“He finds a gal work—if she wants honest work somewheres outside of London,” said the other despairingly. “Me, I prefer the dishonest sort.”
The toothy woman turned toward her companion. “That’s what they say, but you believe it?”
The first woman relented and shook her head. “I did before Mrs. Redding got her throat slit.”
“You’ve never seen or heard from the women he helped ever again?” echoed Henry. “Do you know where they were supposed to go?”
They both shook their heads. Was that his method? Dread danced in her stomach. Did Coleraine promise jobs to unfortunate women in order to isolate them and then kill them? It was a cunning way to cover his tracks. No one would be looking for his victims. If she could just prove it, Barnabas would have to believe her.
Henry pulled out her notebook and dashed down her thoughts in a rapid scrawl. “I really would like to talk to someone who lived in that house.” Ever since she’d written that poem “The House of Whores” and it sold as a handbill, the servants refused to answer her questions and shut the door in her face. “Any names, any details you remember about family or where they came from would help.”
The rouged woman leaned close enough Henry could smell the gin on her breath. “You’ll be wanting to talk to the countess, then.”
“What countess?” Henry shook her head in surprise. Did they know where Coleraine’s wife was? “The earl’s wife?”
“No, no. His father’s whore. She says the old earl married her, but the current earl kicked her out.”
Now she was getting somewhere. “Where do I find her?”
“In a gin house usually,” said the toothy woman.
Great. A gin house was the last place Henry wanted to go. “Any particular one?”
The back of her neck tickled.
“Are you expecting the inspector?” asked the red-cheeked one.
Henry swiveled toward the door.
Barnabas walked in and his gaze went straight to her. The edge of his lips curled before he gave her a nod.
Her breath caught. She lowered her notebook and tried to surreptitiously slip it into her pocket, but it caught on the material. Had he seen it? Her chest squeezed and her heart skittered like a trapped mouse. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t struggle with her notebook for fear he’d realize she was a reporter and had been interviewing the two whores.
Deceiving him after kissing him felt wrong. Although why it should matter she didn’t know.
His gaze flicked to the women she was talking with. His brows lowered just slightly.
He must really question her conversations with two prostitutes.
“Here you go, love,” said the toothy woman as she helped her slide the notebook through the slit in her dress, but she missed the interior pocket. That the openings didn’t line up was by design. Henry didn’t want pickpockets reaching their grubby hands into the inside pocket she wore.
Henry caught her hand against her skirt holding the notebook, but her pencil bounced off her foot.
Barnabas crossed the room to an open table and slid onto the wooden bench.
Was that it? Had he realized she was a reporter?
She wanted to sink through the floorboards. Had he seen her interrogating the prostitutes and taking notes? Or had he seen her notebook?
*~*~*
When Barnabas had entered the pub’s taproom and had seen Henry standing at the counter, he’d drawn to a sudden halt. He fought the smile that wanted to cross his face. How had she managed to beat him here? He’d told her landlady that he’d be at the pub if Henry wanted to join him. Then again, he’d walked and she might have ridden the omnibus or taken a cab.
After debating with himself all day, he’d decided to stop by her home only to find her not there. He’d half decided to invite her to go with him to Shefford and then onto Bedford. He had to investigate these women that Coleraine refused to talk about. Verify that they were alive and well. The earl might not want them involved, but they already were by virtue of knowing him.
Henry turned her back to him and fidgeted with her dress. Had she realized the whore near her had reached to her side?
He narrowed his eyes and studied Henry. Her hair was piled in a series of smooth loops on the back of her head, and underneath he caught a smooth stripe of bare skin that he’d like to sample. He liked the hairstyle better than the tortured, then drooping, curls she’d worn last time.
Henry flashed him an uncertain glance. She looked different. More than her hair was different. She looked more natural. Her brown plaid dress was less provocative than the blue ruffled and lacy confection she’d worn the first time they’d met. Hell, he favored browns himself.
Had she dressed up last time especially to meet him then? It wasn’t as if he believed her subterfuge about meeting another man. The lengths she had gone to attract his attention were flattering. Maybe he should have played along. After all, he’d noticed her, but now it was like he could not fail to notice her. He’d known she was here the minute he walked in the taproom, almost before he’d seen her.
Her steps were hesitant as she approached. Was she nervous?
She cast a glance at the door as if she might bolt.
A hole opened at the bottom of his stomach. Women. Just when he’d finally found one who interested him on more than one level, she would be contrary. If he’d rejected her, she’d probably be throwing herself at him. That was what usually happened to him. Of course the one thing that usually made women trip over themselves to be with him wasn’t likely to sway Henry. Not if her disdain for the aristocracy was any indication.
He stood to collect her if necessary.
But she closed the distance between them, her gaze dipping to the floor, to him, and back down. She folded in her lips, bringing out her dimples. Her hands fluttered, until she clasped them in front of her. She was nervous.
Surprisingly, so was he. Maybe she was as attracted as he was. A current of warmth ran through him.
“How nice to run into you again, Inspector,” she said a little hesitantly.
Had she not realized he’d come this way to see her? “Did your landlady not tell you I’d be here?”
Her head went back and forth quick enough to make her newly cut hair swing across her forehead. Her mouth parted slightly then her eyes darkened. Surprise, then pleasure if he was reading her right.
“I stopped by your boarding house, but you weren’t home. I thought you beat me here.” Why was she here if not to meet with him? Puzzled, he glanced toward the two old whores at the counter. He felt like he’d stepped off a curb that he hadn’t known was there. “I planned to see if you were home after I eat. Will you join me?”
“I already ate.” A faint flush crept up her cheeks. Her chin lowered.
He couldn’t see her expression all that well. She was such a short thing. He resisted the urge to bend his knees to better watch her face. “You can watch me eat up close this time. Or have a pudding.”
She gave him a self-conscious smile that reached into a soft place inside him. He just wanted to wrap her up in his arms and tease her until she grinned.
He touched her elbow to guide her to the opposite bench. He leaned close and whispered in her ear. “Check your pocket, I think that woman was trying to reach inside.”
“Oh no!” she exclaimed. Then she bit her tongue and looked a bit wild-eyed. “No, she was just helping me...” Henry cast a furtive look over her shoulder towards the two older women. “My dress caught on her stool.”
“Check anyway,” he told her. If the whore had stolen anything likely a confrontation would get it back. “I’d rather not have to hunt her down if she took something.”
“I’d know if my companion were missing,” Henry said, but she put her hand in the side of her dress. “It’s still there,” she said brightly.
He hoped she didn’t rely only on that gun to keep her safe. “Is that the only thing you keep in that pocket?”
“I keep my money elsewhere.” She slid into the bench.
The way the fringe of hair swayed across her forehead as she moved fascinated him. Her hair was so incredibly straight, he just wanted to thread his fingers through it unhampered by curls to halt his progress. He took his seat and tried to pull back his thoughts.
“Your hair looks nice.” He liked the movement of it. There was something quick and unrestrained about her and her hair showed it, now.
Her hand went to the back of her head. On another woman he might have thought it vanity, but on Henry it seemed less coy. Almost as if she’d forgotten how her hair was arranged or had remembered how her curls had fallen out the last time they’d been together. “Thank you. I had it done in a salon earlier today.”
She yanked down her hand as if she realized what she was doing. Odd that she seemed so unaware of her attractiveness. She didn’t need to worry. She might not be classically beautiful, but she was cute as a button.
He was rather certain he shouldn’t take Henry with him to interview the young woman who had lived in the house where Jane Redding was living before she was murdered. On the other hand, getting to know Henry might be a good use of the time spent on the train. She occupied too many of his thoughts whether she was with him or not. Still getting to know her better might not be a good idea. He didn’t have time for entanglements, and she could be quite a tangle for him to unknot. But he was curious. Why was she here if not to eat? “Did you come here to talk to your friends?”
“They’re not exactly friends.”
He lifted an eyebrow.
“I-I thought they might know something about Kathy. With their occupation, they seem in an ideal position to see things others wouldn’t.”
“I’m sure they see many things others don’t.” Not that Henry should be asking about those things. But that she would go to such lengths to find out what happened to her friend surprised him. She must really be worried that Kathy was a murder victim, too. “I haven’t run Kathy to ground yet, but I have learned a few things.”
She pressed her lips together and drew her eyebrows flat.
“You look disappointed.”
“A little,” she said with a shrug.
“And here I thought you were glad to see me,” he said.
“Well, I would be glad of a pudding, anyway,” she said with a soft smile taking the sting from her words.
He beckoned the serving girl over and asked what kind of afters they served. He watched Henry carefully as the girl listed the puddings and ordered the treacle for her, because her eyes glistened at the mention of it. Then he ordered supper for himself.
“So have you found out anything at all?”
“Lord Coleraine’s steward swears he took her to the train station and delivered a generous sum of money to her.”
Henry pursed her lips. “Don’t you think he would lie to protect his employer?”
“The earl’s bank corroborated his story of withdrawals around the right times. Not just for her, but for when the other women who spent several months in the house decamped and none of them appear to have left behind clothing—or a baby—as Mrs. Redding did.” It wasn’t exactly the news Henry wanted, but he’d put Sergeant Murdock on searching through records to find Kathy Carter and any of the others.
“Or it could have been blood money,” she said.
He started. Why was Henry so certain the earl was guilty? She must have some reason she wasn’t sharing. Then again he hadn’t considered that it could have been money paid to cover up a murder. Murders. He’d have to look into the steward’s finances. He gave himself a mental chastising for only thinking the withdrawals corroborated the story he’d been told. “Believe me, I’ll find out if it was.”
But that was getting far afield. He needed to decide if he was inviting Henry to Shefford, first. Her mind was sharp and would challenge him to look at every side of an issue—which was good. But she’d condemned Coleraine before there was solid evidence against him—which was bad. Still, he could stay objective, even if she was looking at everything in the worst possible light for the earl.
Before he decided to invite Henry along on his excursion, he needed to know if she would let him ask the questions, allow him to run his investigation the way he needed to. He leaned in and said, “The Master of Sewers said he spoke at length to a woman about the conditions in the tunnels.” Lowering his chin, he pinned her with his gaze. “How many people have you questioned, Henry?”
Her eyes widened in alarm. Did she think he wouldn’t find out she was questioning his witnesses?
The man had been specific. There was no doubt Henry had been the woman asking about temperatures in the sewers, how that might affect a body, how often did discarded animal carcasses get stuck—gruesome stuff. Questions that made a man who routinely dealt with the dregs of the city’s waste squeamish.
She reddened. “I was trying to determine if other bodies might have washed out of the sewer without being detected at all.” She leaned forward, only this time she didn’t have a lace covered neckline to make him lose focus. “Something happened to all the other women who lived there.”
He tilted his head, watching her and trying to figure her out. She seemed determined to get to the bottom of her friend’s leaving. She was behaving as a detective would, questioning witnesses, experts. He admired her determination to get to an answer. It echoed his own drive to get at the truth. “Does it not bother you to discuss putrefaction and the effect of sewage on a corpse?”
Her lips flattened, but she didn’t show any signs of repulsion, no swallowing, no turning pale, no pulling back. Discussing the blood stains on the fence hadn’t seemed to bother her either. How had she known what the pattern meant? Could it be part of the reason she thought Coleraine a heinous murderer?
“I suppose you think it should.” Her eyes dipped. “It isn’t pleasant, but I try to think of the body as just something left behind, not as that person any longer. It would be foolish to not consider what can be learned from the remains.”
He had to do that. Never in his wildest imaginings had he ever thought he’d discuss such gory details of a murder with a woman. His mother would be horrified. “You don’t have to deal with such unpleasantness. You’re not a detective.”
She looked away. “No one else has ever looked for Kathy.”