Chapter One
London: October 1870
A hansom cab deposited Inspector Riley Rochester outside the Whitehall entrance to Scotland Yard early on a wet and gloomy Friday morning. The jarvey whipped up his miserable-looking horse, turned his conveyance in a tight circle and trundled off in the opposite direction, splattering Riley as the wheels jolted through ruts filled with mud and God alone knew what else. With a resigned sigh, Riley pulled his hat low and turned up his collar against the unrelenting rain, striding over puddles as he sought the relative safety of the building.
Despite the government’s expensive and much publicised renovation of London’s drainage system, it still failed to cope with all the city’s debris, stirred up by a deluge that had lasted for almost a week without respite. Riley preferred not to think about the provenance of the substances dripping from his coat and swirling past his expensively shod feet. He ignored the stench and ducked gratefully into the front entrance of the police station, where he removed his hat and shook what seemed like a gallon of water from its brim. London had sweltered for the entire summer, resulting in frayed tempers and a marked increase in crime. Now October was here. Families had returned to the capital from their country estates, Parliament was in session again and the weather decided that it still had a few more tricks up its sleeve.
‘Filthy weather, sir.’
Sergeant Barton looked up from the front desk with no apparent purpose in mind other than stating the obvious. He and Riley had enjoyed an acrimonious relationship since the formation of the Detective Department. The wily and long-serving sergeant, whose influence amongst the uniformed division seemed ubiquitous, saw no need for an elite squad of detectives in general and Riley—Lord Riley Rochester—in particular. Two months previously, when Riley had been charged with investigating the murder of a young woman that had taken place in the home of an aristocrat, Barton vociferously opined that Riley would sweep it under the carpet in order to protect his own. Riley had not done so, and the diligence with which he had pursued members of London’s aristocracy who thought themselves untouchable had earned him Barton’s grudging respect. Life had become a great deal easier for Riley since then, as he was assured of the cooperation of those in uniform.
Up to a point.
‘Should make for a quieter life,’ Riley replied, thinking that all divisions of the Metropolitan Police Force would benefit from a less frenetic pace for a while.
‘Oh aye, it will an’ all. No self-respecting burglar will show his face in this weather. The cells are half empty.’
‘Every cloud, sergeant,’ Riley said, thinking of the mountain of paperwork waiting for him and what a change it would make if he could, for once, make inroads into it undisturbed.
Riley strode through to the Detective Department, trailing water in his wake. He nodded to the detectives in the main room, which was crowded. Most, it seemed, had found excuses to remain inside rather than pursue leads in the cases they were supposed to be investigating. Riley couldn’t blame them for that, but didn’t pause to speak with any of them. Let the weather keep a lid on the city for a while. The moon would be full in a week or so and no doubt his world would become a madhouse again. In the sanctity of his own small office he knocked the last few drops of water from his hat, stripped off his coat and threw himself into the chair behind his desk. He rubbed absently at a vein that throbbed in his forehead and tried to put from his mind the fiasco he’d been obliged to weather the previous night.
His mother, the Dowager Marchioness of Chichester, never tired in her efforts to marry Riley off and have him forget about the demeaning business of police work. Far from boasting that her younger son pursued a worthwhile line of work, the dowager maintained that in so doing, Riley was somehow dragging the family name through the mud that now choked the streets, and the atmosphere between them had become increasingly strained as a consequence. As a general rule he was able to evade her match-making machinations, but last night she had caught him unawares. Under the impression that he would be spending a quiet evening with his mother, his married sister and her husband and his indefatigable niece Sophia, he had accepted her invitation to dine. But his mother’s idea of a quiet family gathering had turned into an entertainment for forty, including the young woman whom his mother had been trying to pair him off with for over three months.
Furious to have been manipulated, Riley would have simply turned on his heels and left had it not been for Sophia’s presence. He accepted that in the very near future he would have to conduct the conversation with his mother that he had been putting off for too long. He leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms above his head and yawned, firmly resolved not to give up a career at which he’d had to work especially hard to prove his mettle. If and when he did decide to marry, he was perfectly capable of selecting his own bride. Images of Amelia Cosgrove sprang to mind. He hadn’t seen her for over a week but was planning to dine with her that evening, always supposing that something pressing didn’t come up that would require him to cancel.
Again.
‘Late night, sir?’ Jack Salter walked into the room and grinned. ‘Don’t know how you do it myself, burning the candle at both ends and still looking like an advert for gentleman’s tailoring.’
‘Sometimes I surprise myself, Jack,’ Riley said, returning his chair to its proper position and smiling up at his sergeant. ‘All quiet, I take it.’
‘It was until a minute ago. We’re needed in Covent Garden. A suspicious death.’
‘Damn.’ Riley glanced at the pile of papers that stared accusingly back at him. ‘Can’t someone else go?’
Salter chuckled. ‘Doubt if they’ll be any shortage of volunteers for this one.’
‘Really?’ Riley quirked a brow. ‘Why is that?’
‘It’s a courtesan from a cathouse. She’s had her throat slashed.’
‘Ah, I see.’ Wearily, Riley pushed himself to his feet and reached for his damp coat. ‘Whereabouts?’
‘Maiden Lane,’ Salter replied, the irony clearly not lost on him.
‘Named after the statue of the Virgin Mary that once stood there.’ Riley winced. ‘They moved it a long time ago but forgot to change the name.’
‘How the mighty fall,’ Sergeant Barton remarked with a droll grin as Riley and Salter returned to the front desk. ‘One day a debutante, the next a courtesan in the depths of Covent Garden.’
Riley returned his smile, much preferring the sergeant’s good-natured joshing to his previously uncooperative attitude. ‘We live to serve those from all walks of life, Barton. I take it you’ve sent some of your constables to secure the scene.’
‘I’ve sent Peterson and Harper, seeing as how they impressed you so much before.’
‘Good.’ Riley nodded his approval. Peterson was young and keen and had used his initiative in the debutante murder case. Riley had him earmarked for the Detective Department when a vacancy next occurred. ‘I take it the chief inspector is aware of the incident.’
‘Ain’t seen much of him today,’ Barton replied with a derisory sniff, not sounding too upset because Danforth chose to keep a low profile. It was something that rarely happened. Danforth enjoyed throwing his considerable weight about and Riley shared Barton’s low opinion of his abilities. He had never been able to understand why a man of his superior’s limited intellect had risen to such lofty heights, from which he ruled his empire with bombastic disregard for anyone’s views other than his own.
He and Riley were chalk and cheese. Danforth resented Riley’s affluence and constantly tried to undermine him. His efforts had backfired badly in the summer, when he assigned Riley to the case of the murdered debutante. Like everyone else, Danforth assumed that Riley would side with his own, giving Danforth the excuse he was looking for to have him thrown off the force. But Riley didn’t baulk at doing his duty and a very uneasy truce had existed between him and his superior since that time.
‘I assume the chief inspector is aware of this case,’ Riley said.
‘Oh aye, he knows right enough.’ Barton rubbed his bulbous nose with the back of his hand. ‘Went right pale when he heard about it, then disappeared into his office and closed the door. Ain’t seen him since.’
Riley thought that odd. Danforth enjoyed lording it over the troops, despite the fact that they knew their jobs far better than he ever would and resented his interference. The bawdy houses in and around Covent Garden were well frequented by theatre-goers and occupants of the many taverns surrounding them. All classes of society—with the possible exception of Riley’s own, which could afford to be more selective—rubbed shoulders in them. Anyone who could pay for the eclectic range of services provided by the better establishments, such as the one they were about to attend in Maiden Lane, were welcomed there. Danforth would know that, of course, and Riley wondered why he didn’t want to be seen upholding the contentious laws that generated constant complaints from the Temperance League and bible bashers.
Prostitution wasn’t illegal but earning money from sexual services, such as running a brothel and creating a safer working environment for the women whose services were in such demand, was. Thankfully, attempting to enforce that particular law did not fall to Riley’s lot. It was called the oldest profession for a reason. Men, it was generally accepted, needed an outlet for the more obscure sexual desires that their wives couldn’t be expected to satisfy.
It was a delicate balancing act. The proprietress of the establishment they were about to visit would pretend that money didn’t change hands and the police would pretend to believe her. Undoubtedly his uniformed colleagues responsible for that particular beat were recompensed in one way or another in return for turning a blind eye. Riley found it hard to disapprove. Sometimes common sense trumped the rigidity of the law. He knew it would be a damned sight harder to maintain order, despite the views of the sanctimonious minority, if such establishments did not exist.
Riley suspected that this would prove to be a sensitive case and would need to be handled with kid gloves. Had Danforth instructed Barton to give it to him for that reason? Come to that, why had Barton been the one to pass on Danforth’s orders? The chief superintendent liked to allocate murder enquiries to an inspector in person—usually the one least suited to a particular situation, just so that he could make an obscure point.
‘The doctor’s been sent for,’ Barton said.
Riley thanked the sergeant, leaving Salter to brave the elements and hail a cab. Given the weather conditions, he’d be hard pushed to find one.
‘What do we know about Maiden Lane?’ Riley asked when he and Salter were finally installed in a conveyance that made slow progress through the heavy traffic.
‘I’m a family man, Inspector,’ Riley thought the shock was feigned, but it was hard to be sure with Salter. He’d gone unnaturally quiet since telling Riley about the nature of the crime and its location. ‘You can’t expect me to know anything about brothels.’
Riley chuckled. ‘No married man has ever set foot in any such establishment, I’m sure,’ he said.
‘My wife would castrate me with a blunt knife if she thought I’d done so for any reason other than to solve a crime.’ Salter looked worried. ‘And perhaps even then…’
Riley winced in sympathy. ‘Stay close to me, sergeant. I’ll protect your honour and save you from Mrs Salter’s carving knife.’
‘Much obliged to you, sir, I’m sure,’ Salter replied.
‘The premises we are about to visit are, I think we’ll find, famous for their diversity.’
‘Themes, like?’
‘Precisely so. All tastes catered for. Spanking is very popular, so I’m told—’
‘Be popular with your lot then,’ Salter shot Riley a devious look. ‘Not talking from experience, sir?’
Riley met Salter’s insolence with a bland look. ‘Not my bag, sergeant.’
‘Can’t see it myself. What gratification a man would get from enduring pain, I mean.’
Riley sighed. ‘It takes all sorts, Jack. You ought to have learned at least that much from some of the cases we’ve investigated.’
‘Aye, but even so…’
Traffic ground to a halt for the third time in five minutes. Rain pounded on the canvas roof above their heads, leaking a steady stream of water onto their hats. Riley ignored the discomfort, allowing his thoughts to dwell upon all the other ways he could have occupied his time that morning, in the warmth and comfort of his own drawing room. He felt a moment’s sympathy for his mother’s point of view, but it was fleeting. His employment gave him a legitimate excuse to avoid the tedium of the upper classes at play as well as a sense of purpose—something that his mother would never understand.
Their jarvey engaged in a shouting match with the driver of an omnibus which had got stuck in a rut. Several other drivers offered colourful advice on how best to free its wheels, most of which Riley knew would be anatomically impossible.
‘The fine establishment we are about to visit is run by a woman who calls herself Mrs Sinclair,’ Riley said, glancing at the document that Barton had given him and trying to keep it clear of the constantly dripping water.
‘I know that name,’ Salter said. ‘We were nicking her every other weekend when I was still in uniform. She held her own though, I’ll give her that. A well-spoken woman from a good background was the impression I got. The men treated her respectfully enough, I seem to recall.’ He chuckled. ‘I dare say one or two of them knew her in her professional capacity and didn’t like to see her locked up for providing such an essential service. Anyway, she always had a decent brief and never got anything more than a slap on the wrist and a stiff fine.’
‘She came from the upper middle classes,’ Riley replied, wondering how Barton had put together so much information so quickly. Presumably it had been collated from her earlier arrests. Barton could be a tricky customer, one whom it would be unwise to get on the wrong side of, because he was very good at his job. He kept detailed records of anyone who passed through his cells, once cynically telling Riley that they would likely take advantage of the accommodation again sooner or later, so it saved time to know as much about them as possible. ‘Educated by a governess and expected to do well for herself,’ Riley said, flipping to the second page. ‘She married a man twenty years older, presumably because her family forced her to. Not sure what happened. Barton’s intelligence is scanty in that regard, but she left him and now runs an upper-class bawdy house.’ Riley returned the papers to the shelter of his inside pocket. ‘Perhaps she will enlighten us regarding the intervening years when we talk to her.’
Salter sniffed when the cab rattled to a halt. ‘Is this it?’
Riley peered through the rain at a substantial yet narrow red brick building that rose up over three floors and nodded. The house had leaded casement windows, ornate double doors accessed by three shallow steps and more steps leading down from street level to the basement. There was nothing to indicate what went on inside the premises. Presumably, if one needed to ask, one couldn’t afford the services on offer. Constable Peterson stood outside at attention, protected from the worst of the elements by an overhanging porch. An impressive sight in his uniform complete with tall hat, he straightened up and saluted when he saw Riley emerge from the hansom.
‘You can stand inside the doors, Peterson,’ Riley said. ‘No one expects you to drown in the execution of your duties.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Peterson opened the doors and stood back to allow Riley and Salter to precede him through them. ‘There have been a fair few gawpers, even in this weather. Lord knows how word got out.’
‘Protesters?’ Riley asked, thinking it too good an opportunity for the Temperance Society to ignore.
‘Not that I noticed. The weather must have kept even that lot indoors.’
‘The grapevine seems to be in excellent working order,’ Salter said. ‘The ghouls are here and we haven’t even looked at the body yet.’ He nodded to a cluster of people standing across the street, huddled beneath umbrellas.
‘News like this won’t ever stay quiet,’ Riley said. ‘No newspaper men sniffing around, I trust?’ he added, turning to Peterson for clarification.
‘Not so far as I am aware, sir.’
‘Long may it last,’ Riley muttered, more in hope than expectation.
They stepped into a small ante-room with a desk on one side and what appeared to be a cloakroom the other. The desk, Riley knew, would be manned by a porter-cum-bodyguard, to whom customers would be required to give their names, always supposing the porter didn’t recognise them.
Peterson opened the door onto a long and narrow reception room which had probably originally been the entrance vestibule. Their footsteps echoed on the marble floor as Riley took in his surroundings. A galleried landing accessed by a wide, sweeping staircase spanned three sides of the hall—a voyeur’s paradise. There were ornate chandeliers at either end of the room and more discreet lamps lining the walls at regular intervals. The space was lavishly and expensively furnished with chaise-lounges dotted about. Extravagant floral arrangements gave off an intoxicating aroma. A credenza bearing crystal glasses and a variety of decanters sat against one wall. A small doorway led from the far end of the room to the back of the house probably giving access to the kitchens, enabling servants to preserve the clientele’s stamina by keeping them fed and watered.
The space could be mistaken for a drawing room in a superior household, Riley thought, but for the fact that the walls were adorned with thick red embossed paper and a series of salacious yet oddly tasteful sketches of females in various states of undress. Upon closer inspection, some of the smaller paintings proved to depict couples in positions that would be physically impossible to replicate. The crimson paper ended at ceiling level with a cornice of erotic engravings. There were several alcoves partially hidden from view with full length mirrors on three sides of the chaises that occupied them. Marble statues of artistically posed couples featured, as did pillars that probably served as more than decorative supports. Privacy, Riley suspected, was not a necessary requisite for the denizens of this particular establishment. They were exhibitionists, and the girls employed to entertain them were not too particular about where those entertainments took place, or who watched them.
‘Blimey,’ Salter said, scratching his head.
‘Where is everyone?’ Riley asked, turning towards Peterson for clarification.
‘All the occupants of the house are together in the salon,’ Peterson replied, pointing towards a closed door. ‘I told Harper to stay in there with ’em and make a note of anything they say, like.’
‘Good thinking, Peterson. I will talk to them in a moment. But first, I’d best see the body.’
‘This way, sir. We checked to make sure she’s dead.’ Peterson shuddered ‘Not much doubt about that, but I thought it best to follow procedures. Then we locked the door, made everyone else go downstairs and waited for you to get here.’
‘You did well,’ Riley replied, nodding his approval. ‘I take it there were no gentlemen on the premises, given that the body was found this morning.’
‘No, sir. Only the man what lives here. He seems to perform the duties of butler and guard combined.’ Riley nodded. ‘This is it, sir.’
Peterson stopped in front of the door in the centre of the first floor, clearly one of the principal rooms. Riley took a quick stock of his surroundings. They were now standing on the galleried landing, looking down on the salon below. There were five similar doors leading off from the landing, implying that up to six ladies worked from individual rooms at any one time. Whether they were the same ladies who took care of the communal entertainments below Riley had yet to establish. A further, far less pretentious staircase led to the third floor. That presumably was where the ladies lived and slept, and where Mrs Sinclair had her private quarters.
Peterson removed the key from his pocket, opened the door to the room containing the murdered girl and stood back.
‘Thank you, Peterson. Have photographs been taken?’
‘Yes, sir. The police photographer had to go on elsewhere but he was finished here so I said it would be all right.’
‘It was. Go back to your post downstairs and show the doctor up as soon as he arrives.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The metallic smell of blood assailed Riley’s nostrils even before he took in the tragic figure, semi-clad, lying in the centre of the bed, her throat slit neatly from ear to ear. Drying blood was everywhere. Pooled on the bed, running down the sheets to the rugs on the floor, splashed up the walls. A vicious crime committed in anger or for revenge, were Riley’s initial thoughts. He held a handkerchief to his nose, regretting that the pouring rain excluded the possibility of opening a window. He pulled aside the partially closed curtains, revealing a long garden, neatly maintained and dominated by a statue appropriately depicting Aphrodite. He pulled the top sash window down an inch and felt immediate relief.
He then forced himself to examine the body with a clinical eye, lamenting the waste of such a young life. The girl couldn’t have been more than twenty, and was breathtakingly beautiful even in death. A glorious cascade of golden hair was spread beneath her, some of it stained with her own blood. Her complexion was flawless and her eyes stared lifelessly upwards—cerulean blue clouded by the mask of death.
‘Such a waste,’ Riley said, articulating his thoughts with a sad little shake of his head. ‘What are your initial observations, Salter?’
‘Rigor mortis has set in, sir,’ he said, pointing to the girl’s fingers, clenched into rigid claws. ‘So she must have died late last night or early this morning.’
Riley nodded. ‘Anything else?’
Salter prowled around the bed, avoiding the blood that had spilled onto the rug. ‘A couple of her fingernails are broken, but all the others are well manicured.’ He gazed thoughtfully at Riley. ‘She tried to fight off her attacker. There are defensive scratches on her forearms.’
‘Very good.’ Riley glanced at the neatly lined floggers, canes and whips situated in a cupboard in one corner of the room, the door to which was flung wide, and let out a soft whistle. ‘Of course, she could have acquired those wounds during the course of her professional activities.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Salter looked astounded when his gaze also fell upon the paraphernalia. ‘I thought women like her were employed to do the flogging, not take it.’
‘I think the client gets what he pays for. Most of the men, I would imagine, prefer to be on the receiving end but some like to dish it out too. Dr Maynard will be able to tell us, I expect.’
‘Did I hear someone take my name in vain?’ Dr Maynard, police pathologist and social climber, slipped into the room. ‘Dreadful weather. Will this rain ever stop? Good morning, Lord Riley. Oh, I say, the poor girl.’
‘Since the cause is death is obvious,’ Riley replied, ‘perhaps you can give an estimate as to the time.’
Maynard gave a sage nod. ‘Judging by the early onset of rigor and the fact that this room is warm, I’d say no more than eight hours.’
Riley pulled his half-hunter watch from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Given that it’s now ten in the morning, you imagine she was still alive at about two o’clock?’
‘These establishments do a roaring trade late at night, but business would have been dying off by then—if you’ll excuse the pun, inspector.’ Maynard scratched his head and continued. ‘Whoever killed her probably knew she’d be missed if he did the deed any earlier.’
‘Implying that it was planned?’
Maynard held up a hand to ward off Riley’s questions. ‘That’s your department, Lord Riley, not mine. I deal in medical facts.’
‘But you know about the hours these places keep,’ Salter muttered. ‘What’s that got to do with medicine?’
‘Right then, Maynard,’ Riley said, sending his sergeant a look of admonishment. ‘We’ll leave you to it. You can have the body removed as soon as you’re ready. Then we shall need Carter and Soames to conduct a thorough search of this room.’ Riley referred to the two detective constables who routinely worked with him. ‘Where are they?’ he asked, turning to Salter for clarification. ‘Shouldn’t they be here by now?’
‘They were finishing up the interviews from the Barking enquiry. I’ve left word for them to join us here as soon as they get back.’
‘Right. Well then, let’s see what Mrs Sinclair has to say for herself.’
Riley took a final look around the room before leaving it. The walls were lined with sketches that were even more graphic than those in the communal parts of the house. There were full length mirrors everywhere and a small alcove covered by a curtain in one corner. Riley pulled it back and found items of feminine clothing—working attire, judging by its flimsy nature—neatly piled there. He was unable to decide whether it belonged to the victim or one of the other ladies who worked on the premises. He also had no way of knowing if the victim had been wearing it but removed it at her killer’s request. Instinctively he doubted the possibility. He couldn’t imagine a courtesan in the heat of the moment removing clothing and neatly piling it in this subtle little alcove.
So many questions as yet unanswered. He picked through the garments, but there was nothing that might have belonged to a gentleman. Another door led to a bathroom with a huge tub and more paraphernalia pursuant to its occupant’s profession. Riley didn’t have the first idea what use it would be put to. Neither, judging by his perplexed and somewhat disapproving expression, did his sergeant.
‘The question is, Salter,’ Riley said, thoughtfully, ‘whom was she entertaining? She must have been with someone, or at least expecting a client to join her, because she’s wearing her working clothes.’ He nodded towards the corpse, clad in a lacy corset, a flimsy robe and, as far as he could see, absolutely nothing else. ‘Let’s hope Mrs Sinclair can enlighten us.’
Riley led the way back down the wide staircase and entered the salon—another long, narrow room—into which the residents of the house had been contained. Harper’s cheeks, Riley was amused to notice, were red enough to compete with the walls in the room. One glance around the assembled company and it was immediately apparent why. The ladies who lived on the premises had been asleep when the body was discovered, awoken presumably by the screams of whoever had found her. Given their profession, they were not shy and hadn’t seen the need to throw anything other than flimsy shawls over their equally flimsy and revealing night attire. Poor Harper would never be the same again!
There was a maid with a white face and red eyes, shuddering in one corner. An older lady, a cook or housekeeper perhaps, kept patting her shoulder. ‘There, there,’ she repeated. ‘There, there.’ The only man in the room was large, menacing and clearly not at all happy that one of the girls he was responsible for protecting had been killed without him being aware of it.
‘Mrs Sinclair?’ Riley asked, looking around him expectantly.
A lady of perhaps thirty-five, impeccably dressed and perfectly coiffured despite the early hour and tragic circumstances, stood and sent Riley an amused glance. Now that he’d seen her, he wondered how he’d overlooked her in the first place. She cut an impressive figure and had an air of authority about her.
‘Lord Riley, if I am not mistaken,’ she said. ‘We are honoured.’
Riley probably looked as discomposed as he felt. He heard Salter failing to smother a chuckle and sent him a sideways look. ‘We are acquainted?’ he asked.
‘Even women in my line of work know how to read,’ she replied calmly. ‘An account of your tracking down the murderer of that poor debutante was all over the newspapers.’
‘You are Mrs Cora Sinclair.’
The woman inclined her head. ‘That is the name I am known by, yes.’
Probably not her real name, Riley thought. He glanced at the five semi-clad women reclining on various sofas, all of whom were watching him with predatory eyes. None of them, including Mrs Sinclair, seemed especially disturbed by the brutal crime that had been committed beneath their noses. Or for the loss of the unfortunate victim, for that matter.
‘Perhaps we can start with all your names,’ Riley said calmly, nodding at Salter who had already extracted notepad and pencil from his pocket. ‘Then I shall want to speak with each of you individually. But first, the name of the victim, if you please.’
The weeping maid cried out and then went back to her monotonous sobbing.
‘Her name was Adelaide,’ Mrs Sinclair replied calmly. ‘She was in great demand. I do not know how I will replace her.’