Chapter One
London: Summer 1870
The full-length windows at one end of Riley Rochester’s reception room were flung wide in the optimistic hope that a little air might permeate the house. The cloying heat of a summer’s day in London guaranteed frayed tempers and flying fists, adding to his uniformed colleagues’ workload. Riley’s experience told him that countless thirsts would be quenched in the dim ale-houses of Whitechapel to the east. Long-suffering wives and the denizens of the whorehouses near the docks would have a lot to put up with tonight. With the thick drape curtains tied back and the lighter muslin nets swaying in the beginnings of a breeze, Riley considered himself fortunate. As an unmarried man he could return home at the end of an arduous day, strip down to shirtsleeves without fear of giving offence, and savour the rich dinners served to him by his manservant, the inappropriately named Stout.
While Stout matched Riley’s height of six feet, he outweighed him by a good three stone, every ounce of which was made up of solid muscle. His perpetually fierce expression did little to diminish the aura of menace that he exuded without conscious thought. He was not a man one would wish to encounter in a dark alley, nor would one be foolish enough to challenge him were that situation to arise. Stout was a man of few words, fixed opinions and absolute discretion. He was fiercely loyal to Riley, dedicated to his service and the most ferocious gatekeeper known to man. Several of Riley’s contemporaries, envious of Stout’s myriad talents and unswerving loyalty, had tried to entice him away from Riley’s employ, thus far without success.
Riley toyed with the stem of his wineglass, glad of a respite from duties that seemed infinitely more onerous at the height of a heatwave. The Detective Department’s headquarters at Whitehall Place was now commonly referred to as Scotland Yard, given that the public entrance to the building was situated on that street. Although the department was now almost thirty years in the formation, only the previous year had its effectiveness been acknowledged within the corridors of power. Many within the Metropolitan Police had reasons of their own for wanting to see it fail, but it had survived all attacks upon its integrity more or less unscathed. It now boasted its own superintendent, three chief inspectors and a handful of divisional inspectors, one of whom was Riley. The department’s success meant that local divisions of detective officers were being formed across the country, and part of Riley’s duties included attending those local offices when a policeman with his rank and experience was required to lend a hand in solving especially heinous crimes.
As the younger son of a marquess, Riley had been required to prove his detection skills many times over in order to earn the respect of the men under his command. More effort had been required from him, he knew, than from officers from more proletarian backgrounds. His uniformed colleagues remained suspicious and resentful, the older hands failing to understand the need for elitism within the department. His own connections were equally critical of his chosen profession, accusing him of lowering his own and his family’s standards. They failed to grasp, or chose not to believe, that times were changing.
The days of the old guard of gentleman detectives were coming to an end. No longer were high ranking police officers free to roam London as they saw fit. The cementing of the Detective Department into the city’s social and criminal landscape brought with it a more established hierarchy of rank, as well as a greater degree of accountability and the beginnings of a system of records on the criminal underclasses. The police force was becoming a stronger entity, its roots finding not only the cracks in London’s underworld but also those that existed within the higher echelons of society, where planners and masterminds often dwelt, hidden and protected by rank and reputation. The son of a marquess would know how to approach such people, how to deal with them in matters of great sensitivity and how, where necessary, to bring them to book.
Against such a background, the appointment of Danforth as Riley’s superior had not made Riley’s life any easier. Danforth resented Riley’s title and connections, seeming to think he had used his influence rather than intellect to rise to his position within the department. It was early days but Riley had an uneasy feeling that he would never manage to convince a man who, for some reason, seemed annoyed by Riley’s success rate. Danforth wanted to see Riley fail, but was quick to take credit for his successes. Sighing, Riley picked up his glass and moved back to the open window. Looking out over the rooftops of London, the spires of the churches and the cranes of the more distant docks, he took another sip of his excellent burgundy, trying not to feel guilty about the mountain of paperwork he had left Jack Salter, his sergeant, to struggle through.
Riley watched the sky change colour, from the dusty steel-grey heat of the day to a mixture of high cloud and orange skies to the west as the sun dropped below the black silhouette of London’s jagged horizon. It was Riley’s first evening to himself in over a week. He and Salter had just solved an especially baffling series of jewel thefts from the homes of the well-connected, and had managed to restore most of the stolen items to their owners. It had been gruelling work—and the intrusive questions he had been obliged to ask hadn’t endeared him to all of the victims. For that reason and others, he felt he had earned this brief respite.
He toyed with the idea of making an impromptu appearance at one of the events he had been invited to attend that evening. A single man was always in demand and could attend functions at short notice without giving offence. He glanced without much enthusiasm at the invitations lining his mantelpiece and dismissed the idea. He was bound to encounter his mother wherever he showed his face. She lived in London permanently now, and had the uncanny knack of seeming to know where he planned to be before he knew it himself. The prospect of dressing up in evening wear in such relentless heat and putting up with the equally relentless drone of London’s elite at play failed to compete with the notion of a good book that had nothing to do with crime, followed by an early night.
‘I must be getting old,’ he muttered, draining his glass and reaching for the decanter. He caught sight of his image in the ornate full-length mirror at the other end of the room. Dark hair, slightly dishevelled since it was unadulterated by the application of Rowlands Macassar Oil that supposedly kept a gentleman’s hair and whiskers bright, fell across blue-grey eyes. Close up, Riley knew that those eyes revealed thinly-veiled amusement and a permanent hint of cynicism. In Riley’s line of work, experiencing the horrific nature of criminal undertakings daily, one didn’t survive without becoming a cynic.
Amusement, Riley had found through a process of trial and error, was the best defence against the constant web of lies thrown at him. He struggled to recall the last occasion upon which a suspect had voluntarily spoken the truth without severe and at times not particularly ethical interrogation at the hands of Jack Salter and some of his more enthusiastic constables. Riley’s upbringing and background had imbued him with an innate sense of fair play that had infuriated many a low-ranking constable seeking to obtain justice by more direct methods. Riley soon realised that it would be impossible to overcome the old ways unless he earned the respect and loyalty of Jack Salter. It proved to be a particularly arduous task but if Riley succeeded that respect would pass vicariously into the lower ranks. So he had kept at it and Salter’s loyalty was now unquestionable. He had a good team behind him, but the process of building it accounted for the strands of grey in his hair and the cynical expression in his eyes.
He sighed inwardly at the sound of the door knocker. It was gone nine in the evening. This couldn’t be a social call.
‘Chief Inspector Danforth, my lord,’ Stout said impassively from the open doorway.
Damn! ‘Chief Inspector.’ Riley put his napkin aside and stood, aware that something of great magnitude must have occurred to bring Danforth to his door in person. The two men shook hands. ‘Take a seat,’ Riley gestured to an overstuffed couch at the side of the room near the fireplace. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
This was the first time Danforth had graced Riley’s town house in Sloane Street with his presence. He stood in the centre of the one reception room that ran the length of the ground floor and acted as drawing room, dining parlour and library combined. Since Riley had neither the time nor inclination to entertain, and because his bachelor status excused him from such obligations, the room was more than adequate for his purposes.
Although Danforth was Riley’s superior, he stood awkwardly in the large room, turning his hat through his fingers as if he was the underling forced to call on his master. Riley, sensing Danforth’s discomfort, watched as his gaze took in the good quality furniture, the elaborate marble fireplace and modern decorations. Modest by his family’s standards, Riley’s townhouse would still be considerably larger and more salubrious than Danforth’s own middle-class home in Clerkenwell. Danforth’s forthright views upon Clerkenwell’s reputation as Little Italy—his views upon immigrants in general for that matter—were well known within the Detective Department. A married man struggling to feed and educate eight young children, Danforth probably had many reasons to resent Riley’s elegant and spacious accommodation. In the stifling evening heat, Riley didn’t have the energy to care.
‘Damned weather.’ Danforth ran a finger beneath his collar, agitating the spare folds of flushed skin that hung over it. ‘Can’t cope with this heat.’ He threw himself onto the couch, perspiration shining on his bald pate. ‘Wish it would rain.’
‘A glass for the chief inspector, Stout,’ Riley said, waiting for Danforth to get to the point.
‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ Danforth replied, waving a hand towards Stout. ‘No time for socialising. Nor have you, Rochester. You’ll be going out immediately.’
Riley had already surmised that much for himself. ‘Tell me, sir,’ he requested, in no mood for the man’s attempts to exert his authority.
‘There’s been a death. A suspicious death.’ Riley wasn’t surprised to hear it. Deaths in a city the size of London were commonplace, and he knew the heat would bring a few extra bodies to the banks of the Thames by morning. But why he was required to investigate it in person was less certain. The duty inspector and his team could surely deal with it easily enough. ‘One of your lot.’ Danforth’s nose twitched, as though the recently renewed sewage system in the nearby river had failed to do its job.
‘Ah.’
‘Needs careful handling.’ He shook his head, setting his fleshy neck wobbling as he mopped his brow with a large handkerchief. He looked around Riley’s room, his face mirroring envy and disdain in roughly equal measure. ‘Shouldn’t be that way. All murders should be treated the same, but we both know that’s not the way it works. The ruling classes demand preferential treatment, even when they’re dead, apparently. All eyes will be on us with this one, Rochester, and the department’s enemies will be ready to jump all over us if we ruffle the wrong feathers, don’t you see?’
Riley did see, all too clearly. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. If he solved the case quickly, then those who resented the aristocracy would complain about the same preferential treatment that Danforth appeared to resent. If he didn’t solve it, his enemies would see it as the aristocracy, with Riley’s collusion, closing ranks to protect one of their own. Either way, London’s gentry would view Riley with suspicion, resenting his interference in their smooth and comfortable lives—except those close to the victim, of course, which is where he knew he would find his best starting point. The whole business would be a fine balancing act between the blunt forces of the law and the delicate sensibilities of London’s elite. That, presumably, was why Danforth was handing this case to Riley, hoping to see him fail.
‘Who has died?’ Riley asked.
‘Haven’t the foggiest idea. That’s your job. All I can tell you is that we’ve had a report from Lord Ashton’s residence of a sudden death.’
Riley glanced at the mantelpiece. An invitation to Lady Ashton’s soiree that evening sat upon it. It was the one he would have been least likely to accept, had he decided to venture out at all. Lord Ashton was overbearing and Riley didn’t find his company congenial. Just as well, he thought. Being present at the scene of a suspicious death would do little for his career prospects and give the chief inspector ammunition to use against him, casting doubt upon his judgement and integrity. In other words, he would be criticised for permitting a murder to take place in a house where he happened to be a guest.
‘Very well. I shall attend the scene immediately.’
Danforth nodded. ‘Salter is already there, as are some uniformed constables, keeping the scene intact. The police doctor has been summoned to examine the victim.’
‘Very well.’
‘I don’t need to tell you how important this is, do I, Rochester?’
Riley didn’t ask why Danforth was bothering to labour the point. He knew the answer already. Danforth never wasted an opportunity to exert his authority over a man he resented simply because he had been born into a position of privilege. Riley didn’t have to work in order to survive, that much was true, but neither was he amusing himself by dabbling at a career to satisfy some inner conscience. Whatever Riley undertook, he did with commitment and precision. He relished the cerebral challenge, the independence from his family and any excuse to distance himself from his well-meaning yet persistent mother. A mother who was determined to see him married, even though her elder son, the current marquess, was already married and diligently producing the next generation of Rochesters.
‘You do not, sir.’
‘Very well then,’ Danforth looked at the ornate cornice-work that decorated Riley’s ceiling with undisguised contempt. ‘I assume you’re familiar with Ashton’s address.’
‘I am.’
‘Then get yourself round there and keep me informed every step of the way. If there’s anything I need to know I expect to hear it from you first. Are we clear? The commissioner is taking a personal interest in this case.’
Riley watched as the chief inspector heaved himself to his feet, huffing and puffing as he took his leave. For a moment he felt sorry for him, strutting about in his buttoned up suit, sweating in the heat and pretending not to be intimidated by the superior class of a junior officer. But Riley suspected that Danforth wanted him to fail, if only because it would see criticism heaped upon him by his peers. An observer would have seen the amused twinkle in Riley’s blue-grey eyes turn to a bleaker expression of cynicism.
‘Do you need a hansom?’ Stout asked, returning to the drawing room after showing Danforth out.
‘No, I’ll walk. It will be quicker.’
Stout merely grunted as he waited for Riley to don the clothing he had so gratefully shed a few hours earlier, then handed him his hat.
The evening air was humid and even the whores appeared lethargic, their approaches to Riley half-hearted as he strode along the quiet streets. Business in this part of town was slow. The upper classes would be resting—those without prior appointments or engagements anyway—captive to the oppressive heat, not prepared to put on evening-wear and frock-coats, the ladies unwilling to swathe themselves in high-necked velvet and floor-length muslin. If the ladies of the night wanted business on an evening such as this, it would not come without risk in areas far less salubrious than this one.
It took Riley just ten minutes to reach Ashton House, set in the most fashionable part of Knightsbridge. The building was ablaze with light and a uniformed constable stood on the steps, preventing anyone from entering or leaving the house. Well, he had damned well better be or Riley would know the reason why. He nodded to the officer, whom he recognised but whose name he couldn’t recall.
‘Stay alert…er—’
‘Peterson, sir,’ the constable responded eagerly. ‘No one will get past me. Don’t you worry none about that.’
‘Side doors? Back doors? Servants’ entrances?’
‘All covered sir.’
‘Good man.’
Riley suppressed a smile, wondering if he himself had ever been so keen to make an impression. A lot of the young uniformed constables harboured ambitions to become detectives, Riley knew, and a high-profile case like this one would be Peterson’s opportunity to make his mark.
Riley ran up the steps and was met at the door by Salter and two other detective constables—one of whom he had worked with before. The other was a stranger to him.
‘Evening, Sergeant,’ Riley said to Salter, nodding to the constables. ‘What do we know?’
‘Constables Carter and Soames.’ Salter introduced his colleagues. Carter, of course—that was the name of the man he recognised. ‘A young woman has been found dead and everyone’s in an uproar. The ladies, half of ’em anyway, have had fits of the vapours. They’re swoonin’ in the heat, sir. The gents are trying to appear in control but most of ’em look a bit green around the gills. We haven’t let anyone leave, but Lady Ashton wasn’t happy about that. Tried to pull rank on me, so she did, until I told her you were on your way.’
‘Glad to be of service,’ Riley replied with a wry smile.
‘Newspaper men have got word of it somehow,’ Carter said.
‘Damn! Make sure no one says a word to them. I’ll deal with the gentlemen of the press later.’ Or, more likely, Danforth would. He enjoyed getting his name in print, which suited Riley. His brother would sniff if Riley’s profile hit the front pages. Bad for the family image, according to Henry. Riley failed to comprehend why maintaining law and order—or attempting to in the face of opposition from every side—was anything other than a noble ambition. No one sneered at younger sons keeping the wolf from the door by becoming lawyers, soldiers, doctors or priests. He was at a loss to understand why keeping the streets safe shouldn’t evoke similar levels of respectability. ‘Do we know the name of the victim?’ he asked, conscious of the quiet rumble of conversation emanating from the drawing room, to which he assumed the guests had been restricted. ‘And are all the servants accounted for and in one place?’
‘The doctor’s confirmed that life is extinct.’ Salter sniffed. ‘I could have told him that much for myself. Still, he’s been, thrown his weight around and gone again. We interrupted his night out, it seems.’
Riley rolled his eyes, a little surprised to hear that the doctor had rushed his examination. From the upper middle classes, Dr Maynard had received a decent education and had aspirations to join the ruling classes, never wasting an opportunity to ingratiate himself within their ranks. So why had he been was in such a tearing hurry to leave Lord Ashton’s establishment?
‘The men from the mortuary are here to take the body but I told ’em to leave it where it was,’ Salter said. ‘Thought you’d want to see it first. It’s in the music room.’
‘Quite right.’ Riley sighed. ‘Don’t suppose the good doctor offered an opinion as to the cause of death?’
Salter chuckled. ‘It’s fairly obvious. The gal was strangled.’
‘But is that what caused her death?’
‘Ah.’
‘Precisely,’ Riley replied, resigned to the fact that he must now wait for the results of the post mortem to establish even that basic fact.
Before Riley could remind Salter that he still didn’t know the name of the victim, a vision in pale lilac with tawny curls, dramatic eyes and a tragically pale complexion burst from the drawing room and ran up to Riley.
‘I thought I heard your voice,’ Amelia Cosgrove said breathlessly. ‘Thank goodness you’re here. It’s too awful for words.’
‘Good evening, Amelia.’
Riley took her elbow and led her to a chair situated in the entrance vestibule. He and Amelia had been childhood acquaintances, with Amelia’s family owning an estate next door to the Rochesters. At thirty she was five years Riley’s junior, so he’d had little to do with her during their youth. It was only a couple of years ago when she returned from America, looking far too fresh and vibrant to be a grieving widow, that Riley really noticed her. Their paths had crossed on several occasions since then, Amelia happily accepting Riley’s invitation to those social engagements he was unable to avoid. It was a useful means of keeping his mother at bay and preventing her from introducing him to a welter of suitable females.
‘It’s Emily,’ Amelia said, her eyes swamped with tears. ‘But I expect you already know that. Sweet little Emily Ferguson. Who would want to do such a terrible thing?’
Riley hid his surprise at the victim’s identity. He knew Emily. No one with a connection to society, or who read the society columns, could fail to recognise the name. She was not only a debutante, but widely accepted to have been the debutante of the previous season. Riley had seen her, usually in the middle of a gaggle of friends or surrounded by groups of potential suitors, at parties to which he had been forced or persuaded to attend. He had looked at her, and those like her, from his usual position at the side of whatever room he found himself in, somewhere back in the shadows, or finding safety in the swathe of tropical plants in various conservatories. Beautiful, lively and with a slightly irreverent attitude, Riley had been surprised how unspoiled she had always seemed. Her head had not been turned by all the attention and everyone—even Riley, who took little interest in such matters—was astonished when she didn’t accept any of the proposals that came her way at the end of her first season.
His policeman’s mind clicked into action, and he started wondering if a disappointed suitor had taken the ultimate revenge.
‘I am very sorry to hear it,’ Riley said, patting Amelia’s hand. ‘She was a charming girl, and far too young to die. Now, I know this is awful, but I need you to remain strong. Can you do that for me? I expect, when you recover from the shock, you’ll remember details, and those details will be of good use to me.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Amelia produced a crumpled handkerchief from one of her sleeves and wiped her eyes. ‘I am so sorry. It’s not like me to be such a watering pot. What can I do to help?’
‘You’ve had a terrible shock. Of course you will be affected by it—although perhaps not quite so profoundly as many of the other ladies will be. You are far too level-headed to give way to fainting fits. Salter, have you established how many people were in attendance and where they were at the time? The sergeant nodded with a hint of reproach. Of course he had, Riley realised. He was nothing if not efficient. ‘We will get to that directly, but first I would like to see the victim.’
‘It all sounds so soulless, referring to Emily as a victim,’ Amelia said with a wan smile. ‘Not an hour ago, I was talking with her, and now…’
‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ Riley took Amelia’s hand. He knew that his bluntness was one factor that precluded him from enjoying the company of the class to which he belonged. ‘Who did…’ Who did she come with? That’s what he’d been about to ask. He remembered the company he was in and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. ‘With whom did she attend?’ he asked in steady voice, injecting a degree of what he hoped was sympathy.
‘Her mama. That smarmy doctor gave her a sedative. Mrs Ferguson that is, not Emily. I mean, it’s too late for a sedative to help Emily. Of course it is, the poor girl…’ Riley placed a calming hand on her shoulder. He’d seen shock manifest itself in so many ways. He felt Amelia trembling under his hand, heard her let out a half sob before continuing. ‘Anyway, Mrs Ferguson has been put to bed in one of the guest chambers.’
How, Riley wondered, had the doctor managed to examine the body, administer sedatives and leave the scene before Riley’s arrival? The wretched man probably knew that Riley would have had questions for him, questions that would have kept him from his engagement, but those very questions would have offered the good doctor the chance to preen, to stand centre stage offering his knowledge so he could later claim to have solved the crime for the police. So why had he scurried off? Was there a reason, or was it perhaps because he could find no incriminating evidence and wished to disassociate himself from potential failure?
Riley sighed. Personal arrogance, ambition and class-consciousness clouded every corner of investigations at this level of society. Part of him wished he was down in the slums near the river, sorting out some prosaic blood-letting without having to surround himself with such attendant nonsense as this. And how had Salter got here so soon, secured the premises and assembled the lists of guests and servants in his usual efficient fashion? Riley could only assume that Danforth had delayed sending for him, probably hoping to take the case on himself, until perhaps he’d spotted those same human foibles Riley was looking at now and washed his hands of the whole process, deciding instead to throw Riley into the lion’s den and stand back to watch him being torn to shreds. Either that or the commissioner had insisted upon Riley taking it. If that was the case then Riley and the commissioner were in agreement. It would be easier for Riley to ask the questions he already knew would be viewed with distaste and resentment. The whole thing was a colossal pain in the neck.
But Riley knew that it was also a highly delicate situation that required tact and resolve, and that as such he was the best officer to run the case. The trivial fact that a murder had been committed in the middle of a society soiree would not prevent its attendees from taking exception to being looked upon as suspects. Even the most experienced officers, unaccustomed to the dictatorial ways of the rich and titled, would be cowed by their authority, unwilling to push for answers if the interviewees prevaricated or pulled rank.
‘Stay here for now, Amelia, if you would be so kind. I shall speak with Lord Ashton. I expect he’s very anxious and I need to keep him as calm as possible. I will be back as soon as I can.’
‘Yes, of course. Go and do what needs to be done.’ Amelia shuddered. ‘Only to think, one of us, one of the people here tonight, is a murderer.’
‘If it reassures, I am certain the murderer killed Emily for a reason. No one else is in danger now. Especially not with Salter here to keep order.’ Riley’s demeanour was becoming authoritative, rising to the occasion as his mind clicked into gear.
‘That is indeed reassuring,’ Amelia offered Salter a faint smile.
‘Blimey, sir,’ Salter said in an aside as the two men turned towards the drawing room’s ornate double doors. ‘Nothing like creating expectations.’
Riley chuckled. ‘It’s called taking charge. All part of the job, Sergeant.’
‘Seems to me, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so, as the young lady would prefer for you to keep her safe.’
‘That particular young lady, I can assure you, is a good deal stronger than she seems. So many women are when the need arises. Right, are you ready, Salter? This is going to be akin to walking into a burning building. Society’s elite don’t take kindly to having debutantes murdered in their music rooms, and will be anxious to transfer the blame elsewhere. Abandon hope all ye who enter here…’ Riley offered Salter a half smile as he pushed the doors open with a theatrical flourish.
‘Ah, Rochester, there you are at last.’ Lord Ashton stepped up to Riley, peering up from his five-foot six frame, his bushy grey brows twitching with annoyance. ‘This is a rum affair. What the devil kept you?’