Chapter One London: One year
later
“A bloody mess, it was.”
“How many days
in the water do they estimate?”
“Difficult to tell.
Bilious and bloated beyond recognition.”
Lord James
Lyndon Rushford barely looked up from the table, his gaze
intent on the cards in his right hand. “Are we playing
vingt-et-un, gentlemen?” he murmured. “I would suggest,
judging by your winnings, that you concentrate on the game.”
The oil lamps burned low, illuminating the generous
proportions of the games room hosting four men, jackets
casually draped across chairs, neck stocks undone, who were
leisurely and relentlessly bent upon losing money, of which
they all had plenty. Crockford’s was a private club on St.
James, luxurious and discreet, requiring membership that
demanded deep coffers and cavalier unconcern. On this Monday
evening the crowd was unusually light, consisting solely of
players for whom the vice of cards was too hard to resist.
Sir Richard Archer threw down a matched set of queens
a moment before Rushford bested him with a sprawl of cards,
lazily delivered on the mahogany table.
Archer
grinned good-naturedly, blue eyes gleaming beneath a bold
nose. “Thought we could put you off your game, Rush, but
apparently not.”
“Indeed,” murmured Lord Ambrose
Galveston, leaning forward in his chair, observing Rushford
speculatively. “I should have thought that the specter of a
soiled dove washed ashore would pique your interest.” He was
a slight man with a receding hairline that matched his
retreating chin.
“Hardly mysterious in this case, I’d
warrant,” said Sir Harry Devonshire, before throwing down
his cards in exasperation. “And I can speak with some
confidence. My source of information is not London’s chief
constable but rather that Irish groom my wife hired last
year, a rascal who spends most of his time bedding whatever
skirt catches his fancy, whether below stairs or on the
riverfront.” He drummed his fingers on the table’s edge.
“Wonder if he knew her,” he mused.
“And why should
it matter,” asked Galveston, “when the body belongs to that
of a prostitute?”
“I believe that they determined she
was an actress, judging by her finery. Or so reports the
Irish groom,” corrected Devonshire.
“A very fine
distinction,” Galveston sniffed. “Actress, whore, it matters
little. They do come and go with alarming regularity. What
do you make of it, Archer? Clearly, Rush- ford is not
inclined to join us in conversation.”
Archer played
with the chips at his elbow and shrugged. “This is all
prurient speculation. Which means there’s not much that need
be discussed.”
Galveston gave a puff of derision. “I
shouldn’t wish to offend your sensibilities. Such
refinement!”
“I don’t quite know what the bother is
all about,” said Devonshire disingenuously, although all the
men gathered around the mahogany table in the library knew
precisely why this particular incident—this death—held such
resonance. “Besides which and much more importantly,”
continued Devonshire, deciding to heed the storm brewing on
the horizon and decamp while there was still time, “this
game has become too rich for me, gentlemen. I shall retire
to White’s, I believe, for a nightcap before returning home.
Anyone care to join me?” Looking about him expectantly, and
ignoring the footman who appeared instantly to assist him
with his waistcoat and jacket, Devonshire took the last
draft from the very fine brandy Crockford’s provided to its
loyal clientele. “Very well then,” he said rising from his
chair with a definitive shrug of his shoulders, “I shall
make my way to the club and a lonely night of drinking. Good
evening, gentlemen.” He followed with a curt bow and exited
the room.
“I shall follow suit, I think, but prefer
to keep my own company this evening,” said Galveston,
scraping back his chair before jerking his rather meager
chin in Rushford’s direction. “Although it’s difficult to
fathom why you shouldn’t want to know more about Bow
Street’s latest gruesome discovery, what with your
unorthodox interests, Rushford.”
Rushford smiled
slowly, the curve to his lips doing nothing to soften his
countenance, an assemblage of hard planes and angles that
was not particularly welcoming. He slanted back in his
chair, ignoring the winnings piled high to the right of his
discarded cards. “One needs something to keep boredom at
bay, Galveston.”
Galveston squared his narrow
shoulders. “A highly risible claim. Surely, amateur
sleuthing is hardly becoming to a man of your stature. That
case you involved yourself in earlier in the year,
concerning those prostitutes and their keeper. Truly a
noisome situation if there ever was one and with spectacular
repercussions, if you’ll recall.”
Archer cleared his
throat in warning, but Galveston continued. “Not much good
can come from involving oneself in these matters. And what’s
the point, after all? The poor and destitute, the morally
suspect, shall always be with us, subject to the vagaries of
fate.”
Archer tensed in his seat as Rushford’s smile
widened, never a good sign. “So, Galveston, enlighten me, if
you will,” he said slowly, with a poor approximation of
patience. “If this woman recently discovered on the Thames’s
shore were well born, then you would concede an interest in
discovering the crime behind her demise. But given that she
may have had to earn her living at a trade of sorts, her
life is deemed of no value. Despite the fact that you
occasionally avail yourself of services that she and her
type might have to offer.” The lamps seemed to hiss more
loudly.
Galveston pursed his lips, insulted that his
extracurricular interests, hardly irregular, would be called
into question. He was not quite an habitué of either
Cruikshank’s nor Madam Recamier’s in King’s Cross, although
he did on occasion sample the wares of either establishment.
He smoothed the ivory buttons on his waistcoat with soft
hands that had never seen a day’s work. “It would appear to
me that you’re the last one who can afford to cast
aspersions, Rushford.”
Rushford pushed back his
chair, unfolding his impressive physique. Archer followed
suit, hoping that Galveston at least had the good judgment
not to raise a matter better left cold and dead. Rushford
had an unreliable temper, and it was momentarily doubtful
that Galveston recollected the fact that Rushford could
drill a dime at twenty paces, counted membership in the West
London Boxing Club, and was the winner of the Marquis of
Queensbury’s challenge cup four years running.
“Time
to bid adieu, Galveston,” Archer said helpfully.
“I
shall take my leave.”
“Perhaps you would care to
finish elaborating your point,” Rushford said.
Not a
good plan, thought Archer. Galveston opened his mouth to say
something, but perhaps it was a primal instinct for survival
that he snapped it closed again. Of course, they all knew
what he was thinking, what he wanted to say. Instead, with
thinning lips, he concluded, “I shall leave you to your dark
memories, Rushford. And good evening to you, Archer.”
Galveston gathered up his jacket and with a backward glance
over his shoulder added, “We haven’t all forgot ten, if
that’s what you wish to believe, Rushford.” He paused
meaningfully. “We well realize that your unorthodox
diversions are an attempt to make amends, to assuage your
guilt—”
Rushford crossed his arms over his chest,
the movement straining the superfine fabric of his shirt.
Archer said curtly, “Spare us the preaching,
Galveston, and take your leave while you still have time.”
In response, Galveston made a show of securing the last
button on his jacket before turning on his heel, the door
snapping shut behind him.
The silence was
conspicuous, marred only by the sputtering of one of the
lamps as the oil burned down to release a curl of dark
smoke. Rushford reached for the whiskey decanter in the
center of the table, splashing a healthy amount into his
crystal tumbler. He took a mouthful.
Archer raised an
eyebrow. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but don’t you think
you’ve had quite enough?” Between the two of them over the
years, the decanters they’d emptied could rebuild
Blackfriar’s Bridge.
Rushford glanced at the pyramid
of chips next to his chair. “It didn’t seem to affect my
performance at cards.” His eyes were the color of a northern
sea and just about as friendly. It was difficult to
reconcile the fact that the two men had met two decades
earlier at Eton and shared a checkered and overlapping past
that included several years adrift not only in the Royal
Navy but also in London’s backstreets, glittering ballrooms,
and Whitehall’s clandestine offices. But that was long ago,
Rushford reminded himself, before everything had changed.
“We’re not talking about your facility at cards. That
will never be in question,” Archer said dryly.
Rushford raised his glass in his friend’s direction.
“Thank God. Not that I believe in one. Besides which, your
hand- wringing reminds me of my old nurse.”
“You grow
more idiosyncratic as you age, Rush.”
“I’m not asking
you to keep me company.”
Archer observed his friend
carefully. “You’ve barely emerged from Belgravia Square
since February. And it’s now May. Perhaps you should take
yourself down to the waterfront and to Mrs. Banks to look at
the body.”
Rushford placed the now empty crystal
tumbler on the table. “Your concern is touching, Archer. You
believe embroiling myself in another hopeless state of
affairs will ameliorate my ennui. Although I don’t think
Mrs. Banks would be overly eager to see me.” Mrs. Banks was
undertaker to the poor, her ramshackle dwelling in the
foggiest, nastiest side of Shoreditch, where London’s
constabulary saw fit to drop off bodies before they found
their way to a pauper’s grave.
“Your involvement in
the Cruikshank murders helped last time, as you very well
know. Despite Galveston’s palaver about sleuthing, your
particular skills and energies are suited to uncovering the
truth.”
He had scarcely solved the mysteries of the
universe, thought Rushford wearily, when he had uncovered
what the London constabulary had missed right under their
noses. Madam Cruikshank’s stable of fillies was being
poisoned one by one by her footman, at the behest of a
disgruntled client, Sir William Hutcheon. The scandal that
had blossomed in the London papers had hardly endeared
Rushford to London society, of which Galveston was a
particularly vocal example. Not that Rushford cared a whit
for society’s approbation. “Hutcheon deserved to hang,” he
said abruptly.
Archer nodded. “This was one crime
that could not be kept behind closed doors. Thanks to your
efforts.”
Rushford reached for his jacket. “Don’t
patronize me, Archer.”
Archer held up a palm in
protest. “Furthest thing from my mind, Rush.”
“Trust
me when I say that I am quite adept at keeping myself
occupied.”
Archer eyed the whiskey decanter
meaningfully before adding, “Does that mean you will pay
Mrs. Banks a visit?”
“Christ, you’re a nag.
Persistently and painfully bother some.” But he shrugged on
his jacket, not troubling himself to order his cravat. He
would go first thing to Shoreditch in the morning, a reason
to rise other than cards and boxing. Archer was bloody
right, not that he would say it aloud. They both knew thin
ice when they skated on it.
Rushford made for the
door, Archer close on his heels. “You ought to forgive
yourself,” said his longtime friend, to his back. The words
burned dully in his brain but didn’t penetrate the scar
tissue that had closed over his heart.
“Kate would
never want you to—” Archer continued carefully.
Without turning around, his palm on the heavy brass knob of
the door, Rushford said, “Give it up, Archer. There is
nothing left to say.” Or to feel, he should have added, the
shimmer of Kate’s beautiful face always in his mind’s eye.
“I am going home now, with or without your permission, to
decant and drain a fine bottle of French brandy.” Rushford
never got drunk. And never forgot. That was the problem.
Archer shook his head, shrugging on his own coat.
“Your work for Whitehall was worthwhile in the end, Rush,
despite the fact that you refuse to acknowledge your
accomplishments. And if you choose at this time to utilize
your talents by immersing yourself in more pedestrian
affairs, then so be it.”
Rushford turned briefly, his
eyes bleak. “Pedestrian? When I think of what was sacrificed
for the sake of a few bloody Egyptian tablets that now sit
in the British Museum—” He did not finish the sentence but
jerked open the door.
Rushford pushed past the
footman with barely a backward glance at his friend. The
debacle of the Rosetta Stone was one he wished to remove
from memory, like a knife from between his ribs. Outcome be
damned. Taking two stairs at a time, he did admit to himself
that there was something about the body lying at Mrs.
Banks’s that tugged at his conscience. He wondered briefly
why Galveston and Devonshire had been so assiduous in
bringing the tragedy to his attention.
Down the stairs and
past the discreet entrance off Mayfair, he pulled up his
collar against the nocturnal damp, deciding to walk to his
town house rather than signaling for a hansom. Anything to
shorten what would be a long, sleepless night. He looked up
into the starless sky and then down the length of the
slumbering street, sensing that his past was opening like an
abyss from which he could no longer look away.