The Governor was strong upon
The Regulations Act:
The Doctor said that Death was but
A scientific fact:
And twice a day the Chaplain called,
And left a little tract.
—OSCAR WILDE
Rose wondered what on earth was going on. Her father had put down his newspaper and had stared to look through the morning post. He slit open a square manila envelope. He drew out a photograph. He goggled at it, thrust it back in the envelope and shouted, “Get Cathcart. Now!”
Despite wondering frantically what had been in that photograph, Rose felt a surge of pleasure at the thought she might see Harry again.
“What on earth is going on?” she asked her mother.
“I am sure your father will cope with whatever it is. Eat your breakfast,” said Lady Polly.
“Pervert,” muttered the earl.
“What did you say?” demanded Rose.
“Hey, what? Oh, I said perishing newspapers.”
Rose had never seen her father look so upset. His face was scarlet. At last he said to his wife, “A word with you, dear.”
Rose and Daisy picked at their food. Then Rose heard her mother scream.
They ran to the office. The earl shouted at them, “Get out of here! Go to your rooms and don’t come out until I tell you.”
They went upstairs and stood by the window. At last they saw Harry arriving. Becket was not with him.
“Now what?” asked Rose.
Daisy gave a dismal little shrug. She had been expecting to see Becket.
Harry looked at the photograph. “Nasty,” he said. “Sir Peter was entrapped.”
“You can’t be entrapped unless you’re a . . . you’re a . . .”
“Quite,” said Harry. “Will you leave this with me? I think perhaps I might be able to get the negative and any prints. Petrey will go abroad for an extended period and it will all blow over.”
“Rose will need to cancel the engagement!”
“Not yet. I have a feeling that that was just what someone wanted her to do. Leave it to me.”
“Usual fee?” asked the earl glumly.
“No, you may have my researches as a present, for it will be my pleasure to deal with whoever did this.”
“What do we say to Rose?” asked Lady Polly.
“I think you will find out that your daughter knew of Peter’s tastes.”
“What?”
“I do not for a moment think she believed that men actually had sexual intercourse—”
“Lady present,” growled the earl.
“But that she thought their love was platonic. She craved an arranged marriage.”
“Why?”
“Because she does not want to be shipped off to India. If you threaten her with that, she will find someone else.”
The earl mopped his brow.
“And I thought you were the worst thing that could have happened to her.”
“Thank you for the compliment. Now, leave this with me.”
Harry did not go back to his office but returned to Chelsea to ask Becket’s advice. He told his manservant about the incriminating photograph. “Do you know anything about the homosexual underworld, Becket?”
“There is that brothel in Westminster that no one is supposed to know about. Who do you suspect, sir?”
“I suspect Berrow and Banks.”
“Perhaps they hired a youth from there.”
“I am sure a place like that would give me no information whatsoever. I wonder why the police haven’t raided the place.”
“Possibly there are too many important people who visit there.”
“Where exactly is it?”
“Verney Street. I’ve heard servants gossiping about it.”
“I’ll go down tonight and watch who comes and goes. I’ll visit Petrey first.”
Harry went to Petrey’s home and knocked as arranged. Petrey himself answered the door, looking haggard.
Harry followed him in. He sat down and removed his hat. “The situation is this. Your engagement to Lady Rose stands. You will invent a dying aunt in the south of France. You will write Lady Rose a letter saying you have the leave the country immediately. I think the purpose of your entrapment was to get Lady Rose to break off your engagement. We will not give them that satisfaction right away.
“Now, give me a full description of this Jonathan Wilks.”
“He is very beautiful—young, with golden hair and large green eyes with flecks of gold. He is quite tall with a slim body. His skin is clear and without blemish. Believe me, there cannot be very many young men as beautiful as he is in London.”
“Leave it to me.”
Harry walked to Westminster that evening after the lamps had been lit. To his relief, Verney Street was short. He found a dark doorway and settled down to watch.
At first it was hard to tell which of the dark houses could be a brothel, but then, as the evening drove on, he saw a house in the middle of the street was beginning to be visited by various men who looked nervously up and down before hurrying inside. To his amazement, he recognized a major-general and then a member of Parliament. Still, he waited patiently as the evening dragged on past midnight. There was a cold nip in the air and he wished he had worn a warmer coat. The old wound in his leg was beginning to throb, and as the time approached two in the morning he was just about to give up when he saw a young man emerging from the building. Before he crammed his hat on his curls, they shone gold in the lamplight.
He started to walk briskly and Harry followed him. The youth went as far as the seedier end of Westminster and turned in at a doorway and disappeared.
Harry went up and lit a match and studied the names beside the bell-pulls.
Jonathan Wilks lived on the top floor. Goodness, thought Harry, he even used his own name.
He took out a set of lock picks and got to work on the outside door until he was able to enter.
He walked silently up the stairs to the top. The name “Wilks” was there, pencilled on the peeling wall beside the door.
Harry knocked. “Who is it?” he heard him call.
Taking a gamble, Harry shouted, “Banks!”
The door swung open. Harry shoved Jonathan backwards into his flat. The young man stumbled and fell on the floor. Harry pulled him up by the lapels and thrust him into an armchair.
“Now,” he said, “before I ruin that pretty face of yours for life, you will tell me who paid you to entrap Sir Peter Petrey.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Harry jerked him out of the chair and drew back his fist.
“No!” screamed Jonathan. “I’ll tell you. They said it was just a prank. I was to pretend to bump into him. Then we arranged to go to Oxford, so they said they would book a hotel and gave me the name. They also gave me a leather mask. They said I was to put it on and say in a loud voice something about having the mask on and then they would do the rest.”
“And just who are ‘they’?”
Jonathan hung his head. “Lord Berrow and Cyril Banks,” he whispered. Then he began to cry, saying between his sobs, “Don’t hurt me.”
“You gave me what I wanted. Now, a word of advice. You will forget this ever happened or I will come looking for you. Do I make myself clear?”
“Y-yes.”
“I suggest you find yourself a protector and get out of that brothel or you will look like a diseased old man by the time you are thirty. Good night!”
“Wait! Where is Peter?”
“None of your business.”
Harry began to walk until he managed to hail a cab and directed the driver to Cyril’s address.
Once there, he paid off the cab and waited until the driver had driven off. Then he took out his lock picks and unlocked the front door.
He made his way silently up the thickly carpeted stairs, opening one door after another until he found Cyril’s bedroom. He lit the gas and stood and looked down at the sleeping Cyril. He had a sudden impulse to drive his fist into Cyril’s face but restrained himself. He looked around the room. There was a laudanum bottle on the bedside table with a spoon beside it. Cyril lay in a drugged sleep.
Harry was sure Cyril would have hidden any negative close to him. There was a safe in the corner, an old one which opened with a key rather than a combination. On a console table lay a bunch of keys. Harry picked them up and tried them until he found the key that opened the safe.
Inside he found a Kodak camera. He peered at the small film window, but saw nothing there. The film had already been removed and the camera was empty. He searched in the safe again and found an envelope with the negative and one print. He stuffed them into his inside coat pocket and locked the safe.
He then walked to Charles Street and gave his special knock at the door. Again Peter answered it. He was fully dressed and his face showed the mark of tears.
“I have a photograph and the negative,” said Harry.
“Oh, thank God! Who did this to me?”
“Cyril Banks and Lord Berrow.”
“But why? Why me?”
“As I told you in my office, I think the intention was to get Lady Rose to break off your engagement. I suggest you rouse your man and pack. Leave tomorrow. Where will you go?”
“The south of France, where I am supposed to be.”
“Stay there a few months and this will all blow over. Hadfield is not going to talk.”
“What about Berrow and Banks?”
“You need not fear them. I will deal with them.”
Jonathan awoke after an uneasy sleep. He dressed and glanced down at the street. Lord Berrow and Cyril Banks had just turned the corner and were heading in the direction of the house where he lived. Cyril had found the photograph and negative gone and knew that Jonathan must have talked.
Jonathan let out a squawk of terror.
The doorbell jangled furiously. Jonathan began to pack a bag. He kept glancing fearfully out of the window until he saw them walk away.
He darted down the stairs, carrying his bag, and called a cab. “Charles Street,” he said.
Peter walked out to his carriage. It was later in the morning than he had intended to leave, but sheer relief had made him fall into a deep sleep. The carriage was loaded with his luggage.
He had one foot on the step when he heard a voice shout, “Peter! Wait!”
Peter stared as Jonathan hurtled towards him.
“You little bastard,” hissed Peter. He started to climb into the carriage.
“They told me it was only a prank,” said Jonathan, tears running down his face. “They are going to kill me. Take me with you.”
“I am going to the south of France to forget about the whole sordid business.”
Peter climbed into the carriage and rapped on the roof with his cane. The carriage lurched forward. Jonathan jumped on the backstrap.
Twisting round, Peter saw the youth’s anguished face through the back window.
He turned away in disgust.
When the hansom stopped in the forecourt of Charing Cross Station, where Peter was booked on the Dover train, he told his manservant, “Get a porter. Now, you,” he said, glaring at Jonathan, “run along.”
“Take me with you. I’ll do anything. I hate the life here. Please.”
In his anger and distress, Peter could not help noticing that tears did not mar or blotch the beauty of that face. He decided to pretend that Jonathan did not exist.
He heaved a sigh of relief when he was finally settled by his manservant in a first-class compartment. “Take care of the house when I am gone,” said Peter.
Just as the train began to move forwards out of the station, the carriage door opened and Jonathan tumbled in.
“What am I to do?” demanded the furious Peter. “I cannot call the guard in case you shame me further.”
“I thought it was a joke. I never expected to like you so much. I’m frightened,” said Jonathan.
Peter raised a newspaper and pretended to read. After several miles, the quiet sobbing opposite melted him a little.
“Luncheon is served,” called a waiter.
Peter sighed and lowered the newspaper. “Dry your eyes. We may as well eat.”
Rose wondered what on earth was going on. “If only we could get to the captain’s office,” she said to Daisy.
“We could simply say we were going for a walk,” said Daisy.
“At the moment we are not allowed out of the house.”
“I’ll watch by the window and see whether my lord and my lady go out. My lord goes to his club most days.” Daisy took up a position by the window.
After quarter of an hour, she said, “There he goes. Now we need to wait for Lady Polly.”
The day dragged on. Rose read while Daisy kept watch. “Lady Polly has just left,” she exclaimed.
Rose put down her book. “How do we get past the servants?”
“They’ll be taking afternoon tea,” said Daisy. “If we hurry, we should get out unnoticed.”
“What about coming back?”
“Let’s worry about that later. We’ll go to Chelsea. He may have finished work by the time we get there.”
At Harry’s Chelsea home, Daisy bit back an exclamation of disappointment as Phil opened the door to them.
“Is Captain Cathcart at home?” asked Rose.
“I am expecting him at any moment.”
Rose handed him her card. “We will wait.”
“Certainly, my lady. Step this way. Sherry, my lady?”
“Yes, please.”
“Who on earth is that?” hissed Daisy when Phil had left the room.
“I believe he is some down-and-out that the captain rescued from poverty.”
Phil returned carrying sherry glasses and a decanter on a tray. He carefully poured two glasses and handed one to Rose and then one to Daisy.
He bowed low. “Will there be h’anythink else, my lady?”
“No, I thank you.”
Phil bowed his way out of the room.
Daisy looked around the book-lined parlour. “You would think with all the money he’s making he would find a more fashionable address.”
“Shh! I hear a motor car.”
Harry walked in, followed by Becket. “Lady Rose! What brings you here?”
“I must know what is going on,” said Rose. “What was in that photograph?”
Becket helped Harry out of his coat and took his hat and stick. He smiled at Daisy, who gave him a cheeky wink.
Harry sat down. “The photograph was of Sir Peter in a compromising position with a beautiful youth wearing a mask.”
“You can’t mean . . . Gentlemen don’t . . .”
“I am afraid they do. Berrow and Banks paid the young man to entrap Sir Peter.”
“Have you been to Kerridge? You must tell the police.”
“I cannot tell the police. Kerridge would be honour-bound to arrest Sir Peter. He would be charged with acts of gross indecency and sentenced to hard labour.”
Rose’s face was bright red. “I never imagined . . . I never thought . . . Where is Peter?”
“Well on his way to the south of France, I hope.”
Rose stared at him for a long moment. “Do you see what this means? If Berrow and Banks hired this youth to compromise Sir Peter, then they are probably the ones who hired the assassin to try to kill me.”
“That is possible. Although I fear one of them wanted Petrey out of the way so that he could try his luck with you. But I definitely cannot tell Kerridge. I am going out this evening to silence Berrow and Banks.”
“You will kill them?”
“No, my dear. There are other ways.”
“I cannot understand why my father did not cancel my engagement.”
“He will. But I did not, for the moment, want Berrow or Banks to have that satisfaction. Now I need to go out again. May Becket take you home?”
“Yes, please.”
Harry rang the bell. “Becket, take Miss Levine out to the motor. I need a word with Lady Rose in private.”
When they had left, Harry looked seriously at Rose. “I am going to ask your father’s permission to pay my addresses to you. What do you think of that?”
“He will never agree. And why?”
He wanted to say, Because you enchant and infuriate me. Instead he said, “Because I would not leave you unprotected. London is full of adventurers. You may make another mistake.”
“But you will leave me alone like you did before!”
“I will try to behave like a faithful swain. Come, Rose, we are both misfits and we could deal well together.”
Rose looked up at him from beneath her long lashes. “An arrangement like before?”
“If you wish.”
At last she gave a little sigh. “Very well, then.”
“I must deal with Berrow and Banks first. Then I will call.”
“I am only agreeing because at the moment I am not allowed out of the house.”
Harry smiled. “Let me escort you out to the motor.”
Harry waited until Becket had returned. “Do not take off your coat, Becket. We are going to Scotland Yard. How is Phil progressing with the camera work?”
“He is excellent and knows how to develop and print negatives.”
“Good. Tell him to get that new Kodak I bought him, film, and magnesium for the flash. I’ll need him tonight. I will also need to furnish you with a pistol, Becket. You do not mind threatening anyone with a pistol, do you?”
“Certainly not, sir.”
“So here’s what we will do . . .”
Harry hoped his guess was correct—that Berrow and Banks would wait outside that brothel in the hope of getting hold of Jonathan. But to make sure, he, Becket, and Phil followed the pair from The Club, then hid at the end of Verney Street and watched. Berrow and Banks looked around furtively and went into the brothel. They came out a few minutes later and stood waiting.
“Jonathan must have been due on duty about now,” whispered Harry. “Becket and Phil, go now. You have your instructions.”
Becket walked forward to where Berrow and Cyril were standing. Harry had altered his manservant’s appearance. Becket now sported a heavy moustache and mutton-chop whiskers.
He held the gun on the pair. Then he raised it and fired a shot neatly through the top of Berrow’s silk hat and then levelled the pistol on them again.
The brothel door slammed shut and the lights went out. A shot in Verney Street meant trouble, and trouble meant the police. No one wanted to be around when the police arrived. Harry at the end of the street saw a possible customer turn and run off.
“What do you want?” squeaked Cyril. “Our money?”
“I want you to kiss your friend on the mouth.”
“Bugger you,” hissed Berrow.
Becket clicked back the hammer on the pistol. “Oh, do what the maniac says,” howled Cyril, “or he’ll kill us.”
He grasped Berrow by the shoulders and pressed his mouth to his. Becket melted into the shadows as the magnesium flare went off.
Neither man saw the flash, both having their eyes tight shut. When Cyril released Berrow, he looked wildly around. There was no sign of anyone. Both men took out their silk handkerchiefs and wiped their mouths.
“Disgusting!” raged Berrow. “Let’s get out of here. Scotland Yard shall hear of this.” He set off down the street.
“Hold on,” said Cyril. “We can’t tell the police.”
“Why not? We were forced to kiss each other by some maniac with a pistol.”
“The police will ask where it took place. If we say Verney Street, they’ll think we’re a pair of you-know-whats. And I told you that someone opened my safe and stole that negative and photograph.”
Berrow stopped short. “What are we to do?”
“We can’t do anything.”
The next morning, both Cyril and Berrow received envelopes delivered by hand. In each envelope was a large photograph of them kissing each other. The brothel behind them was also in the picture. Each received the same letter. “If you go near Lady Rose Summer again or interfere in her life, go near her home, or threaten her in any way, this photograph goes to the police and the newspapers.”
Cyril went straight round to Berrow’s town house.
“You got one too! What are we to do?”
“I’m sure this is the work of that counter-jumper, Cathcart,” growled Berrow. “Let’s keep clear of Lady Rose while we think of a way to get back at him.”
The earl was having a late breakfast with his wife when he was told that Captain Cathcart had called.
“Send him in,” he ordered, and when Harry arrived, “have some breakfast. Pull up a pew.”
“Just coffee, please,” said Harry. A cup of coffee was given to him by a footman.
“Have you any news?”
“Not before the servants,” said Harry.
“You lot, get out of here,” ordered the earl. “And no listening at the door, either.” He turned to his wife. “You’d better go, too, my dear. Unsavoury stuff.”
“Before you go, Lady Polly, and before I give my report, I wish to inform you that I would consider it a great honour to renew my engagement to your daughter.”
“Not that again,” said the earl.
“I think you will find that your daughter is not indifferent to my suit. Lady Rose needs someone to protect her from danger.”
“You drag her into danger!”
“I had nothing to do with her finding that body in Hyde Park.”
“True. Oh, well, after your behaviour the last time you were engaged to her, she won’t want anything to do with you. Try if you like. Now, to business. My dear?”
When Lady Polly had left the room, Harry described how Berrow and Cyril had been forced to kiss each other. “They know that should they even go near Lady Rose again, the photograph will be sent to the police and to the newspapers.”
The earl began to laugh. Rose had seen Harry arrive. She could hear her father’s roars of laughter and wondered if it could be because Harry had asked for her hand in marriage once more.
“By Jove,” said the earl, “that’s brilliant. But why don’t the police shut that den of iniquity down?”
“I am afraid high-ranking people use it.”
“Demme, this town’s a sewer, a veritable sewer. Ghastly fellows preferring it up the tradesmen’s entrance. Thanks anyway. I suppose you’d better see Rose, but mark my words, you’re in for a rough rejection.”
The earl and countess were bemused when they were asked to come to the drawing-room to find their daughter wearing a sparkling engagement ring and smiling up at the captain.
“Your daughter has done me the great honour of accepting my hand in marriage,” said Harry.
“I think you’re both mad,” roared the earl and stormed from the room. Lady Polly remained. “I suppose Mr. Jarvis will have to cancel your engagement now to Sir Peter and then announce this engagement. Really, Rose, do try in future to be more conventional. Brum said he saw you sneaking back into the house when I had given you strict instructions not to leave it. You may take your leave, Captain Cathcart. Mr. Jarvis will let you know of Rose’s social engagements.”
Harry kissed Rose on her cheek. “Friends again?” he whispered.
“Friends,” echoed Rose softly.
To Rose’s relief, her mother made no protest at her plan to help the poor of East London by serving in the soup kitchen at St. Matthew’s in Whitechapel. Charity was fashionable provided one went armoured with the usual protection of footman and lady’s maid.
Rose decided to take Miss Friendly with her, Daisy having suddenly and vehemently refused to go.
Daisy said she didn’t want to run into old acquaintances. It wasn’t because she had become too grand, it was because they’d make a mock of her while demanding money at the same time.
So Rose set off the following morning, Matthew having arranged her visit with the vicar.
The lady running the soup kitchen was a Mrs. Harrison, whom Rose remembered from her suffragette meetings. She was a thickset middle-class woman with a no-nonsense air.
She supplied Rose and Miss Friendly with long aprons to protect their clothes and told them to supply their own next time.
Rose had not been prepared for the rank smell of so many diseased and unwashed bodies. But she smiled and ladled soup into bowls while Miss Friendly handed out chunks of bread.
Her beauty was appreciated by the poor. She smiled at each and said a few words of comfort. One old Cockney was particularly grateful. “The Good Lord sent you, missus,” he said. “I saw the light in prison, I did. Chaplain says God would take care of me. You is an instrument of the Lord.”
He moved on. Rose’s feet began to ache. “How long do we have to stay here?” she whispered to Miss Friendly.
“Another hour,” murmured Miss Friendly. “So many hungry people.”
At last it was over. Rose felt a glow of achievement as she was driven off. She had promised to return on the following day.
Her scalp became increasingly itchy as the day wore on. She rang for her lady’s maid. “Turner, would you see if I have a rash on my scalp?”
Turner took the bone pins and pads out of Rose’s elaborate hair-style and brushed out her long hair.
“Lice!”
“Head lice. I will fetch a tooth comb and disinfectant.”
Rose spent an agonizing hour bent over a sheet of white paper while Turner combed out the lice with a toothcomb soaked in disinfectant. Then her hair was washed several times.
Rose remembered that Mrs. Harrison’s hair had been bound up in a tight turban. She could only be glad that she was free of social engagements that evening. What if all the lice had not been discovered and some fell on the captain!
When she went to sleep that night, she dreamt she was floating down the river in the rowing-boat with Dolly. “You’ve missed something. It’s right under your nose,” said Dolly. Rose awoke with a start. Someone had said something or done something recently that was important. She racked her brain, but could not think what it was.