CHAPTER 13

The next morning is so dark with fog that when Hugh, Mick, and I emerge from the studio, the man loitering by the front door is a mere blurry shape crowned with a bowler hat. We don’t realize that he’s waiting for us until he says, “Hey, you!”

I’m surprised to recognize his tweed overcoat, puffy features, and curly strawberry-blond hair. “Charlie Sullivan?”

The reporter from the Telegraph draws back his fist and punches Hugh in the face. Hugh cries, “Ow!” and reels against the door. Mick and I exclaim in dismay.

“Good morning to you too, Mr. Sullivan.” Indignant, Hugh rubs his cheek. “Why did you do that?”

“Don’t play dumb. You stole my story about Harry Warbrick’s murder and Amelia Carlisle’s execution!” Fists clenched, panting like an angry bulldog, Sullivan lunges at Hugh.

Mick and I grab Sullivan. He turns on me and yells, “You thieving bitch!”

I let go and scramble away, lest he hit me too.

“If you don’t want your stories stolen, you shouldn’t blab them to strangers,” Hugh says.

Sullivan curses as he strains toward Hugh, trying to break free of Mick’s grasp.

“How did you know where we live?” I say.

“I have my sources. I’m not telling you another goddamn thing!” Sullivan slips on a patch of ice on the sidewalk.

Mick shoves him. He falls on his buttocks and slides into a puddle of dirty slush. Picking himself up, he says, “Bugger you and Sir Gerald’s contest.” He trudges off.

As my friends and I gape at one another, stunned by the turn of events, a newsboy’s cry rises above the racket of wagon wheels and factory machinery. “Amelia Carlisle and her hangman! Read all about their shocking connection!” Proprietors and customers gather outside the shops, reading newspapers, talking in excited voices.

“I’ll get one for us.” Hugh disappears into the fog and returns with a copy of the Daily World.

The front-page headline reads, “WHO HANGED THE HANGMAN?” The illustration shows the inside of the execution shed at Newgate. Five men and a woman stand by the gallows, a hooded female figure dangles from a noose, and a sixth man poses with his hand on the lever of the trap door. The faces are indistinct, but one of the men wears a physician’s white coat, another a priest’s collar. They represent Harry Warbrick, Ernie Leach, Governor Piercy, Dr. Davies, Matron Fry, the Reverend Starling, and Sir Lionel Hargreaves, sheriff of London.

I read tidbits from the article under Malcolm Cross’s byline: “What happened at the Baby Butcher’s execution? Did it incite someone to murder her hangman? What dangerous secrets did Amelia take to her grave?”

“The story doesn’t name the witnesses or accuse them of murder, but Sir Gerald is treading too close to libel for my comfort,” Hugh says. “Although he must be happy that the story is a sensation. He’ll want a new episode to keep the public on tenterhooks.”

“We better hurry to Old Bailey,” Mick says.

*   *   *

Old Bailey, the courthouse where criminals are tried and verdicts rendered, is conveniently situated adjacent to Newgate Prison. The ground floor of the massive building is surfaced with masonry blocks. A stone wall topped with a high, spiked iron fence surrounds the front courtyard. Fog shrouds the men and women queued up by the gate, where police constables ask them what their business is before letting them in or turning them away. Hugh, Mick, and I join the queue. Eavesdropping, we learn that some of the folks are solicitors or barristers coming to defend or prosecute clients; others are spectators.

“I’ve met Sir Lionel Hargreaves,” Hugh says.

“Oh?” I’m not surprised. When Hugh was a popular man-about-high-society, he rubbed shoulders with London’s most prominent citizens. “Where?”

“At the Metropolis Theater. He’s the owner. He hosts parties after the performances. His guests get to mingle with the stars.”

“The sheriff owns a theater?” Mick says. “How come?”

“He started out as a bit-part actor with a theater troupe that toured the provinces,” Hugh says. “He became the star and married the producer’s daughter. He had a flair for writing, directing, and producing plays too. When he brought the troupe to London, it was a smash hit. He made wealthy friends in high places, and they invested in his new project—the Metropolis. Now it’s the biggest moneymaker in the West End. Melodramas, Shakespeare, musicals, and Christmas pantomimes—something for everybody. Sir Lionel retired from acting and hired big stars to perform. He was knighted for his achievements.”

“How did he get to be sheriff?” I say. A journey from the stage to the government seems improbable.

“He took an interest in politics, and he won a seat on the London County Council. His influential friends got him elected sheriff. Now his people run the Metropolis while he assists the Lord Mayor and officiates at Old Bailey. Rumor says he’ll be the next Lord Mayor.”

“He won’t be if we find out he killed the hangman,” Mick says.

“That would wreck a political career,” Hugh agrees.

When we reach the gate, we give the constables our names. Hugh says, “We’re with the Daily World. Sir Gerald Mariner sent us to call on Sheriff Hargreaves.”

Sir Gerald’s name is like a magic password. Soon an official whisks us through the gate and the courtyard and beyond the semicircular brick wall that barricades the entrance to Old Bailey. Inside the cold, dank hall, we cross a stone floor worn down from centuries of footsteps. The smell of cesspools and unwashed human bodies seems soaked into the scarred, soot-stained walls. Voices resound from two big courtrooms already filled with people gathering for trials. A staircase leads us to the top floor, a different world that the public never sees. Gas sconces in the passages shine on gilt red wallpaper and polished parquet floors. White-wigged judges stride past us. Our escort shows us into a large office with paneled walls, a brown Turkish carpet, and glass-fronted bookcases. Heavy chairs upholstered with leather stand in front of the fire burning in a hearth beneath a marble mantelpiece. Windows overlook a courtyard where carriages and horses wait. Above the courtyard, rooftops spread to the great dome of St. Paul’s. A closed door leads to an inner chamber. The air smells richly of expensive coffee and tobacco. Hugh takes it all in stride, accustomed to such elegance, while Mick glances around with bright-eyed curiosity. Old Bailey’s inner sanctum may be safer than Newgate, but I feel uneasy, out of place.

Three gentlemen stand conversing by a large mahogany desk. Two are in their fifties, dressed in ordinary business attire, their voices a civilized murmur directed at the third man. He’s a decade younger, tall and broad-shouldered. He wears a long scarlet robe trimmed with dark fur over a black velvet coat, waistcoat, and breeches, and black stockings and buckled black shoes. An ornate jeweled brooch hangs from gold chains across the ruffled white lace jabot at his throat. He breaks off the conversation, dismisses his two subordinates and our escort with a nod, and strides toward my friends and me.

“Miss Bain. Lord Hugh Staunton. Mr. Mick O’Reilly.” His voice is a pleasant baritone, cultured but not haughty. “Sir Gerald let me know that you would be calling on me. It’s good that you came before I’m due in court. I’m Lionel Hargreaves.”

I’ve seen officials look puny and uncomfortable in their archaic garb, as if it’s wearing them. Sheriff Hargreaves carries his with nonchalant dash. In figure he resembles portraits of the young Henry the Eighth, but his face is strikingly individual—less like the lion that his name and mane of fair hair suggest and more like a fox, with its narrow shape, pointed chin, and neatly trimmed reddish-brown mustache and beard. I recognize him as the man I saw posing in the photograph with Governor Piercy.

“Honored to meet you, Sir Lionel. Thank you for making time to see us.” Hugh speaks with his usual, confident good manners, but I know he’s wondering, as he’s told me he always does when he meets someone from his old life, whether the sheriff knows about his scandal.

“It’s my pleasure.” If Sheriff Hargreaves knows, he’s too polite to let on. When he shakes hands with me, he smiles. His lips are full and sensual, his eyes a pale, glinting blue circled by a ring of gray, like aquamarine gems set in steel.

I’m not immune to his charm, even though he could be a murderer.

Mick looks impressed in spite of himself, and when it’s his turn to shake hands with the sheriff, he gulps before he says, “Sir.”

“Let me take your coats.” Sheriff Hargreaves hangs them on a brass coat tree, then says, “Would you like some coffee?” He gestures at a cart laden with an urn, cups, and a tray of assorted pastries.

“Sure,” Mick says, never one to pass up free refreshments.

I move toward the cart, anticipating that I, the only woman present, will be asked to serve, but Sheriff Hargreaves says, “Please allow me.”

Soon we’re seated in the chairs by the fire, cups in hand, plates on our laps. The coffee is delicious, and so is my lemon-filled puff pastry. Mick smacks his lips, then looks embarrassed by his bad manners. Hugh says, “This is very kind of you, Sir Lionel.” It’s a far cry from the treatment we received at Newgate.

Sheriff Hargreaves takes his seat. “I’m always glad to cooperate with the press. However, you must understand that I can’t talk about Amelia Carlisle’s execution. My lips are sealed by the Official Secrets Act.” He speaks with what seems like genuine regret.

I wonder if he deliberately buttered us up before letting us down. Still, I’m not surprised by his refusal to talk.

“We do understand.” Hugh’s tone implies that of course a high official who’s a candidate for Lord Mayor can’t break the law.

“I’m ready to be of service to you in any other way I can.”

I think of the Thames when the sun shines on it, when I know that dark, unsavory things are submerged beneath the brilliance. I wonder what, if anything, the sheriff’s charm hides. “Have you any idea who killed Harry Warbrick?” I ask.

Sheriff Hargreaves, unlike Governor Piercy, answers me instead of ignoring me. “I haven’t, Miss Bain. But the crime seemed quite personal. That suggests a grudge on the part of someone close to Harry.”

“Were you close to him?” I ask. Then I want to bite my tongue; the sheriff might perceive my question as an accusation, take umbrage, and throw us out.

“I hardly knew the man.” Sheriff Hargreaves seems unoffended and sincere.

“Could it have been someone at Newgate?” Hugh asks. “What about Governor Piercy, Dr. Davies, Mrs. Fry, or the chaplain?”

Mick nods in approval at the question. I too hope that even if Sheriff Hargreaves won’t incriminate himself, he’ll dish dirt on the other suspects.

“I doubt that they knew Harry well enough to have a personal motive for murder. Executions are hardly occasions for getting acquainted.”

If a conspiracy of silence unites the execution witnesses, they all have to keep mum to sustain it. I remember that there’s another suspect besides those Hugh mentioned. “How about Ernie Leach?” I say.

“The assistant hangman? An odd little fellow. I’ve never heard any ill of him, but I know he and Harry worked together often.”

Although Sheriff Hargreaves speaks in casual manner, I wonder if he’s trying to direct suspicion onto Leach and away from himself. I also wonder if my experiences have made me so suspicious of everybody that I see guilt where there is none. Or perhaps Sheriff Hargreaves’s good looks and charm have biased me in his favor and caused me to doubt myself.

“By the way, I heard about your trouble at Newgate. I apologize for Governor Piercy. He ought to take better measures to prevent accidents.” Before we can say that the attacks were no accident, Sheriff Hargreaves says, “Maybe you need a police escort to keep you safe while you’re investigating Harry’s murder. I’ll be happy to lend you a pair of constables.”

Hugh and I glance at each other. We never expected this kind of assistance, but does Sheriff Hargreaves intend for the constables to protect us or to report our every move to him?

“We don’t trust coppers,” Mick says.

Amusement crinkles the sheriff’s eyes. “Spoken like a man of experience. Has any particular one done you wrong?”

Mick shifts in his seat, nervous at being put on the spot, unsure whether Sheriff Hargreaves is making fun of him. “Inspector Reid gives ’em all a bad name.”

“Edmund Reid can be difficult. He’s heading up the Warbrick murder investigation, isn’t he? Suppose I tell him to leave the three of you alone?”

“Can you really do that?” Mick sounds awed.

Sheriff Hargreaves smiles. “I really can.”

Hugh frowns, and I can tell that he’s thinking what I’m thinking: What does the man expect in return for the favor? Is it a bribe to get us to leave him out of our investigation and the Daily World to omit his name from stories about the Warbrick murder?

“That’s very generous of you,” Hugh begins, “but—”

The door to the inner chamber opens, and a young, drowsy female voice says, “Lionel? Who’s there?” The voice is familiar and so unexpected that I start. I turn to see the young woman who stands at the threshold. Her pale blonde hair hangs in long, disheveled ringlets. She wears a blue wool dressing gown that’s too big for her, the sleeves covering her hands and the sash loosely tied around her slim waist. The gap at the front shows the top of her bare bosom. Her lovely face is dazed with sleep; her cerulean-blue eyes blink at Hugh, Mick, and me. We jump to our feet, staring at her in shock.

“Catherine?” Mick blurts.

It’s Catherine Price, the actress with whom Mick is desperately, unrequitedly in love.

“I thought I recognized your voices.” She looks as disconcerted to see us as we are to see her. “What on earth are you doing here?”

It’s obvious what she’s doing here naked under a dressing gown that must belong to Sheriff Hargreaves. She’s his mistress.

Hugh recovers his manners and speaks with forced gaiety. “Good morning, Catherine. How nice to see you. We’re on an investigation.”

“So you know one another?” Sheriff Hargreaves rises, studying the four of us with keen interest.

“Yes. We’re old friends,” I say.

I’ve known Catherine for four years, since the day she came to London from her country village to make her fortune on the stage. I was at Euston Station, taking photographs, when I saw her on the platform. I rescued her from a shady character who was about to carry her off to a house of ill repute. Hugh and Mick have known Catherine for less than two years, but the events associated with the Ripper case have bound us all together with a strength that other relationships of longer duration can’t match. Now my protective instinct toward Catherine revives.

She flushes with embarrassment and casts a guilty look at Mick. Although she doesn’t share his feelings, she’s not heartless, and he once saved her life. He glares at her, angry and betrayed. Hugh regards Mick with somber sympathy.

“What a coincidence.” Sheriff Hargreaves smiles as though glad to discover a mutual acquaintance.

I sense that his actual thoughts are more complicated. Is he calculating how to exploit the situation for his benefit? Maybe I only think so because I’ve taken a sudden dislike to him on Catherine’s account.

Sheriff Hargreaves gestures for Catherine to take the empty seat between his and mine. The gold wedding ring gleams on his finger. “Come and join us, my dear.” He seems proud to flaunt his beautiful mistress who’s more than twenty years younger than himself, unashamed of his adultery.

“I’ll get dressed first.” Catherine backs into the bedroom and shuts the door.

We all sit down. Sheriff Hargreaves is the only one of us who’s at ease. His benign gaze studies us, lingering on Mick. Mick scowls. Hugh breaks the silence. “How did you and Catherine meet?”

“I saw her perform at the Oxford Music Hall,” Sheriff Hargreaves says. “I’m always on the lookout for new talent for the Metropolis.”

Maybe Catherine is sleeping with him in hopes of a star role. The possibility doesn’t lessen my concern for her, and Sheriff Hargreaves’s charm has worn thin for me. Suspicion makes me bold. “Are you taking advantage of Catherine?”

“Let’s just say that my arrangement with her is mutually beneficial.” His jovial manner has an edge that warns me that I don’t want him for an enemy.

Hugh puts his hand on mine to calm me as I say, “What are your intentions toward her?” I must sound like a mother interrogating her daughter’s suitor.

Sheriff Hargreaves chuckles. “I thought you were covering crime for the Daily World, not my personal affairs.”

Catherine returns, having dressed so fast that her hair is pinned crooked atop her head, and when she sits beside me I see gaps on the back of her mint-green silk frock where she’s missed the buttons. She smells of lavender-and-rose perfume. Pretending that nothing is amiss, she smiles at my friends and me. “So, what are you investigating?”

“The murder of Harry Warbrick, the hangman,” Hugh says.

“Oh, I heard about that. Wasn’t it gruesome?” Catherine giggles, her habit when she’s nervous.

“Yeah,” Mick says, suddenly belligerent. “And he’s a suspect.” He points at Sheriff Hargreaves.

Catherine’s mouth drops. “What?” She says to Hugh and me, “You can’t be serious.” When we remain somberly silent, dismay clouds her expression. I myself am dismayed because Mick as good as accused Sheriff Hargreaves of murder.

The sheriff’s manner is calm but a shade less jovial than a moment ago. “I thought you wanted to talk to me because I witnessed Amelia Carlisle’s execution. It’s a big leap from witness to murder suspect.”

“Big leaps are our specialty,” Hugh says with a cheeriness that doesn’t relieve the tension in the atmosphere. “But don’t take it personally. As far as we’re concerned, everyone who knew Harry Warbrick is guilty until proven innocent.”

Sheriff Hargreaves’s smile doesn’t reach his narrowed eyes.

“Lionel can’t have done it!” Catherine says.

“What makes you so sure?” Mick demands.

“I know him.”

“Oh?” Jealousy blazes in Mick’s blue eyes. “For how long?”

“Since October.”

Even though he knows she regularly sees other men, Mick looks stricken because this affair has been going on behind his back all that time. His thoughts are heart-wrenchingly transparent: Sheriff Hargreaves is rich, knighted, and powerful—everything that Mick himself is not. “Three months, eh?” Mick takes refuge in contempt. “An’ you think you know everything about the bloke.”

“Lionel isn’t a killer.” Flustered, Catherine glances at Hugh and me, uncomfortable about siding against us.

“Thank you for your faith in me, Catherine.” Sheriff Hargreaves gives her a warm smile, then addresses the rest of us. “I don’t have a motive for the murder.”

“That we know of yet,” Mick says.

I recall that of the other execution witnesses, only Dr. Davies, Ernie Leach, and the Reverend Starling have any apparent motive—which puts Sheriff Hargreaves in the same boat as Governor Piercy and Mrs. Fry.

“So where were you when Harry Warbrick was murdered?” Mick says.

“He was with me.” Catherine stares at us with nervous defiance. Sheriff Hargreaves nods.

“All night?” Mick asks.

“Yes,” Catherine says.

“Where?”

“Here.” She glances toward the closed door.

“What were you doing?” Mick says.

Catherine sputters, angry and embarrassed.

“Couldn’t he have left after he were finished, while you was sleepin’?”

Indignation sparks in Catherine’s eyes. “How dare you!”

Sheriff Hargreaves says, “Catherine and I were here together the whole night. She’s my alibi. That’s all you need to know.”

“You did it!” Mick lunges out of his chair, at the sheriff.

My heart seizes. “Mick, don’t!”

“Whoa!” Hugh snatches at Mick and misses.

Catherine jumps up. She stands in front of Sheriff Hargreaves, her arms spread to shield him from Mick. “What’s the matter with you? Have you lost your mind?”

Sheriff Hargreaves rises, puts his arm around Catherine, and draws her to him. “Why don’t we all settle down?”

“Take your hands off her!” Mick grabs Sheriff Hargreaves by the fur-trimmed lapels of his cloak.

I rush to Mick and pry his hands loose. Hugh propels Mick out of the room, calling to Sheriff Hargreaves, “We’ll be on our way. Thank you for the coffee.”

As I follow Hugh and Mick, I snatch our coats from the stand and look over my shoulder. Catherine clings to Sheriff Hargreaves. The look she gives me is at once smug and defensive. He wears an enigmatic smile. If forced to hazard a guess as to what’s on his mind, I would say he’s not sorry about the drama that just occurred.