CHAPTER 27

“Leonard Hargrove is Lionel Hargreaves,” I say.

After the long trip back to London, I’m seated in the conference room at the Daily World with Sir Gerald. It’s six thirty in the evening, and I’ve just told him about the revelation that shocked Barrett and me in Leeds.

Contrary to practical expectation, we found the information we’d journeyed there to find, although we never could have foreseen what it would be.

“Their names are similar,” Sir Gerald says. He looks unhealthy, his rough complexion pale, his eyes bloodshot. Raising the Daily World from the depths of disgrace has taken its toll. “But how do you know they’re the same person?”

I knew that it seems improbable and after Mrs. Fry’s hoax, he wouldn’t jump to believe anything I said. Maybe somebody in his past once gave him a second chance and he’s only repaying the favor. I pull my notebook out of my satchel. “This is what Inspector Driscoll said when PC Barrett and I asked him about Leonard Hargrove.” I read from my notes:

“ ‘Len was a handsome devil—a cut above the other constables. He could have risen in the ranks, but Leeds was too small a pond for him. He went to London to make his fortune. We never heard from him again. He’s probably living the high life, counting his piles of money.’ ”

“It could be a coincidence that the description seems to fit Hargreaves.” Sir Gerald sounds irritated; he rubs his forehead. “Besides, I happen to know he’s from Birmingham, not Leeds.”

This is news to me, an unpleasant surprise that I ignore while reading the rest of my notes: “ ‘He was good at imitations. All he had to do was hear a person once, and he could imitate their voice and ways. He could talk posh like a duke even though his father was a mill worker and he’d been born and raised in Leeds. When he entertained us over a pint at the pub, he had us laughing our heads off. Everybody told him he should go on stage.’ ”

Barrett and I started out chasing Amelia Carlisle’s past and stumbled onto Sheriff Hargreaves’s.

Sir Gerald glances at his watch. “Suppose Hargreaves was once Leonard Hargrove, and he changed his name when he went on stage. Suppose he did investigate Amelia Carlisle back then. It doesn’t mean he killed Harry Warbrick. I’m not going out on a limb to accuse him, and I’m not going to make the police reopen the case, if that’s what you’re asking.”

It’s what I’d hoped for. Uncomfortably aware that Sir Gerald’s patience is running out, I say, “What if Amelia recognized Sheriff Hargreaves when she saw him at her execution? What if she told the others that he’d investigated her in Leeds, he missed seeing evidence that she’d murdered babies, and let her go free to kill hundreds more? I think that’s a secret he would have killed for, to protect his reputation.”

“That’s two big ‘ifs.’ ”

“Either he was negligent or Amelia outsmarted him.” I point out, “If the story became public, he would never be Lord Mayor.”

Sir Gerald frowns at my third big if. “It was seventeen years ago. He was young, inexperienced, he made a mistake. People can forgive that.”

“He might not have been willing to take the chance that they would.”

“Why would he have gone to Amelia’s execution, knowing she was a skeleton from his closet? He could have had someone stand in for him. That’s legal.”

“I don’t think he knew. When he met Amelia in Leeds, her name was Violet Kemp. He wouldn’t have recognized her from the picture in the newspapers. She’d changed considerably. Much more than he has, I daresay. He seems quite well preserved.”

Sir Gerald strokes his beard. I sit on the edge of my chair. The clatter of the printing presses is loud in the silence before he says, “Miss Bain, thanks for taking it upon yourself to go all the way to Leeds and follow clues from Amelia’s daughter. At your own expense too. I like that—it shows initiative and dedication.”

His approval warms me despite how he’s treated me, despite the terrible things he’s done. My heart beats faster with hope that he’s ready to believe me.

“Here’s the big problem—Jacob Aarons has confessed to the murder of Harry Warbrick.”

Hope dissolves into shock. “That can’t be possible.”

“I had it straight from Inspector Reid this afternoon.”

“But he’s innocent! Reid must have forced him to confess.” I can imagine the brutal methods Reid employed.

Sir Gerald shrugs as if to say this is a battle he’s not going to pick. “The trial is set for next week.”

Horrified, I protest, “Even if he confessed, he didn’t kill Ernie Leach.”

“The gas explosion has been ruled an accident,” Sir Gerald says.

I’m too stubborn and desperate to give up. “Sheriff Hargreaves must have been afraid that Ernie Leach would tell people what Amelia said about him at her execution. He or someone he sent must have turned on the gas while Ernie and his family were asleep.”

Sir Gerald leans across the desk and regards me with something like sympathy. “Listen, Miss Bain. I like you; you have good instincts.”

Startled because this is the most personal manner in which he’s ever addressed me, I feel a blush suffuse my cheeks. In spite of everything, I’m not immune to his rare praise.

“When I hired you to find Robin, you went above and beyond the call of duty,” he says. “You risked your own life. Because of that, I trust you as much as I trust anyone.”

I’m too flabbergasted to reply. This is the first time he’s mentioned Robin, and he’s expressed a personal regard for me that I didn’t know he had.

“Just between you and me—I smell a rat too,” Sir Gerald says. “I’m not quite convinced that Aarons is the real killer and the explosion was an accident. But after the fiasco at Newgate, I need to be cautious. Circulation of the Daily World is down. So is investment in the Mariner Bank. I can’t let my businesses suffer.”

He looks wounded, vulnerable—a man whose shield of wealth and status is cracked. “The power of the press is stronger than I thought.” He sounds surprised and chagrined, as if he can’t believe that he’s no match for words on paper.

“The truth is stronger.” I believe that despite evidence to the contrary.

Sir Gerald smiles, rueful. “The truth is whatever the people with the most influence are willing to believe. But I knew that already. I’ve been one of them for a long time. And you can understand why I can’t rehire you and Lord Hugh and Mick O’Reilly.”

We’re poison that would make him more vulnerable to public opinion. The trip to Leeds was for naught. Exhaustion catches up with me, and the noise from the presses worsens my headache.

“If you can prove your theory about Sir Lionel,” Sir Gerald says, “I might change my mind.”

That’s a generous offer from a man who rarely changes his mind, but I can’t imagine what proof or where to look for it. I rise, thank him for his time, and open the door.

There stands Malcolm Cross. Malcolm Cross, who helped Inspector Reid close the Warbrick murder case with circumstantial evidence against Jacob Aarons, who did everything he could to undermine Hugh, Mick, and me. If he was eavesdropping, he’s unembarrassed, as cocky as ever.

“What are you doing here?” he asks me. “Trying to worm your way back into a job?”

My hatred for him revives my spirits, and I grab my chance to wring some value out of this occasion. I say to Sir Gerald, “By the way, I found out who’s responsible for the hoax about Amelia Carlisle. It’s him.” I point at Cross. “Mrs. Fry told me so.”

Cross is too caught off guard to hide his guilt. His smile vanishes for once; his eyes bulge with horror and fright.

“If you want proof, just look at his face.” Relishing my vengeful triumph, I walk out of the room.

*   *   *

Peele’s Coffee House, where I left Barrett with our baggage, is full of reporters talking and arguing about the latest news stories. He’s sitting alone at a table, a steaming cup by his hand. When he sees my expression, the hope in his eyes turns to disappointment.

“So Sir Gerald didn’t buy our story.” He signals the waiter to bring me coffee.

I collapse in the seat opposite him. “It’s worse than that.” I tell him about Jacob Aarons’s confession.

Propping his elbows on the table, Barrett presses his hands against his temples and groans.

“We can’t let an innocent man be hanged,” I say.

Barrett sits up straight and rubs his tired eyes; he inhales a deep breath as if to brace himself for trouble. “Inspector Reid won’t reopen the Warbrick murder case on our say-so. I’ll have to go over his head to the commissioner.”

That would be a drastic move, revealing his clandestine investigation. “But what about your job … your parents …”

“What about them?” Barrett seems resigned to risking his livelihood and family honor.

I love him for his willingness to go out on a limb for me and for a wrongly accused man, but I can’t bear the cost to him. “It’ll be your word against Sheriff Hargreaves’s. Who are they going to believe? And our tip came from a patient at the Imbeciles Asylum.”

Barrett hardens his jaw. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“Wait one more day,” I urge. “Let’s look for more evidence against Hargreaves before you tell.”

“One more day. That’s enough time to find the fountain of youth too.” Barrett’s forced humor quickly fades. “And to warn Catherine.”

“I don’t think she’ll believe anything bad I say about Sheriff Hargreaves.” The waiter brings my coffee, and I draw sustenance from the hot, fragrant drink.

“At least you got Malcolm Cross,” Barrett says.

It’s small comfort. We think we’ve solved the murders, but we can’t protect Catherine or deliver Lionel Hargreaves to justice. “No matter how angry Sir Gerald is at Mr. Cross, he’s not going to take Hugh, Mick, or me back.”

Barrett puts his hand over mine. “We’re not giving up. We’ll get Hargreaves.”

I appreciate Barrett’s attempt to cheer me up, but I gently withdraw my hand, uncomfortable with displaying our affection in public. “We haven’t much time. The curio dealer’s trial starts next week, and because he’s confessed, he’ll likely be hanged soon afterward.”

Barrett eyes me with concern. “You’re tired. So am I. Things will look better tomorrow after a good night’s sleep. I’ll take you home.”

“I should stop at the hospital first and see Hugh and Mick. Maybe they’ll have ideas about what to do next.”

*   *   *

The ward is quiet, the lights turned down low, and many of the patients asleep. When Barrett and I arrive, our baggage in hand, we discover an old man with his leg in a cast lying in Hugh’s bed and a young fellow with bandages on his face in Mick’s.

Alarmed, I ask a nurse, “Where are Lord Hugh Staunton and Mick O’Reilly?”

“They just discharged themselves.” She frowns. “Against the doctor’s orders.”

“Why?” I say, concerned despite my relief that they’re alive.

“They didn’t say. But they were in a big hurry to go.”

*   *   *

Outside the hospital, attendants are unloading a patient on a litter from an ambulance wagon. A cab materializes from the dark fog. “Hugh and Mick probably left because they got bored,” Barrett says, hailing the cab.

As the driver stows our baggage, I say, “I hope they’re not out investigating the murders. They’re not well yet.” My vision blazes with a sudden, breathtaking memory of the gas explosion. “I’m afraid they’ll get in more trouble.”

Barrett helps me into the cab. “We’ll probably find them safe at home.”

I doze off during the short ride and awake when the cab draws up to the studio. Lights in the upstairs windows are a good sign that indicates Hugh and Mick are home; it’s almost nine o’clock, and Fitzmorris goes to bed early. Relief calms my fears. Barrett pays the driver and takes our baggage while I unlock my door.

“Shall I come up?” he asks.

I’m not ready for us to separate, but I’m still exhausted and not ready to have my friends see me with Barrett after what happened between us last night. “No, thank you, I’m going straight to bed.”

“Oh. Well. I should stop by the station and find out what’s happened since I’ve been gone.” He puts my baggage inside the door and kisses me. I cling to him, and desire rekindles. He gently disengages from me and caresses my cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

When I’m inside, I lock the door, leave my photography equipment in the studio, and trudge upstairs with my suitcase, satchel, and pocketbook, calling, “Mick? Hugh?”

In the parlor, Fitzmorris lies asleep on the chaise longue. Wakening at the sound of my footsteps, he says, “Sarah. Thank goodness you’re back.”

“What’s happened?” Dreadful premonition seizes my heart, and I drop my belongings. “Where are they?”

“They came home from the hospital about an hour ago. After they received this letter. It was left there for them.” Fitzmorris picks up a white envelope from the table and hands it to me.

The address, printed neatly, reads, “Lord Hugh Staunton and Mick O’Reilly, care of the London Hospital.” I remove and unfold the single sheet of plain white paper. I read the message written in script as careful as a penmanship exercise but spattered with inkblots when the author’s hand shook.

Dear Lord Hugh and Mr. O’Reilly,

My conscience will no longer allow me to remain silent. I must make a clean breast, with you and God as my witnesses. I beg you to come to me at Newgate Prison tonight and help me walk the difficult path to atonement for my sins.

Sincerely yours,

The Reverend Timothy Starling

I crumple into a chair, breathless with astonishment and confusion. This letter could mean that the chaplain merely wishes to divulge information about Amelia Carlisle’s hanging, but it appears to be his confession that he murdered Harry Warbrick and Ernie Leach. If the latter, then Barrett and I are wrong about Sheriff Hargreaves, and the time we spent piecing together Amelia Carlisle’s past was wasted. But I can’t believe that everything we learned in Leeds led us to a false conclusion!

“They wanted you to go with them,” Fitzmorris says, “but it got late, and we thought you’d decided to stay in Leeds another night. They were afraid the Reverend Starling would change his mind if they waited until tomorrow.” He looks at the clock on the mantel. “They left about twenty minutes ago.”

This development has taken me so much by surprise that a moment passes before I begin to wonder if it’s too good to be true. I reread the letter, examine the handwriting, but can’t tell if it’s genuine or whether the letter is indeed a confession.

“They said that if you came back in time, I should tell you what happened, and you should meet them at Newgate,” Fitzmorris says.

Sir Gerald said I have good instincts, and now I think I smell a rat. “This could be a trap.” I grab my pocketbook, head for the stairs.

Fitzmorris hurries after me, snatches his coat from the rack. “I’m going with you. We have to stop them.”

“No. It’s too dangerous.” I can’t let him risk harm. A thought occurs to me. I run to the desk and open the drawer. The gun isn’t there. “They have the gun. They’re not defenseless. You stay here, and if we’re not back by midnight, go to Mariner House and tell Sir Gerald we’re in trouble at Newgate. Ask him for help.” I’m making this up as I run down the stairs.

Fitzmorris, close on my heels, says, “By then it could be too late.”

And I don’t even know if Sir Gerald would exert himself to save us. “I’ll go to the police barracks first and get Barrett to come with me.”

Fitzmorris hovers in the studio while I open the front door. “Well, all right.”

But I’m not going to get Barrett; it would take too long. My best hope of protecting Hugh and Mick is catching them before they get to Newgate. The chance of a confession from the Reverend Starling isn’t worth risking their lives.