CHAPTER 30

The women’s ward of London Hospital is noisy with nurses distributing lunch trays and patients chattering while they eat. There’s no tray for me; the curtains around my bed are closed. I’ve just finished dressing, and after three weeks here, I’m ready to go home, eager to see Barrett, Mick, and Hugh. After our rescue, an ambulance wagon brought us to the hospital, where we fell ill with terrible nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, and fever contracted from the polluted River Fleet. For many days, I badly wanted to die. Thank heaven and Sir Gerald that we survived.

The din in the ward quiets; voices lower to murmurs. When I pull back the curtains, there stands Sir Gerald himself, portly and dignified in his fur-collared overcoat. Nurses and patients stare with the awe that his presence commands. “Miss Bain. How are you?” he says.

“Much better.” I’m surprised to see him; this is the first time he’s visited me. I’m glad of the opportunity to say, “Thank you for all you’ve done for us.” He’s the reason that my friends and I are alive: he paid for the best doctors in London to treat us.

“It was the least I could do. You people risked your lives to set things right. I respect that. And you gave me a big story. Circulation’s up thirty percent.” Sir Gerald smiles. “I should thank you.”

After we were rescued, he caught wind of it and sent a reporter to the hospital for an interview. I’ve been following the sequel to our story in the newspapers. Sheriff Hargreaves has been charged with the murders of the Reverend Starling, Harry Warbrick, Ernie Leach, and the other eight people who died in the gas explosion, and the attempted murders of Hugh, Mick, and me. Governor Piercy was caught at the London docks, trying to flee the country. Hargreaves swore he was innocent, but Piercy gave evidence against him in exchange for a prison sentence instead of the death penalty for his own role as an accomplice in the crimes. Hargreaves is in Newgate, awaiting trial and probable hanging. The whole story of the intersection between his past and Amelia Carlisle’s ran with the photos that I took in Leeds, which the staff of the Daily World developed while I was in the hospital. All the newspapers in town have sung the praises of Sarah Bain, Lord Hugh Staunton, Mick O’Reilly, and Police Constable Thomas Barrett, the heroes who risked death to solve the case. My reputation has gone from mud to gold.

“I don’t often apologize,” Sir Gerald says, “but I’m sorry for the shabby way I treated you and Mick and Lord Hugh. Will you forgive me?”

I’d have thought he would think paying our doctor bills was compensation enough. And this is the second time he’s saved my life. “Yes, of course.”

“I want to rehire the three of you at a twenty percent increase in wages,” he says.

“That’s very generous of you.” But my thoughts fly to Barrett, whose dismay I can picture. I remember that Sir Gerald has done terrible things, and his favor is unreliable. Should I commit myself and my friends to another stint at photographing crime scenes and the prospect of new, dangerous investigations? The thought excites as well as daunts me.

Sir Gerald sees my hesitation. “Here’s a little sweetening for the deal—you won’t have to work with Malcolm Cross. I fired him, and I’ve hired a new reporter. It’s Charlie Sullivan, the fellow who gave you the tip about Amelia’s hanging.”

I smile, glad that Cross got his comeuppance and Sullivan his belated reward. “I should consult Hugh and Mick.”

“You can do it now. They’re waiting for us. I’m driving all of you home.”

We find them with Barrett in the foyer of the hospital. Mick and Hugh embrace me and kiss my cheeks. I’m delighted to see them, though dismayed at how thin and pale they are. I turn to Barrett. He too has lost weight; the bones of his face are sharper under his dark whisker stubble; but his gray eyes are as clear and keen as ever as he smiles at me.

“It’s good to see you,” he says.

Suddenly shy, I murmur, “You too.”

“Tell them about my offer,” Sir Gerald says.

After I obey, Mick says, “Criminy!”

“My sentiments exactly,” Hugh says.

“So, are you ready to start work tomorrow?” Sir Gerald says.

“Yes, sir,” Hugh and Mick say.

If they’re back in the game, then so am I. I nod, afraid to look at Barrett.

A gust of cold air from the street ushers in a woman who stalks toward us. It’s Catherine, resplendent in a fur coat and bonnet, her beautiful face contorted with turbulent emotion. Mick’s eyes light up. “Catherine!” I can see that he thinks his wish has come true; now that Sheriff Hargreaves is out of the picture, she’s turning to him, the hero who saved her from the villain.

Catherine slaps him hard across the face. Hugh, Barrett, and I gape in astonishment; Sir Gerald frowns; the people at the reception desk stare.

“Ow!” Mick touches his reddened cheek. “What was that for?”

“Lionel is in jail for murder, and it’s your fault!” Catherine’s voice shakes with anger.

“He’s guilty. He deserves to be punished,” Mick says.

“Well, he’s not the only one being punished. I’ve been fired from the theater!”

“Why?” Mick says, alarmed and puzzled.

“They’re afraid of bad publicity. Everyone knows I was Lionel’s mistress. Just imagine: ‘Now playing.’ ” Catherine points up at an imaginary theater marquee. “ ‘The whore who slept with the man who hanged the hangman!’ ”

“You can get another job, can’t you?” Mick says.

“I’ve tried. Nobody at the other theaters will put me on stage. At least not the decent theaters. I’m poison!”

I say, “Oh, Catherine. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too, but we tried to warn you against being involved with a murder suspect. You didn’t listen.” Hugh’s rebuke is gentle but firm. “Don’t take it out on Mick.”

Catherine turns on us. “All right, so I’ve been stupid.” Her blue eyes spark with anger at herself as well as us. “But if all of you had minded your own business, this wouldn’t have happened!”

Now Mick’s own temper ignites. “And a murderer would be walking around, free as a bird. Is that what you want?”

Catherine sniffles, her eyes tear-shiny. “I want things to be the way they were before.”

I put my arm around her and say, “I know.” I myself long for the simpler time before I learned that my father was wanted for murder.

“You’ll get through this, Catherine,” Hugh says. “People have a short memory. Pretty soon there’ll be another scandal, and they’ll forget this one. Your stage career will recover. So will your pride.”

Incredulous, Catherine pushes me away. “Is that all you think this is about—my career and my pride?” Her face crumples. “I’m in love with Lionel. I’ve never been in love with anyone before. And he’s going to die!”

Sobs burst from her. Her naked devastation gives a hint of how she’ll look when she’s old, her beauty gone. I’d thought her a shallow, selfish, fickle girl who liked Sheriff Hargreaves mainly for his wealth, his status, and the prestige that her association with him lent her. Never had I imagined that her feelings for him were so deep. Mick looks devastated because his plan to win her has gone terribly awry, and reality has dashed his naive hopes.

Catherine glares through her streaming tears at Mick. “I’ll never forgive you. I never want to see you again!” She stalks out of the hospital.

Mick blinks away his own tears as he watches her disappear.

*   *   *

“Home at last,” Hugh says with a sigh of contentment as Sir Gerald’s carriage stops outside the studio.

The fog, crowds, and traffic in Whitechapel High Street have never looked so good. I turn to Sir Gerald, seated beside me, and thank him for the ride. He’s gazing out the window at a man who stands near the studio, a dark-clad figure hazy in the fog. As Hugh, Mick, Barrett, and I climb out of the carriage, the man approaches us.

“Tristan?” Hugh and Sir Gerald say in unison. Jubilation raises Hugh’s voice; puzzlement inflects Sir Gerald’s. I’m surprised and not altogether happy that Tristan has finally put in an appearance.

“What are you doing here?” Sir Gerald asks.

Tristan’s handsome face is somber, tense. “I came to see Hugh.” He hesitates a moment. “We need to talk to you.”

My heart lurches because I realize Tristan means to tell Sir Gerald about their relationship. Hugh’s expression turns grave.

“All right.” Sir Gerald beckons Hugh and Tristan, and they join him in the carriage. As it rattles away, I say a silent prayer.

In the studio, Mick runs upstairs to his bedroom and slams the door, still upset about Catherine. Fitzmorris welcomes me home, then tactfully leaves Barrett and me alone in the parlor. We sit on the sofa, gazing into the fire. There’s so much to say; we don’t know where to start. I take a deep breath and tackle the most immediate knotty issue.

“I don’t suppose you’re glad that I’m going to work for Sir Gerald again.”

“I can’t say I am.” Barrett’s tone suits his words. “But I can’t kick up a fuss either. While I was in the hospital, the police commissioner came to see me. He reprimanded me for going absent without leave and conducting an outside investigation. Then he gave me a promotion—for going above and beyond the call of duty to bring Sheriff Hargreaves to justice.” Barrett’s teeth flash in a jubilant grin. “You’re looking at the newest detective sergeant.”

I gasp with delight. “That’s wonderful! I’m so proud of you.” He’s achieved his goal, and his parents will be thrilled.

“It wouldn’t have happened if not for Sir Gerald and his contest.” Barrett’s grin turns rueful. “So if you go back to work for him, I’m not in a position to complain.”

Relief eases my mind. His higher rank will make him more duty-bound to his superiors, and if I cause trouble, he’ll have more to lose, but that’s a bridge to jump off when we come to it. The matter closer at hand is our future. I summon my courage, clear my throat.

“About that night in Leeds … It can’t happen again. Not that I don’t want it to, but …” I blush with embarrassment. “I’m afraid that …” While I was in the hospital, I was relieved to find myself not pregnant. “There’s nothing to worry about now, but …”

Barrett nods; he understands everything I haven’t said. “It won’t happen again.” He sounds disappointed but resolute.

“You know it will.” I feel the heat of desire, see it in Barrett’s eyes. The line has been crossed; we can’t uncross it. If we were alone in the house, we would be in my bedroom making love right now.

“Then there’s only one thing to do.” Barrett gets down on his knee, takes my hand, and gazes into my eyes. “Sarah Bain, will you marry me?”

I thought my happiness had reached its full capacity, but now joy overcomes my fear of committing myself, of risking all for love. My brushes with death have made me want to live life to the fullest, with Barrett. But I have to say, “Your parents won’t approve.”

“They want me to be happy. They’ll come around,” Barrett says with confidence.

I remember the current of the River Fleet, sweeping us through the tunnel. I feel a similar sensation inside me—our love and all our past experiences that have led up to this moment, carrying us toward the future that I’m ready to brave after we faced death together and survived. The last resistance in me crumbles.

“Then, yes! I’ll marry you.”

We sit holding hands, basking in bliss. Before we can discuss announcing our engagement or work out the practical details of our marriage, Hugh comes home and wanders into the parlor. We jump to our feet.

“I should go to the police station and get ready to start my new duties,” Barrett says.

We kiss goodbye, self-conscious because it’s the first time we’ve done so in front of Hugh. But Hugh doesn’t notice. He collapses on the chaise longue and lies staring at the ceiling as Barrett leaves. I perch on the sofa, eager to know what happened but afraid to ask.

“Tristan told his father about us,” Hugh says. “It didn’t come as a surprise to Sir Gerald. He already knew.”

“Because Malcolm Cross told him?”

“No. Cross did tell him, but Sir Gerald knew long before that. He didn’t say how he found us out, but he must have had spies watching Tristan.”

“Oh.” I’m not surprised to hear that Sir Gerald keeps tabs on his son; I’m surprised that he let Tristan’s affair with Hugh go on without objecting.

“He’s not exactly thrilled, but he’s a practical man. Tristan also told him that he’s quitting the priesthood, which is what Sir Gerald has always wanted. He’ll take it even though it’s been served to him on a dirty platter.” Hugh grins.

“So he’s willing to tolerate your relationship?”

“As long as we’re discreet. He wants to be on good terms with Tristan and hopes to convince him to join the Mariner business. Tristan isn’t against it. He’ll need an occupation when he leaves the church. And oh, by the way—Sir Gerald told Malcolm Cross that if he exposes us, he’ll wind up in jail for the Amelia Carlisle hoax as well as obstructing justice, and when he gets out, Sir Gerald will make sure he never works for another newspaper.”

I think it’s a safe bet that Cross will keep his mouth shut. “How about a drink to celebrate?” I rummage in the liquor cabinet and find a bottle of champagne that I forgot to bring out after I accepted Barrett’s proposal.

Hugh rises. “I’m going to see if I can get Mick to join us. A little bubbly should raise his spirits.” He bounds up the stairs, whistling happily.

When they come, I’ll tell them that Barrett and I are engaged. I sit watching the fire crackle and glow, thinking over recent events and tallying what went wrong and what turned out right. I’m glad that one investigation was successful, but unfinished business disturbs my tranquility. Lucas Zehnpfennig and my father are mysteries that I can see no way of solving.

The past is biding its time, coiled around its secrets like a hibernating serpent, waiting to strike when I’m least prepared.