The following day, while Colin was in his study preparing for a meeting with the king, I found myself more concerned with Carson’s Theatrical Supply than with the FitzClarences. The establishment was near Leicester Square, barely a mile and a half from the house. The weather was no longer so foul as it had been yesterday—the sun had even made a rare winter appearance—and I quite fancied a walk. I was just pulling on my gloves when the blaring of a motorcar’s horn sounded in front of the house. The noise was repeated over and over until Davis marched past me to the door and opened it, ready to express his displeasure to the driver of the vehicle. He was standing on the threshold when I heard a familiar voice from outside.
“Now, now, Davis, you mustn’t scold me. I’m looking for Lady Emily. Is she at home?” I would recognize that bored drawl anywhere. It belonged to Jeremy Sheffield, Duke of Bainbridge, my dear friend since almost before I could walk, and the bane of Davis’s existence.
“Allow me to check, your grace.”
I believe there is a common expression about people in whose mouths butter would not melt. Davis might well have been the inspiration for it. He stepped back inside, closing the door behind him.
“I’ll go to him, Davis,” I said, pushing past. If Jeremy had bought a motorcar, it was news to me, and I was desperate to see it. He was there in the street, dressed in a long coat and a pair of motoring goggles, leaning against the machine, a Daimler which was painted the same bright blue that appeared in the arms of the dukedom of Bainbridge. The engine was still running. “When did you get this?”
He grinned. “Yesterday. I came into town specially to collect it. If you’re a good girl I’ll teach you to drive. In the meantime, hop in. We’ll go for a ride.”
“I’ve work to do. Can you take me to Leicester Square?” I asked, accepting his outstretched hand and climbing onto the leather seat. I had been desperate for a motorcar for years, but Colin was utterly against the idea.
“The murders, I assume,” he said, sitting next to me, handing me a spare set of goggles, and taking the steering wheel in hand. “I knew the instant I read the papers this morning that you’d be on the case, so to speak. Leicester Square it is.”
Once I’d fastened the goggles around my head and secured my hat firmly, I leaned across him and blew the horn. Jeremy moved a long lever and the Daimler lurched forward. We were on our way! Between the noise from the engine and the wind lashing our faces, conversation was difficult, if not impossible, during the trip. We were not able to reach a very great speed, as the glut of carriages on the roads impeded our progress, but I was delighted nonetheless. So taken was I with his vehicle that, after we had parked, I almost delayed going into the shop in order to inspect it and pepper my friend with questions about it, but I am nothing if not dedicated to my work. Pleasure could wait.
Another person might have wanted to know something about my mission before entering Carson’s Theatrical Supply, but Jeremy had spent years cultivating a lack of interest in virtually everything. He valued little more than ignorant bliss. I introduced myself to the clerk at the counter and then introduced my companion—having a duke on hand would make it simpler to accomplish what I hoped to—and asked to see the owner. Before the clerk could even turn to fetch the man, he had appeared of his own volition.
“George Carson, at your service,” he said, a little bow, a broad smile on his face. “How can I help, your grace?”
“What I’d like, Mr. Carson, is for you to personally see to it that my friend here, Lady Emily Hargreaves, gets whatever she needs.”
“Of course, your grace. Lady Emily, are you looking for something in particular? For a masquerade, perhaps?”
“Nothing quite so diverting, I’m afraid,” I said. “I was hoping you might be able to tell us the identity of one of your customers. Someone who has recently purchased two costumes, both medieval, both meant to be kings.”
Mr. Carson, momentarily nonplussed, steadied himself and stepped behind the counter. “Kings, you say? Let me see…” He pulled a large ledger from a shelf and began to flip through it. “Was this for a Shakespeare production, do you know?” Not surprisingly, he directed the question to Jeremy, not me.
“Was it, Lady Emily?” My friend flashed me a wicked grin. “You know how I can’t keep track of these things. Shakespeare, Marlowe, who could say? I never could tell the difference.”
I debated how to respond. Did I let Mr. Carson know immediately about the connection to the murders? What if he himself was the villain behind the horrific deaths? The shop had only just opened for the day, so it was unlikely the police had been here before me. I might have the opportunity to catch him unawares. Who was I to squander such a thing?
“It’s an awkward situation, Mr. Carson,” I explained. “I saw two gentlemen wearing costumes supplied by you and was much struck by their quality. The first was portraying Henry VI, and he looked as if he had stepped out of the picture of that king in the National Portrait Gallery. Black tunic with white trim, black tights—”
“And a smallish black hat,” Mr. Carson finished for me. “Yes, I remember the outfit well. It was a custom order for a high-class masquerade. I don’t get many of those—most of you lot use your tailors, even for fancy dress, don’t you?”
“My tailor, Mr. Carson, would flail me to within an inch of my life if I went to someone else,” Jeremy said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “It’s as if I am his prisoner. You can’t imagine the horror.” I glared at him.
“Could you tell me who placed the order?” I asked.
“Oh, now, Lady Emily, my customers do like their privacy.”
“I know all too well of the need for discretion,” Jeremy said, pulling a pound note from his jacket and placing it on the counter. “It’s a delicate situation, you see. My friend here would very much like to learn the gentleman’s name, but it would have been awkward for her to have inquired when she saw him.” He dropped his voice to a ridiculous whisper that he must have thought sounded dramatic. “Her husband can be a bit … well … I should say nothing more.”
My eyes bulged and my hand ached to slap him, but instead I bit my bottom lip and looked at the floor, hoping Mr. Carson would take this as a sign of my reluctance.
“I understand,” he said. He flipped through the ledger, running down the pages with his index finger. “Yes, here he is. Mr. John Smith. No address, I’m afraid.”
“John Smith?” Jeremy sighed with inappropriate dramatic flourish. “Are you quite sure?”
“Unfortunately, I am. No doubt it is an alias. He paid in full—in cash—when he placed the order.”
“Did he purchase anything else?” I asked. “There was a second costume, meant to be Edward II. The crown in particular was lovely work.”
“Yes, in fact he did order that and two other costumes as well,” Mr. Carson said, studying the page open before him. “They were for a series of masquerades.”
I blanched. Our killer was not finished with his evil work.
* * *
Armed with detailed descriptions of the other costumes Mr. Carson had supplied to this so-called John Smith, I asked Jeremy to take me to Marlborough House, where Colin was meeting with the king. I had no intention of trying to see him myself. Bertie and I had a difficult relationship. Our mothers had been close, which meant that, on occasion, we were thrown together, but not in a romantic fashion; I was much too young for him, at least to my mind. I will admit to having been subjected to at least three awkward flirtations when he was Prince of Wales. Once I even slapped him, but he forgave me with the charismatic good nature for which he was known and never mentioned the incident again. Nonetheless, I was never much fond of him and didn’t like the Marlborough Set. They were too fast, too reckless, and too vapid for my taste. Yet I did feel some sense of responsibility to inform him of what I had discovered. I wrote a quick note giving him all the details and gave it to the king’s butler, who promised to deliver it posthaste. That done, I directed Jeremy to take me to a place so scandalous that he nearly lost control of the motorcar when I mentioned it.
“I am not taking you to a brothel, Em. No. Absolutely not. Shan’t consider it. Don’t ask again.”
“It’s not a brothel, it’s a pub.”
“It’s essentially a brothel.”
I saw no use in arguing technicalities and decided not to mention that this would not be my first brothel. I had visited one in Venice during another murder investigation. “It would be much safer for me to go with you than alone, and I promise you that go I will, one way or another. Would you like to tell Colin you preferred to leave me on my own?”
“You’re an absolute menace, Em, and I don’t know why I tolerate you.” I explained to him about Mr. Casby and what I hoped to learn from the women subjected to his disgraceful treatment. He offered to go in my stead, trying to convince me that his title would make it the simplest thing ever to get the girls to talk, but I was having none of it. While I would never deny there was much a handsome duke could accomplish—even if he was not nearly so handsome as Colin—I knew I was in a better position to understand the plight of these women than he. I didn’t only seek information from them; I wanted to see if there was something I could do to improve their situation.
Our former prime minister, William Gladstone, had devoted a not insignificant amount of time and energy to giving a new life to the prostitutes in our fair capital. Few of his colleagues looked kindly on his actions and there was much nasty gossip on the subject. When I learned about his efforts, years later (I had not even been born when he started), I was touched by the thought of the great man trying to help those so much less fortunate than himself. Now I hoped I could emulate his example. Jeremy did not react well when I endeavored to explain this to him.
“No, no, Em,” he said. “That makes it all the worse. What will Hargreaves do to me when he finds out I’m an accessory to this madness? The man never could stand me. Probably because I’m more dashing than he.”
“You are not nearly so dashing as he. If you don’t take me, I shall leap out of the motorcar the next time we stop and hail a hansom cab. You will be freed from all responsibility.”
“Not in Hargreaves’s mind. If he were here, he’d tie you up rather than let you go, and he’ll judge me fiercely for not having the courage to stop you.”
“Colin knows better than anyone that I cannot be stopped when I set my mind to something.”
And that was the end of that. Before long, Jeremy was easing the Daimler along the curb outside a nondescript pub called the Black Swan on the infamous Ratcliffe Highway.
“It could be much worse,” I said, climbing down from the motorcar and inspecting the building’s façade. It wasn’t on the verge of falling down, and the windows looked to be in decent shape. Still, I knew that this part of London was notorious, even if conditions had improved in the past decades. A group of filthy children had already gathered around the vehicle, the tallest of the boys calling out questions. None of them looked adequately fed or had on a warm enough coat. Two of them were wearing boots with holes large enough to reveal tattered socks and one, leaning on a rough wooden crutch, was missing his right leg below the knee. Jeremy explained the workings of the motor to the curious lad and then offered him a handful of coins to stand guard over it while we went inside.
“What? You’re taking her in there?” The boy pointed to the Black Swan. “I don’t think she’ll like it, sir. And I don’t think they’ll like her. You aren’t a religious reformer, are you, madam?”
“No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m here to offer assistance to the women who work there.”
“Sounds religious to me,” he said. “They won’t like it. Not at all.” The other boys laughed. I ignored them and headed straight for the pub’s door.
Jeremy took me by the arm. “Are you sure about this, Em?”
“Absolutely. But do please leave the talking to me. I’ve already suffered enough mortification this morning.” He sighed but pulled open the door and gave what could only be described as a sarcastic bow as he motioned for me to enter ahead of him.
The interior did not look all that different from the pub in which I had met my driver near the Tower. It featured a long, wooden bar, with stools in front of it and gleaming taps behind it. There were tables like one would find in any tavern. It was the people who signaled that this was no ordinary pub. To begin, there was a group of women in the room, dressed in what I can only describe as a style meant to entice the basest of instincts. This in itself did not shock me; I know what goes on in brothels. But at this time of the day? Before luncheon?
A burly man in a well-tailored suit approached us. “Madam, sir, may I be of assistance?” He looked me up and down in a most off-putting fashion, seeming to gloat at my discomfort.
“Have you stepped up to take Mr. Casby’s place?” I asked. “What is your name, sir?”
“Mr. George Brown, at your service. Presuming it’s a service I’m willing to supply.”
The look he gave me—something between a leer and a threatening glare—frightened me just a bit, but I ignored his impertinent comment. “I’m here to speak with your women about Mr. Casby. I’m sure you can have no objection.”
“I have plenty of objections,” he said. “First, who the bleeding—”
Jeremy raised his hand. “Please, watch your language in front of the lady. I am the Duke of Bainbridge and can assure you that I am more than capable of making your life immensely difficult should you prove uncooperative.” Mr. Brown studied Jeremy, as if sizing him up as a potential customer.
“That’s quite enough, sir,” I said. “If you’d prefer not to give us what we need, we can leave these interviews to the uniformed police, although I imagine your business would suffer as a result.”
“There’s nothing illegal going on here,” he said.
I pulled myself up to my full height. “Really, Mr. Brown, you cannot think me naïve enough to believe that. I’m here to do a job and I shan’t leave until it is done.”
“You’re with the police?” he asked.
“Not officially, but I assist them on occasion. I shall need to speak to each of the ladies individually. Would you prefer I do that here or somewhere more private?”
“If you want time with the girls, you’ll have to pay. Conversation is a service, you know.”
“Not one for which legal establishments charge,” I said and marched to a table in the corner near a window. “Jeremy, would you please fetch me the first young woman.” He looked remarkably uncomfortable, but did as I asked.
I had no precise expectations about the outcomes of my talks with them, but did my best to earn their trust and convince them to tell me what they could about Mr. Casby. It was clear they were all terrified of him. Two of them actually questioned his death, as if they could not believe any force could remove him from the world. One, called Mary Skypton, who seemed much younger than the rest—although I could not judge whether this was due to her age or to having only come to the Black Swan recently; she had not been ill-used for as long as the others—had tears in her eyes when I confirmed his demise.
“He’s gone? Really gone?” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Do you think I’ll owe my debt to him to whoever takes over? George there isn’t as cruel as Casby, but I’d rather not work for him. He’s brutal, too, in his way. Might go out on my own instead.”
“No matter what debt you owe anyone, you cannot be forced to do this sort of work, Mary. It’s illegal.”
“I don’t see that the law matters much here,” she said. “The coppers don’t care what goes on in places like this.”
“I care,” I said, “and if you want a different kind of life I will do everything in my power to help you get it.”
She looked at Jeremy, who was standing next to the table, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, bouncing nervously on his toes, and blew him a kiss. “He’s quite attractive. Do you think he might have a use for me?”
“That is not what I meant, Mary. You should be considering other, more respectable options. You have your whole life ahead of you.”
“That’s what Lizzie always thought, and look what happened to her.”
“Lizzie?” I asked. “Tell me about her.”
“Lizzie Hopman. Her own mother brought her here and gave her to Casby. She knew how bad the life is—she’d done it herself for years. And when she wasn’t bringing in enough customers, Casby asked for Lizzie, said it was the only way her mother could pay off her debt.”
“What exactly did she owe him? What do you owe him?”
“Well, you see, he’s not an entirely bad gent,” she said. “He can be—could be, I suppose, now that he’s kicked it—real sweet when he wanted. It’s not easy to make your way on your own, is it? Sometimes you need a little money for rent or food, and when you got desperate, he’d help out. Give you food or a place to stay. That’s why we all live here, you know. We can’t afford anywhere else.”
“And he forces you to earn the rent?” I asked.
The girl shrugged. “Well, you’ve got to pay somehow, don’t you? And the rooms here are better than an alley.”
“Where’s Lizzie? Does she still work here?”
“Oh, no. She died the same day as the queen. A bit of rough handling that went a little too far.”
This was too much for Jeremy. He slapped his hand on the table. “Who was the cause of it? I want a name.” He started for Mr. Brown. “Were you here when this girl was killed? Lizzie?”
“Sir, you have the wrong idea entirely,” the man said, holding his hands up and stepping back. “It weren’t like that.”
“What was it like?” Jeremy’s hands were balled in fists.
“Lizzie liked it that way and asked Casby to do it,” Mr. Brown said. “Preferred working off her debt straight to him, if you understand my meaning. Had no one to blame but herself.”
Jeremy looked as if he might explode. I went to his side, took him by the arm, and spoke in a whisper. “Fighting will not change anything. Consider what he might do to Mary after we’re gone.”
“Then we can’t leave her here.”
“Whatcha going to do?” Mary asked. “Take all of us to your house? You live in Mayfair, I bet, don’t you? I like it there. Went once with a fancy gent. You remind me a bit of him.”
“Where is Lizzie’s mother?” I asked.
“She died last year,” Mr. Brown said. “Consumption. Not here, mind you, we’ve no disease here. She had a room somewhere between St. Clement Danes and Holy Trinity in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Now, look, you’ve talked to the girls and I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I can’t have a commotion. This is a legitimate place of business, a licensed public house.”
“There is very little going on here that is legitimate,” Jeremy said. “I shall personally see to it that you lose your license.”
“See here, sir, those things are none of my business. Clive—er, Mr. Casby—he might have made a bit on the side with the girls, but I’m not going to do that. I’m an honest businessman. Ask anyone. Nobody’s done a thing since Clive died.”
“He only died yesterday,” Jeremy said. “And I have no faith in the veracity of any of your statements. This establishment will not continue to operate.” Now he took me firmly by the arm and marched me outside and back to the motorcar. The boy he’d paid to watch it was rubbing it with a dirty rag.
“Polishing it for you, sir.”
Jeremy gave him another coin and went to turn the engine crank. His face had gone a sickly shade of gray. I’d never seen him so consumed with fury.