As Colin had suspected, the yeoman warders balked when Jeremy and I arrived at the Tower. The wretched Inspector Gale had ordered them to keep me away from his investigation. Jeremy, in his most pompous drawl, explained that we had come to call on Mrs. Rillington for tea, after which he hoped to see some of the more gruesome bits of the place.
“You know, Sir Walter Raleigh is an ancestor of mine,” he said to the guard. “I figured it was time I took some interest in his imprisonment and execution.”
“Is that so, your grace?” The guard stood up a bit straighter and looked rather impressed. “If you’ll just sign the register here, you can go straight to Mrs. Rillington.”
We did as instructed. As we walked toward the Rillingtons’ rooms, I took Jeremy’s arm and leaned close to him. “I had no idea you were descended from Raleigh.”
“Oh, I’m not. It’s just that he was the only person I could remember who had been held here who embodies any of my own dashing qualities. I knew the guard would like it.”
“You are a terrible person.”
“Thank you for noticing.”
We paused for a brief tea with Mrs. Rillington before the three of us set off on our exploration. Many of the passages marked on the map were now so well-known that they could hardly be called secret, but others so thoroughly disguised, I wondered how anyone could find them. There were trapdoors leading to long underground corridors that joined the buildings within the Tower and cunning mechanisms that opened hidden tunnels. Jeremy was particularly taken with a clever system that revealed a staircase behind what looked like a solid stone wall, while a tunnel that went all the way beneath the now-empty moat fascinated me.
“The staircase is much more interesting,” Jeremy said.
“Yes, but the tunnel proves that there are still ways into the Tower that allow one to avoid detection by the guards,” I said.
“Except that the end of that passage is now locked,” Mrs. Rillington said. “If we follow it all the way, you’ll see that an iron door prevents anyone from entering through it.”
“That does not mean there can’t be another that remains accessible.” Undaunted, I gripped a candle firmly in my hand and set off to make a methodical exploration of the passages that went from tower to tower, below the ground. For the most part, this proved straightforward. The tunnels allowed for access primarily to dungeons and prison cells, but further scrutiny revealed less obvious branches of them. The mechanism that hid Jeremy’s beloved staircase was used down here, too, and careful inspection of the tunnel walls enabled us to discover three paths not on our map. The first took us to a rickety helical staircase that led to the undercroft of the White Tower. The second ended abruptly at a wall of dirt, as if the medieval excavators had tired of the project and abandoned it.
The third, however, stunned and horrified me.
We had already burned through two candles apiece. Jeremy, who had brought with him an electric torch, brandished it with pride, but unfortunately had to shut it off periodically so that the batteries would not die. I preferred the flickering candlelight to its steady glow—it felt more authentic—but as the tunnel narrowed and patches of damp appeared on its stone walls, I began to wish for more illumination.
Mrs. Rillington paused. “I wonder if we should keep going. We’ve come awfully far, haven’t we?”
“It feels that way,” Jeremy said, “but we aren’t more than a ten-minute walk from the entrance to the passage. I think we’re near the river now, hence the water.”
The sound of constant dripping accosted us, and puddles dotted the ground, but the walls remained immobile when I pushed against them with my hand. I had been keeping track of our location as best I could, using a compass and the map as my guide, but could only guess at the distance we had traveled. It appeared that we were, as Jeremy suggested, quite close to the Thames, beneath the outer walls, somewhere between the Cradle Tower and Henry III’s water gate.
Jeremy, who had gone ahead of us ladies, called out, “There’s quite a lot of water here. I’m not sure we should continue.”
I went toward him, and soon had to hold up my skirts to keep them from getting wet. My boots and stockings were already soaked. I lifted my candle close to the walls, looking for any sign of a hidden door or another passage. By the time the water reached close to my knees, Jeremy was pleading with me to turn around.
“Em, my trousers are ruined, I’ll be scandalized if you raise your skirts any higher, and I’m convinced I stepped on something that used to be a rat. There’s nothing for us here.”
“Not quite,” I said. I pointed to a stone in the wall. The mortar around it did not quite match the rest in the vicinity. I pressed hard against it, but nothing happened. Putting all my weight behind the effort, I tried again and the stone began to move, the sound of scraping echoing through the tunnel. Mrs. Rillington, not wanting to get wet, had remained some distance back and now cried out in alarm. Jeremy rushed to her side, leaving me alone to see a door open.
Its position, several feet above the floor of the tunnel, had kept most of the water out of the room into which it led. My candle in one hand, I used the other to grip the wall as best I could and climbed into the dark chamber.
“Jeremy, stay with Mrs. Rillington,” I said, once my candle had lit the space. The floor was damp and a dark splatter of blood stained the walls. A crude table stood to one side. On top of it I found two clippings from The Times: the same article I had already read reporting the coal mine disaster in Wales that took the life of Ned Traddles and a piece lauding a factory in the East End as a model of safety and modernization.
Now a feeling of hideous claustrophobia engulfed me. The room, no more than ten feet by twelve, felt even smaller, and I imagined I could hear the sounds of a struggle. The blood on the walls most likely belonged to Mr. Grummidge. But how had the murderer brought him to this place? I examined every square inch of the walls, my stomach roiling when I came to the bloody patches, but I could not let myself look away. And then, partway up the wall I saw a smear that looked like a handprint in the dried blood. Cringing, I pushed against the spot, and another door opened, this one three feet above the floor.
“I’m afraid I require your assistance, Jeremy,” I called. He was at my side in an instant.
“Bloody hell.” His voice was low and husky. “Literally and figuratively.”
“Boost me up so I can better see what’s beyond the door,” I said.
“Let me go first.”
“It’s my discovery,” I said. “And there’s no danger. If anyone was on the other side waiting for us, he would have already made his presence known.” My friend didn’t look happy about it, but he did as I instructed. The door led into another tunnel, this one steeply sloped and even narrower and wetter than the other. It went south for approximately twenty yards, ending abruptly at an archway that opened into the river, not far from Tower Bridge. We’d come further west than I had realized.
At high tide, the arch would be completely under water, invisible from the river. The angle of the passage kept the room from flooding with water, but it would have been extremely difficult to get an unwilling person into the space. Then I remembered that Colin had told me the coroner found river water in Mr. Grummidge’s lungs. He might have been unconscious and inhaled the foul stuff when the murderer brought him here and dragged him into his little chamber, where he could finish his evil deed without being disturbed.
I was now completely soaked and starting to shiver, but it had been necessary to poke my head out through the opening to see where, exactly, I was. That done, I retreated up the tunnel, stepping carefully on the steep, slick stones. Jeremy, who had followed me, provided a steadying hand, and we returned to the room, where I collected the newspaper clippings and then went back to Mrs. Rillington. She gasped when she saw me.
“I must get home and warm as quickly as possible,” I said, “but not before we discover if there’s a direct way from this tunnel to Wakefield Tower.”
“No more exploring for you,” Jeremy said. “Mrs. Rillington, please get her into a cab. I’ll send word to Park Lane as soon as I’ve finished here, Em. Hargreaves will murder me if you wind up with pneumonia.”
I was too cold to argue. When Davis opened the door for me, he actually swayed on his feet. I’ve never seen him so discombobulated. He called for Colin, who, without a word, stripped off my wet coat and dropped it on the floor before scooping me into his arms and carrying me upstairs. He ran the bath, and while it filled, removed the rest of my soaking clothes before lowering me into the water. Davis sent a maid up with tea. Between that and the all but scalding water in the tub, my teeth had soon stopped chattering.
“I would have gone with you myself if I’d thought you’d get into this much trouble,” he said. “All the details, please.”
After recounting the story, I sent him to get the clippings from The Times, which I had thrust at Davis upon returning home. By the time Colin came back upstairs with them, I was warm and dry. Shortly thereafter, our butler brought a message from Jeremy. I tore it open.
“The passage not only leads to Wakefield Tower,” I said, “but directly into the chapel where Grummidge’s body was left. We have found the murderer’s lair.”
“So it seems,” Colin said.
“The article about the mining disaster connects him, via Ned Traddles, to both Lizzie Hopman and Mrs. Grummidge.”
“I recall reading about it when it happened,” he said, looking it over. “Dreadful business. Those poor men. No one should die like that. It’s diabolical, really. Safety standards have got to be improved—the miners complain about them constantly, as they should. This disaster proves that. I assume the second article is meant as a comparison—a place that is safe rather than one that is not.”
“Most likely,” I said.
“I shall ring Gale to update him and Scotland Yard with what you have learned. He will want to investigate the passage and the room, but I doubt he will find anything that escaped your notice.”
“You must agree that none of this points to the murders having anything to do with the king.”
He ran a hand through his tousled curls. “I will admit to giving serious consideration to your idea that they are not meant as a warning to the king. The content of the last note—I still haven’t located the chalice—has given me pause. Which is not to suggest that I, in any way, have warmed to your notion of a secret society.”
That did not trouble me in the least. He would come around to that idea when I found further proof of it. We took tea in the nursery with the boys, after which Henry, who had tied a feather around the cat’s neck, recruited his father to play Red Indian alongside him. I went back to the library determined to pull down every volume I could find that might discuss secret societies. Unfortunately, I found only two: one, a history of architecture that included a section on markings of the Freemasons, the other Wilkie Collins’s spectacular novel The Woman in White.
While the latter is one of my favorite books, even I could not help but draw the conclusion that I was unlikely to be able to adequately research secret societies in general or particular. This did not mean, however, that I had abandoned my suspicions about Colin’s messages. And should someone else turn up dead, with the letter T carved onto his arm as did the villainous Count Fosco in the novel … well, then I would be able to convince even my husband to reconsider his position.
I turned back to the messages still spread out on Colin’s desk, but I could draw no precise conclusion from them. I opened a biography of Henry V, thinking that if I read it I might be in a better position to understand what the sender could be trying to communicate, but before I had reached the end of the first chapter, I closed the book and returned to my husband’s desk. I did not think I would find my answers in history.
I reread the article about the mining disaster and was more convinced than ever that Ned Traddles was the key. I lifted the telephone receiver from its cradle. In the span of a few minutes, I was connected to the offices of The Times, and soon was speaking with the reporter who had written the article in question.
He was eager to be helpful and provided a number of details not included in his report, but I could not see how any of them might relate to the murders. I asked him about the man who owned the mine, a Mr. Crofton, and he told me that he had never seen a businessman so aggrieved in the face of an industrial accident. He had provided each of the miners’ families with a generous bequest. A poor substitute for husbands and fathers, but better than nothing.
The journalist remembered nothing about Ned Traddles, so I determined that I would find the man’s family. Mrs. Grummidge claimed to have had no contact with him in years, but perhaps Mrs. Bagstock would remember him. I told Colin of my plans, called for the carriage, and was soon knocking on her door.
“Lady Emily!” she exclaimed. “This is not a fit place for you to be after dark.”
“The sun sets so early these days I’m afraid I had no choice,” I said. “I’ve come on a matter of some importance. Do you recall a friend of Lizzie’s, a man called Ned Traddles?”
“Ned? Oh, yes, an affable enough boy, but always in trouble,” she said. “You will take tea, won’t you?”
“No, thank you, I mustn’t stay too long.”
“Your handsome husband will worry, I suspect.” She sat in her rocker. “Ned was caught up with a bad lot, pickpockets, most of them. Not surprising, I suppose. He didn’t have many options, but still, that’s no excuse for crime. He managed well enough when he was small, but you know how it is when a pickpocket starts to grow. I believe he was nicked more than once and eventually thrown in jail, but I can’t say I remember the details. I rather hoped he wouldn’t come around when he was released, but he did, and Lizzie walked with him, saying he was reformed. He did go to Wales and work in that mine, so I suppose there was some truth to the claim. He still came to see her, once a month. Quite a distance to travel for a walk. It’s a pity he died, if he truly had changed his ways.”
I rather felt it was a pity regardless of whether he’d changed his ways. “Do you know any of his family?” I asked.
“No, I never met any of them. Had a pack of siblings—eight or so—and they lived somewhere near the docks. Can’t imagine any of their lives turned out well.”
I thanked her for her help and ordered my driver to take me to Mrs. Grummidge’s, but she was not home. I was about to return to Park Lane, when an idea struck me. So far as I could tell, the wretched Inspector Gale was spending far more time at Marlborough House than Scotland Yard, and at this late hour, he was even less likely than usual to be in his office. I decided it was time for me to see what I could learn from the police.
My name and courtesy title (there are benefits to being the daughter of an earl) gained me entrance to the redbrick building on the Victoria Embankment, but I did not expect a warm welcome at New Scotland Yard. After explaining what I was after, the dour constable to whom I spoke disappeared for several minutes and then, returning to where he had left me waiting, motioned for me to come behind the counter that separated him from what could only be described as a waiting room. I followed him through a maze of corridors until we came to a small office. Its occupant, a man of ordinary height with mouse brown hair that curled rather nicely and a pair of spectacles perched on his narrow nose, hovered in the door.
“Thank you,” he said to his colleague. “I’ll take it from here.” He waited until his colleague was out of sight before offering me a chair across from the desk that nearly filled his room.
“Fenimore Cooper Pickering is a most unusual name,” I said after he had introduced himself.
“My mother is American, Lady Emily,” he said. He paused briefly, but before I could wonder if that was meant to be a complete explanation, he continued. “She was a great fan of the writer James Fenimore Cooper, particularly his Leatherstocking Tales, and was convinced that Nathaniel Bumppo is the greatest of all fictional characters. I’m grateful she didn’t try to call me Hawkeye.”
“She sounds like the sort of lady I should very much like to meet,” I said.
“I’m afraid we lost her years ago. But you have not come to discuss my family history. I understand you are interested in the murders currently plaguing my colleague Inspector Gale. How can I help?”
There was something in his voice—just a hint of sarcasm, perhaps, in the way he mentioned the wretched Inspector Gale—that caused me to warm to him. Could it be that I had finally encountered a police detective who might prove useful? I gave him a brief description of what I had learned about Ned Traddles, including his acquaintance with Lizzie Hopman and Mrs. Grummidge. I did not mention my expedition to the Tower. I had, after all, first learned of the mining accident in the offices of The Times. There was no need to share more information than strictly necessary when I had, as yet, no idea how trustworthy young Inspector Pickering would prove.
“I can have his record pulled up in a matter of minutes,” he said when I’d finished. “Have you time to wait or would you prefer that I deliver a summary to your home?”
Again, there was something in his voice. Was he suggesting it would be better for me to speak to him in the privacy of my home? The idea tantalized me, especially as I knew all too well from past experience that—until possibly now—no one in Scotland Yard had warmed to the idea of my assisting in any sort of investigation.
“I am perfectly happy to wait, but would not like to put you in the awkward position of assisting me before you’ve finished any other work you have at hand. What is most convenient for you?”
“I am rather involved in another matter at the moment,” he said. “Might I call on you in an hour or so?”
“It would be a pleasure,” I said, and offered him my hand, which he grasped and shook firmly.
“I look forward to it, Lady Emily. If I may be so bold, your reputation precedes you.”
It was nearly eight o’clock when I reached home and Colin listened, his head cocked to the side, one of his eyebrows ever-so-slightly raised, as I recounted for him what I had achieved.
“I have not met Inspector Pickering,” he said when I’d finished, “and can’t claim to know anything about him. Do you really believe he will come here, my dear? Is it not more likely that his knowledge of your reputation combined with a cleverness I admit we have not often encountered among his brethren inspired him to send you away in a manner that did not require an argument?”
“In theory, yes, I would agree with that assessment, but there was something about him that makes me think he will prove trustworthy. If I’m wrong, so be it, and tomorrow you will have to get the records from Scotland Yard.”
“You might have left it to me in the first place,” he said. “It would have been simpler.”
Except that it would not, in fact, have proved simpler. Three-quarters of an hour after I arrived home, Davis knocked on the library door.
“An Inspector Pickering to see you, madam. Shall I bring him here or would you prefer to receive him in the sitting room?”