‘I wish I’d known about it sooner,’ Blackbeard said, in the carriage on the way back to Well Walk. ‘He’s had a good head start on us; if the tides are on his side, he could be out of the country by now.’
‘Do you have enough to free Charles Calderstone?’ I asked.
‘Now, hold your horses, ma’am.’
‘You know he could never in a thousand years have murdered those two ladies. You know he is innocent – you cannot possibly allow the trial to go ahead now!’
‘All in good time, ma’am.’ He was not going to commit himself. ‘I shall have a little talk with Drummond; I daresay he’ll be happy enough to tell us about Rutherford’s adventures in Lincolnshire.’
I like to think I am a patient, forbearing person, but Blackbeard’s obstinacy made me want to shake him. ‘You must ask him about Joshua Boggs,’ I told him. ‘If Drummond talks, Boggs will have to change his story; it’s obvious that he was paid by Rutherford to murder a potential witness. Obvious to me, at any rate.’
‘Hmm,’ said Blackbeard.
‘Is that a yes or a no, Inspector?’
‘It won’t hurt young Calderstone to wait a bit longer, ma’am, until I can put some salt on Rutherford’s tail. If I swallow one bit of your story, I have to swallow the lot – by which I mean, this is a man without a conscience, who commits murder without turning a hair.’ His voice hardened. ‘But I will get him; I will scour every corner of this city until I have him. In the meantime, I’ll be leaving a man on guard outside your house tonight.’
‘Is that necessary?’
‘You’re sheltering a fine witness for the Crown in the shape of Mrs Gammon. I don’t want to take any chances.’
A chill ran through my blood; I had been assuming that Rutherford was already miles away from London, but I remembered the attack at Soking; if Mrs Fitzwarren had not been a light sleeper and direct descendant of Boadicea, Miss Winifred would have died that night. This was how ‘a man without a conscience’ dealt with potential witnesses.
I had been feeling rather splendidly triumphant, imagining the joy of the Calderstones when Charles was exonerated; this brought me down to earth. I was very glad to have the policeman standing guard upon our doorstep in Well Walk, though I made light of it to Mrs B and Mrs Gammon.
My journey through the Valley of the Shadow began with hot currant pudding.
Mrs Gammon had made it that afternoon, under the benign supervision of Mrs Bentley. It was very good and I was famished. I ate a very large helping; I can taste those spiced currants now. As Matt would have said (and how that man loved a hot pudding), it ‘lay heavy’; the Lord did not send me on my journey with an empty stomach.
The summons came when we were on the point of retiring for the night. The policeman outside knocked at the door, to inform me that someone had sent me an urgent message. I did not know the messenger, and I did not recognize the handwriting on the cover of the packet he handed to me.
‘I’m to wait for a reply, ma’am,’ he said.
‘Yes, of course.’ I had broken the seal and seen the signature: Christina Hardy. ‘Please come inside.’
Leaving Mrs B to entertain the man down in the kitchen, I put a match to the lamp in the drawing room; I needed to be alone to concentrate.
MOST URGENT
Dear Mrs Rodd,
I have seen Henry Rutherford and know where he may be found. I came upon him this morning, quite by chance, at the shipping office in the city. He is much changed – but I knew him at once as ‘Mr Fisher’. Fortunately he did not know me, and did not notice that I was eavesdropping. He took places for himself, one other party and a large carriage, on the next steam packet to Antwerp – the Dreghorn Castle, which leaves Blackwall Dock at midnight. I have informed the police.
In case he slips through their fingers, however, I enclose your First Class ticket, and a Letter of Passport signed by a trusted old friend of mine. The banknotes are to meet any further expenses. My carriage is at your disposal,
Yours sincerely
Christina Hardy
She had thought of everything. The banknotes were crisp and white. And as for the Letter of Passport – well, that signature certainly showed off the quality of Mrs Hardy’s connections. Her ‘trusted old friend’ was Sir George Grey, the Home Secretary.
I first encountered the English Channel as a schoolgirl, on my way to be ‘finished’ in Boulogne. My last encounter had been some ten years before the time of which I am writing, when Matt and I had a delightful holiday in Paris, with an old friend who was a chaplain at the Embassy. I was, therefore, well prepared for the noise and tumult of the docks – the forest of masts, the ant-like swarms of men loading and unloading the ships, the sailors shouting, the great heaps of boxes and bales, the chaos of travellers departing, the flares of gaslight that filled the darkness with demonic shadows.
I found the Dreghorn Castle, a large paddle steamer, about an hour before she was due to depart. Before I boarded, I scanned the weaving crowds on the quay for Rutherford and his child – and, more urgently, for Inspector Blackbeard.
Before I left Well Walk, I had written a letter to Blackbeard, which I ordered the young policeman outside our door to deliver to him. I had also written to Fred, and to Mr Filey, in case they knew better where to find him.
There was, however, no sign of the inspector, nor anything to do with the forces of law and order – not so much as a single policeman. Fear fluttered in my stomach. He had not received my message; I would be pursuing the murderer on my own. If Fred had been present, he would have told me to give up and come home – but I had no intention of allowing that steamer to sail without me. I was confident that nobody would take much notice of a lone woman wrapped in a black cloak and close black bonnet (if anyone was too curious, I could always tell them I was a governess travelling to her new situation). I had brought with me one small carpet-bag, containing only the bare essentials for the continental traveller: smelling salts, soap, lavender water, book (Keble’s Sermons, in a conveniently compact edition), spare handkerchief, flask of medicinal brandy, two russet apples, a moist parcel of bread and cheese (quickly made up by dear Mrs B, while I was scribbling my letters) and a little folding canvas stool. I picked up my luggage and joined the line of people walking up the gangway on to the deck of the Dreghorn Castle.
The deck of a steamer before departure is always a maelstrom; I dodged and wove my way through the throng of passengers, the friends who had come aboard to wave them off and the sailors who were loading the last of the boxes, crates and trunks.
I was a First Class passenger, entitled to retreat to the relative seclusion of the Ladies’ Saloon – but I was determined to avoid this for as long as I could, and not just because I would not find Henry Rutherford there. The Ladies’ Saloon on a channel steamer is a dreadful, dreadful place – strewn with bodies, the air filled with sobs and moans and piteous cries for help, like a picture from Dante’s Inferno.
I confess here, though some will hate me for it, that I am an excellent sailor. I have never in my life experienced the smallest twinge of sea-sickness. But I have observed its horrors at close hand – for instance, while travelling to Calais on my honeymoon, when dearest Matt was so sick that he begged me to kill him, though the sea was as smooth as a millpond. On this winter night, there was a boisterous wind that promised to turn ferocious once we were out at sea. I decided to set up my canvas chair in some sheltered spot on the deck (easier said than done; the deck was already packed with other good sailors, plus a few bad sailors who imagined fresh air would make them feel better).
One section had been set aside for private carriages (those with money enough were thus able to avoid being rattled about in the ‘diligence’ or stagecoach when they arrived on the Continent). There were six handsome travelling carriages chained to the deck, all with names chalked on the backs, and one of them was ‘Rutherford’ – he had not taken the trouble to conceal himself behind a false name, though he must have known by now that he was only one step ahead of the police. He was all set, I thought, to do his usual trick of disappearing as soon as he touched land. I decided to pitch my canvas chair where I could keep an eye on the carriage, and found a space nearby between two big wooden lockers.
We set off at peak tide, in a great cacophony of bells and shouts – as the mighty paddle-wheels began to turn, the whole ship shuddered and heaved.
The pallid lantern that was nailed to the wall above my head did not shed sufficient light to read by. But I was too keyed-up to read. I sat listening to the thrum and churn of the paddles, staring out at the blinking points of light on either side of the river – and saying a prayer for the innocent child.
The weather turned on us while we were battling into the open sea. The wind became violent; the Dreghorn Castle pitched and thrashed like a walnut shell in a drain. Only the hardiest passengers were outside now.
I heard them before I saw them – a thin, keening, wailing sound underneath the noise of the wind. A dark shape passed in front of me, of a tall man swathed in a travelling-cloak, with a weeping child in his arms. My senses leapt and I sent up a fervent prayer of thanks, for of course it was him; the Lord had heard me, and delivered him into my hands.
I quickly folded my canvas seat, tied my bonnet down more tightly, and went out into the savage wind to stand just a few feet away from him. I’d only ever seen his back, but now I saw his face – Henry Rutherford, the Prince, the ‘man without a conscience’.
As far as I could make out under the brim of his hat, he was just as Mrs Bentley had described him: thin and spare, his brown hair close-shorn and peppered with grey. The child was an invisible hump under the many capes of his cloak. He looked, at that moment, nothing like the devil of my imagination. In the fitful light of the lantern above the First Class door, his face was anxious and exhausted, and he was no more forbidding than any harassed parent.
I went to his side; our eyes met.
‘Please excuse me,’ I said, ‘may I be of any help? I can see that your child is distressed, poor little thing.’
Rutherford’s face suddenly melted into a smile – a delightful smile, which gave me a glimpse of the young man he had been. ‘How very kind of you; I don’t know what to do with her, and she utterly refuses to be left in the Ladies’ Saloon without me.’
‘Has she no nurse or governess?’
‘No, I’m travelling alone – and I’m frankly at my wits’ end.’ He lifted one of his capes, to reveal the head of Adelina, cowering against his shoulder.
Of all the terrible sights in this world, the face of a frightened child is one of the hardest to bear. Adelina had been weeping for hours; she was white and limp with exhaustion, and with a fearful expression in her swollen eyes that cut me to the quick. As I had hoped, she did not recognize me.
‘Her name is Adelina,’ said Rutherford.
‘How do you do, Adelina,’ I replied. ‘My name is Mrs Rodd. You are very cold and tired, my dear – would you allow me to take you into the saloon?’
‘No!’
‘But you’ll feel a great deal better out of this wind –’
‘No!’
‘Lina, for God’s sake! I don’t think she knows what she’s saying, Mrs Rodd, and it would be most awfully decent of you.’ With his free arm, Rutherford pushed open the door and we all dived through it, into the relative stillness of the First Class corridor. The Dreghorn Castle was a new ship, built on an ambitious scale; I had an impression of brass and mahogany and red plush, rather confused because we were pitching violently; one enormous wave would have sent me flying half across the room, if Rutherford had not grabbed my arm.
‘Thank you, sir.’ (I remembered not to call him by his name, which he had not yet told me.) It was odd to be touched by him; his fingers gripped like steel.
‘It’s pretty rough today; you’re the first person I’ve seen who’s not dying of seasickness.’
‘I never get seasick.’
‘Neither do I,’ Rutherford said. ‘I’ve been a sailor in my time, and love nothing better than being out at sea. My daughter doesn’t appear to have inherited my sea-legs, however, and I’m most grateful to you for your kindness, Mrs Rodd. I shall be on deck if you want me – or if there’s any service I can do for you in return.’
He tried to put the child down on the floor; at first she wailed and clung to him like a limpet. But she was quite worn out and had no more resistance; he set her down and she staggered and blinked, and let me take her frozen hand.
The Ladies’ Saloon was large and handsomely appointed, furnished with sofas, chaises and soft chairs. As I had predicted to myself, it was a veritable hospital, with groaning bodies stretched out everywhere you looked, and grey-clad stewardesses moving between them. I saw a vacant armchair with a footstool beside it, and gently pushed Adelina into the chair. I sat myself down on the stool and began to rub her freezing hands. She was quiet now; the warmth of the saloon was making her drowsy.
‘You are as white as a sheet,’ I told her softly. ‘How long is it since you have had anything to eat?’
Listlessly and without conviction, as if unsure of being heard, she said, ‘I want Grandmama, I want Emma.’
I had to tell her; she was dying for want of comfort. Bending close to her ear, I whispered, ‘You must be a very brave little girl; your papa does not know it, and you must keep it as a great secret – but I’m going to take you home to Grandmama and Emma.’
For a moment she stared at me dully, and I wasn’t sure she had heard me.
Then she said, in a very small and cautious voice, ‘He hit Emma.’
‘I know, my dear. But she was not badly hurt. And now she’s waiting for you.’
‘Good evening, ma’am.’ A solid, muscular middle-aged woman in a dress of grey serge stood over us. ‘I’m Murphy, your stewardess; is there anything I can do for you?’ She had a pleasant Irish voice, and generally a kindly look to her, and in a moment she had covered Adelina with a rug and provided us with cups of tea (words cannot express how welcome this was to me, after hours spent out in the cold and wind). The poor child was quite used up now, and allowed me to feed her little spoonfuls of tea, until her eyes grew heavy and she sank into a deep and merciful sleep.
I sat watching her for a good while, tracing likenesses in her face, and thinking how extraordinary it was that she existed at all – this living, breathing reminder of her parents’ shame. What sort of life would she have if her ‘natural’ father managed to spirit her away into his murky underworld?
In a purely practical sense, it was useful to have Adelina safely out of his reach in the Ladies’ Saloon. I could guard her here – but only until we arrived at Antwerp. And I did not entirely trust Rutherford not to change his mind about his daughter. He had cheerfully betrayed everyone who loved him; I doubted such a man was capable of real, disinterested love as it is known in Heaven. Everything he did, every impulse he had, was deeply and unashamedly selfish (he reminded me of Tibs – short for Tiberius – the beautiful but wicked cat from my childhood, who thought his fine tortoiseshell coat put him far above the vulgar work of catching mice). He’ll tire of her, I thought, just as he tired of her poor mother; he’ll stow her away in some convent school and forget all about her.
The seas rose – and the wind – and the piteous groans of the sick.
Two moaning maidens lay on the broad sofa beside me. One of them kept saying, ‘When, Mamma? When will we get there? When?’
And Mamma – cowering in a chair under a heap of shawls – kept sighing, ‘Oh, why won’t anyone let me sleep?’
Murphy came back, to whisper that the little girl’s father had sent something for her – and she handed to me the wax doll with tumbled skirts that I had seen at Adelina’s home. Against my will, I was touched that he was thinking of her comfort. He must have taken this favourite toy from the bag packed by Miss Muirfield – he had been cool-headed enough to snatch this along with his daughter.
I placed the doll beside Adelina. She stirred and sighed in her sleep, and put her arms around it; I thought she slept more sweetly after that.
‘Dead to the world she is, bless her,’ said Murphy. ‘I can keep an eye on her, ma’am, if you want to slip out for some fresh air – you look as if you need some.’
Yes, I was certainly ready for a good gulp of fresh air; the saloon was stuffy and too crowded. And if I was watching Rutherford, I could safely leave Adelina with Murphy. There was a large First Class Saloon on the other side of the corridor, but I knew I would not find him there. This was a man who hated confinement and loved nothing better than a stormy sea. He would always want to be outside, in the thick of it.
The wind pounced at me like a wild beast the moment I opened the door, spitting icy spray into my face and nearly knocking me off my feet. The deck was pitching like a seesaw; it took me several minutes to get my legs into the rhythm of the waves.
Rutherford was standing out of the worst of the wind, smoking a cigar, in the tainted yellow light of a dirty lantern above his head.
‘Mrs Rodd?’ He saw me. ‘Is she all right?’
‘Miss Adelina is fast asleep,’ I told him, summoning my most reassuring voice as best I could. ‘The poor little creature was so dreadfully tired, she closed her eyes almost at once.’
‘Thank you, ma’am; I’m most sincerely grateful. I hope she wasn’t too much of a nuisance.’
‘Not at all, she was as good as gold.’
‘Did she happen to say anything?’
I lied to him boldly, even with slight enjoyment. ‘Not a word.’
‘Well, you have been my saviour, Mrs Rodd. It was splendid of you to take pity on us.’
‘Perhaps you had a difficult journey?’ I suggested.
‘We set off in rather a flurry, and she wouldn’t stop crying, though I tried everything.’
(How convincing he was, how sympathetic – if you didn’t know he had abducted the child.)
The air had revived me a little, but I was very tired. I tried to pull my canvas chair from my carpet-bag; my hands were clumsy in the wind, and Henry Rutherford gently prised it away from me, to set it up himself.
‘Thank you, sir.’ All of a sudden, it was a great relief to sit down.
‘May I help you back inside?’
‘No – I’d much rather stay out here.’
‘I thought you would,’ Rutherford said. ‘I had you down as the sort that actively enjoys rough weather. I’m exactly the same. The sea wind cleans my mind – if not my conscience. It helps me to organize my thoughts efficiently, without giving into sentimentality.’
I did not reply; I could see him and hear him, but everything around me was turning faint and dim. It took all my strength to hold up my heavy head.
Rutherford bent down, to speak close to my ear. ‘There are times when I must force myself to be ruthless; it doesn’t come naturally. I really should have been ruthless with Sally Gammon – but I made the fatal mistake of sparing her because she was kind to me. For once in my life I did something decent. You’d think Heaven would reward me, wouldn’t you?’
He knew me; all pretence was at an end.
‘I never imagined that the one good deed of my life would be my undoing. If I had hardened my heart – I’m sure you think it’s quite hard enough already, but I have to be practical, Mrs Rodd. I’m afraid I shall be forced to keep a hold of you, until I’ve decided what to do with you.’
I wanted to reply, of course I did – but the words would not come. My head was a lead cannonball; his silken voice came from a great distance, and at a distance I was very afraid, but a dreadful, sick fatigue was washing over me, and I knew no more.
I was in the pond at home and Fred and I were rushing up to the sunlit surface, scattering drops like diamonds.
And then Matt was with me, and it felt quite unremarkable; I was telling him something that made him smile.
Tishy was playing the piano and singing, but I looked into room after room and could not find her.
I was dragged back to consciousness by a raging thirst – dreadful thirst, worse than I had ever known – and a mouth lined with sandpaper. At first I could not move; my limbs were heavy and seemed to belong to someone else. I was lying upon something soft. I opened my eyes and saw a low ceiling, criss-crossed with ancient beams.
My thirst drove me to sit upright. There was a jug of water on the small table beside me; I could not pay attention to anything else until I had gulped down three glassfuls.
I was alone, in a large and comfortably appointed room, furnished with heavy continental beds and armoires, and well heated by a large, tiled stove. Heaven alone knew how I could be here, when I had no memory whatsoever of leaving the boat. Slowly, slowly, my wits began to collect themselves. Here was my carpet-bag; Rutherford (or someone) had thoughtfully placed it within reach.
As my eyes adjusted to the lamplight, I saw that I was not alone after all. Adelina lay in the bed beside mine, so white and still that at first I thought she was dead. She was still breathing, however, and I could just about feel a little fluttering pulse in her neck. Her hands were freezing; I rubbed them between mine, and gently shook her shoulder, hoping to bring her round. When she did not stir, but lay like a limp rag doll, I began to be frightened. She needed a doctor, or we would lose her.
I tried to stand up. I fell down. I tried again, and managed to get to the door. It was locked – and made of such thick, carved wood that I knew screaming for help would probably be a waste of time.
There was a flask of brandy in my carpet-bag; I fished it out, poured a few drops on to a spoon, and put it to the child’s colourless lips. Her eyes remained shut, but she coughed and spluttered, which I took as a good sign; she drew some deep breaths and seemed to fall into a more peaceful sleep.
Behind me I heard the lock, and felt Rutherford’s presence in the room like a chill wind in the small of my back. I had an instinct that a lot depended upon my ability to hide my fear.
‘You must find a doctor,’ I said shortly. ‘I can’t wake her; you gave her too much.’
Rutherford came to the child’s bedside and gazed down at her, his expression unreadable. ‘She’ll come to no harm; I know what I’m doing.’
‘It was the tea, of course.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I slipped in the sleeping powder while the woman was looking the other way.’
‘Where are we?’
‘Oh, somewhere or other.’ He flashed me a smile. ‘It’s probably better for you not to know.’
‘How on earth did we come here?’
‘I stuffed you inside my carriage,’ Rutherford said. ‘And then the carriage was unloaded by means of a crane – I was immensely glad you didn’t wake up to find yourself dangling in mid-air.’
‘Adelina should be at home.’
‘But she is at home,’ Rutherford said. ‘I’m her home now. She is my daughter, she belongs to me.’
‘She is not a belonging,’ I said sharply, ‘she is a human child – and you have frightened her almost to death!’
‘She’ll get over it. Once she has got used to me, she will be very happy.’
‘Don’t you think she’d be happier – and altogether better off – with your mother?’
(I remember now that I was not afraid of him, and that this was a surprise to me; here I was, shut up with a man I knew to be highly dangerous, a man who was debating how and when to kill me, yet I felt quite calm; we circled each other with the utmost politeness.)
‘I’m grateful to my mother,’ Rutherford said, ‘and I fully intended to leave Adelina where she was at first – but then I saw her, and knew at once that I would never be able to part with her.’
‘She is certainly a handsome child.’
‘Yes, she’s beautiful – but there’s more to it than you think, Mrs Rodd.’ He was very much in earnest, his fine-boned face looking almost noble in the mellow lamplight. ‘I saw her as my chance to make amends with Helen.’
‘You – I beg your pardon?’ This nearly took my breath away.
‘I tried to fashion Helen into a lady – but I never quite eradicated the stink of fish. This time I mean to do the job properly. Adelina must not grow up in the shadow of her mother’s shame. Her background must be without blemish.’ He leaned towards me with polite concern. ‘Are you unwell? You seem lost for words.’
‘Her mother’s shame?’ I found my voice. ‘Good gracious, Mr Rutherford, you astonish me! Isn’t her father’s shame a thousand times worse?’
‘It depends on your point of view.’
There was a sharp rap on the door; my heart gave a lurch of hope, but Rutherford said, ‘Please join me for breakfast; I give you my word as a gentleman it won’t be drugged. And please don’t imagine you can run away.’
‘You know perfectly well, I’m not going anywhere without the child.’
‘I guessed that would be your view of things; ladies of your type are so delightfully predictable.’ He went briskly to unlock the door. ‘You will sacrifice yourself with all the fervour of an early Christian martyr – possibly to the point of singing hymns while the lions are tearing your flesh.’
I saw it then – the look, the expression, that I had seen in the eyes of those who were truly wicked.
I was very frightened.
Rutherford, however, was suddenly all smiles; he showered the inn servants with coins and pressed me to sit down with him beside the stove. I obeyed him in silence. The gallant attentions continued, even when we were alone again.
‘Some slices of ham, Mrs Rodd?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘A bowl of coffee?’
The smell was delicious; I was giddy with longing for coffee. Rutherford smiled at my eagerness as he placed the bowl in my hands (our continental neighbours make lamentable tea, but their coffee is ambrosial) and I could have gulped it down like a dog. How long was it since I had eaten? I demolished two soft brioches, suddenly so ravenous that I did not care what he thought of my manners.
We ate and drank in silence that was oddly amicable. Rutherford lit a cigar.
‘I think you loved Helen Orme,’ I said.
He looked at me sharply, as if stung.
‘As much as you’re capable of loving anyone,’ I added.
‘You think me incapable of loving? You couldn’t be more wrong about me, Mrs Rodd. My entire life has been driven by love.’
‘Self-love.’ I was getting bolder with him, reasoning that he was going to kill me anyway, and I may as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. ‘You have never loved unselfishly; you don’t know what it is to put another person before yourself. That is why you killed Mrs Orme, and Miss Winifred – and Savile, and Mlle Thérèse –’
‘And Uncle Tom Cobley and all.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Yes, it has been a rather eventful career.’
‘You don’t deny that you have killed so many?’
‘Why should I deny anything? You won’t be telling anything to anyone. Ask me any question you like, Mrs Rodd; you will leave this world with your curiosity thoroughly satisfied, at least.’
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Who is lying in your grave?’
He gave a snort of laughter. ‘Someone dead.’
‘Why did you need to disappear?’
‘To save my skin. Certain people were hounding me; they said it wouldn’t stop until my death, so I decided to die.’
‘How did you do it?’
‘Oh, it wasn’t planned in advance,’ Rutherford said. ‘Let’s say that I saw my chance and took it.’
‘But how did you live without your mother’s money?’
He chuckled outright at this. ‘I went to South America and married an ugly heiress. But that’s not the story you want, is it?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’d like to hear about your return to England – when your former manservant found you dying in the gutter.’
‘Well, all right – why not? I hope the cigar-smoke doesn’t bother you, by the way; I ought to have asked your permission.’
‘I don’t mind it at all. Had you come from South America?’
‘My wife’s brothers were after me – another story – and I had to make a somewhat hasty exit. I worked my way back to England on a sailing ship. And do you know, Mrs Rodd, it was the best time I’d had in years? I sometimes wonder if I would have been a happier man – a better man – if I had stayed a sailor, and left the genteel world behind me.’
‘When did you decide to reveal yourself to your mother?’
‘I couldn’t bear to until I’d got myself some money. I was destitute.’
‘But then you saw an opportunity for blackmail,’ I said. ‘You sent that first letter to Sir James.’
‘Yes – when I still assumed Helen had married Savile all those years ago.’
‘When did you recognize her?’
I was trying to sound calm, but could not hide my curiosity. He was well aware of this, and smiled at me with a kind of glorious insolence, which reminded me strongly of the cherished portrait above his mother’s mantelpiece.
‘It was quite by chance, at a country horse fair.’ He was laughing. ‘Lord, she gave me a turn! I was there to pick up casual work – and there she was, a few feet away from me – my little Helen, heavily disguised as a respectable widow, and hardly a day older! It did not take me long to hear the gossip about “Mrs Orme” and Charles Calderstone. I sent off one letter, but before I could collect, I caught the fever. A beautiful plan was on the brink of extinction; I was on the very point of carrying it off with me to the next world – and then the gods sent me poor old Savile.’
‘And he knew so much more about the Calderstones,’ I said drily. ‘You extracted your first pound of flesh from Sir James with very little trouble.’
‘Ah, yes – our first meeting in Salt Lane,’ Rutherford said. ‘I needed that money to turn myself back into a gentleman. My mother is a proud woman, and I am a proud man; it would never have done to present myself to her as a beggar. Fortunately for me, Emma Muirfield wasn’t as finicky.’
‘Did you always intend to betray her?’
‘I wasn’t really thinking about her at all, to be truthful. She was a means to an end.’
‘It was cruel of you,’ I said, ‘to let her believe you loved her.’
‘Would you have believed it? No, you’re far too sensible. Poor old Emma swallowed it all because she wanted to. And as a matter of fact, I did consider bringing her along, at least for the first part of the journey. Frankly, I had no idea Adelina would make such a fuss.’
‘Really, Mr Rutherford – of course she made a “fuss”! She was terrified! Did it never occur to you that she would be?’
He looked at me for a moment, turning this over with mild interest. ‘Not really.’
‘I assume it was Savile who told you of her existence.’
Rutherford smiled. ‘He blurted it out one evening, when we were sharing a bottle of rum down at the Goat – after the Limehouse job.’
‘The rent-collector,’ I said.
‘Yes, the rent-collector; he made rather an untidy job of it, otherwise I couldn’t have done it better myself. And during our celebration afterwards, he launched into the rambling story of finding Adelina. The couple who took her in died from the fever before she was a year old. When Savile happened to return to that part of the coast, a few months later, Adelina was living as part of a large local family – he told me she looked like a little pink-and-white changeling in the middle of that dark-haired brood.’
‘How very kind of that family,’ I said. ‘Mrs Orme found her true friends in that poor fishing village.’
‘The irony was not lost on me – the fact that our child was growing up as a fisherman’s daughter. The local peasants were very good to her; when Savile reached the maudlin stage of intoxication, he told me that the child’s adoptive mother had wept to part with her. Poor as they were, they had kept a valuable item of jewellery left by the child’s true mother.’ He held up one hand like a conjuror, dangling the famous gold locket on the end of its chain.
‘That was in my bag,’ I said. ‘What else have you stolen from me?’
Rutherford laughed loudly, delighted by my indignation. ‘Well, the apples were tempting, and so were the sermons – but this was never your property, was it? I had it made for Helen, during our first summer together in Switzerland.’
‘You took it from Mlle Thérèse,’ I said, ‘after you killed her.’
‘I wanted to give it to my child.’
‘You admit that you killed Thérèse Gabin – just like that? Without one hint of remorse?’
‘You can’t imagine what a nuisance she was turning out to be.’ He said this coaxingly, as if he expected me to agree with him. ‘She was threatening to come to London and Savile was too lily-livered to keep the harpy in order; I saw that she would have to go, even before the unfortunate end of Savile.’
‘Had you never wondered about the child Helen was carrying?’ I asked.
‘I never thought about her after I left her – not much, at any rate. I have a habit of shedding my past selves. But I was interested enough to go and take a peek at my mother’s house. And then I saw my child – and I felt as if my heart had been washed clean and born again – but you look startled.’
‘Born again?’ I could almost have laughed at this. ‘Mr Rutherford, you immediately embarked on a frenzy of killing!’
‘But don’t you see? Everything had a purpose, at last; everything was pure, if done for her sake.’
‘What – including the murders of Mrs Orme and Miss Winifred? Pure?’
Rutherford sighed and winced, as if I had said something distasteful. ‘That was different. I had to act quickly; I may have been too hasty.’
‘She saw you, that day at the market,’ I said. ‘You were riding in a chaise, beside your friend Mr Drummond – apparently risen from the dead! I can understand now why the poor woman was so shocked.’
‘You think I have no heart,’ Rutherford said, very serious. ‘But how little you understand me! If you could see the battles between my good and bad angels! You are right that I loved Helen – when I came to the cottage that day, my first impulse was to take her in my arms! My better angel urged me to spare her, to love her again.’
‘Please, Mr Rutherford – I know how she was found, and any mention of love is perfectly grotesque.’ The ill effects of the sleeping powder had cleared by now; I was myself again, and angry. ‘You killed two innocent women!’
‘They didn’t fit the new history I was making for myself.’
‘Did you know Charles Calderstone was going to be there – or was that another stroke of good fortune?’
He smiled. ‘Now you are being sarcastic, Mrs Rodd, and it doesn’t suit you. Let’s say that I know how to make the most of a golden opportunity.’
‘I presume that means you arrived at the cottage in time to see Mr Charles leaving.’
‘I heard him first – dear me, the language! The boy was yelling his head off, and I even had a potential witness, in the shape of some local clodhopper who was mending the hedge in the next field. I simply waited until they had both gone and the women were alone. I admit to you, I gave into a moment of weakness, and – the deed was not cleanly done. That I regret.’
‘In the past, you have killed in cold blood,’ I said. ‘But not this time.’
‘No – my blood was boiling. The embers of the old passion engulfed me.’
‘Have you decided how you are going to kill me? I’d prefer not to have my head broken.’
He was taken aback, and slightly amused. ‘A tidy death – is that your last request?’
‘If you like.’ My heart galloped, but my anger burned through my fear. ‘I leave the details up to you. And please tell Adelina I was very sorry that I couldn’t keep my promise to take her home.’
‘It’s kind of you to think of her; my better angel is urging me to thank you for taking such good care of her.’
‘If I were you, Mr Rutherford,’ I snapped back at him, ‘I would dismiss that feeble “better” angel of yours without a reference – it’s obviously quite useless.’
He smiled. ‘I’m sure you keep your angels in much better order.’
‘I don’t care where you go or what you do – if you leave Adelina with me, I promise I won’t try to follow you –’
‘You mean well.’ He cut me short; his face suddenly turned to stone. ‘And that only makes matters more difficult. You will now put on your outdoor clothes. I will carry my daughter. Don’t imagine you can scream for help, or run away from me.’
‘I told you, I won’t leave Adelina – but where are you taking us?’
‘That does not concern you. Don’t look about you.’
I put on my cloak and bonnet, and picked up my carpet-bag. I was glacially calm, though I knew that every passing minute was bringing me closer to my death.
Rutherford wrapped his unconscious child in a thick rug and gathered her into his arms. He unlocked the door of our chamber and we walked out on to a broad landing. Without moving my head, I dared to look about me; we were making our way through a prosperous inn, probably in Antwerp, since there were shipping timetables pinned to every wall.
He made me walk in front of him, and kept so horribly close behind me that I could feel his breath on my neck. I sent up a silent prayer for courage.
It was night again; I had no idea of the time. Rutherford propelled me out into the cobbled street where his carriage stood waiting – a large and expensive travelling carriage, with no fewer than four horses stamping and steaming in the traces.
It took me a few moments to make sense of what happened next; there were shouts, and a brief scuffle – and a voice that made my heart leap heavenwards.
‘Henry Rutherford, you are under arrest for the murders of Helen and Winifred Orme – hold him tight, lads! He’s not giving me the slip again!’