A lit lamp hung from a heavy iron hook to the side of Belinda’s back door.
Beckoning me.
Despite all my worry, my heart lifted as I turned the key in the lock and pulled the door open to find a second lamp inside, illuminating the hallway.
There is nothing like knowing someone longs to see you, I thought, to banish the wretched images of the last two days.
From the staircase at the end of the hall came the swift click of her heels. Visible first were her black, polished shoes, then her pale green skirts, and then all of her appeared, one hand holding a lamp, one hand on the banister. The thought came to me unbidden: light and balance. A sculptor couldn’t have represented her character more accurately than she unconsciously did at that moment.
A warm smile spread over her face. “Michael!”
Four strides and I was at the bottom of the stairway. She stood several steps above, and I looked up at her, taking her in. Her dark hair was down around her shoulders, and her hazel eyes were bright and shining in the light of the lamp. As she gazed at me, a shadow fell over them, and her smile dimmed. “Darling, this must have been an awful few days for you.”
I climbed until we were eye to eye, and I could take her lovely face between my hands. Just looking at her made something in my chest break open, allowed me to breathe deeper than I had since she’d left. Her hand came off the banister and her arm slid along my shoulder, as I kissed her to make up for the month she’d been away. My hands were in her hair, her lips parted under mine, and I couldn’t say how long we stood there, the entire world collapsed down to those two steps. At last she drew away, her breath coming in small gasps. “It’s cold,” she murmured. “Shall we—take the stairs?”
“Take me anywhere you like,” I said hoarsely, but she heard the laughing note underneath and chuckled softly in reply.
She led me up two flights, setting the lamp on a table in the upper hallway. We didn’t need a light to find our way to her bed.
We lay amid the rumpled sheets, each propped on an elbow. By the lamp she’d lit, we could see each other. She’d offered to fetch cups of the coffee she always had ground especially for me, but I’d refused and wound a long shining brown lock of her hair around my forefinger to keep her here because I wanted to hear her talk, to take in her voice, to hear about her time away.
“It was somewhat of an odd visit,” she confessed. “We three—Catherine and Margaret and I—were all close as children, and we remained so until Margaret moved up to Edinburgh. But it seems over the past few years, whenever I see her, she’s …” She hesitated.
“What?”
“Out of sorts,” she replied. “Oh, I know the fall broke her ankle, and she’s in pain, so I can understand her being irritable on that account. But it isn’t just that. She’s agitated and anxious and … quite unhappy, in good part because of her son, Edgar.”
I recalled her telling me at some point that Edgar was either attending Oxford or would be attending next year.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s spoilt,” she said frankly. “We’ve all known it for years, but Margaret has begun to see it too, and she knows it’s partly her doing.” She plucked the bedclothes and smoothed them. “I can’t blame her, really. After she lost the first two babies, I think she was … almost too grateful for Edgar. She indulged him in everything, and as children do, he’s become selfish as a result. Oh”—she gave a small shrug—“he has manners, which he takes out when it suits him, and he’s as clever as his father, Philip, was. But Edgar is often disrespectful and even … cruel with Margaret. I don’t think he would’ve dared if Philip were still alive.” Her eyes were full of regret for her cousin. “She didn’t intend to spoil him, of course, but now it’s too late. He doesn’t listen to her, or even talk to her much.”
The phrase, a near echo of Ma’s, made my thoughts slide toward Colin.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Nothing. Is Edgar at university yet?”
“He will be shortly. And that’s another problem. He doesn’t have what Harry has—a genuine interest in study and a willingness to work.” She sighed. “Margaret fears he’ll become one of those dissolute young men who gamble and visit opium dens until dawn.”
I hadn’t considered how lucky I was that Harry wasn’t the sort I had to threaten or cajole. If anything, as James once said, Harry was too much in earnest.
“How was your visit otherwise?” I asked.
Her face cleared. “Oh, very pleasant. Edinburgh has its troubles, of course, but the castle and the views are just wonderful, and I walked out of doors every day. There were the usual dinner parties and concerts in the parlor, and Catherine came for a week, which perked us all up. We drove out into the country several times, with Margaret in a wheeled chair, and Catherine and Margaret would paint while I read or wrote. I think we all felt a bit as if we were children in Hertfordshire again.” She gave a small laugh, a laugh I loved, and I felt myself smile along with her. But after a moment, the humor slipped away from her face. “Now, tell me about the Princess Alice,” she said.
There was a time when I would have held back, when I would have wanted to hide that I was uncertain and fumbling and frustrated, and the case was just a muddle, typical of the early stages. But Belinda had seen me at my most unsettled and dejected, and, in the case of the river murders this past spring, particularly, her insights had helped turn the case toward a resolution. She listened attentively, with her usual nods of understanding, as I related everything that had happened since Tuesday night, concluding, “I’m feeling a certain urgency to hurry and fix blame because Rotherly—the Wrecks commissioner—is impatient. He doesn’t like displeasing the Parliamentary Committee.”
She frowned, as if trying to recall him. “Was he the one on the committee who—”
I nodded. “He told me I was holding back the report to make myself look important and protecting the pilot on the Bywell Castle because he’s Irish.”
“Oh, for goodness’s sake.”
“Parliament wants a resolution, but I suspect that it’ll be more complicated than they want. On the one hand, the Princess Alice was breaking the official nautical laws, though many smaller ships punch the tide there. On the other, I suspect the Bywell Castle was going faster than it should have, especially for that time of night. And then there’s also the dubious possibility that the Bywell Castle crew was drunk and one or both pilots were inept. Nothing is certain yet, but I have a feeling the accident is the result of several causes.”
“The committee would prefer a single place to fix the blame,” Belinda said, “so they could prevent it from happening again—although that usually works better in theory than practice.”
I nodded. “And meanwhile, in the absence of a clear answer, the newspapers are making hay, inventing stories that only cause problems and interfere with what people truly remember.”
“Well, you’re adept at assembling a better story, Michael.” She dimpled. “I’ve seen you do it once or twice.”
“Easy for you to say,” I grumbled. “You’re allowed to make things up.”
She laughed, then sobered. “I saw the newspaper account about everyone drinking on the Bywell Castle.”
“A complete invention. They certainly didn’t confirm it with the pilot. Unless there’s something I don’t know, Conway hasn’t even been found yet.” I shifted and shoved the pillow out of the way. “It rankles that the paper didn’t even question it. They just threw it into the headline. By the captain’s account, Conway was sober and responsible. The captain’s exact words to me were ‘He knew what he was about.’”
She grimaced. “It’s unfortunate, but at least it was only the Sentinel, not one of the larger papers. Do you know where to find this man Purcell?”
“The captain probably knows, but I’m not going to bother because I think he’s spouting nonsense. The captain certainly didn’t seem the sort to be soused—and as I said, he has a financial interest in the Bywell Castle.”
“Calling attention to the pilot being Irish seems irresponsible on the part of the paper,” she said, “given the effect it could produce.”
“I’m sure that’s going to be Vincent’s first comment tomorrow, followed by ‘Can you pretend you’re not Irish?’”
“Oh, Michael, do you think so? I’d guess he doesn’t want you to pretend, but he probably wants to be sure you can be impartial.” Gently she unwound her hair from my finger and lay back on her pillow, one hand tucked behind her head, revealing the soft pale flesh of the inside of her upper arm, and I couldn’t resist running a fingertip along its curve. “If only so he can assure skeptics like Rotherly that he’s spoken to you about it.”
“I know.” I rolled onto my back. The moldings above, where the ceiling met the wall, took on a different appearance than in the day. In the flickering glow of the lamplight, the carved edges cast shadows that took shape, slipped away, reappeared. At the corners were elaborate cornices with flowers and leaves that seemed to wrinkle and shift. “It’s not as if all Irish folks are out to drown six hundred innocent souls—or to belong to a gang, for that matter. Most of them are just trying to feed themselves and their families, for God’s sake.”
She propped herself on her side to face me again. “No one thinks it’s all Irish people. It’s only a minority who belong to the Cobbwallers or the Brotherhood.” When I didn’t reply, she continued, “What’s worrying you, Michael?”
“I don’t know.” My shoulders squirmed. “I just hope Vincent doesn’t think I would wrongfully protect an Irish pilot.”
“He knows better,” Belinda replied, her voice practical. “You work hard enough that I daresay he sees you as an inspector first, an Irishman second.”
My eyes flicked to her face. “It’s not the only reason I work hard.”
She heard the tight note in my voice. “Of course not.” She sat up and drew the bedclothes up over her knees, wrapping her arms around them. “But people are concerned about Irish violence. It was a frequent topic of conversation in Edinburgh.”
“Given the bombs in Edinburgh last year, I imagine it would be.” I paused. “Any conversations in particular?”
“Last week, Lord Baynes-Hill and his wife Frances came to dinner. I’ve met them several times, and Frances and Catherine are intimate friends.”
Lord Baynes-Hill, I thought, my pulse quickening. Tom had named him as one of the leaders of the secret talks.
“Why do you look like that?” she asked.
“I recognize his name,” I said. “What did he say?”
She gave me a searching look, as if she sensed there was more I could reveal, but let it go. “He says the Edinburgh branch of the IRB calls themselves the Green League. Did you know?”
I shook my head.
Belinda continued. “Lord Baynes-Hill explained—very cogently, I thought—that he believes the Mayfair Theatre bombing in 1875 taught the Brotherhood something important—that nothing was to be gained from individual acts of violence, even if they threaten the lives of the royal family. The Brotherhood needed to demonstrate that they could manage a series of events effectually, which is why they bombed four places, one right after another. It certainly accomplished its objective, to raise awareness of the Irish question.”
“I know.”
“Now Lord Baynes-Hill is afraid it’s only a matter of time before they attempt the same sort of sequence here in London. He feels that the sooner we move toward home rule for the Irish, the better, but he worries it can’t happen until Gladstone returns.”
I groaned aloud, and my eyes sought the ceiling with its elaborate carved medallion, from which hung the chandelier.
“Why, Michael.” Her voice held both surprise and concern. “Do you think the Brotherhood could be involved in the Princess Alice? Do you think it could be the beginning of a sequence here?”
I bit my tongue to keep from telling her that it could be the second incident—or even the third, if one counted both the railway crash and the violence in Whitechapel.
Or was I taking a coincidence in timing too far?
Perhaps I was, but Lord Baynes-Hill was correct to say the Brotherhood’s plans and methods were evolving. Whereas the Clerkenwell bombing had been a series of bumbling mistakes, with the IRB putting the dynamite in the wrong place and failing to break through the prison wall, the Mayfair Theatre bombing had been almost perfectly executed—four separate dynamite bombs, one at each corner of the theater. Although one of them failed, three of them went off within a minute, causing a stampede to the doors, ending with hundreds injured and forty dead. There was no doubt that over the years, the IRB had become more adept in its acts of terror, more calculated in making its plans and putting the pieces into place.
Into my mind came the thought of the murdered pilot on the stairs—followed by a thought that put a sick feeling in my gut.
What if I have it wrong? What if his death didn’t incidentally cause Conway to be on the Bywell Castle? What if the pilot was killed in order to put an Irish man—an IRB man—at the helm?
“What is it?” Belinda asked. “You’ve gone white as the sheet.”
My eyes met her worried gaze, and I tried to reel my thoughts back from where they were heading. I didn’t want to see conspiracy where there was only coincidence. Still …
She shifted so she could face me straight on. “You’ve already considered it might be the Brotherhood, haven’t you?”
I swallowed hard. “Aside from Conway—the pilot on the Bywell—being Irish, there’s no evidence of it. And I’m not willing to assume Conway is a member of the Brotherhood—or that he caused this—without talking to him.” I let out a sigh. “I bloody wish he’d come forward.”
Belinda remained silent.
“And perhaps the newspaper is right, and he was drunk. He’d stay sober if he were involved in a plot, would he?”
“It’s likely,” she said. “Besides, Luby hasn’t said a word about the Princess.”
“That’s true.” I shoved down my worries that Luby was using only deeds for now, that words would come when he finished.
“I know you hate the idea of the Irish being involved.” She pleated the trimmed edge of the bedclothes between her fingers. “But in the past, if the Brotherhood did cause the Princess Alice disaster, they’d have claimed it—otherwise there would be no point. It makes me wonder, what if there is another group that would want to bring about a maritime disaster like this? A company that wants to take over steamship travel, perhaps? Or was there a group of people on board who might have been a target?” I shrugged by way of reply. “And,” she added, “perhaps the Princess Alice isn’t part of a series of attacks at all. It might truly have been an accident, the result of several small mistakes, as you say, but anti-Irish sentiment is causing people to make up stories about it.”
I’d seen rumors like this catch and spread before. “And the longer it takes for me to find the truth, the more the rumors grow.”
“Because people are frightened and desperate to understand what happened, Michael. It’s the most fatal disaster in London in years,” she said, as if I needed reminding. “Not even the largest railway disaster or mining disaster killed this number of people—and so many of them women and children. It’s drawn the attention of the entire country.”
She’s right, I thought. And God knows, there were plenty of people who despised and resented us Irish, who’d be willing to believe the worst. “It’s an easy story to sell in the papers,” I said shortly. “Even if it’s a lie.”
“You’ll find the truth,” she replied. “It may take time, but you always do.”
Not always, I thought, and not always in time to prevent further trouble, but I didn’t say so. She was trying to be kind. There was no reason to snap at her.
Belinda leaned close, then settled on my chest. She ran her fingers through my hair, got them caught in a tangle, and smiled as she gently combed it out. “You haven’t forgotten your promise about Saturday, have you?”
“Your soirée? No, of course not.” This would be the first time I would be attending her weekly gathering, the first night she would be introducing me to her friends. We had laughingly owned that we were both a bit anxious about it, but it seemed the proper time, and her return from Scotland provided a good reason for a larger party, which would mean less attention focused on me. “My new coat and trousers are hanging in my room.”
She touched her forefinger to my chin. “Thank you.”
And though I closed my eyes and let myself be swept into her kiss, and later into sleep, the possibility of rumors expanding and dispersing over London like one of our infamous miasmas, fostering rage and fear like a disease, stained my dreams with dread.