Death at Whitechapel (6 page)

“No, not that,” Bradford said hastily. “Of course, if you should wish to make an investment, I would be glad to assist. But to finance my own initial purchase, I intend to sell some land.” He affected a carelessness he did not feel, for the fact of the matter was that he needed the money desperately—and not just to buy into the new venture. “I thought you might be interested in acquiring a thousand or so acres immediately adjoining the south boundary of Bishop's Keep—more if you like.”

“You shall have to speak to Kate about that,” Charles said. “This is her estate.” He grinned. “She is one of the New Women, you know. No mere ornament, she. She insists on directing her own affairs, and does a damned good job of it, I must say.”

“Well, then, I shall,” Bradford said, standing. He felt some relief, for he thought it would be easier to deal with Kate than with Charles. “Oh, by the way—I've been wondering if you would like to become a member of the new lodge of Freemasons, which has begun meeting in Colchester. I'd be happy to support your candidacy, and I'm sure you would be accepted.”

“Thank you, no,” Charles said. “I was inititated into Freemasonry while I was in the Army, but no longer participate.”

“If you change your mind,” Bradford said, “you have only to mention it.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “I fear I must go. My mother is having company to tea, and I am expected.”

“Perhaps you'd like to come to dinner tomorrow,” Charles said, also rising. “Lady Randolph will be here for a few days.”

“Jennie!” Bradford exclaimed, feeling the heat rise in his face. “But—”

“I know,” Charles said with a little shrug. “Kate and I do not ordinarily move in Lady Randolph's social orbit. But she, too, it seems, is about to embark upon a business venture. For some weeks now, she and Kate have been tête-à-tête regarding a literary journal she is about to launch.” His glance was inquiring. “So you know her?”

“We are acquainted,” Bradford replied, pulling on his gloves. “But I am afraid I must refuse the invitation. I'm engaged this evening, and I shall be in the City for the next few days.” He omitted to say that he had spent a weekend in Jennie's company at a house party in Kent the previous spring, and that the mere recollection of those perfect shoulders was enough to make his heart race. But Bradford was a practical man, and while Lady Randolph was, hands down, the most marvelously alluring widow he had ever met, the death of Lord Randolph had left her with two young sons and scant resources to support her extravagant habits. Had Bradford successfully wooed her—and he flattered himself that he might have done, for she preferred younger men of wit and charm—she would only have magnified his financial worries tenfold. In the event, she had turned to the arms of a young Scots guardsman, a handsome boy whose inheritance was rumored to be as encumbered as Bradford's own. Well, young Cornwallis-West could have the lady, if he was fool enough to take her—although Bradford felt a stab of regret when he thought that he might be sitting next to Jennie at dinner the next night.

The door of the laboratory opened and Hodge, the butler, stepped in. He inclined his head with exactitude and said, “Excuse me, m'lord, but her ladyship begs me to inform you that Lady Randolph Churchill has arrived.”

Charles looked confused. “She has? But I thought she was not expected until tomorrow. Have I mistaken the day?”

“No, m'lord,” the butler said. “She has arrived before she was expected.”

“Very well, Hodge,” Charles said. He looked at Bradford. “Are you sure that we can't tempt you to stay to tea and renew your acquaintance with Lady Randolph?”

“Oh, I am tempted,” Bradford replied wholeheartedly. “But please give the lady my compliments, and tell her that if it were not for my duty to Mama, I should undoubtedly be here.”

With that, he made a hasty departure, leaving Charles to reflect that this was the first time in his lengthy acquaintance with Bradford Marsden that he had seen him in a hurry to take tea with his mother.

 

C
harles took a cup of steaming tea from Kate and settled back in his chair. The drawing room at Bishop's Keep was a modest room—the Ardleighs had apparently been given to entertaining a few intimate friends, rather than a throng—but it was quite pleasant, with tall, well-proportioned windows, a high ceiling, Turkish carpets on the parquet floor, and the gas wall sconces whose installation he himself had directed. A fire burned brightly in the large fireplace, and across from him, on the sofa, sat two very beautiful ladies, both wearing the loose and flowing tea gowns that were currently in fashion. His eyes lingered for a moment on the one with the unruly mane of auburn hair, the steady hazel-green eyes, the decisive chin, whom he loved beyond all power of expression. He smiled at her, then turned to the other. She was attempting to hide, not very successfully, a pained distress.

“I am so grateful,” she said in a low voice, “that you have allowed me to come for another visit.”

Kate leaned forward. “Allowed you!” she exclaimed with a little laugh, her face alight with pleasure. “We're delighted that you chose to come.” Jennie Churchill was a woman of wit and charm and a sparkling zest for life, and Charles knew that Kate had enjoyed her earlier visit enormously. “I'm anxious to hear about your progress with
Maggie,”
Kate added. “Does she have a proper name yet? And has Mr. Raeburn located a publisher?”

Jennie seemed to brighten. “I've been considering your proposal of
The Anglo-Saxon Review,”
she said. “Winston doesn't favor it, but Mr. Raeburn agrees that it's a fine title, as does Pearl Craigie. I think you know Pearl's work—she writes under the name of John Oliver Hobbes. She has offered a short play for the second or third issue. And yes, it appears that we may have found a publisher, a Mr. John Lane. I am hoping that the first issue will appear next June, if we are successful in attracting sufficient subscribers.”

“I have been thinking,” Kate said, “that a French contributor to each number might add to the international interest.”

“Well, then,” Jennie said, “what would you say to Paul Bourget? He is as well known in England as he is in France and America, and a friend. I think I could impose on him for a piece. I should also like to have a scientific article. I am trying to get Professor Lodge to write something on wireless telegraphy.” She made a little face. “Although the good professor is not very cooperative.”

“Charles,” Kate said eagerly, “couldn't you ask your friend Mr. Marconi to write something for Jennie's magazine?” In explanation, she added, to Jennie, “Charles is quite well acquainted with Mr. Marconi, the inventor of the wireless. He has a laboratory at Chelmsford, which is only twenty or so miles away.”

“I should be glad to inquire,” Charles said. He had been listening with interest to the ladies' conversation. Jennie Churchill was no intellectual, but she was intelligent and well-informed and enormously energetic. In fact, in Charles's view, it was her energy and spirited engagement, rather than her beauty, that set her apart from the idle women of her class, most of whom watched the world go by with a remote and indifferent lassitude. However she invested that vigorous energy—whether in Winston's high-flown political aspirations or her own ambitious publishing project—she was sure to realize at least some of her goals.

“That's very kind of you, Charles,” Jennie said. “Please do ask Mr. Marconi if he is interested—and if not, perhaps you would care to offer an article.” She paused, and a darker look crossed her face. “But Maggie isn't the reason I've come.” She glanced under her lashes at Charles. “As you know, the Countess of Warwick and I are friends. She didn't confide details, but I understand that you and Kate were instrumental in retrieving a certain ... indiscreet letter that came to her from the Prince.” Her smile was gone as quickly as it came. “I am in a similar painful situation, with a potentially ruinous outcome, not only for myself but for Winston, whose political career may hang in the balance. I've come to ask your help.”

Charles maintained an untroubled expression, but inwardly he was irritated. If Jennie Churchill wanted him to recover a purloined love letter, he would have to disappoint her. He was not going to become Society's all-purpose sleuth, covering up the muck of misbegotten love affairs.

He held out his empty cup to Kate, who refilled it from the silver urn on the tea table. “If you are in need of a detective, I can recommend a man who is retired from the Yard. You will find him perfectly discreet and extremely able. If it is your letter you wish to recover—”

“You have misunderstood.” Jennie met Charles's eyes with a candor and determination so fierce that it shook him. “I am speaking about a terrible
blackmail
.” She looked away, toward the fire. “The blackmailer's claims are utterly ridiculous. They cannot possibly be true. But even so long after Randolph's death, many would be willing to believe anything about him. If the thing ever becomes public—” Her voice nearly broke. “The taint will damn Winston before he has had a chance to demonstrate his own merit. His political hopes for himself—and mine for him—will be ruined beyond redemption. He will never sit in Parliament.”

“The blackmail has to do with Lord Randolph?” Charles asked. Randy had never been well liked except by a small circle of friends who shared his interests in horses and gaming, or admired his audacious political maneuverings. The man had made a great many enemies in his forty-five years, in both high and low places. It wouldn't be hard to imagine some of them engaging in a spot of blackmail.

Jennie's response was measured, but her voice held such tension that it nearly vibrated. “The blackmailer claims to have proof that Randolph was Jack the Ripper.”

Kate's cup rattled in its saucer. “Jack the Ripper?”

Charles felt relieved. Randolph Churchill had led an unruly life, and there were many charges against which he could not be defended. He did not think this was one of them.

Jennie picked up the reticule she had brought downstairs with her and took out a square of paper, which showed signs of much folding and unfolding. She handed the paper to Charles. “Read this.”

The note was written in a scrawling, almost childish hand and adorned with several ink blots. It was neither signed nor dated. Charles read aloud:

Charles folded the note and handed it back. “The Ripper, eh? Well, I don't suppose it's anything to bother yourself very much about. Anyone who knows the family will pass it off as libelous. If you hear any more from this chap, I suggest that you ask your solicitor to track him down and give his nose a good twist.” He raised one eyebrow. “You said something about proof?”

Jennie put the note back into her reticule. “That is his claim,” she said evasively. “But you are probably right.” She composed an uneasy smile. “I fear I have been rather silly about this ridiculous business.”

Kate frowned. “Jennie, I don't think—”

Jennie turned to Kate with a brittle cheer that failed to deceive. “Dear Kate,” she said, “I have been
dying
to hear about Beryl Bardwell's next novel. What can you tell me?”

 

L
ieutenant George Cornwallis-West stared at the item buried on the fourth page of the newspaper, his breath coming as fast as if he were running from a pack of howling dogs. Around him flowed the usual Monday commerce of the Bachelors Club, frock-coated City men brokering business, dandies brokering the latest gossip, uniformed Regimentals discussing the Egyptian campaign, liveried footmen, lively pageboys. But George, sitting on the leather sofa with the
Telegraph
and a brandy, was oblivious to everything but the page in front of him. Jaw clenched, heart pounding, he read the short piece for the third time, trying to get control of himself.

So someone else had spotted her going into that wretched place! Damn the rotten luck!
Name unknown
...
although identification expected shortly.
Of course she would be identified. It was a bloody marvel she hadn't been recognized at once, on the spot, from the photographs of her that frequently appeared in shop windows—all too often, for his taste, for she had been, like his mother, one of the P.B.'s, the professional beauties. But his mother had aged with time, while Jennie was ageless, like a fine painting or a precious necklace. He'd overheard a pair of old snaggle-tooths chattering just last week, when she'd come back from Sandringham and he'd met her at the train station.