Ghost of the Thames (11 page)

Hodgson guessed that the coroner was
also a man who could be bought, if it were done tactfully and
discreetly. But it was clearly too late now, he thought, for Harmon
was also famous for taking offence easily and holding a nasty
grudge. And John Warren had started off all wrong by interrupting
the coroner, speaking to him condescendingly, and finally objecting
openly and vigorously to Harmon’s direction that Catherine Warren’s
traveling companion needed to be produced as a witness.

“Well, gentlemen, you can see it comes
to this,” the coroner said gravely, addressing the jurors, but in a
voice that could be heard in the farthest corners of the hall. “You
have been summoned here to inquire into the death of a certain
young lady. Evidence will be given before you as to the
circumstances attending the death, and you will give an honest
verdict, honest citizens that you are. But before any of that is to
take place, we need to view the body, do we not?”

As the jurors nodded in unison, the
coroner stretched out a hand toward the police
inspector.

“There is no body, Mr.
Coroner.”

Another wave of noise rumbled through
the hall. The beadle leaped up and glared everyone into silent
submission.

“So I understand. No body has been
identified as the young lady in question. And therefore,” he paused
and looked down fiercely at John Warren. “Are you listening, Mr.
Warren? And therefore, by the authority of this court, I declare
that no dead body can be identified as Catherine Warren’s unless it
is positively acknowledged by . . . by . . . what was your niece’s
traveling companion’s name, sir?”

Warren’s lawyer shot a glance
helplessly at the old man.

“Priya,” John Warren said through
clenched teeth.

“Yes, the body will be positively
identified by Priya of Bengal.”

“She is only a servant. I am
Catherine’s uncle, the only living kin. I know my own
niece.”

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Warren. But you are
an uncle who has seen your niece only once in the past ten years.
Why, you are not even able to produce a recent portrait of her for
authorities, I understand.” He looked at the police inspector, who
nodded. “I am told this woman has been charged with raising her
since birth. Did you not tell the inspector that this Priya was the
last person to lay eyes on her the night of her
disappearance?”

“That she was, but—”

The crowd’s noise smothered the old
man’s response. The beadle had to demand silence, and John Warren
was asked to repeat his statement.

“The woman speaks no English,” Warren
protested.

“None? Then tell the court how she
communicated with your niece?”

“Miss Warren was fluent in
Bengali.”

“And how do you communicate with this
Priya woman, now that she is under your roof?”

“I don’t make it a practice of
carrying on conversations with my bloody servants!” Warren snapped.
The cane thumped sharply on the floor.

Mr. Warren, Hodgson knew, was correct
not to trust Priya before a judge and jury. Though the old woman
had communicated not more than a dozen words of English since
arriving in London, Hodgson wondered how much more she was really
capable of saying.

“Very well. There is no reason why the
woman cannot appear before us with a translator. In fact, when the
time comes, we’ll make the arrangements ourselves.”

“When the time comes?” Warren
exploded, half rising. “What do you mean, when the time comes? How
long must this—”

“The machinery of justice, Mr.
Warren,” Harmon responded, cutting him off, “cannot be hurried.
Without a body, we must hear all relevant testimony.”

As the voices in the guild hall rose
to the level of one highly entertained mob, the old man sank
stiffly into his seat. When the din subsided somewhat, Warren
raised the head of his cane.

“Yes, Mr. Warren. You have something
to say?”

“The woman wishes to return to her
homeland,” Warren said. “I have one more ship leaving for India
before winter sets in, and I planned on putting her on that ship.
Otherwise, she cannot leave for several months.”

“We have not subpoenaed
the person in question. Naturally, you may do as you wish, sir. Of
course, that would mean you are willing to hand over Miss Warren’s
inheritance to the Crown. A sum of, what was it?
Seven hundred thousand
pounds
? Very generous of you,
sir.”

The courtroom again exploded in a
roar. Most attending had no idea of how much the estate consisted
of. Hodgson stared open-mouthed for moment at the coroner,
wondering how Harmon could have learned the total value of the
fleet of merchant ships and the land and the cash.

"Silence!" the beadle shouted,
throwing his arms about and trying unsuccessfully to restore order.
“Silence!”

The sum of Catherine’s wealth, here
and abroad, was something John Warren had tried to avoid bringing
attention to. Too late. Hodgson could already imagine the front
page of every newspaper in London tomorrow.

“You can see, gentlemen, that there is
no reason to continue with this hearing today,” the coroner shouted
to the jurors above the din. “You shall be summoned again when more
information is available regarding Miss Warren’s disappearance or
her whereabouts.”

The lawyer inclined his head to them.
“I hope you do not feel that went badly, sir,” he said with a
straight face. “The coroner has not ruled against us, and we can
request another hearing next month . . . and bring the Bengali
servant along with us.”

Warren stared at the man, his eyes
bulging with barely restrained fury. Seeing the look, the lawyer
backed away a step.

“If I may respond for Mr. Warren,”
Hodgson broke in. “It would be best if we talk of this
later.”

The lawyer nodded and hurried off like
a cat that had just had its whiskers singed.

“Gentlemen,” the coroner shouted over
the continuing noise. “You are excused.”

CHAPTER 12

The quiet knock and sound of soft
footsteps padding into the room awakened Sophy from her
sleep.

She raised her head, staring in
confusion at the array of pillows before looking up into the
smiling face of an older woman. It took her a few moments to
remember where she was and how she’d gotten here. She had no clue
as to the time, but one bright line of sunlight was streaming in
through a narrow slit between the drapes.

“You’ve slept a full day, miss, and
all through the night, as well. I was beginning to worry about
you.”

Yesterday—it must have been
yesterday—Edward brought Sophy to a beautiful brick townhouse on a
quiet side street just off Soho Square. While she had waited in the
foyer, he had made arrangements for two rooms on the second floor.
The house belonged to this kindly woman, Mrs. Gilbert. After the
captain left—reluctantly, it seemed to Sophy—the landlady had
prepared a bath for her and helped her change into a borrowed night
dress. Sophy barely remembered crawling into the wide bed, and
she’d been dead to the world until now.

“Captain Seymour stopped by last
evening, but he said to let you sleep. He said he’ll be coming by
again this morning.” Mrs. Gilbert went about the room, opening
draperies and tying them back. Brilliant sunshine poured
in.

The two rooms—a connected bedroom and
sitting room—were bright, well furnished, and large. She’d been too
tired yesterday to express her compliments on the landlady’s fine
taste. She did it now, and the older woman looked around, obviously
pleased that her efforts were noticed. Mrs. Gilbert went to the
door and opened it wide, motioning someone else to come
in.

“This is Ruth,” she said, introducing
a young woman standing with her arms full at the door. “The captain
asked me to make arrangements for a serving girl to assist you when
you desired. Ruth often helps her sister who is here every day in
the kitchen, so it is a good arrangement.”

Sophy was at a loss for words at the
captain’s generosity.

Ruth—a small, doe-eyed woman in her
mid-twenties—curtsied shyly and opened the doors of a large
wardrobe, hanging the items she was carrying, one by
one.

“I hope you be satisfied with my
choices for today. The Captain requested that I order three dresses
and the necessary accessories for you -- until you are well enough
to see to ordering the rest of your wardrobe yourself.”

The bloody clothes she was wearing
yesterday were nowhere to be seen. Sophia wondered if they had been
destroyed. “I am very grateful.”

“It is nothing, my dear. And believe
me, I am the grateful one to have the financial support of someone
as generous as Captain Seymour.” The older lady waved a hand in the
air. “Since my husband passed away a year ago, Lord Latham has had
possession of these lodgings for a certain friend of his. But the
young lady married another gentleman this past month and, since
then, the rooms have stood empty. But, thanks to the generous
nature of his lordship, the support he has provided has never
ceased. But yesterday, Captain Seymour told me that he is taking
over the financial arrangements.”

Sophy climbed out of bed as Mrs.
Gilbert continued to talk. It was already obvious that she was
delighted to have the company of another woman in the house. It was
also apparent that the landlady was accustomed to being discreet.
She had asked no questions thus far regarding who Sophy was or why
she’d arrived here in a filthy, blood-soaked dress.

“I’ll have Ruth bring you up your
breakfast. You can have it in bed, if you wish.”

“No. No. I think I will wash up and
dress first. It would be wonderful to eat in the sitting
room.”

“Excellent choice. You have a lovely
view toward the park from that corner window. In fact, the air is
pleasant enough outside today that you can have the windows open.
With the winter coming, we won’t be having too many days as fair as
this one, I should think.”

As she washed her face, she realized
how different a night she had spent under this roof. No nightmares,
no visions, no running away from the physical abuse of ruffians, no
need to be constantly attuned to the rest of the household, as
she’d been at Urania Cottage. For the first time that Sophy could
recall, she had slept soundly, and as a result her body was rested,
her mind clear.

She stopped, feeling her blood run
cold at the recollection of the events in the pleasure gardens in
Chelsea. It was so different to be the victim of an assault as
opposed to being the witness to one. The night in Hammersmith
Village, she’d been able to function perfectly well after bashing
the man who was abusing the woman behind the tavern. But after
escaping into the night after the attack on herself, she’d fallen
apart. Grudgingly, Sophy understood why the ghost would put her in
harm’s way in Chelsea. She now understood more clearly the violence
that was being inflicted on these women every day.

There was a tap on the door to the
hallway, and Sophy turned to see Ruth coming in.

“I’ll help you dress, miss. Captain
Seymour has just arrived. The Missus is showing him into the
sitting room.”

Whatever calm possessed her a minute
ago evaporated as Sophy stared briefly at the double doors
separating the two rooms. She followed Ruth to the wardrobe, having
no preference as to the choice of dress.

Her hair was another chore, but she
encouraged the young woman to braid it quickly and pile it on top
of her head.

Ruth left the room ahead of her with
instructions to tell Captain Seymour that Sophy would join him
momentarily.

Sophy stole a final glance in the
mirror. The soft yellow fabric of the dress was accented with white
trimming of silky gauze at the neckline and the sleeves. The bodice
fitted her perfectly. The corset beneath made the curve of her
breast so much more pronounced. She adjusted the silk at the
neckline until her exposed skin was limited to a narrow opening.
Then, as she turned away, Sophy was surprised by another wave of
awareness. The image in the mirror was a familiar one. She knew
this woman.

Sophy heard the captain’s voice. He
was saying something to Ruth, and a swarm of butterflies took
flight in her stomach. She opened the door and went into the
sitting room.

He was at the window, looking down the
street toward the park. His broad shoulders filled the black
morning coat perfectly. His head turned at the sound of her step,
and she took a breath, forgetting for a moment to let it
out.

“Sophy,” he said quietly. His gaze
took her in for some time, studying her from head to toe before
returning to her face. She could tell he was pleased with the
transformation.

She breathed and curtsied.
“Captain.”

He walked toward her, but her feet
refused to move. All the common sense of just minutes earlier, all
that she planned to say, was forgotten, replaced by the single
thought that this was the apartment where Lord Latham had kept his
mistress and where Captain Seymour had now placed her. He had the
same intentions. She wondered how soon he’d be expecting her to
perform her obligations. And she also wondered—with not a small
feeling of foolishness—what exactly it was that she had to
do.