An Act of Mercy: A gripping historical mystery set in Victorian London. J. Durham J.
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makes you think that?’
Mrs Wallace shrugged. ‘Feminine intuition. But she’ll have to give us her real name if she’s going to stay.’
‘Ah well, there’s plenty of time for that. What do you think of her disposition?’
‘The girl has backbone, which is a good thing. But if I’ve learned nothing else these last three years, it’s that you can never tell how they’ll turn out.’ She began to clear the table, putting the dirty crockery onto the tray. She picked up the newspaper, and sighed. ‘Another one dead.’ She skimmed the words on the page. ‘A governess, engaged to her employer, who “fell into sin” when he abandoned her.’ She snorted and dropped the paper back onto the table. ‘More fiction than anything you write, sir.’
‘Her friends apparently called her “The Countess” on account of her good looks and regal bearing.’
‘I daresay she was handsomer than most. Poor souls, old before their time, missing teeth, too addled with drink to care about anything other than where they’re going to find a fourpenny piece to buy a bed for the night.’ She gathered the rest of the breakfast things and straightened up, indignation glowing in her cheeks. ‘It’s a pity the newspapers feel they have to make a sensation out of the poor woman’s death.’
‘It’s their job, Mrs Wallace.’ Guilt stirred, as he remembered his piece on Johannes Appler’s arrest.
‘Aye, well, in my opinion they should be less concerned with selling newspapers than in telling people the truth about the world. But I imagine your detectives will get to the bottom of the matter.’
‘I imagine they will.’
‘They’re a good thing, your detectives.’ Mrs Wallace sniffed and nodded decisively. ‘A very good thing.’
Dickens rubbed his chin. She had given him an idea.
‘You want to write about me?’ It wasn’t so much a question as an expression of astonishment.
‘If that’s agreeable,’ said Dickens. ‘Inspector Field has been boasting of your investigative skills.’
‘He has?’ Dick Tanner glanced at Charley Field, who was leaning against the bookcase of his office.
Field nodded. ‘Mr Dickens has asked if he might spend a little time with us, observing them at first hand.’
Tanner puffed out his chest.
Dickens sat forward. ‘I’m particularly keen to see you at work on the Eliza Grimwood case.’
Tanner’s chest deflated. ‘Are you sure, sir? I mean … it’s a very unwholesome sort of crime. Wouldn’t you prefer burglary?’
‘I have read about the Countess in the newspapers, and her murder sounds intriguing.’
‘Bloody journalists,’ Tanner sneered, then caught Field’s eye. ‘Begging your pardon,’ he said to Dickens. ‘I don’t mean you, sir. But other journalists have not got a grasp of the important aspects of the case at all.’
Charley Field narrowed his eyes. ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell us what those aspects are, in your opinion.’
Tanner nodded. ‘She was a better class of,’ he broke off, suddenly aware that his usual terminology wouldn’t serve, ‘unfortunate, from the usual, which means she did her transactions in private. It’s almost impossible to get a picture of her movements that evening. An associate of hers, Catherine Edwin, says she saw Grimwood with a man in the Strand. A well-dressed foreigner, she says. But Black Kate’s not known for her honesty, and, apart from her, no one saw Grimwood at all after six o’clock.’
‘You searched her room?’ asked Dickens.
‘We scoured it cleaner than a parson’s …’ Field coughed. Tanner reddened. ‘We searched it thoroughly, but found nothing. No murder weapon, and no trace of a visitor. Only a pair of gentleman’s gloves under the pillow that might or might not have anything to do with the murderer.’
‘Do you have the gloves?’ asked Dickens.
‘In my office, sir. Shall I fetch them?’
‘I’ll come along with you and take a look. If I may?’
Tanner and Dickens both looked at Field, who nodded.
Dickens followed Tanner out of the room, and allowed his smile to slip. He had already made up his mind to dislike the detective. It was a fault of his, he knew, making judgements of character too promptly on first meeting people, often basing his prejudices on little more than the way they might phrase a sentence, cock an eyebrow, or meet or not meet his eye. As a fault, however, it had served him well, for once his judgement was made he seldom needed to revise it.
And he didn’t care for Tanner at all. He found the detective’s voice grating. He didn’t like the way the man puffed himself up, and voiced his opinions about women and journalists so readily, even if he occasionally shared some of those sentiments himself. Now that he had made up his mind to write as plainly as possible about the Countess’s murder, he wasn’t about to change his mind about Tanner.
But it was a pity Harry Pilgrim wasn’t in charge of the case.
Police detectives were only supposed to enter Whitehall through the rear entrance, the stable yard grandiosely called Great Scotland Yard. There was nothing great about it. In the summer it heaved with horses, cabs, and carriages, with ostlers, Horse Guards, and equestrian messengers whose job it was to make the wheels of government turn more smoothly. Any pedestrian who wanted to make his way through the arched thoroughfare from the main street was forced to risk life and limb. In the winter it was little better, for when the temperature dropped below freezing the cobblestones of the yard turned glassy with horse piss, treacherous to man and beast alike. As a consequence none of the detectives ever obeyed the edict, but entered instead through Whitehall Station, the headquarters of A Division, which had its imposing entrance on Whitehall Place.
Pilgrim made his way across the reception hall. As usual, it was thronged with the uniformed police of A Division and their belligerent charges. He spotted a glum-faced Constable Wainwright, coming down the staircase towards him, whose neat appearance was only slightly undermined by a splash of blood on his collar from where he had cut himself shaving.
‘Dolly says you have a visitor, sir,’ he said to Pilgrim as he passed. ‘She won’t talk to anyone but you.’
Pilgrim made his way up to the office with a growing sense of unease.
A young woman got to her feet as he walked through the door. Tall and clean featured, with red hair piled under a feather-trimmed bonnet, she carried herself proudly, despite the cheap shawl and low-cut bodice that proclaimed her profession.
Pilgrim glanced at Dolly. He was seated at his desk, his eyes round with curiosity. ‘Give us a moment, would you?’
‘Sir.’ Dolly tried to mask his disappointment as he left the room. Pilgrim closed the door behind him.
‘Frances,’ he said.
‘Uncle Harry.’
He motioned for her to sit down. ‘This is a surprise … a pleasure, of course.’
‘Don’t flannel me.’
He flushed. ‘You’re … ?’
‘Well, well enough.’ She took a deep breath, and looked him squarely in the eye. ‘You must be wondering why I’m here. Truth is, I’m wondering why myself. I have a friend. A good friend, Martha Drewitt. She went missing, over a week ago. I’ve looked for her everywhere I can think of …’
‘Frances…’ he