Prince Of Secrets. Paula Marshall
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thought it, that she would be relieved to be in her own home again, and was not very eager to spend yet another week or so in her sister’s grand mansion with people whose interests she did not share.
Besides that, not only would she and Cobie be off to Markendale, but nothing was yet resolved between them. She had begun her campaign to win his love, but it seemed mired in the pleasant stalemate which her life had become.
Not that Cobie knew that there was anything to be resolved. He remained his own equable, charming and kind self. There were times when she almost wished that he would say or do something for which she could reproach him! She sometimes wished that his manners, like the rest of him, were less than perfect. It was hard to have nothing to criticise.
Take this morning, for example. He had eaten, sparely for him, and was now drinking coffee while he read the The Times, having excused himself for doing so, saying that he needed to be au fait with the world’s news before he went off into the City.
Finally he put the paper down, and said in what she thought of as his deceiving voice, ‘I had hoped that I might spend the day with you today, but I find that I need to go into the City. You will forgive me, my love, I will make it up to you tomorrow.’
‘Of course,’ she said. If he were the perfect husband, then she could be no less than the perfect wife. Something had disturbed him, she knew that, but had no idea how she knew it. Something in the paper. Other people might not be able to see behind the mask he wore, but she was beginning to. She wondered what it could be.
After he had gone Dinah picked up the newspaper. He had carefully refolded it. She had no idea what she was looking for. She doggedly skimmed through its pages after the fashion which her father had taught her to read documents. It was full of the usual kind of thing. Towards the end there were some discreet headlines about what the popular press were calling ‘The Dockland Vampire Murders’. The Times referred to them so delicately that Dinah could hardly make out what had occurred, other than that this was the second poor child who had been found killed and mutilated either in, or near, the Thames. The police were adjured in no uncertain terms to do their duty and find the murderer. Crime must be seen to be punished.
It was, she concluded, putting the paper down again, probably something in the financial news, which she was unable to make sense of, that had troubled him. He never talked of his money-making activities, either to her or to anyone else. She was quite certain that he had whole areas of life to which no one, including his wife, was privy—other than Mr Van Deusen, that was. And what did that tell her?
Cobie had read the short account of the child’s murder in The Times with mounting pity and horror. He had no doubt as to who was responsible. Sir Ratcliffe had, like the Grants, been back in London for a week, and doubtless had grown bored with the milk and water life of his social equals.
He contemplated going to Scotland Yard immediately with what he knew, and the devil take the Prince’s reputation—to say nothing of his own. But what hard evidence could he offer against Heneage? Simply that he had once seen him with Lizzie Steele in a house of ill fame, and that he had helped her to escape from him. His one possible witness, Hoskyns, was dead—and even if he had lived, what would his sole evidence have been worth against Sir Ratcliffe in his power and might?
Besides that, would the faceless men behind Beauchamp ever allow Sir Ratcliffe to be caught and tried, either for Lizzie’s death or that of his latest victim, while he could still hold the Prince to ransom with the stolen letters? All he could do was go to his City office and hope that Walker would visit him there, and not at Park Lane, to disturb Dinah again.
Sure enough when he arrived there, Walker, with one of his constant shadows in attendance, was waiting for him, Bates standing stolidly in his rear.
‘So, Mr Dilley,’ Walker began without preamble, ‘what do you say to that?’ He flung an assortment of newspapers, all crying out against the murderer of girl children. ‘You killed Hoskyns for nothing, didn’t you? The real murderer of Lizzie Steele is still running round among us. How do you feel about that?’
There was nothing for it but to put on his most baffled face, and lie—as usual.
‘Really, Inspector, I had thought I had done with these baseless accusations. Why should you think that Hoskyns was killed because of Lizzie Steele’s death—or that it was Hoskyns who murdered her? My own belief, for what it’s worth, is that these children are being killed by someone from a different walk of life altogether.’
‘Oh, aye,’ jeered Will Walker, turning to grin at Bates, before going on. ‘Some toff, I suppose. Well, now, Mr Dilley, the only toff I know of on the loose is your good self, and I don’t think that the Vampire killer is you—even though I might like to.’
Cobie said slowly, ‘What sort of evidence would convince you that I may be right, Inspector?’ More than ever he regretted having made an enemy of the man.
‘Hard evidence, Mr Dilley. Hard evidence. No whim-whams, no putting it on to someone of your own kind whom you happen to dislike. No confessions made by a dead man, either.’
This was a shrewd hit, if only the Inspector had known it!
Cobie said slowly, ‘Suppose I found evidence, Inspector, and passed it on to you? Would you respect it?’
Walker thrust his face forward. ‘I’ll tell you what I would respect, Mr Dilley, and that’s that you won’t go round killing anyone else because you might think they’ve done in Lizzie Steele and this latest child. We don’t know the poor creature’s name yet. I’ll have you if you do—and that’s my last word. That’s why I came. You go home to your pretty young wife, make her happy, and leave us to do our job, and you do yours, which I understand is making money. You aren’t in the U.S. of A. now, Mr Dilley.’
No, he couldn’t mention Sir Ratcliffe’s name to the disbelieving man before him. A crony of the Prince of Wales, a Cabinet minister, if a minor one, with a family name which went back fifteen generations! He could imagine Walker’s scornful laughter. As well accuse the Prince himself.
No, somehow he must find hard evidence against Sir Ratcliffe—and then decide what to do with it. A task which would be difficult for him, knowing that the wretch was being protected in order to avoid a dreadful scandal which might shake the throne and strengthen the powerful Republican movement.
In the meantime, he smiled and bowed Walker and Bates out, commiserating with them, until Walker turned at the door, leaned forward and seized Cobie by the lapels of his splendid coat. He thrust his face into his and hissed, between his teeth, ‘Mind what I say, Mr Dilley, one false step and this time I’ll see you swing, I swear I will.’
‘By God, he’s a cool one, guv,’ Bates said respectfully, when they got into a cab to take them back to Scotland Yard. ‘He never turned a hair when you warned him at the end, just laughed in your face, as usual.’
‘Well, as long as that’s all he does, Bates. But he’s a slippery devil—and we’ve not seen the last of him.’
Once the officers had gone, Cobie rang for Rogers, his secretary.
‘I want to hire an enquiry agent,’ he said abruptly, ‘an honest one. I need to find out about one of our business rivals, so I want a discreet man I can trust—and soon. Not next week, not next month, but yesterday. You understand me? Use your connections.’
Rogers used them to good effect.
Twenty-four hours later, a dour ex-police officer, as sardonic in his way as Walker was in his, sat before him.
‘I want you,’ Cobie said, ‘to investigate a man named Sir Ratcliffe Heneage. These papers—’ and he indicated a report he had written ‘—will tell you who and what he is—and what I also believe him to be.’
Jem Porter took the folder over, and asked, ‘What’s he done, then, that you want to have him investigated?’
‘He likes girl children,’ Cobie told him, eyes hooded. ‘Too much. I want evidence of where he goes for them, who finds them for him,