“Ian talked for a quarter of an hour?”
Fellows smiled faintly. “I imagine Sally did most of the talking.”
Beth fell silent. She burned up inside, thinking of Ian leading a woman to bed, though she reminded herself that she hadn’t known Ian then. He’d had no obligation to her at the time. Jealousy wasn’t rational, however. She forced herself to think over what Fellows had told her. Sally had talked to Ian for a quarter of an hour, but she couldn’t have been trying to entice him upstairs all that time. Beth knew from experience that persuading Ian Mackenzie to do anything he didn’t want to was an impossible task. He would have made up his mind at the start whether he wanted to bed Sally, and either gone upstairs with the woman right away or never. So, if Sally hadn’t been trying to persuade him, what had they talked about?
Beth took a breath. “And then?”
“The other four gentlemen remained downstairs playing cards. None of them went upstairs, according to the ladies, the gentlemen, and the servants. Only Ian and Sally Tate.”
“And everyone departed after midnight?”
“Stephenson, Harrison, and Thompkins enjoyed talking together so much that they decided to adjourn to Harrison’s home. According to their statement, Hart went with them but turned back almost immediately, saying he wanted to wait for his brother.”
“And did he?”
“According to Mrs. Palmer, Hart returned at about one, waited for Ian, who came down at two, and the brothers departed together.” Fellows smiled. “But here we reach a snag. One of the maids declared that Hart had gone upstairs at some point, then rushed out later on his own. When pressed the maid got confused and couldn’t swear to anything. But later, after Mrs. Palmer managed to get the girl alone, the maid changed her story and said that Hart and Ian had definitely left together at two.”
Beth bit her lip. Fellows wasn’t stupid, and the maid’s waffling was suspicious. “What did Ian say?”
“I did not get the chance to interview your good husband until two weeks later. By that time, he couldn’t remember.” A small pain began in Beth’s heart. Ian remembered everything.
“Exactly,” Fellows said. “I thought I had enough to pursue him, but suddenly, my chief inspector pulled me off the case and took away my notes. My chief declared that a passing tramp killed Sally, and he faked the evidence to prove it. Case swept under the rug and closed.”
Beth pulled her thoughts together with effort. “What happened when Sally was found?”
Fellows sat back in the chair, his expression one of frustration. “What I was told happened was that a maid found her and screamed. The others came running, and Mrs. Palmer sent for the constable.” Fellows paused, giving Beth a keen stare. “What I believe happened is that Ian was found in the room with Sally, Sally dead. But the ladies of that house are all loyal to the bone to Hart Mackenzie, so they sent for Hart, who cleaned Ian up and got him out of there. Then they shouted for the police. By the time the constable arrived, Ian was on a train to Scotland, and his servants instructed to swear up and down that he’d slept at home.”
Bloody hell. Beth knew it had happened just as Fellows said. Ian had to be taken away, because he wouldn’t know how to lie. He’d have told Fellows the literal truth and been arrested, perhaps hanged for a murder he didn’t commit. Then Beth might never have met Ian, never seen his golden eyes warm with his fleeting glance, never kissed his lips, never heard his voice whisper her name in the night. Her life would have been empty and shallow, and she wouldn’t have known why.
“You’re a pillock, Inspector,” she said vehemently.
He scowled. “Respectable ladies don’t use those words, Mrs. Ackerley.”
“Botheration about respectable ladies. You’ve rubbed my background in my face, so you will receive the brunt of it. You are a pillock. You have been so fixed on Ian that you’ve let the real murderer—probably one of the other three gentlemen or Mrs. Palmer—get clean away. Hart might have told Ian to lie, but Ian can’t. He doesn’t see the world like the rest of us, doesn’t know that people never tell the truth if they can help it. He thinks we’re all mad, and he’s right.”
Fellows snorted. “Ian Mackenzie will say anything His bloody Grace tells him to, and you know it. Lies or no lies.”
“You don’t know the Mackenzies very well at all if you believe that. Ian doesn’t obey Hart. He does as he pleases.” She understood that now. “Ian helps Hart because he’s grateful to Hart for releasing him from that horrible asylum.”
“And will lick Hart’s boots the rest of his life for it,” Fellows snapped. He stood. “You are the deluded one, my lady. They’re using you like they use everyone else. Why do you think the Mackenzie marriages fail? Because the wives in question finally realize they’re being chewed up and spat out by the uncaring machine that is Hart and his family.”
“You told me Hart’s wife died bearing his child,” Beth said, getting to her feet to face him. “She hardly did that on purpose.”
“The woman was terrified of him, and the two barely spoke to each other, according to all gossip. His Grace was most relieved when she died.”
“That’s cruel, Inspector.”
“But true. Hart needed a good wife for his political career. He didn’t care if he never had a conversation with her, as long as she hosted his social events and gave him an heir. Which she proved she couldn’t. She was better off dead.”
“That’s a monstrous thing to say.”
“Spare me the ‘oh, they are so misunderstood’ speech. The Mackenzies are coldblooded, heartless bastards, and the sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be.”
Beth quivered with rage. “I think you are finished here. Please leave.”
“I tell you this for your own good, Mrs. Ackerley.”
“No, you tell me this so I will help you hurt them.”
Fellows stopped. “You’re right They should be more than hurt. They should be destroyed.”
Beth met his furious gaze. After verbally fencing with Hart Mackenzie, Inspector Fellows didn’t frighten her anymore. “Why?”
Fellows opened his mouth to reply, then abruptly closed it. His face was red, the mustache quivering. “You’re not a lady who frightens easily,” he said. “And I can see you won’t take my word for it. But they’ll be the death of you. You mark my words.” He gazed at her a moment longer, then turned away. “Good day, Mrs. Ackerley.” He marched to the door and yanked it open, and then Beth heard the front door bang behind him. She sank into a chair by the front windows, watching through swirling London fog as the inspector strode away. She sat nuhibly, letting all he’d said sink in.
“M’lady?” Katie stuck her head around the parlor door.
“Is it safe to come in now?”
“He’s gone, if that’s what you mean.” Beth rose, feeling exhausted. “Fetch our wraps, Katie. We’re going out.” Katie sent a disparaging glance to the dark, foggy window.
“Now? To where?”
“The East End.”
Katie blinked. “What d’you want to go to that hellhole for? Old times’ sake?”
“No,” Beth answered. “To find some answers.”
“Gone?” Ian raised his dripping head and stared at Curry in disbelief. “Gone where?”
“To London, m’lord.” Curry backed a step from Ian at the washbasin, knowing from experience how far to put his body from Ian’s whenever he had to relate bad news. Ian straightened up, water trickling from his wet hair down his bare chest. He’d been scrubbing off the plaster dust from Geordie’s cottage and mud from the subsequent fishing expedition when he’d asked Curry where Beth was.
He’d expected Curry to tell him she was walking in the garden, exploring the house, or continuing riding lessons with Cameron. Not, Well, here’s the thing, m’lord. She’s gone.
“London?” Ian demanded. “Why?”
Curry shrugged. “Dunno. Shopping?”
“Why the devil should she go all the way to London to go
shopping? Why didn’t you stop her?”
“I couldn’t stop her, could I? She’s got a mind of ‘er own, ‘as ‘er ladyship.”
“Bloody idiot.”
“What’d ye expect me to do?” Curry shrilled as he slapped a dry towel to Ian’s chest. “Lock her in a dungeon?”
“Yes.”
“She said she’d be back, guv—“
Ian cut him off. “She’s not coming back, you fool. She’s gone, and you let her go.”
“Now, m’lord…”
Ian wasn’t listening. Hollowness spread from his chest until it filled his body. Beth was gone, and the emptiness of that hurt like nothing else ever had. Curry jumped away as Ian upended the entire dressing table, sending every knickknack and stupid toiletry to the floor. The pain in his chest was unbearable. It matched the pounding in his temple, the migraine that never went away. He struck the splintered table with his fists, the slivers of wood bloodying his hands. Beth had seen a glimpse of him at his worst—could he blame her for running away? Ian looked at the scarlet droplets on his fingers, remembering Sally Tate’s blood on them, remembering the horror of finding the ruin of her body. His mind swiftly inserted Beth in place of Sally, Beth’s beautiful eyes sightless, a blade buried in her chest.
It could happen. Ian dragged in a chill breath as panic replaced his rage. He’d dragged Beth into his life, had exposed her to Inspector Fellows, had made her as vulnerable as Lily Martin.
He threw off Curry’s well-meaning hands, stormed past Cameron, who’d come to see what was the matter, and raced out the door.
“Ian, where are you going?” Cameron demanded, catching up to him on the stairs.
“London. Don’t tell Hart or try to stop me, or I’ll thrash you.”
Cameron fell into step beside him. “I’ll come with you.” Yes. Ian knew that Cameron simply wanted to keep an eye on him, but Cameron would be handy. He knew how to fight and wasn’t afraid of anything. Ian gave him a curt nod. “Besides,” Cameron went on, “Curry says Daniel went with her. and I’m certain he’s making her life a misery.” Ian said nothing. He snatched the shirt Curry kept thrusting at him and banged out of the house for the stables, Cameron on his heels.
Chapter Eighteen
Proper ladies did not go to the East End. Proper ladies pulled the curtains closed in their carriages and did not look out when their route took them through Shoreditch and Bethnal Green. Mrs. Barrington would turn in her grave, but Thomas… Thomas would have approved. Beth’s heart squeezed as her hired coach rolled past the little parish church that had been Thomas Ackerley’s. The tiny building was squashed between dull brick edifices but managed to retain its dignity. Behind it, in the cramped churchyard, Thomas’s body lay. A tiny square stone, all the parish and Beth could afford, marked the place. Behind the church lay the vicarage where Beth had spent one hopeful year. Two doors past that was the hall Thomas had set up, where those forced to live on the streets could get a hot meal and a place out of the weather for a little while. The parish had not approved it, so Thomas had funded it out of his own pocket, and a philanthropic gentleman had taken it over on Thomas’s death.
Beth entered the rickety building that smelled of old meals and unwashed bodies, hoping to find her answers there. Daniel Mackenzie came behind her, towering over Katie and Beth, the lanky young man the most nervous of the three. “Should you be here?” Daniel hissed. “My dad would tan my hide if he knew I let you come near a game girl, and God knows what Uncle Ian will do.”
A tired-looking young woman sat on a hard chair with her legs stretched out, skirts hiked to her knees. As Beth rustled in, she looked up, blinked, and jumped to her feet.
“Blimey, it’s the missus.”
Beth went to the young woman and took her hands.
“Hello, Molly.”
Molly grinned in delight. She had brown hair, a snub nose, freckles, and a warm smile. She smelled like tobacco and alcohol, as usual, and the faint odor of a man’s cologne lingered in her clothes.
“What’cha doing ‘ere, Mrs. A? I ‘ear you married a right nob and live in a palace now.”
“News travels fast.”
“What d’you expect? An interesting bit of gab like that goes ‘round.” She winked at Daniel. “Did ye bring ‘im so I could make a man of ‘im?”
Daniel went beet red. “You watch your tongue.”
“Ooh, ye scare me, little boy, ye truly do.”
Beth stepped between them. “Daniel, hush. He’s protecting me, Molly. The streets are dangerous.”
“Are they now? I’m all amazed. So why’d ye come?”
“To ask you something.”
Beth drew Molly a little way away from Daniel and Katie. She pressed a few coins into Molly’s palm and asked her questions.
“I don’t know much,” Molly said. “Too la-di-da for me. But I have a pal I can ask. She married one of her flats and is rich and cushy now. She’s a bit la-di-da, herself, but not a bad sort.”
Beth brought out more coins and told Molly what she needed to know. Molly listened, then winked. “Right you are, missus.” She tucked the money firmly into her corset. “You leave it to me.”
The train down to London took far too long. Ian paced the length of it, unable to sit. Cameron hunkered into a corner of their train carriage, read sporting newspapers, and smoked cigars. Ian found the smoke cloying and spent considerable time on the back platform with one of the conductors. He watched the track unfold behind them, but the evenness of the ties and the smooth curve of the rail didn’t soothe his mood. When the train at last pulled into Euston Station, Ian leapt off and shouldered his way through the crowd and whistled for a hansom cab. He waited inside it for Cameron and Curry, closing the curtains against eyes that watched him. He directed the coach to Belgrave Square, knowing Beth would have returned there. Mrs. Barrington’s house had been a haven for her once, and Beth liked havens. Fog swirled into the city as they reached the elegant square, dirty fog that brought darkness early. Ian had grown used to the light days of the Scottish summer, and the fog felt oily and heavy. He pounded on the front door with gloved fists, not waiting for Curry to ring the bell. He pounded until an ancient specimen of a butler opened the door a crack and creakily asked his business.
Ian shoved the door open and strode inside. “Where is she?”
The butler shrank back. “Out. May I inquire who is calling?” Cameron caught the door before the butler could shut it, and Curry followed with the bags.
“This is her husband,” Cameron said. “Where is she out?”
The old man had to crank his head back to gaze up at them. “I heard her say the East End. There’s thieves and murderers there, my lord, and she only took the lad with her.”
“Daniel?” Cameron barked a laugh. “Poor woman. We’d best find her.”
Ian had already left the house. Another hansom pulled up behind the one that had brought him, and before it stopped, Daniel’s long body slid out of it. His narrow face took on a look of dismay when he saw Ian.
Ian pushed past him and reached into the cab for Beth. He heard her words, saying something about paying the fare, but Curry could do that. He lifted Beth out, not liking how the fog tried to snake its way around her. “Ian,” she began. “What will the neighbors say?” Ian didn’t give a damn what the neighbors said. He clamped one arm around her waist and took her inside. Mrs. Barrington’s house smelled old and musty and airless. The close odors tried to swallow Beth’s lavender like scent, as though the house wanted to squeeze her back into the drudgery from which she’d come.
“If you are dragging me off to my bedroom,” Beth said as they reached the top of the stairs, “perhaps you should ask me which one it is.”
Ian didn’t care which was hers, but he let her lead him. The bedchamber she took him to was small and papered in a hideous print of gigantic pansies. It had a large four-poster bed, a dresser near the window, and a wooden chair. The drapes hid any light the London day might produce. The hiss
of gas lamps and their fusty odor completed the drab picture.
“This is a servant’s room,” Ian growled.
“I was a servant. A companion occupies a gray area, like a governess. Not quite a menial, not quite one of the family.”
Ian lost the thread of her words. He turned the key beneath the porcelain doorknob and came to her. “The butler said you went to the East End.”
“I did. I was making inquiries.”
“About what?”
“About what do you think, my dear Ian?” Beth unwound the silk scarf she’d worn against the fog and stripped off her gloves.
“You sent a telegram to Fellows.”
Her color rose. “Yes, I—“
“I told you to leave it. He can’t be trusted.”
“I wanted to know everything he knew. Perhaps he’d found something out you hadn’t.”
Ian’s rage tasted like dust. “So you saw him. You met him.”
“Yes, he came here.”
“He came here.”
“You refused to tell me anything. What could I do?”
“Don’t you understand? If you find out too much, I can’t protect you. You could be transported, or hanged, if you know too much.”
“Why on earth would I be transported because your brother’s friend Stephenson or his mistress Mrs. Palmer murdered a…” She trailed off, her face going still.
Ian never knew what went on behind people’s expressions. Everyone else instinctively knew the signs of rage and fear, happiness or sadness in others. Ian had no idea why people burst into laughter or into tears. He had to watch, to learn to do as they did. He seized Beth by the shoulders and shook her. “What are you thinking? Tell me. I don’t know.”