Ian nodded. “Tenacious.”
Hart actually smiled. “Like a terrier on the scent. If she uncovers proof of the truth, what will you do?”
“Take her away. We can live in Paris or Rome, never return to England or Scotland.”
“Do you think you will be safe in Paris or Rome?”
Ian gave him a narrow look. “If you leave us be, I think so.”
Hart rose again, his well-tailored coat like a second skin on his wide shoulders. “I don’t want to see you hurt, Ian. I never wanted that. I’m so sorry.”
Ian clenched the arms of the chair until he feared his fingers would dent the wood. “I’ll not go back to the asylum. Not even for you.”
“And I don’t want you back there. What they did to you—“ Hart broke off. “You take Beth and go far away. To New York, maybe, as far as you want. I want you safe, away from me.”
“Why did you come here tonight?” Ian asked. He couldn’t believe Hart had traveled all the way down from Scotland simply to drink and smoke in a house he used to own. He must have taken the train immediately after Ian’s, the only one that could have gotten him here this quickly.
“Loose ends,” Hart said. “I’m putting everything in order, and then all will be forgotten.”
“Sally shouldn’t be forgotten, or Lily. Beth is right. They died, and we should care.”
Hart’s voice took on an edge. “They were whores.”
Ian got to his feet. “You brought me here that night so I could find out what Sally knew that might hurt your political standing. So I could tell you what she whispered to me in bed. To be your spy.”
“And you found out.”
“She was gleeful with it. She wanted to ruin you.”
“I know,” Hart said dryly. “I wouldn’t let her, which made her very, very angry.”
“So you did what? Made sure the dirty secrets she knew about you stayed secret?”
Hart shook his head. “If Sally wanted to prattle about me owning the house and what I did in it years before, she was welcome. Everyone knew. It even gained me a certain respect among the more stolid members of the Cabinet, if you can credit it. I did what they always dreamed of doing and didn’t have the courage to do.”
“Sally told me she could ruin you.”
“She was dreaming.”
“And then she was dead.”
Hart stilled. Ian heard Cameron tramping in the rooms overhead. His gravelly baritone boomed out, then the light answers of the maid, another woman giggling. “Oh, God, Ian,” Hart said in a near whisper. “Is that why you did it?”
Chapter Twenty
The hansom Beth rode in drew to a halt before an incongruous house in High Holborn near Chancery Lane. The neighborhood looked respectable enough, the house in question neat and subdued.
Fellows unlatched the door of the carriage, but before he could open it, the door was ripped from his grasp and a pair of strong hands captured Beth. Beth found herself on the pavement, face-to-face with her husband. Ian’s eyes were dark with rage, and without a word, he began to drag her away.
Beth resisted. “Wait. We must go in.”
“No, you must go home.”
Another carriage waited in the lane, this one lavish. Its curtains were drawn, the coat of arms on the door muffled. “Whose coach is that?”
“Hart’s.” Ian pulled her along with him as he strode toward it. “His coachman will take you back to Belgrave Square, and you’ll stay there.”
“Like a good wife? Ian, listen.”
Ian yanked open the door to reveal a gold interior, as opulent as any prince’s sitting room. Beth put her hands on the side of the carriage. “If I go home, you must come with me.”
Ian picked Beth up bodily and deposited her onto a soft seat. “Not with Inspector Fellows here.”
“He’s not here to arrest Hart.”
Ian slammed the carriage door, and Beth lunged for it. “He’s not here to arrest you, either. He’s here to investigate the scene of the crime again and to question Mrs. Palmer. I asked him to.”
Ian swung around. His tall bulk filled the carriage doorway, one huge hand resting on the door frame. The light was behind him, so she couldn’t see his face or the glint of his eyes.
“You asked him to?”
“Yes, there are plenty of other suspects, you know. Mrs. Palmer, especially. It’s her house; she’d have had the most opportunity.”
“Mrs. Palmer,” Ian repeated. His voice was flat, and she couldn’t say what he thought.
Beth opened the door and started to climb down. “We must go inside.”
She found herself against Ian’s chest and his big hands holding her arms. “I’m not taking you into a bawdy house.”
“My dear Ian, I grew up surrounded by game girls and courtesans. I’m not afraid of them.”
“I don’t care.”
“Ian.” Beth tried to push him away, but she had more chance of moving a brick wall.
“Go home, Beth. You’ve done enough.” He shoved her back inside the carriage. “And stay there, for God’s sake.” A scream rang out, startling and shrill.
“That’s Katie.” Beth gasped.
Ian melted into the darkness. Cursing, Beth clambered down and ran after him. She heard the coachman shout, but he was busy steadying the horses and couldn’t run after her. There was no lamp close to the house, and Beth hurried through the gloom toward the door Ian had left wide open. Beth rushed inside, trying to hear where the others had gone.
The vestibule was brightly lit, but empty. She ran through to the elegant paneled hall, in which a staircase rose to the upper floors of the house. Beth heard screams and shouting beyond the first landing and farther up the stairs—Katie, Ian, Inspector Fellows. She started up toward the noise. Someone rushed through the hall above, footsteps muffled on carpet, and then came a quiet thump of a door. Someone trying to get away, fleeing the inspector? Beth raced up the stairs and along the passage, finding a closed door at the end of it. She opened it to a staircase leading down, the servants’ stairs. Hurried footsteps sounded on it, the quarry getting away.
“Ian!” she shouted. “Inspector! Help me.” Her cries were drowned by renewed screams, male shouts, and female sobbing from above. Damn. She gathered her skirts and plunged down the stairs. The flight took her down past the main floor, past the kitchens. Beth felt a flood of night air as an outer door was flung open. She reached the foot of the stairs in time to see a dark-haired woman dash into the squalid yard beyond. Beth was hard on her heels. A gate led to the space between houses where the night soil men would come to collect the noisome slops. The woman fumbled at the latch, and Beth caught her. Beth seized the woman’s wrists. Her strong hands were covered with rings. Beth stared up into the face of the woman who must be Mrs. Palmer, Hart’s former mistress and owner of the house. Sylvia had said Mrs. Palmer was near fifty, but she was still a beautiful woman, with dark hair and a slim body. Her brown eyes were lovely but hard as agates.
“You little fool,” Mrs. Palmer hissed. “Why did you bring the inspector here? You’ve ruined everything.”
“I’ll not let him pay for a murder he didn’t do,” Beth cried.
“Do you think I will?”
“Who are you talking about?” Beth began, and then a knife flashed in the light from the house. Before Beth could twist away, it came down.
Ian, irritated, learned that Katie had screamed because she’d seen Cameron charge out of a room upstairs. It was dark, Cameron was a giant of a man with a gashed face, and Katie was easily alarmed. There was lot of shouting from the girls upstairs, more screaming from Katie, and bellowing from Cameron, until the din echoed through the house. Hart and Cameron finally helped him silence them all, and by then, Ian’s head was throbbing.
“We’re all here now,” Inspector Fellows said testily to the three Mackenzies staring back at him. “Your good wife has a theory that Mrs. Palmer killed Lily Martin and Sally Tate, to save the hide of the duke, here
.”
“Angelina?” Hart asked in derision. “Where did Beth get that idea?”
Fellows answered. “Lady Ian talked to some tarts, ones she knew from her days in the slums. You really should be careful who your wife has truck with, my lord.”
“Beth is an egalitarian,” Hart said in a dry voice. “What did they say?” Ian interrupted. If Beth was right—no, if they could convince Fellows that Beth was right—Fellows might turn his focus from Hart.
“They went on about how devoted Angelina Palmer is to Hart Mackenzie. How she’d do anything for him, even commit murder.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Hart snapped. “She would have had ample opportunity to kill Sally when no one was in the house. She didn’t have to do it when Ian could be accused of it.”
“No?” Cameron broke in, his face stern. “She loves you, Hart. Why not push the blame onto Ian, and comfort you when you lose him?”
“Then why would she help me with…” He shot Fellows a sharp gaze.
Fellows rocked back on his heels. “Oh, I know damn well what you did, sir. You bustled your brother off to Scotland so I couldn’t interrogate him. He might tell me a few too many things, wouldn’t he?”
“Why don’t we get Mrs. Palmer down here and ask her?” Cameron said. “If anyone knows the truth of what goes on in this house, it’s her.”
“She’s a hard one to crack,” Fellows returned. “I’ve tried. Just as I’ve tried to break through the damned facade of your two brothers, Hart and Ian, cohorts in crime.”
Cameron advanced on him. “You have trouble with respect, don’t you?”
“Stop!” Ian balled his fists and stepped between them. “Cameron is right. Hart, get Mrs. Palmer. If you didn’t kill Sally Tate, then she did.”
“Or you did, my lord,” Fellows told him, eyes glinting.
“I didn’t want Sally dead. I had to leave her, she made me so furious, but I was ready to pay her off, send her to Australia or somewhere.” Ian glared at Hart. “If the Palmer woman did it, she needs to admit it. She’s caused us enough pain.”
Hart’s voice dripped with coldness. “Angelina isn’t here.”
“Isn’t that convenient?”
Fellows said. “What is she doing at this time of night? Shopping?”
Hart shrugged, and Ian’s black rage rose. All these years he’d feared Hart had committed the murder, his beloved brother who’d released Ian from his prison. Ian had done his best to throw Fellows off the scent, to keep him from speaking to the one witness who could harm Hart. And all these years. Hart had believed Ian was still a madman, mad enough to stab Sally in one of his muddles. Mrs. Palmer was the one person who could clear Hart and Ian both, and now Hart protected her.
Hart was a liar. Mrs. Palmer was still in the house somewhere. And Beth was outside…
Beth twisted, trying to throw Mrs. Palmer away from her at the same time. The knife skirted Beth’s corset and dug its way deep into her side, just above her hip. Beth grunted. The pain was sharp, swift, and robbed her of breath. She dug her fingers into Mrs. Palmer’s wrists and hung on.
“Let go of me, bitch. I’ll gut you.”
Beth tried to scream, but her legs buckled, her body suddenly weak.
“Don’t die on me, you little fool,” Mrs. Palmer’s hot voice hissed in her ear. Beth felt herself being dragged out the gate, the stench of the narrow passage gagging her. Beth’s heart pounded in panic. Mrs. Palmer was clearly dangerous, but she was Beth’s only chance to clear Ian. “You’ll make a nice hostage,” Mrs. Palmer was saying in a hard voice. “Hart tells me Ian adores his new bride. Ian will do anything to get you back, I imagine, including let me get out of England.”
Mrs. Palmer was too strong to fight. She got Beth down the alley to another street, Chancery Lane, if Beth had her bearings right. But darkness swam before her eyes, and she couldn’t be sure. Her hands were so, so cold. She heard Mrs. Palmer laughing, a loud, almost drunken sound. But the woman hadn’t been drunk, had she? Beth’s head swam with confusion as a hansom stopped for them and Mrs. Palmer shoved Beth into it.
“Bethnal Green, love,” she said to the cabbie, still laughing. “Don’t worry, I can pay. Hurry now. I have to get my sister home.” Beth slumped against the seat, and Mrs. Palmer pulled the lap robe up over them both. The robe smelled of dust and sweat and wet wool. Beth coughed, then groaned in pain.
“They’ll come after you,” Beth said hoarsely. “When they find I’m gone, they’ll look for me.”
“I know that,” Mrs. Palmer snapped. “You’ll be well looked after.”
So a shark might say to the fish he was about to eat. Mrs.
Palmer closed her mouth tightly and refused to speak again. Beth swam in and out of consciousness as the hansom rolled on. She dimly wondered how quickly the wound would kill her.
“I need a doctor,” she groaned.
“I told you, you’ll be looked after.”
Beth pressed her hand against her side and closed her eyes. She was nauseous and too cold, her legs numb, sweat coating her face.
At last the hansom stopped moving. The cabbie rumbled something at Mrs. Palmer, and coins clinked into his hand. Beth hung onto the side of the hansom, but Mrs. Palmer pried her away and pulled her down the street, arm around Beth’s waist.
“Hate to see two pretty ladies so drunk,” Beth heard the cabbie say. Mrs. Palmer laughed raucously, but cut it off abruptly as she dragged Beth around a corner. Lamplight shone through some windows, but little illumination penetrated the slums. The brick buildings were gray and black from years of coal smoke and dirt. Filth collected in the streets, and grime coated people staggered drunkenly or hurried, fearful, to the nearest shelter.
Mrs. Palmer propelled Beth through alley after alley, twisting and turning. Beth realized Mrs. Palmer was trying to make her lose her bearings in the maze of streets, but Beth knew Bethnal Green like the back of her hand. She’d grown up here, had fought to stay alive here, had even once been happy here.
“Where are we?” She gasped, pretending to be confused.
“Where are we going?”
“To my sister’s. Stop asking questions.”
“Hart will know about your sister and where she lives, won’t he? And I know I won’t be looked after. You’ll kill me once you get me there. She’ll help you kill me.”
Mrs. Palmer’s fingers were like iron pincers. “I’m not letting you run back to them until I’m well away. I’ll send a confession of everything I’ve done once I’m gone, and tell them where you are.”
“I don’t believe you,” Beth sobbed, putting every bit of drama she could into her voice. “You’ll let Ian hang for a crime he didn’t commit.”
“It’s Hart I’m trying to save, you little idiot, and I don’t care who hangs instead. It’s always been Hart.” Again she snapped her mouth shut and kept Beth stumbling beside her. Beth’s greatest fear was that Mrs. Palmer would simply leave her on the street, hurt and alone. Beth knew the denizens of this part of London would rob her blind in a minute and leave her for dead. Some kind soul might summon a constable, but perhaps too late.
“Please,” she tried. “Let’s find a… a church or something. Let me seek sanctuary there, and you can run away. I won’t know where you’ve gone.”
Mrs. Palmer growled under her breath. “I don’t know why they marry such insipid women. That pale-haired creature Hart married ruined him. Stupid woman had to go and die, and it cut him up something horrible. And that bitch who jilted him before that was no better. Broke his heart. I hate them all for what they did to my lad.” Fury rang in her voice, and she gave Beth’s arm an extra jerk. Beth could see what Sylvia had: that here was a woman who’d do anything for the man she loved. She’d murder for him, lie for him, risk going to the gallows for him.
Around a few more corners, that was all Beth needed.
There. “There’s a church.” Beth hung heavily onto Mrs. Palmer, pointing to the gray brick of Thomas’s former parish church
. “Take me there, please. Don’t leave me in this hellhole. I’ll go mad. I know it.”
Mrs. Palmer snarled something and dragged Beth toward the church. She didn’t approach the front doors but tugged Beth down the narrow alley between buildings. The small churchyard opened in the back, hemmed in by the walls of buildings and the vicarage itself. In Beth’s day the chapel’s back door had been left unlocked, because Thomas liked to nip from vicarage to sacristy through the churchyard and always forgot his key. Mrs. Palmer grabbed the handle and easily opened the door. She pushed Beth into the small passage that led to the sacristy. The familiar scents of candles, dust, books, and cloth assailed Beth, and transported her in her stupor back to her life as a vicar’s wife. Those had been days of peace and order, of one season following the next like pearls on a string. Advent, Christmas, Epiphany, Lent, Easter, Whitsuntide, Trinity. One knew what one had to read and eat and wear, what flowers should be in the church, and what colors on the altar. Up at dawn for the joy of Easter, late to bed on Christmas Eve. No meat at Lent, a feast on Shrove Tuesday. Morning prayer, Evensong, the main service on Sundays.
There hadn’t been enough money for an organ, so Thomas had blown a note on a pitch pipe, and the congregation had lurched through the hymns they knew by heart.
O, God our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come,
Our shelter from the stormy blast,
And our eternal home.
She could hear the even rhythm of the slow tune, old Mrs. Whetherby’s high-pitched warble floating out from the front row.
The church was empty. The whitewashed walls looked the same, as did the high lectern to the right of the altar. Beth wondered if the lectern door’s hinges still squeaked as they had every time Thomas marched up the tiny flight of stairs and opened the half door. The trump of doom, he called it. Now they have to listen to the vicar preach. When Beth suggested he have the sextant oil the hinges, Thomas replied, Then there won’t be anything to wake them up when the sermon’s over.