Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
A Study in Apathy at Scotland Yard
The morning after my visit to Rosehaven House, I rose before dawn, unsettled by thoughts that would not rest. On my desk lay the copy of the note I had sent to Commissioner Linwood the previous evening.
I could not speak to him about Lady Honora’s disappearance, but nothing prevented me from raising the matter of the other missing women.
Request an audience regarding multiple disappearances of women placed in service through charitable institutions. Urgent. —Steele
The messenger had returned with a brief reply before midnight.
Commissioner Linwood will receive Your Grace at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.
By the time my carriage turned into Whitehall Place, the afternoon light lay warm across the street, softening the edges of the government buildings nearby.
Whatever mist the morning had held had long since burned away.
Clerks and constables moved in and out of the entrance on Great Scotland Yard, their pace brisk as the day’s business pressed forward.
I stepped from the carriage and entered through the narrow doorway.
The echo of my boots carried down the corridor, mingling with the scratch of pens and the shuffle of paper.
Scotland Yard was no modern marvel, but a cramped warren of offices and overworked men, bearing the weary soul of an institution stretched far beyond its intended purpose.
A reception desk stood just inside, little more than a high counter behind which a uniformed constable kept the visitor ledger.
“Your name, sir?” he asked.
“Steele,” I said. “I have an appointment with Commissioner Linwood.”
Recognition dawned at once. “Very good, Your Grace.” He signaled to a nearby sergeant. “Simmons, the Commissioner’s visitor—the Duke of Steele—has arrived.”
The sergeant approached with brisk respect. “This way, if you please.”
We climbed to the upper floor where a row of glass-paned doors opened onto private offices. The sergeant rapped once on one of them.
“Come,” a voice called from within.
“His Grace, the Duke of Steele, sir,” the sergeant announced and withdrew.
Commissioner Linwood rose at once. He was a tall, spare man with silver beginning to thread his dark hair. His uniform was immaculate, his expression guarded. A heavy desk separated us, its surface crowded with reports and the morning edition of The Times.
“Your Grace,” he said, extending a hand. “You’d like to discuss an urgent matter?”
“Urgent and neglected,” I replied. “I appreciate your seeing me on short notice.”
He gestured for me to sit. “Your message mentioned disappearances connected to charitable institutions?” he said, his tone cordial.
I took the chair opposite his desk, though I did not settle into it. The civility of his manner only sharpened my impatience. These were not abstractions to be smoothed over with procedure, and I had no interest in indulging the fiction that they were.
“Young women placed in service through establishments such as St. Agnes in Clerkenwell and the Marylebone Women’s Aid Society have gone missing,” I said. “Their disappearances were reported. No investigations followed.”
Still affable, Linwood inclined his head slightly. “We receive a number of such reports each month. Servants often leave their posts without notice. Homesickness, romance, petty theft. They usually reappear elsewhere.”
My jaw tightened. “These did not,” I said. “And I believe foul play was involved.”
He folded his hands upon the desk, the gesture composed. “What evidence do you have?”
“Caleb Finch, an enquiry agent, has traced at least six cases,” I said.
“The pattern is too exact to be coincidence. Each girl was at her place of employment, carrying out her usual duties. Each stepped out on some routine errand—a delivery, a collection, fetching supplies, running a message—and never returned. None were seen again.”
“I know of Caleb Finch,” Linwood said pleasantly. “He is a capable investigator.” A faint, derisive smile touched his mouth. “But he has a tendency toward conjecture.”
I leaned forward then, resting my forearms on the desk. “Then perhaps conjecture is what your men require,” I said, my voice rising, “since they have shown no inclination to act at all.”
Color touched his cheeks. “With respect, Your Grace, we act when there is cause. If the employers fail to provide sufficient detail, the matter cannot proceed.”
I sat back and regarded him steadily, giving him time to hear his own words. “Would you say the same if the missing were the daughters of peers?”
A faint sheen of sweat formed above his upper lip. “Naturally not. Circumstances differ.”
“In fact,” I said, my gaze steady on him, “one such daughter has already suffered the same fate.”
His head lifted sharply. “A lady of rank? Who?”
“I am not at liberty to disclose it,” I replied. “Only to say that it occurred. The family has chosen silence—for now. But when the truth emerges, every unanswered report concerning the missing women will be closely scrutinized.”
Linwood reached for his handkerchief to blot the sweat with a touch more haste than necessary. “If this is true, Your Grace, it is a grave matter.”
“It is true,” I said. “And it is indeed grave. The methods of disappearance are identical. A young woman walked out of the house she called home and vanished into silence.”
Linwood’s gaze slid away from me, moving instead to the papers on his desk, the window beyond, the clock upon the mantel—as though one of them might offer a solution he had not yet considered.
“If the cases are connected,” he said at last, choosing his words with care, “we shall determine it. But we must proceed carefully.”
I scoffed. “Carefully is but a euphemism for slowly,” I said. “And slowly means another girl will be lost.”
Silence stretched between us. The faint tick of the clock on the mantel marked each passing second, each one tightening the space in which he sat.
At length, Linwood exhaled, the sound weary and resigned. He met my gaze again, whatever resistance he had been clinging to finally spent. “Very well. What precisely do you require of me?”
I had him.
“Access to your records,” I said. “Missing-person reports from the past six months involving young females who found employment through the efforts of charitable organizations. I also wish to know what action was taken in response to each report.”
He frowned. “Those are not public documents.”
He believed that would stop me. He was mistaken. “I did not ask as a member of the public. I ask as a peer who approves your budget.”
For a moment, he said nothing. Then his shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly. He had no more cards to play, and he knew it.
“You will have them,” he said. “But it will take some time.”
Not bloody likely. “I want them by tomorrow evening. That should provide the Yard with enough time.”
He inclined his head in reluctant acknowledgment. “Very good, Your Grace.”
We shook hands, and I made my way out of his office.
Outside, the air carried the warmth of the day, touched by the faint scent of horseflesh and pavement. I paused at the top of the steps and drew a steadying breath before descending to my waiting carriage.
“Steele House,” I ordered my coachman.
The ride to Grosvenor Square passed in a haze of thoughts about the unresolved matters.
It was not only the Commissioner’s weak excuses that troubled me, but the truth beneath them.
They had written reports, set them aside, and had not investigated at all.
All those girls vanished while the Yard chose inaction over enquiry.
Once I arrived home, I intended to draft a note to Lady Rosalynd at once about the meeting. But when Milford admitted me, he handed me two pieces of correspondence. One was from Finch. The other bore Rosalynd’s hand.
I moved to my study and opened Finch’s letter first.
Your Grace,
I visited Greystowe House yesterday morning. Lord Greystowe received me at once. I learned the following regarding Lady Honora’s disappearance three days ago.
On the afternoon in question, Lady Honora complained of a severe migraine and retired to her chamber.
Her maid assisted her as usual. Later, Lady Honora exchanged clothing with the maid.
Dressed in the maid’s uniform and cloak, she left the house by the front door, telling the footman she was bound for the apothecary to obtain migraine powders.
The household believed her to be resting upstairs.
When Lady Honora did not come down for breakfast the following morning, Lady Greystowe went to check on her and found the maid instead.
The distressed girl confessed to the exchange of clothing.
She believed she was helping her mistress keep an appointment with Mr. Carleton, who was waiting for her on the opposite side of Berkeley Square.
I obtained Mr. Carleton’s address and interviewed him. He stated that he waited for Lady Honora in a hired carriage for more than an hour. When she did not appear, he concluded she had changed her mind and instructed the driver to return him to his lodgings.
My conclusion remains that Lady Honora left Greystowe House willingly and intended to meet Mr. Carleton across Berkeley Square.
She did not reach him. Somewhere between the Greystowe steps and the north side of the square, she vanished.
No witnesses have yet come forward, nor has any disturbance been reported.
The maid insists Lady Honora was in good spirits and carried nothing beyond the borrowed cloak.
I will continue my enquiries and will report again once I have further information.
Finch
I folded Finch’s report with deliberate care, though the tightness in my chest made the motion feel mechanical.
Three days gone. Lady Honora had stepped out of her house in the evening, crossed no more than a few dozen yards, and vanished without a trace.
No witnesses. No disturbance. Nothing to guide us.
Lord and Lady Greystowe had to be staggering under their grief.
For a moment I stood in the quiet of my study, the weight of Finch’s report pressing hard upon me. And then, I drew a slow breath and forced my thoughts to steady. There was much to be done.
I turned to Rosalynd’s note hoping for better news.
S,
I received a report from Mr. Finch. It requires discussion, but the hour grows late. I will attend the Marwood Ball this evening. If circumstances permit, perhaps we might find a moment to speak there.
—R
I folded the note, considering. A crowded ballroom was hardly ideal, yet no better opportunity presented itself.
“Very well,” I murmured. “The Marwood Ball it is.”
Before proceeding further, I dashed off a note to Greystowe, summarizing the steps we had taken. The news was hardly encouraging—but neither was it without hope.
A father deserved at least that much.