Chapter 22
Chapter
Twenty-Two
A Place No One Questions
Finch arrived at Steele House at eleven. I had sent for him the day before, eager to learn whether he had uncovered anything new and to share what Rosalynd and I had learned from the Scotland Yard reports.
“You look worn to the bone,” Finch observed after Milford had shown him into my study.
“I’ve had better mornings.” I felt the truth of it in the stiffness of my shoulders. The weight of the previous hours had settled deep into my bones. A trip to a mortuary to witness the abuse inflicted on a young woman would try any man’s soul. “Do sit.”
As he took the chair opposite my desk, I turned to Milford. “Some sandwiches, if you please, and coffee.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Milford said with a bow, and withdrew quietly.
I remained standing a moment longer before resuming my seat. “Anything new to report?”
Finch reached into his coat to draw out his notebook.
“I visited the households and establishments from the list Sister Margaret gave Lady Rosalynd. The stories are all much the same. The young ladies set out on errands and never returned. Some of the disappearances were reported to the police, but nothing ever came of them. Suspicious, if you ask me. One would expect at least a few enquiries. But there were none.”
A familiar tightness settled in my chest. His report matched what we had found in the police reports.
“And Lady Honora?” I asked.
“I engaged a female associate for that enquiry,” Finch replied. “An older woman in her fifties, someone I have worked with before. Women trust her more readily. She often secures answers I cannot.”
He paused, as if weighing what came next, then continued.
“We made our way to Berkeley Square and began asking questions, starting with the constables who were on duty the evening Lady Honora disappeared. For several hours, it came to nothing. But eventually she found someone willing to talk.
A sharp-eyed maid from one of the neighboring houses.
On the day in question, the maid was returning from her half day when she noticed a woman approaching a servant she recognized.
After a brief exchange, a man joined them.
The three then moved together toward a carriage that appeared to be waiting.
She thought little of it at the time, as she saw that same servant the following day. A maid from the Greystowe household.”
The picture formed too easily in my mind.
Sickening in its simplicity. And horrifying.
“They approach the girls under some innocuous pretext. Directions, perhaps. Then the man intervenes, chloroforms her, and they take her away. No one raises an alarm because the victim does not cry out or struggle.”
“That’s what we concluded,” Finch said, his mouth tightening. “And you and Lady Rosalynd? Have you uncovered anything further?”
Before I could answer, Milford and a footman entered after a brief knock, bearing trays laden with sandwiches and the coffee service. The interruption was almost jarring after the grimness of our discussion.
“Beef and ham,” Finch said, rubbing his hands.
“And cheese, with a pot of mustard, Mr. Finch,” Milford added. Once the trays had been set on a small table beside him, the servants withdrew.
“Do you mind?” Finch asked, gesturing toward the food.
I waved a hand. “Help yourself.” He had likely missed breakfast.
He satisfied his hunger with remarkable speed and then returned his attention to me. As I updated him on what Rosalynd and I had learned, his expression sharpened, the genial lines giving way to something colder.
“The Venus Grotto,” he said at last. “That is not a name I have encountered.”
“My best estimate places it close enough to London to be reached by barge or boat,” I said, “but not so close as to draw Scotland Yard’s attention.”
“It would need to be a substantial property,” Finch observed. “They’ve taken more than a dozen girls.”
“It’s worse than that.” I reached for the stack of reports on my desk and let my hand rest wearily upon them. “These files document thirty-two missing women. Most were never investigated at all. The few that were led nowhere, which seems to have discouraged any effort with the rest.”
Finch went very still. His shoulders squared, and his fingers curled slowly against the arm of the chair. “Twelve was bad enough,” he said at last. “But thirty-two?” His gaze lifted, hard and dark with revulsion.
The number sat between us, foul and undeniable.
“And those are only the ones who were reported,” I replied. “God knows how many were not.”
The silence that followed was heavy, dense, and unyielding.
“We need to find the Venus Grotto,” Finch said at last. The words came clipped and forceful. “That’s where our efforts must be directed.”
“I agree.”
“Where would such a place be located?”
I retrieved the map of London and the surrounding districts from my desk. Spreading it across the surface, I gestured for Finch to join me. “Here is London,” I said, laying my finger along the familiar sprawl, “and here is the Thames.”
He leaned closer as I traced the river from west to east, the motion steady despite the anger simmering beneath my hand.
“It cannot be within the city,” I continued. “A place like that would not endure scrutiny for long. Too many eyes. Too many opportunities for inconvenient questions.”
Finch nodded. “And yet it must be close enough to reach without difficulty.”
“Close enough that the journey itself would not invite suspicion. The girls were likely taken first to Riversgate in Chelsea—a house near the river. Lady Rosalynd found out about it yesterday from her modiste. The girls’ abductors would not wish to travel far once the deed was done.”
“Carriages leave traces,” Finch said.
“But the river would not.” I slid my finger downriver, past Westminster and Lambeth, feeling again the chill of the water Rosalynd and I had seen that morning.
I moved farther east, beyond the denser markings of the city. “Here,” I said, indicating the stretch beyond Woolwich. “This is where London thins. Country houses begin to appear. Estates with river frontage. Private moorings. Places no one visits unless invited.”
“And far enough from London that no one would think to look there,” Finch said.
“Yet close enough to reach from Chelsea in under an hour by launch,” I replied. “They take the girls from Riversgate under the cover of darkness, put them on the river, and leave London behind.”
Finch studied the map in silence. “It would have to be some wealthy landowner’s house,” he said at last. “Someone whose name alone discourages enquiry.” His gaze lifted to mine. “An aristocrat?”
“Yes,” I said. “It fits.”
Only a man with a title could host such lavish entertainments without protest. His status alone would be enough to silence enquiry. The thought was sickening.
“He need not be the one directing the scheme,” I asserted. “But he’s immoral enough to accept payment for the depraved use of his property.”
Finch’s brow furrowed. “Someone paid him, but who?”
“Someone who profits from leverage,” I said. “Someone who enjoys having powerful men under his control, because it allows him to direct them as he pleases.”
Understanding settled over Finch’s features. “The bastard who financed Vale’s drug operation.” His mouth twisted with disgust. “No one knows his name, Steele. He keeps himself well in the shadows.”
“Every man has a weakness,” I said. “Eventually, he will make a mistake. When he does, we will know.” My attention returned to the map.
“For now, our focus must be on that property—and on those girls.” I straightened.
“I leave it to you. Hire whomever you must. I will pay whatever it takes. We must find it before another girl pays with her life.”
“Right.”
Milford reappeared at that moment, an envelope resting on a silver salver. “This arrived by hand, Your Grace.”
The seal was unmistakable.
Rosehaven.
I dismissed Finch with a nod. “Send word as soon as you have anything of substance.”
He inclined his head and departed.
The seal broke cleanly beneath my thumb. The note was brief.
Steele,
I am aware of the events of last night. Your presence at Rosehaven House is no longer welcome. Until further notice, you are barred from the house and grounds entirely.
—Rosehaven
I folded the letter with deliberate care and set it atop my desk, aligning it with unnecessary precision.
Not anger.
Something colder. Harder.
Resolve.
Rosehaven believed he could keep Rosalynd and me apart.
He was quite mistaken.