CHAPTER 16 #3
“Barbarous,” Dr. Lewis said. “I’ve met Reginald Bruce. Dined in his company at the Athenaeum. Did you take the brute into custody?”
“He was in Scotland during the raid. Still, I’m confident I can make a case against him. I’ve recommended that the Scottish police arrest him. It’s gone up the chain of command.”
“Recommended?” Julia said. “Surely, Rawlings’s evidence and that of the girls removes all doubt.”
Tennant’s head dropped against the chair back and he said, tiredly, “We shall see.”
Julia asked, “What about Franny Riley and Margot Miller? What has Rawlings said about their deaths?”
“Nothing. Nothing to the purpose, that is.”
“Not even a denial?” Julia said.
“At first, my questions shocked the fellow. That he was under suspicion of murder stunned him. Struck him near dumb, in fact. Then he was volubly terrified. He stuttered and babbled and cried like a baby.”
“Well, he would deny it, wouldn’t he?” Dr. Lewis said. “Facing the hangman’s noose.”
“My judgment isn’t infallible, but if Rawlings lied, he’s a consummate actor and should go on the stage.”
Julia topped up his glass of beer. “What about the girls?”
“They held seven at a time to . . . serve the gentlemen of the Topkapi harem. If the men tired of them, they were prostituted to others at the St. Giles house. Constables freed four girls from that hell. Mister Lloyd has been of immense help dealing with the young women from China.”
Julia said, “I ran into him yesterday on Harley Street.”
Tennant caught her eye and smiled faintly. “Yes . . . so he told me.”
Julia thought of his parting words in the cab and wondered what he said.
“Of the two Chinese girls they had in their claws, only one spoke Cantonese. Mister Lloyd brought in a colleague who is fluent in Mandarin. They and the other girls tell a consistent story of deception, drugs, imprisonment, and rape.”
“What will happen to the girls?” Julia asked. “Surely, the authorities won’t charge them with prostitution.”
“No. But their testimony will form the core of kidnapping and enslavement charges. If they come to trial—”
“If?” she said, startled.
“No doubt, the gentlemen in custody will mount a vigorous defense, pleading ignorance of the girls’ origins.”
“Damnable,” Doctor Lewis muttered.
“Still, there will be a rough sort of justice, even if they manage to evade the law.” Tennant sat forward in his chair.
“Do you have the Sunday Telegraph delivered? If not, you may want to send out for it tomorrow. Johnny Osborne has promised to splash the story and the men’s names across its pages. ”
Julia said, “The Telegraph? Osborne no longer writes for the Illustrated London News?”
“He told me the weekly Illustrated offered insufficient scope for his genius.”
“I’ll let that remark pass,” Julia said. “Where will the poor girls go?”
“There, again, it’s Mister Lloyd to the rescue. He and his fellow clergyman-interpreter will take in the Chinese girls.”
“And the others? What will happen to them?”
“Mister Lloyd knows of a home for the others called Mercy Cottage. It’s a refuge for ‘fallen women’ that minimizes moralizing and maximizes sympathy and practical help.”
“Thank goodness for his kindness.”
“Mister Lloyd attends Mercy Cottage twice weekly for prayer and counseling. And singing.” Tennant smiled. “He said the girls prefer it over preaching.”
Dr. Lewis said, “The man and his mission are well matched.”
“About Charles Allingham . . .” Julia looked into the fire. “Was he involved in—”
“Rawlings says the pornography scheme was the extent of Allingham’s entanglement. Sidney Allen recruited Margot Miller to procure the girls for ‘the Harem.’ Allingham was a club member but hadn’t a room in the Harem.”
“Do you believe Rawlings?”
The inspector shrugged. “I see no reason the fellow would lie to protect a dead man.”
“I’m glad for Mary and Louisa,” Julia said. “Although what he did was sordid enough.”
“The ‘artistic’ collections made a tidy profit, according to Rawlings. They turned things around for Allingham’s foundering firm. The books sold for thirty pounds each. We found shipping details for their domestic and international clientele at the factory. It included some eye-popping names.”
“What about the murder of Franny Riley,” Julia said. “Could it have been Rawlings?”
Tennant shook his head. “According to the girls, he showed up later. The timing places him at the brothel after Franny’s death. And none of them ever saw the girl who was locked away. I’m convinced it was Franny, but I can’t prove it.”
They sat for a few moments, listening to the fire crackle. Then, Julia clapped her hands to her skirts, pushed herself up, and stood before Tennant’s chair. She extended both her hands.
“Up,” she said, and he allowed her to help him to his feet. ‘You must be longing to go to bed.”
A corner of his lips turned up. “Longing . . . indeed.”
His slight smile, the flicker in his eyes, and his tone of voice made his meaning plain. Julia felt a flush rise. He held on to her hands, and she wondered if he could feel her beating pulse. Finally, he released his grip, and she turned.
“Come, Grandfather, you’re next.”
At the door, Dr. Lewis patted the inspector on the arm. “Richard, my boy, you’ve done fine work these past weeks.”
“It’s back to the beginning for the murders, I’m afraid. I’ve missed something.” He sighed. “I’ll take Sunday morning off, go for a long walk, and clear my head. Then I’ll start again.”
Julia retrieved Tennant’s hat and handed it to him. “I’ve started on Doctor Scott’s journals. Nothing so far, only that he was mean about money. Gloating over pennies and farthings saved.”
“People are unaccountable. The fellow was rich.”
“He was also incredibly vain. He recorded every little compliment, especially if it came from Lady So-and-So or the Honorable Mrs. Whatsis.” Julia shrugged. “But I’ll soldier on with it. Something might turn up.”
“Thank you.” Tennant glanced over his shoulder at the waiting carriage. “And thank you, sir, for the services of Mister Ogilvie.”
“My pleasure, my boy.”
Julia smiled. “As your sergeant would say, ‘It’s knackered you are,’ and you’ll be glad of a ride.”
* * *
After a long night’s sleep, Inspector Tennant hiked through Hyde Park to Green Park and back again.
He’d pushed his leg to the limit and looked around for a pub with a Sunday license.
He ate a ploughman’s lunch and then took a cab to Dr. Scott’s address on Harley Street.
He wanted another look at the doctor’s checkbook.
Earlier, Tennant had noted the considerable balance, but a thorough examination of the entries was in order, so he settled behind Scott’s desk and started reading.
Tennant flipped through the counterfoils. The doctor had been a meticulous creature of habit, writing predictable checks for identical amounts, month after month until . . .
Starting in October, Scott had written a monthly check for twenty pounds in cash. He’d issued the last one in February.
The inspector inched out the stiff bottom drawer. There, he found stacks of canceled checks returned by the bank. Tennant sorted and found the ones made out for twenty pounds; Margot Miller had countersigned them all. The payments stopped the month of her murder.
Blackmail? But how could she have threatened Scott without endangering herself?
Twenty pounds is the going rate.... Perhaps she was supplying inexperienced girls for the doctor, getting around Allen, and keeping both halves of the fee.
Both theories provided a motive for killing Margot Miller. But who murdered Scott?
Bloody hell. Tennant shoved the materials back in their drawers. He locked up and left for Russell Square, where he asked his housekeeper for dinner on a tray in the library. After he finished, he poured himself a whiskey and stared into his fireplace.
Sidney Allen? Maybe Scott told him about Miller’s blackmail, and the publisher decided to eliminate both loose cannons.
Damn it, Allen is still in the wind.
Tennant sat all evening in his chair, thinking about a poisoning, a stab wound to the neck, and a second poisoning....
* * *
Mary and Louisa returned to Kensington on Sunday evening. They’d spent ten days on the Isle of Wight, Mary sketching and her sister-in-law reading in the sun.
Louisa handed her hat and wrap to the housemaid and went upstairs to rest before dinner. Alfred, who’d opened the door for them, drew Mary aside and asked if she’d heard the news about Dr. Scott.
She gasped. “He was poisoned?”
Alfred nodded.
“By his own hand?”
“This morning’s papers said the police hadn’t ruled out foul play.”
“Good God.” Mary wondered how she would tell Louisa.
“And there is something else,” Alfred said. “About Rawlings and Mister Allen. But it might be best to read it for yourself. Shall I bring the newspapers to the library? Your letters are there.”
“Thank you. And Alfred . . . please keep the papers away from Mrs. Allingham unless she asks for them.”
While she waited for Alfred, Mary picked up her post and sat by the garden window. She shuffled inattentively through a stack of envelopes until one with a Soho return address stopped her. Mary opened a letter from Will Quain.
Would you care to join me for a day of plein air painting?
Monday, I thought, after your return from the Isle of Wight.
I know a perfect spot at the edge of Hampstead Heath.
I’ll hire a carriage for the day and provide luncheon.
Bring a maid to chaperone if you must, but I assure you, my intentions are honorable—more or less.
Mary smiled. Cheeky, but irresistible. Not only the invitation but also the man. She’d missed him. The ten days she’d been away had crawled like a month.
Will’s invitation added something else she’d rather keep from her sister-in-law. Mary sighed, knowing she had to tackle two tricky subjects: Dr. Scott’s death and an unchaperoned outing with Will Quain.
Then Alfred handed her the Sunday newspapers.