Chapter 18 #2
It was true. Despite her beckoning bed and the protestations of her body, Caroline had been too on edge to sleep.
She had reexamined Charlie’s drawings one by one, and when that exercise proved futile, except to highlight the disparity between Mary Jane’s beauty and her own sharp features, she had returned to the kitchen, lit the lamps, and started on the dishes.
Now the sink was empty, the floor swept and scrubbed, the stained tablecloth soaking in soda and lye.
“I was up early.” Caroline dried the last wineglass and set it in the cupboard. “I haven’t gotten to the parlor yet. It’s a bit of a mess, I’m afraid. Someone spilled a glass of wine, and the lamps were left on—”
“Just…” Mrs. Easton interrupted, closing her eyes and leaning her head back. “Just please don’t say anything more until I’ve had my tea.”
—
The landlady grew more fortified with each sip, and by the time her second cup was empty, some color had returned to her cheeks. “All right,” she said with a reluctant sigh, “let’s see what havoc these barbarians wreaked on my beautiful house.”
In the light of day, the damage to the parlor was even worse than Caroline remembered.
A book had been dismembered in the fireplace, its cover shriveled, its title indecipherable.
The framed treasures in the parlor—the breastplate inlaid with turquoise, the beaten gold necklace—hung at odd angles.
In addition to the wine stain on the staircase, there was another toppled glass on the mantel, and shards of what had once been a vase hidden behind a chair in the corner.
A box of matches had been upturned, the red-headed sticks buried deep in the carpet, and the potted palm smelled suspiciously of urine.
Animals, Caroline thought. Drunken animals.
It took them the better part of an hour to put the room right. Mrs. Easton was on hands and knees on the staircase, scrubbing ferociously at the wine stain, when a knock sounded on the front door.
Both women froze.
The knock rang out again, louder.
“Shall I—” Caroline began, but Mrs. Easton silenced her with a wave of her hand.
The landlady rose stiffly to her feet and crossed the parlor rug. Caroline’s sore head beat with every pulse of her heart.
Mrs. Easton opened the door just wide enough to pull the chain taut, then shut it fast. Her hand trembled as she unbolted the door, but her voice, when she addressed whoever was standing on the other side, had a polite brittleness Caroline had not heard before.
“Good day, Officer. How can I help you?”
“Good day,” answered a plummy male voice Caroline did not recognize. “Forgive the interruption, madam. But we need to ask the owner of this establishment a few questions.”
Silently, Caroline stepped behind Mrs. Easton.
The officer was only a few inches taller than she, round-faced and round-bellied. He was flanked by two other policemen, their truncheons gleaming grimly at their sides.
Their uniforms were not black, like the Metropolitan Police, but dark blue. To Caroline’s disappointment, none of them was Sergeant Corbet.
“I am the owner of this establishment,” replied Mrs. Easton, crossing sinewy arms over her chest.
The officer pulled a notebook, identical to Sergeant Corbet’s, from his breast pocket and uncapped his pen. “Mrs….”
“Easton.”
He wrote this down, and without glancing up, he said, “I’m afraid there’s been another murder, madam.”
Caroline swayed on her feet. She knew it. She knew it—
“The London City Police force is going door-to-door,” the officer continued. “Questioning the whole neighborhood. Seeing if anyone heard anything last night. Anything at all.”
“I heard nothing,” Mrs. Easton replied woodenly. “Slept like the dea—like, like a babe. Not a peep from any of my guests, either. And if you speak to Commissioner Warren, I believe you’ll find that everyone in this boardinghouse has already been thoroughly questioned.”
Commissioner Warren, to the best of Caroline’s knowledge, was currently sleeping behind the locked door of room 207. She schooled her face into a blank expression.
“I shall make a note,” said the officer.
“Although we are with the London City Police, as I said, not the Met, so we answer to Commissioner Munro. And—it’ll be in the papers soon enough, I suppose—Commissioner Warren is expected to resign.
Her Majesty herself has called for it. For the botchery he’s made of this investigation. ”
Mrs. Easton blanched.
The officer touched his hat. “Good day, ma’am.” He gestured to the policemen on either side, and they turned to go.
“Wait,” called Caroline. “Who…who was it?”
The officer’s eyes flicked over Mrs. Easton’s shoulder and found her.
“Sir,” she added clumsily. “Do you know who it was, sir? Who was killed? Was it another woman?”
He sighed. “It was another woman. But you’ve nothing to fear, miss. As long as you stay indoors after dark, and stick to good, honest work—”
“Do you have a name?”
He wrinkled his nose at her rudeness but pulled the notebook back out of his pocket and flipped through it. “Mary Kelly,” he said after a moment. “No, sorry. Mary Jane Kelly. Most recently of thirteen Miller’s Court.”