The Hangman's Secret Page 11

  “Go away,” Mrs. Albert says through clenched teeth, “before you do any more damage.”

  “Mother, who’s there?” Sally appears in the passage behind Mrs. Albert, drying her hands on her apron. She sees me and smiles. “Sarah!”

  “Miss Bain was just leaving,” Mrs. Albert says. She never calls me by my first name. She knows my father named Sally after me, and it galls her.

  “No!” Sally holds the door open while her mother tries to close it. “Sarah, is something wrong?”

  “We can’t wait to—we have to go—” I can’t say that we have to look for our father, starting at the place where Sally saw him. Mrs. Albert would never let Sally out of the house.

  Sally takes the hint. “I’ll get my coat.” She runs down the passage.

  Mrs. Albert fumes at me. “Sally is going to get in trouble, and it’s your fault.”

  Sally returns, carrying her coat and hat, and pushes past her mother. We run down the alley like children running away from school. “Sally! Come back!” Mrs. Albert shouts.

  On the main road, amid people hurrying to the shops before they close, we slow down to catch our breath. Misgivings fill me. “I’m sorry I came. You could lose your post.”

  “I don’t care,” Sally says. “I’ve been working in that house for eleven years. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life there.”

  I consider the prospect of adding another person to my household. Sally could share my bedroom, but even with the generous salary Sir Gerald pays us, I come up short. “Your mother said you want to be a writer.”

  “Well, yes.” Sally ducks her head, abashed. “I was good at writing when I was at school, and I love to read novels from the library. Some are wonderful, but others aren’t at all, and I said to myself, ‘I could do this.’ Mother caught me scribbling at night. She was furious. She said I was stupid to think I could write novels, let alone earn money from it.”

  My mother had reacted much the same when I said I wanted to be a photographer. Now my heart contracts with remembered pain and humiliation. She also criticized my looks, my manner, and everything I did. She often said I would need to earn my own living because no man would ever want to marry me. If she loved me, it was difficult to tell. Her harsh treatment of me has left scars as permanent as those caused by my father’s absence.

  “She says she’s telling me for my own good,” Sally says. It’s exactly how my mother justified her behavior toward me. “But I’m not going to let anybody stop me.”

  I’m the last person to tell someone else not to pursue her dream, but I warn Sally, “You may have to work for a long time before you succeed. I operated my photography studio at a loss for the first year. You had better keep your post and save up your wages. There could be some hardships ahead.”

  “I know, but I just can’t resign myself to emptying other people’s chamber pots.” Sally adds bashfully, “I want to be independent, like you.”

  My example speaks louder than my words, but maybe her notions aren’t entirely my fault; maybe we were both born with an independent streak. “I’m sorry I’ve caused trouble between you and your mother.”

  “It’s all right. She needs to realize that I’m old enough to make my own decisions. I’m glad you want to look for Father tonight, but why are you so urgent all of a sudden?”

  I explain about Inspector Reid’s threat. I’ve already told Sally that Reid hates Hugh, Mick, and especially me for meddling in police business. She’s safer not knowing the whole truth about Robin Mariner’s kidnapping and the fate of Jack the Ripper.

  “Oh, dear,” Sally says. “But I’m sure we’ll find him before Inspector Reid does. We won’t let him get arrested.”

  I’m not so sure he doesn’t deserve to be arrested, but I’ll let Sally believe in his innocence until, heaven forbid, he’s proven guilty.

  We arrive at the library, an elegant building so new that its bricks are still red instead of black with soot. A domed portico mounted on white stone columns embellishes the entrance. We climb the steps. The library is dark except for a lamp glowing in the vestibule. As Sally opens the door, a man inside says, “We’re closing.”

  “Please, Mr. Roscoe, can we come in just for a moment?” Sally says. “It’s very important.”

  The man is short and thin, with a bald head, a waxed brown mustache, and silver-rimmed spectacles. “Oh, hello, Miss Albert.” He has a surprisingly deep, rich voice. He smiles and says, “For a regular patron like you, I’ll bend the rules.”

  He lets us into a large room that smells of leather, wood, fresh paint, tobacco smoke, and floor wax. The dark shapes of furniture inhabit the shadows. The clatter of our footsteps on the parquet floor echoes up to the high ceiling. Sally says, “Mr. Roscoe is the head librarian.” She introduces me to him. “This is my sister—Miss Sarah Bain.”

  I’m touched by the pride in her voice. I’ve shied from meeting her acquaintances for fear that she would be ashamed of me because I’m part of her father’s dark, secret past.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Bain,” Mr. Roscoe says as we shake hands. “How can I help you ladies?”

  Sally’s brow knits as she gropes for words. “The last time I was here, I saw … a man.” She’s obviously reluctant to reveal his name or connection with us. She and her mother have kept their history as much a secret as my mother and I did ours. “May I show Sarah where?”

  Mr. Roscoe looks mystified but intrigued. “Certainly.”

  He lights gas lamps, illuminating dark, heavy wooden tables and chairs, the librarian’s desk, and shelves filled with books. I follow Sally up an iron staircase to a gallery that circles the room and contains more rows of ceiling-high bookshelves. “I was here.” Sally stands in the narrow aisle between two rows. She paces some fifteen steps halfway down the aisle. “He was right here. We looked straight at each other.” Her voice resonates with the shock she must have felt. “Then he turned and ran.” She leads me back to the staircase, leans over the railing, and points down at the door. “He hurried outside. By the time I got there, he was gone.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you.” Mr. Roscoe’s rich voice echoes up to us. He’s standing below the gallery, his small figure dwarfed by the height. “Why were you chasing that man?”

  Sally gasps. “You saw him?”

  “Yes. Heavyset fellow with a white beard. He ran past me, and a moment later you did.”

  “See? He really was here,” Sally says to me, breathless with triumph. “I didn’t just imagine it.”

  I want to believe her, but it’s possible she mistook a stranger for our father. We hurry down the stairs to join Mr. Roscoe. He asks, “Who was he?”

  “I—I don’t know.” Sally blushes and looks at the floor. She’s not a competent liar.

  Mr. Roscoe turns his quizzical gaze on me, but my countenance is impenetrable; I’ve had many more years’ practice at concealing secrets. I ask, “Had you ever seen him before?”

  “Once or twice. I noticed him because he didn’t borrow any books. He’s not a member.” Mr. Roscoe turns to Sally. “Was he bothering you?”

  She lifts her puzzled gaze. “Bothering me?”

  “At the time, I thought that was why you chased him and he was in such a hurry to get away,” Mr. Roscoe says. “Because you were angry and meant to report him.”

  “No,” Sally says, still confused. “He didn’t do anything. He didn’t even speak to me.”

  “That’s good. It happens sometimes—an unsavory character notices a young lady and follows her around the library. When I see it, I put a stop to it and tell him in no uncertain terms never to come back. If that fellow ever does bother you, just let me know.”

  Sally and I look at each other, stunned as we absorb the implication of his words. “He was following me?” Sally says.

  “Yes,” Mr. Roscoe says. “He came into the library right after you, and he hid behind the stacks while you were browsing. He pretended to be looking at books, but he barely took his e
yes off you.”

  * * *

  As soon as we’re outside the library, Sally exclaims, “It had to be Father! And he knew who I was! Why else would he follow me?”

  I think of my own sighting of him, which I’d thought to be a coincidence. “My God, maybe he was following me too!”

  “He tracked us down,” Sally says, jittery with excitement. “He hasn’t forgotten us. He wants to reunite with us, but he’s afraid.”

  Even as my heart leaps to embrace this interpretation, other possibilities disturb my mind. Maybe it was a coincidence; maybe our father didn’t recognize Sally or me. He is the prime suspect in the rape as well as the murder of Ellen Casey. Maybe he happened onto us and viewed us, his own daughters, as prey to molest. The idea is so sickening that I can’t voice it to Sally.

  “Did he think I wanted to catch him and turn him in to the police? Is that why he ran?” A mournful sob breaks Sally’s voice. “Did I scare him away?”

  That seems a real possibility. I look around the foggy street, where a lone carriage rolls. We and the few other pedestrians walk bent against the cold wind that buffets us. Our father has left no visible trace.

  “He’ll never come back,” Sally cries. “Sarah, we’ve lost him forever!”

  “Let’s not give up,” I say, to raise my own morale as well as Sally’s. “Inspector Reid claimed to have clues to his whereabouts.” Dreadful news at the time, it’s encouraging now. “And we definitely do,” I remind Sally.

  Her face brightens. “Lucas Zehnpfennig.”

  We walk in silence as we think of the link between our father’s disappearances in 1866 and 1879. Shortly before he disappeared on Sally and her mother, he received a letter from a man named Lucas Zehnpfennig. He was very upset, burned the letter, and made Sally promise she wouldn’t tell anyone about it. But she told me, and the news unearthed a buried memory of a day when I was ten years old and came home from school to discover a strange man in the parlor with my mother. Hello, Sarah. I’m Lucas Zehnpfennig. His last name was so odd that I giggled. He was holding me on his lap, stroking my hair, when my father came in. My father ordered Lucas to get out of the house, and that night I heard my parents having one of their many whispered arguments. Soon afterward, my father disappeared. I’m sure Lucas was the same man who sent the letter Sally saw. Sally and I believe that finding Lucas is the key to finding my father and the truth about the past, but I’ve let time slip by for fear of taking the next step.

  “How would we go about finding him?” Sally asks.

  “I have an idea.” An idea that entails returning to a place where I never wanted to go again.

  CHAPTER 12

  When I arrive at home, I find Hugh, Mick, and Fitzmorris at the dining room table, eating a supper of bangers and mash. Mick listens, rapt, as Hugh says, “Then I punched him in the mouth. He went down on his knees, spitting out blood and teeth.”

  “Aw, and I had to miss it!” Mick says.

  “It was quite a victory.” Hugh preens.

  I frown. He’s making the attack at Newgate sound like fun and games. Mick says, “Can I go with you and Sarah tomorrow?”

  “No,” I say from the doorway.

  “Sarah. Welcome home,” Hugh says with a smile.

  “You have school tomorrow,” I tell Mick.

  “It wouldn’t hurt to skip just this once,” Mick says.

  “You’ve already skipped weeks. Besides, we’re not going anywhere interesting tomorrow.” I signal Hugh with a glance. “You might as well go to school.”

  Hugh doesn’t take the hint. “We’ve one more suspect to interview—the Sheriff of London.”

  “Criminy!” Mick says. “Don’t make me miss that.”

  “We could go to Old Bailey in the morning,” Hugh says. “If you promise to go to school in the afternoon, maybe Sarah will change her mind.” He’s a pushover for Mick, whose company he loves. He always undermines my efforts to act as a parent to Mick.

  “If we don’t solve the murder and Sir Gerald fires us, Mick needs an education to fall back on,” I say.

  “Have a little faith, Sarah. We’ll solve it.” Hugh is forever the optimist despite his own misfortunes. “Mick will be a big help.” The two exchange grins.

  “It’s dangerous,” I say. “Look what happened today.”

  “If I’d been with you, it wouldn’t’ve been so bad,” Mick says. “They’d have had a harder time takin’ all three of us.”

  “Besides, Newgate is a perfect place for an attack in the dark,” Hugh says. “Old Bailey is more civilized. What could happen there?”

  I drop into a chair. It’s been a long day, I’m hungry, and I haven’t the strength to keep arguing. “Oh, all right.”

  Mick cheers, clapping his hands. “You won’t be sorry. We’ll solve the murder. And we’ll give whoever attacked you their comeuppance.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Hugh switches the subject before I can change my mind. “Did you and Sally find any clues to your father’s whereabouts?”

  I’m just finishing my supper and my description of our trip to the library when the doorbell rings. “Who could be calling so late?” I hope it’s not a summons to photograph a new crime scene.

  “I’ll get it.” Fitzmorris goes downstairs and returns with Barrett.

  Barrett is still in uniform, helmet in hand. His black hair is unruly, as though he’s been raking his fingers through it, his habit when he’s riled. A whiff of cold air, rain, and smoke accompanies him. I’m glad to see him, relieved that he’s not so fed up with me that he would stay away forever, but the gaze he turns on me is so reproachful that my heart sinks.

  Barrett says, “Hello,” to Hugh and Mick but doesn’t speak to me. I try to smile at him and fail.

  Fitzmorris says, “I’ll leave the washing-up for later.”

  Mick says, “I better do my homework.”

  “Bedtime for me,” Hugh says. “Good night, Barrett.” They all go upstairs.

  Barrett drapes his overcoat on a chair and sits. I say, “Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?” I gesture toward the leftovers, delaying the inevitable. “A cup of tea?”

  “No, thanks.” Barrett cuts to the chase. “Why didn’t you tell me about the contest?”

  “I’m sorry. I wish I had.” My regret impassions my voice. “But I didn’t know about it when I saw you yesterday morning. I couldn’t have told you then. Sir Gerald thought of it later. Afterward, there wasn’t time.”

  “The reporter from the Daily World had time.”

  I cringe inside. If he knew that Hugh and I had been lurking near Mrs. Warbrick’s house, eavesdropping on him and Inspector Reid and Malcolm Cross, he would be angrier than ever.

  “You could have found a minute to stop by the barracks and tell me last night,” Barrett says.

  But last night I was at Harry Warbrick’s wake. “You’re right, I should have. But I was afraid you would be upset.”

  “I’m not upset,” Barrett says in the stiff tone that people use when they don’t want to admit they’re upset. “I’m frustrated because here we go again—you’re keeping secrets from me.”

  Our old issue has reared its ugly head. “I apologize.” Feeling wretched, aware that I’m in the wrong, I nonetheless have to say, “But I warned you that there will always be things I can’t tell you.”

  “That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Barrett says. My warning, conveyed more than six months ago under happier circumstances, has ill prepared him for the present reality. “You must have known I would find out about your trip to Newgate. You could have told me before Reid made a fool of me.”

  I hate that he was caught off guard, but I explain, “Sir Gerald made Hugh and me sign a confidentiality agreement when he hired us. And he ordered us to keep our findings under wraps until they’re published in the paper.”

  “It was your decision to take the job.” Rancor permeates Barrett’s voice. “And now your whole life depends on staying on Sir Gerald’s g
ood side.”

  Here’s our other issue—whether I should do this work and what it means for our relationship. I’m exhausted and don’t want to have this argument now, but Barrett obviously isn’t ready to quit, and I mustn’t refuse to discuss something that’s important to him and to us. “It’s not just my life. There’s Hugh and Mick to consider.”

  “They can work for Sir Gerald if they want. You don’t have to.”

  Barrett is hinting that if I marry him, I won’t need to earn my own living. He proposed to me last spring, but problems arose, and we haven’t made any progress toward marriage since then. Although I’m glad it’s still a possibility, my feet are just as cold as they were then. After my father disappeared, my mother and I worked in the button factory and shifted for ourselves in a series of cheap lodgings. Even now all my imaginings about marriage end with my husband leaving me, and our children, to a similar fate. Barrett has always shown himself to be loyal and dependable, but I can’t help placing more faith in my own ability to eke out a living than in a man’s love.

  These thoughts are too private and painful to confess. Instead, I say, “I can’t abandon Hugh and Mick.” After my father disappeared and my mother and I lost all our friends, it took me decades to open myself up to new friends, and now that I have them, I won’t forsake them. “They’re my family.” The weight of my guilt toward Barrett gets heavier because he doesn’t know they aren’t my only family. I avert my gaze from his as I think of Sally.

  “Hugh and Mick would want you to be settled and secure. And happy,” Barrett says.

  “I know.” They’ve hinted that they think I should marry Barrett. Hugh once said, “He’s a good chap. Don’t let him get away.” Mick said, “If you’re gonna be a copper’s wife, you could do a lot worse than him.” “But I’m worried about what will become of them if I leave.”

  Barrett nods, reluctantly conceding my point. I’ve told him about the spells of black depression that Hugh has suffered since his family disowned him, although lately they’re infrequent, and Hugh hasn’t repeated his attempt to commit suicide. I think that’s because of his job at the Daily World as well as his relationship with Tristan Mariner. The job gives him purpose, a sense of accomplishment, and the money to support himself. Barrett also knows that Hugh and Mick are so impetuous that they make me seem sensible. If they run afoul of Sir Gerald, they could both end up on the streets.