The Hangman's Secret Read online

  As we sit drinking tea that soon grows cold, contemplating our uncertain future, the doorbell rings. “It must be Sir Gerald’s messenger, come for the photographs.” I go downstairs. When I open the front door, there stands Barrett.

  Surprise is only one of the emotions that strike me speechless. I’m relieved to see Barrett, hopeful for a chance to make up with him. But he’s in ordinary clothes, not his uniform, and his grim expression seems to confirm my fear that he’s been fired and disgraced. Dread squeezes the air out of my lungs as I let him in the door. The studio seems too small to contain both of us and the tension that crackles in the air. My hands tremble as I light a lamp. Then I face Barrett and say the only thing I can say.

  “I’m sorry.” My voice hitches on a gasp. “I should have told you.”

  “You should have.” Barrett’s gaze is sober, unforgiving.

  I’m afraid to ask, but I need to know. “Why aren’t you in uniform?”

  “It’s at the laundry. I’ll put on my spare one tomorrow.”

  His uniform must have reeked as badly as the clothes I wore to the exhumation. He hasn’t lost his job. Cautious relief trickles into me as I think of his parents, so proud of their son who followed in his father’s trade. If his police career were to end because of me, they would dislike me more than they already do. But the worst would be the fact that I had caused the downfall of the man I love.

  “Then Inspector Reid didn’t—?”

  “Fire me? No.” But Barrett’s humorless smile is cold water dashed on the small flame of my hope that all will be well. He pauses as if reluctant to voice the rest of what he came to say. “Sarah, I need to warn you.”

  “Warn me about what?”

  “Reid is serious about finding your father. He’s put five men on the case and started a full-scale manhunt.”

  My father’s past is gaining on him. It’s no different from what I could have expected, so why should Barrett make a point of telling me?

  He takes a deep breath, exhales, and says, “Reid gave me a choice—I take charge of the manhunt, or I hand in my resignation.”

  Incredulous shock thumps my heart, opens my eyes wide. “Reid put you in charge of the search for my father?”

  Barrett nods, unhappy. “You can probably guess why.”

  Reid is using Barrett as a weapon against me, getting revenge on two birds with one stone. “And you’re going along with him?” No matter how angry Barrett is at me, surely he won’t spearhead Reid’s effort to punish my father.

  The look in Barrett’s eyes is apologetic but resolute. “That’s what I came to warn you about.”

  I moan with the pain of betrayal. “How could you do this to me? If it were the other way around, and your father was the fugitive, I would never—”

  Barrett grasps my shoulders. “Sarah, listen.”

  “Don’t touch me!” Writhing, I try to push him away.

  He holds tight. “Let me explain.” His eyes plead with me.

  “What’s to explain? I know you’re doing it to save your job.”

  “My job be damned!” Barrett seems angry that I would think him so selfish.

  “Then you should have resigned.” I seethe with hatred toward Barrett because I think I know why he didn’t quit. “Instead, you’re getting back at me for keeping secrets from you. That’s not fair! No matter what I’ve done, my father doesn’t deserve to be punished for it.”

  “I’m not doing it to punish you or your father,” Barrett says, adamant. “If I quit, Reid will just put somebody else in charge. It’s better this way.”

  “How could it be better?” I demand.

  “I have some control over what happens. If we find your father, I can prevent him from getting hurt when he’s captured.” Barrett adds, “Police don’t go easy on men they suspect of murdering little girls.”

  The thought of what might happen to my father if he’s captured is so awful that I’ve blocked it from my mind. That he would be hanged afterward was unbearable enough. To picture the police torturing him makes me so ill that the fight drains from me.

  “So you understand.” Relieved, Barrett drops his hands. “Now you have to help me find him.”

  “Help you?” I gape in fresh disbelief.

  “Yes. If you’ve any clues to his whereabouts, you need to tell me.”

  Thoughts of Sally and Mrs. Albert come to mind. Again, I wonder if Mrs. Albert knows something she’s not telling me. I force myself to hold Barrett’s gaze so he won’t suspect that I’m concealing anything. “Why?”

  “We need to convince him to turn himself in. That way, there’ll be no rough stuff when he’s arrested.”

  Barrett seems to think there’s a real possibility of finding my father. Hope lifts my heart at the same time that the thought of my father being arrested horrifies me. Should I tell Barrett about Lucas Zehnpfennig? If I can convince him that Lucas is a better suspect in Ellen Casey’s murder than my father is, maybe he can make Lucas the target of the manhunt. But I quickly discard the idea. Reid won’t change course based on my say-so. He’ll only suspect me of trying to trick him and be all the more determined to punish me through my father.

  “You know something, don’t you?” Barrett says, his eyes narrowed.

  He knows me so well that I can’t fool him into thinking I’m not hiding anything.

  “Hiding from the law makes your father look guilty,” Barrett points out. “Turning himself in will make him look more like an innocent man who wants to clear his name. Which might convince the jury to acquit him.”

  The argument sounds logical, but I balk as I realize that Barrett hasn’t said whether he believes my father is innocent. Perhaps he thinks Benjamin Bain is guilty and therefore will try his best to deliver him to the gallows. My old habit of distrust braces me. Folding my arms across my chest, I say, “This is a trick to make me help you trap my father.”

  “My God, Sarah!” Barrett throws up his hands in indignation. “Don’t you know I would never do that to you?”

  Just because Barrett has never deliberately hurt me doesn’t mean he wouldn’t. Everything that’s happened since Hugh, Mick, and I decided to catch Jack the Ripper has taught me that anything, no matter how improbable, can happen. Less than two years ago, I was a solitary woman with no worries except making ends meet. Now my situation is so different that I feel as if I’ve stumbled into foreign territory and found myself among people whose motives I can’t understand. Maybe Barrett isn’t the kind, decent, loyal man who loves me; maybe he’s just a policeman who would stop at nothing to achieve his ambitions. I live a life of subterfuge and deception; maybe he’s no different. I don’t know what to believe. Nerve-wracked by today’s events, I clasp my hands around my head, afraid I’m losing my grip on reality.

  “Sarah?” Barrett is watching me with concern. “What’s the matter?”

  I know he has a job to do, and he’s more objective about the situation than I am. But in this moment, all I’m absolutely sure of is that he’s chosen his job over me, and I must choose between him and my father. My first loyalty is to my father, the first man I ever loved. That makes Barrett, who’s determined to hunt him down, the enemy. My thinking may be irrational, but it’s overpowered me.

  I lower my hands, square my shoulders, and level an icy stare at Barrett. “Get out.”

  Barrett’s mouth drops. “Sarah—?”

  Furthermore, I believe Lucas is the magic ball of string that will lead the way through the maze to the Minotaur—my father. I mustn’t give Barrett an opportunity to wrest the ball of string from me.

  I point at the door. “Get out!”

  CHAPTER 19

  I spend a sleepless, tearful night reliving my argument with Barrett. Plagued by regrets, I wonder if he really is trying to help my father. But I can’t shake my conviction that I mustn’t betray my father to a policeman who’s duty-bound to act according to the law rather than for love of me. I’ve made my choice. I’ve banished Barrett from my life;
I’ve self-fulfilled my own prophecy that any man I love will leave me. Despite my sorrow, I can only try to convince myself that I’m glad it’s over between us.

  In the morning, I rise late and force myself to wash, dress, and go downstairs. Fitzmorris hands me a cup of tea. Mick, standing by the parlor window, gazing down at the street, says, “Miss Sarah, look.”

  I carry my cup over to him and see a crowd of people outside. It’s too foggy to discern who they are; I can’t hear what they’re saying. More people join the crowd as I watch. “What is this about?”

  “There’s Hugh,” Mick says. “Maybe he can tell us.”

  I see Hugh weaving his way through the crowd, toward the house. He went out last night to see Tristan Mariner. The bell jangles as he unlocks the door. I hear people shouting at him before he closes it. He vaults up the stairs and comes into the parlor, face grim, with a bundle of newspapers that he spreads on the table.

  “The excrement has hit the wind,” he says.

  My own image jumps out at me from the front pages—photographs of me leaving Newgate Prison. This is worse than I expected.

  “Dear God,” Fitzmorris murmurs.

  “Those people outside are reporters wanting to interview you and curiosity seekers wanting a good gawk,” Hugh tells me.

  Even worse than the pictures are the headlines—all variations on the one in the Observer, which proclaims, “Reporter’s hoax exposed.” Aghast, I say, “They’re blaming me for the hoax!”

  “Sonsofbitches!” Mick says.

  The Chronicle contains fanciful illustrations of prison wardens opening a coffin and myself photographing Amelia’s decomposed corpse. I skim the text that accompanies the pictures: Sarah Bain is guilty of irresponsible reporting … tried to further her ambitions by deceiving the public … a grievous insult to the memory of the Baby Butcher’s victims.

  Hugh puts his arm around me. “Don’t pay any attention to that drivel. Anybody who knows you will know it isn’t true.”

  “But everybody else will believe it.”

  Fitzmorris reads aloud from the Star: “ ‘Sir Gerald Mariner made a splash when he took over the Daily World. His contest with the police has ended in a belly-flop. He should have stuck to banking.’ ”

  “He ain’t gonna like that,” Mick says, “but compared with Miss Sarah, he got off easy.”

  Of course the press went easy on Sir Gerald. He’s wealthy and powerful and can retaliate against anyone who crosses him, whereas I’m safe game. But now that I’ve had time to get over my initial anger at him for firing us, I can pity him. He’s trying to keep his foothold on ground that crumbled after his nervous breakdown.

  “Listen to this editorial from our friend Mr. Palmer,” Hugh says. “ ‘Sarah Bain, our reporter who claimed that Amelia Carlisle escaped execution, has been dismissed. We do not tolerate incompetence or unethical behavior from our staff. We are more committed to our pursuit of the truth than ever, and we shall continue to shine our light into the dark places where it hides.’ ” Hugh says with disgust, “The pompous ninny.”

  And now I see, in the Telegraph, a column about Benjamin Bain, the prime suspect in the rape and murder of Ellen Casey. The headline reads, “Like Father, Like Daughter.” The author is Charlie Sullivan, the drunken reporter that Hugh and I met at Harry Warbrick’s wake. In the article, he speculates that the hoax is but a harbinger of many crimes I’ll commit. He’s taken his revenge on me for stealing his tip.

  “My reputation is ruined.” Little good it did me, keeping a low profile for most of my life; now the limelight has scorched me in the most shaming way possible.

  Mick pats my hand. “Don’t worry, Miss Sarah—we’re gonna fix it.”

  “We certainly are,” Hugh says, “and we’ll knock some heads together while we’re at it.”

  Although heartened by their support, I know their aim tends to exceed their reach. “How?”

  Hugh responds with his usual bright-eyed, reckless, grandiose response to a challenge. “We’ll start by solving Harry Warbrick’s murder.”

  “And proving it had to do with Amelia’s hangin’,” Mick says.

  I don’t ask how we’re going to accomplish that. Charting a course all the way to the end isn’t our strong point.

  “Sarah, you’d better stay home until the hubbub dies down,” Fitzmorris says.

  I’m loath to face the mob, but I say, “I can’t. I have to look for my father.”

  “It can wait a few days,” Hugh says. “Reid and all the king’s men and horses couldn’t catch Jack the Ripper. They won’t catch your father. His trail is twenty-four years cold.”

  “Things have changed.” Last night I didn’t share Barrett’s news with Hugh and Mick because I was too upset. Now I tell them that Barrett is in charge of the manhunt.

  They frown in consternation. We all know Barrett is a clever, diligent detective, and his chances of finding my father, albeit probably low, must still be many times higher than Reid’s.

  “Well, well, another contest,” Hugh says with glum humor. “I’m losing count.”

  The Daily World versus the police; my friends and I versus Malcolm Cross; and myself pitted against the man I still love. My father is the prize that I, not Barrett, must locate. “I’m going to Ely today.”

  “How’re you gonna get past the mob?” Mick asks.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m dressed in the indigo velvet hat and blue wool cape I wore to Clerkenwell, the tapestry bag in hand, waiting while Hugh goes downstairs and opens the front door. I hear the crowd roar and Hugh say, “Sarah Bain is coming to speak to you, so if you’ll just be patient for a few moments.” I make my escape via the back door and down the alley.

  * * *

  An hour later, I’m at the townhouse in Chelsea, knocking at the back door. A manservant answers, and I ask for Sally. He nods and shuts the door, and I think he’s gone to fetch her, but it’s her mother who appears, bristling with rage.

  “What is it this time?”

  “I need Sally to come with me.”

  “Where?” Mrs. Albert demands. “What for?”

  I can’t tell her that I’m going to Ely to look for Lucas Zehnpfennig, or why. She wouldn’t approve. When I hesitate to answer, she says, “It must be about your father again. Well, if you find him, tell him that the coppers were here looking for him yesterday.”

  Barrett must have seen the address written on the police report and followed the clue. He’s already managed to track down my father’s second family. I can’t hide my shock or dismay. “What did you tell them?”

  “I said that I don’t know Benjamin Bain or where he is. But Inspector Reid already knew he’d been married to me and using the name ‘George Albert.’ ”

  Fresh shock assails me. “Inspector Reid was here?”

  “Yes. He said he’s going to flush your father out from whatever bush he’s hiding in.”

  Reid obviously isn’t satisfied to trust the search to Barrett. He’s undertaken his own search, and the fact that he discovered Mrs. Albert means he’s smarter than I thought. Does Barrett know about her? Maybe he does and deliberately neglected to tell me. That I’ve kept secrets from him doesn’t make the idea any less hurtful. Reid’s plan to use Barrett as a weapon against me has worked too well.

  “He said your father’s going to be arrested and hanged for the murder of that girl Ellen Casey.” Mrs. Albert’s manner blends dread and triumph.

  I think that a part of her still loves Benjamin Bain and fears for him even while she hates him for leaving her. But she relishes the idea of him executed for the crime. “Did Reid question Sally?”

  “I didn’t tell him about her. He didn’t seem to know that your father and I have a daughter. And I intend to keep it that way.”

  At least one secret is still safe from Reid.

  “I don’t want coppers bothering Sally. I’ve seen them hanging around outside the house. They must be watching it in case your father turns up.” Fearful, Mrs. Albert
glances up and down the alley. “I’m keeping Sally inside because if they see her and notice how much she looks like you, they’ll know who she is. So don’t come around and lure her out. Stay away.”

  I remember my suspicion of her. “Do you know something about my father?”

  She slams the door in my face.

  * * *

  The train to Ely thunders through fens that spread as far as I can see from my seat by the window. Gray clouds hang low over snow-frosted black earth in fallow fields, brown reed beds, and stunted, leafless trees. A few cottages on stilts and windmills with skeletal arms dot the flat terrain. Human figures, dwarfed by the great expanse of land and sky, move here and there. A tiny hunter aims a rifle, and the inaudible gunshot sends a flock of geese flying upward. The scenery is desolate, beautiful, and unfamiliar. My father never brought me here on a photography expedition, even though it’s no farther from London than the places we went. I’d thought he chose our destinations randomly, but now I believe he was avoiding the place of his origin.

  I wonder if he ever returned to Ely.

  In the distance, a great cathedral floats like a ship in full sail above the fens, at first as insubstantial as if sketched on gauze, then massively solid as the train rumbles nearer. Its stone towers loom over the station at which I alight. I walk through the cold, damp, smoky town that lies in the cathedral’s shadow, along narrow streets past ancient houses. At the post office, I learn that there’s no Benjamin Bain, George Albert, or Lucas Zehnpfennig on the mail delivery route, but there is a Mrs. Herman Zehnpfennig.

  The Zehnpfennig house stands among several old mansions near the edge of town. The ivy that covers their stone walls gives them an air of forbidding privacy. The Zehnpfennig mansion has rose bushes, bristling with carmine thorns like barbed wire, in its front garden. I hope I’ve tracked my elusive quarry to his family abode, but I hesitate, with my hand on the iron latch of the gate. If I find Lucas here, what shall I do? I’ve no authority to question or detain him. I could pretend I’m soliciting donations for charity, strike up a conversation, and ascertain that he is the Lucas Zehnpfennig who lived in Clerkenwell in 1866, but what next?