The Hangman's Secret Page 4

  A hot blush suffuses my face. I’m embarrassed to watch them, and they remind me of Barrett and myself. We make love at my house when nobody else is there and neither of us have to work. We—like Mrs. Warbrick and her paramour—are always in such a hurry to satisfy our desire before we’re interrupted that we haven’t time to undress completely. I feel the ache of arousal because it’s been weeks since Barrett and I have had a chance to be together. It may be a lot longer until the next time, for he’ll be angry about the contest.

  Hugh raises his eyebrows and tilts his head to indicate that we’ve seen enough. We tiptoe down the stairs and out the door.

  * * *

  We find Mick waiting in the Queen’s Head. When we tell him about Mrs. Warbrick and her lover, he says, “Maybe they bumped Warbrick off so they could get married.”

  “A divorce would have been easier,” I say.

  “Maybe Warbrick wouldn’t let ’er go. Some men is like that.”

  I think of Mick’s love for Catherine and his refusal to let go of his hope that someday she will love him in return.

  “We don’t believe Mrs. Warbrick is guilty, but let’s be objective,” Hugh says. “The adulterous wife and her paramour are good suspects.”

  “Perhaps he did it without her knowledge,” I say.

  “Who is he?” Mick asks. When Hugh and I say we don’t know, he rises. “I’ll wait outside her house, and when he comes out, I’ll follow him. Oh, I almost forgot—while I was waitin’ for you, I heard somebody say there’s gonna be a wake for the hangman tonight. Seven o’clock at his pub.”

  CHAPTER 4

  By the time Hugh and I emerge from Aldgate East station, it’s one thirty. Whitechapel High Street is busy as usual, with people dodging wagons and omnibuses and crowding the shops. Peddlers hawk their wares, trains rumble underground, and the clang of machinery in factories has reached a deafening pitch. The snow has been trampled into a slush of manure, garbage, and cinders. The ragged men, women, and children who beg us for a bit of bread are more desperate than ever. Not for them the shiny red apples outside the grocer’s or the sides of beef at the butcher shops. Some of them will be found frozen to death in the alleys tomorrow morning. Winter is Whitechapel’s harshest season.

  But Hugh, Mick, and I are glad to call Whitechapel home. I had my first studio here; Mick knows every inch of the streets where he once lived; and Hugh won’t run into former friends who dropped him after his scandal.

  At our studio, Fitzmorris greets us at the door. He must have been watching for us, as he usually does. His family has been in service to Hugh’s for generations, and after his own parents died while he was a child, the Stauntons gave him and his siblings a home, an education, and affection. Fitzmorris has repaid the Stauntons with unstinting devotion to Hugh, whom he loves as a younger brother, and his devotion extends to Mick and me.

  “You have visitors,” he says.

  My heart thumps. Have Barrett and Inspector Reid come to upbraid me about the contest? When Hugh and I go up to the parlor and see the man and woman who rise from their chairs, my relief is short-lived. The young woman is my half-sister Sally Albert. She’s ten years younger than me, her blond hair more golden than mine, her face softer and prettier, but the resemblance between us still startles me, even after seeing her regularly for the eight months we’ve known each other. The man is Tristan Mariner—Sir Gerald’s son and Hugh’s beloved. He’s the only man I’ve ever seen who equals Hugh in handsomeness, but where Hugh is fair and cheerful-natured, Tristan is dark of hair, complexion, and mood. He’s dressed in black, from head to toe, except for his white collar.

  Tristan Mariner is a Roman Catholic priest.

  He and Sally both wear stiff, uncomfortable expressions. This is the first time they’ve met. I’m disconcerted to see them here at the same time, alarmed because something bad must have happened.

  Sally hurries to me. “Sarah. Thank God you’re back.”

  I take her hands in mine. “We weren’t supposed to meet today, were we?” Sally is a servant in a mansion in Chelsea. She usually visits me every Wednesday, her regular day off.

  “No, no. I’m sorry to show up like this without warning.”

  “Not a problem.” Hugh gives Sally an affectionate smile. “It’s always good to see you, Sally.”

  She looks at the floor as she curtseys and murmurs a polite greeting. She’s shy with my housemates, despite their attempts to befriend her, and awed by my unconventional way of life.

  Hugh turns to Tristan, his face lighting up as it always does in Tristan’s presence. “This is a surprise. What brings you here?”

  Tristan has never visited us before. He’s afraid to be seen with Hugh, afraid their liaison will become public and he’ll incur the wrath of the Church as well as Sir Gerald. Homosexual acts are crimes against nature and the law, punishable by a prison sentence on top of social ostracism. Hugh and Tristan usually meet in secret, at night, in places unknown to me.

  “There’s something I need to tell you.” Tristan’s manner is cold, formal.

  The light drains from Hugh’s eyes. I know he’s afraid of losing Tristan, afraid that this is the day. Tristan nods to me. “Good afternoon, Miss Bain.” He doesn’t like that I know about him and Hugh; he doesn’t trust me to keep their relationship secret.

  “Good afternoon.” My manner is as cool as his. I’ve told no one—not even Sally. She looks puzzled about who Tristan is, confused by the tension between him and me. For my part, I don’t trust Tristan with Hugh. I’m afraid he’ll drop Hugh—and break his heart—rather than continue to risk exposure as a homosexual.

  “Sarah, I have to talk to you,” Sally blurts.

  Hugh says to Tristan, “Let’s go upstairs.”

  “I’ll start cooking dinner,” Fitzmorris says.

  Left alone in the parlor, Sally and I sit on the divan. I hope Barrett doesn’t drop by. He and Sally have never met. She knows about him, but her existence is a secret I’m keeping from him. It’s in my nature to keep personal matters private, and at first I needed time to get used to the idea of having a half-sister. Later, I found other reasons.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Is it your mother?” Mrs. Albert—my father’s second wife—is the housekeeper in the mansion where Sally works.

  “No, Mother is fine.” Sally twists her hands. “I saw Father today.”

  Shock jolts me. “What?”

  Our father, Benjamin Bain, mysteriously disappeared—not once, but twice. The first time was in 1866, when I was ten. One evening he didn’t come home. My mother and I looked for him for weeks. Then she told me he’d been killed in a riot. Recently, I’d learned that he was still alive, and last April I’d sighted him myself. When I went searching for him, I found Sally and her mother. They told me he’d disappeared on them in 1879. They don’t know what became of him, and even if my mother knew, she can’t tell; she died sixteen years ago. I’ve since learned the troubling details about his past, but he hasn’t reappeared.

  Until, perhaps, now.

  “It happened in the library,” Sally says.

  “Are you sure it was him?” I’m afraid that just because I’ve seen him, Sally imagined that she did.

  “Yes! He looked so old, and his hair and his beard are white, but I would know him anywhere.”

  Although I’m not convinced, my skepticism gives way to excitement. “What did he say?”

  “Nothing. But he recognized me. I could tell.”

  “Didn’t you speak to him?”

  “No, he ran away.” Sally begins to cry. “Oh, Sarah, how could he?”

  As I pat her hand, trying to comfort her, tears sting my own eyes. We love our father despite the fact that he abandoned us; we both long for a reunion with him. We also fear that he hasn’t sought us out because he doesn’t want us. But I know there’s at least one other reason why he would stay away.

  “He’s a fugitive from the law,” I remind Sally.

  Benjamin Bain is the prim
e suspect in a case of rape and murder in 1866. The victim was Ellen Casey, a fourteen-year-old girl who lived near my family. My father was a photographer, and he took pictures of Ellen. I learned the story from his police file, which had come into my possession. At the time of his disappearance, I knew nothing of Ellen’s murder or his connection with it. I did know he was in trouble with the police, who came to our house, interrogated him, and beat him. I thought it was because he organized protest marches for workers. My mother must have known the police were trying to make him confess that he’d killed Ellen, but she withheld the truth from me, and she let me think he was dead.

  He’d outrun his past thus far. Why should he reappear now?

  He’s the reason I keep a low profile—to avoid calling attention to myself that could spill over onto him.

  “But I would never report him to the police,” Sally says. “Neither would you.”

  I didn’t report my sighting—not even to Barrett. The fact that my father was the last person to see Ellen Casey alive is evidence against him, whereas there’s none in his favor except Sally’s and my gut feeling that he’s innocent. Barrett might believe my father is guilty and feel obligated to report my sighting to his superiors, and they would mount a new manhunt for Benjamin Bain. Sally and I are loath to let him fall into the clutches of the law. Childhood loyalty dies hard. And here’s my other reason for keeping Sally’s existence a secret from Barrett: Sally is a potential witness in the case of Benjamin Bain. I mustn’t put Barrett in the position of having to choose between shielding my sister and doing his duty by subjecting her to police interrogation. For Sally’s sake, I can’t gamble on what his choice would be.

  “Father doesn’t know he can trust us,” I say. “Maybe he thinks we’ve turned against him.”

  “At least we know he’s in London,” Sally says.

  We know something else that’s more credible than her sighting of him. His two disappearances have one element in common—a man named Lucas Zehnpfennig. But at the moment, Lucas is as much a mystery as Benjamin Bain himself.

  “Will you help me look for Father?” Sally’s expression pleads with me.

  I want to drop everything and track him down, but powerful misgivings override the urge. “If he doesn’t want to be found, he won’t go back to where you saw him. He could be hiding anywhere in the city.” I’ve returned multiple times to the place where I sighted him, to no avail. It’s as if by searching for him, I’m chasing a ghost from the past who runs farther away from me with every step I take. “And I have to work.”

  Sally doesn’t seem to notice that my excuses are an attempt to weave a veil over the truth. “Oh. I’m sorry. I was so excited, I didn’t think.”

  She’s so honest and transparent that she never suspects other people of ulterior motives. I feel ashamed of deceiving her, even though it’s in her interest as well as mine.

  Sally rises. “I have to get back to the house. Mother thinks I went out to buy furniture polish. She won’t like my being gone so long.”

  “I promise I’ll help you look for Father as soon as possible,” I say.

  * * *

  Soon after Sally leaves, Hugh and Tristan come downstairs. Hugh looks troubled. Tristan bows politely to me before he slips out the door. I stand by the window, look down at the busy street, and see him pull the brim of his hat low over his face and glance around to see if anyone has noticed him. Then he strides rapidly away. Hugh and I sit in armchairs by the fireplace.

  “You first,” he says.

  When I tell him that Sally spotted my father, he smiles. “Why, that’s wonderful! You should go look for him now, before his trail gets cold.”

  “But I can’t leave the murder investigation to you and Mick.”

  Hugh gives me a fond, indulgent, but disapproving look. He, unlike Sally, doesn’t buy my excuses.

  “I’m afraid of what will happen if I find him,” I confess.

  “You’re afraid he won’t welcome a reunion with you?” Hugh says, ever perceptive.

  “With me or with Sally.” I’m more concerned about her feelings than mine. Facing death more than once has toughened me, but Sally seems so vulnerable.

  “But if you did find him, he could clear up the Ellen Casey business.”

  “I’m not sure I want it cleared up. What if I discover he’s guilty?”

  “Sally would be devastated,” Hugh agrees.

  “So would I. And I couldn’t let a murderer go free—not even if he’s my father.”

  Hugh frowns. “Don’t go assuming the worst, Sarah. You and Sally believe your father is innocent. So do I. Have a little faith in him and in our own judgment.”

  He looks on the bright side, no matter that the world has treated him so cruelly. Although his own father disowned him, he’s ready to believe the best about mine. I smile, comforted. “Very well.” But I’m still glad that investigating the hangman’s murder will keep me too busy to look for my father. I’m also glad to change the subject. “What did Tristan have to say?”

  Hugh expels his breath; his troubled expression returns. “Lady Alexandra had a miscarriage last week.”

  Lady Alexandra is Tristan’s stepmother, Sir Gerald’s wife. “Oh no.” Sadness fills me.

  “It’s her third since Robin’s kidnapping,” Hugh says. “And the doctor told her she won’t be able to have any more children.”

  Sir Gerald had let on nothing about this, but the losses must have been grievous blows. Maybe the Daily World is a refuge from personal problems that are beyond his ability to solve.

  “The upshot of it is, Sir Gerald wants to mend fences with Tristan,” Hugh says.

  Father and son clashed many years ago over Tristan’s decision to become a priest. Sir Gerald wanted Tristan to join his business empire and has constantly tried to coerce Tristan into quitting the Church. Tristan, just as stubborn, has resisted, and their relationship is stormy.

  “Sir Gerald must have realized he’ll never have another child unless he divorces Lady Alexandra and remarries, and even then there’s no guarantee. Tristan is the only one left.” I don’t mention Sir Gerald’s daughter. Olivia is another taboo subject. “He’s not young, and he’s decided to make the best of the present situation instead of gambling on the future.”

  “It does seem a little cold to me,” Hugh says, “but I told Tristan I’m glad there’s a chance for him and his father to reconcile. Which I truly am.”

  I hear in Hugh’s voice his wish for a reconciliation with his own father. Sir Gerald is far from a perfect parent and so is Lord Staunton, but I envy Hugh and Tristan. They at least know exactly what, and where, their fathers are. “What does Tristan think?”

  “He thinks it’s his duty to meet Sir Gerald halfway.”

  “He would.” I can’t keep the tartness out of my voice. Tristan is big on duty, and I fear he’ll eventually choose duty to the Church, God, and Sir Gerald over Hugh. Although society would deem that an honorable choice, I have Hugh’s interests at heart.

  Hugh’s lips twist in a rueful smile: he wants Tristan and me to like each other. “I think Tristan has always craved Sir Gerald’s affection and approval, and this is his chance to get it.”

  “Does this mean Sir Gerald will stop pressuring Tristan to quit the priesthood?” I know Hugh also wishes Tristan would quit. Carnal relations of any kind are prohibited for Roman Catholic priests, and homosexuality is doubly forbidden. To maintain his integrity, Tristan either must leave the clergy or leave Hugh.

  “We don’t know exactly what Sir Gerald intends.”

  “Does it mean Tristan isn’t going back to his mission in India?” I recall that Tristan had, for love of Hugh, canceled his return last summer.

  “He’s postponed it indefinitely.” Hugh says, “Sir Gerald wants him to move back home.” Sir Gerald lives at Mariner House, his mansion on Hampstead Heath. Tristan lives at a residence for priests. “He wants them to spend time together. Rides on the heath, brandy in the study after dinner, etc
etera. So they can figure out how to get along instead of getting at each other’s throats. Tristan is moving in tomorrow.”

  I begin to understand the new problem. “Oh.”

  “Yes. It’ll be even harder for Tristan and me to see each other,” Hugh says glumly. “The guards at Mariner House watch everybody who lives there and report to Sir Gerald. If he were to find out about us …”

  I modify the advice he gave me. “Don’t go expecting the worst.”

  Hugh smiles. “You’re right. I’m sure things will work out. In the meantime, we’ve a murder to solve. I’m ready.” He goes to the lamp table by the chaise longue, opens the drawer, and removes a pistol. He bought the gun last spring, after our investigation of Robin Mariner’s kidnapping put us in danger. “Shall I bring it to the wake tonight?”

  “No! Put it away.” After that night on Hampstead Heath, I know what guns can do, but Hugh and Mick treat this one as if it’s a toy. I hope our new investigation won’t require a weapon.

  Hugh shakes his head, disappointed, but puts the gun back in the drawer. “If anyone assaults you, I’ll just have to defend you with my bare hands.”

  CHAPTER 5

  The Ropemaker’s Daughter shines like a beacon in the dark, foggy night. People loiter on the pavement outside, and laughter bursts from the open door as Hugh and I approach. Mick didn’t come home, so we’re attending Harry Warbrick’s wake by ourselves. The pub is packed. Warbrick was a local celebrity, and the manner of his death must have made him all the more famous, drawing friends, acquaintances, and curiosity seekers to his wake.

  “Maybe the killer is here, cadging free liquor,” Hugh says.

  Inside, the foyer is so crowded that I can’t see the floor from which Warbrick’s body has been removed. The odors of ale and sweat mask any lingering smell of death. As we jostle our way to the bar, I look for Barrett and wonder if he knows about the wake. I feel guilty because I’m investigating behind his back and troubled because if I learn anything, I’ll have to keep it secret from him or risk Sir Gerald’s wrath. A bevy of women greets Hugh as if he were an old friend. They must have been among the crowd of spectators this morning. Perhaps he can get some useful information from them. I look around for someone I can talk to, but everyone seems clustered in groups, and I’m shy about intruding. I don’t see Mrs. Warbrick. The room is warm from the fire blazing in the hearth and body heat. I remove my gloves, unbutton my coat, and find myself squeezed up against the wall. The framed pictures hanging there catch my attention. This morning I assumed they were cheap prints, the kind often used to decorate pubs. Now I see that some frames contain segments of rope perhaps twelve inches long, mounted on boards. The rope nearest me has a white label stuck below it, which reads, “10 s. per inch.”