Inspector of the Dead Page 15

  Silent throughout the dinner, Catherine now peered despondently down at her hands.

  Meanwhile, Sir Walter gave Colonel Trask a scornful look of triumph.

  EIGHT

  The Wheel of Fortune

  The snow lessened as a police van transported Commissioner Mayne through midnight streets. Even at this late hour there was usually some traffic, but tonight, returning to his house from intense meetings at the various crime areas, Mayne didn’t hear the hooves and wheels of even one other vehicle.

  Because he lived in Chester Square in the exclusive Belgravia district, he would have preferred to arrive home in a coach or a cab. But surely none of the residents on his street would be awake and peering from a window to see him arrive in a vehicle normally used to transport criminals, he decided.

  He’d been co-commissioner of police for more than a quarter of a century, and tonight he felt the weight of all those years. The stress had thinned his frame, lessened his hair, and added lines to his face. The day’s savage crimes, following the bloodshed in December, made him suspect that London’s many newspapers were to blame, inspiring diseased imaginations to imitate violence that no one would otherwise have thought of.

  The van had a lantern inside it, which Mayne used to study the numerous reports he’d been given, but as the vehicle rolled through the muffling snow, his eyes felt heavy.

  Suddenly the police driver was saying, “We’re here, sir.”

  Mayne jerked his eyes open and realized that his head was slumped against the wall, that the reports were on the floor, and that, despite his best efforts, he had fallen asleep.

  “Thank you, Constable.”

  He gathered the pages and stepped down to the snowy pavement.

  “It’s almost stopped, sir,” the constable said. “The snow may be pleasant to look at now, but tomorrow the streets will be a mess.”

  “At least the crossing sweepers will be happy.”

  “Yes, sir.” The constable chuckled. “As a lad, I worked as a crossing sweeper. Tomorrow, they’ll earn more pennies than they normally do in a week. Shall I come back at the usual time in the morning?”

  “Sooner. With so much to do…”

  “I’ll see that it happens, sir.”

  The horses struggled to maintain their footing as the constable drove the van away, disappearing into the night.

  Across from Mayne was a small garden, the principal feature of Chester Square. A gas lamp allowed him to see the snow-covered shrubs and the beds where flowers would bloom in the spring. In good weather, if his responsibilities allowed, he enjoyed sitting on a bench there and reading a morning newspaper while he waited for his carriage to arrive.

  The peacefulness of the scene was refreshing. Even the pile of debris in front of a residence five doors away—the result of renovation for a new owner—no longer offended him, the snow obscuring the ugly mound. The laborers had promised to complete their work soon. Then Chester Square would return to its uniform vista of handsome adjoining residences, three and a half stories high, all of them stuccoed white, the snow making them even whiter.

  The only footprints belonged to Commissioner Mayne and his driver. He savored the quiet, the feeling of being isolated from the troubles that awaited him the next morning.

  But then a breeze chilled his face, and the odor of smoke from the many chimneys broke the spell. He approached the wrought-iron railing at his home, took out his key, and unlocked the door.

  He’d sent a constable to inform his wife, Geor­giana, that he’d be late and that she shouldn’t wait up for him. Nonetheless he found her sitting in the front room.

  He smiled.

  “So late?” Georgiana asked.

  “Many disturbing things happened today,” he told her.

  “Lady Cosgrove at St. James’s? Lord Cosgrove at their home?” Georgiana asked.

  “You heard?”

  “The news spread quickly. When Becky”—Georgiana referred to their servant—“returned from her afternoon of leisure, she had much to report.”

  Because Georgiana didn’t also mention the judge and his wife, Mayne decided that there was no point in alarming her with the additional news. The stress of his years as co-commissioner had grayed her hair and lined her face just as it had left its marks on him.

  “To bed,” she told him, gripping his hand. Using her other hand to carry an oil lamp, she walked with him up two flights of stairs.

  They reached the level for their daughter’s bedroom and their own room farther along.

  As they passed the stairs that led up to the servants’ area, something caused Mayne to frown, although the shadows made it difficult for him to be certain of what he saw.

  “The lamp seems to need a new wick. Let me check it,” he told Georgiana, taking the lamp from her.

  Under the guise of inspecting it, Mayne lowered the light enough to dispel the gloom on the stairs that led to the top level.

  There were moist areas on the carpeting where boot soles wet from snow appeared to have descended. They proceeded along this level and stopped at the door to a linen closet under the stairs.

  “I’m mistaken,” Mayne told Georgiana, quickly raising the lamp. “The wick is perfectly fine. My eyes must be tired.”

  “All the more reason to go to bed,” she gently ordered, leading him along the shadowy corridor.

  They passed the door to their daughter’s room on the right and neared the door to the closet on the left. Mayne’s chest tightened as he walked next to the wet marks on the carpet.

  Someone had entered the house from the roof. The only access was the skylight that allowed chimney cleaners to climb up there. But how could anyone have gotten onto the roof in the first place? Mayne thought as he came abreast of the closet door.

  At once he remembered the nearby building that was being renovated. Someone could have forced open a back door to the empty structure, gone up to the top floor, lifted its skylight, and proceeded along the roofs of the adjoining houses until he came to the skylight that provided access to here. The roof was relatively flat. Even in the snow, a man could have walked along it if he was careful.

  Mayne thought about urging Georgiana to run down the stairs as fast as she could. But she would be puzzled. She would ask questions. Meanwhile, the intruder would burst from the closet and attack.

  If we can get into our bedroom, we can barricade the door, Mayne thought. But what about our daughter? The intruder will turn his attention toward her. As for their servant upstairs, Mayne had every certainty that she was dead.

  Mayne’s legs trembled as he neared their bedroom. He hoped that his voice wouldn’t tremble also.

  “How is Judith?” he asked. “Did her cough improve?”

  “Very much. We don’t need to worry anymore,” Georgiana replied.

  “But she’s coughing now, and she doesn’t sound any better. The opposite.”

  “I don’t hear her coughing,” Georgiana said, confused.

  “Step back to her door and listen. She sounds as if she needs attention.”

  Backtracking, Mayne listened for any sound to indicate that the closet door was being opened. He gambled that the intruder’s plan was to wait until the household was asleep and then kill everyone in their beds, reinforcing the growing conviction that no one in London was safe anywhere.

  “You really don’t hear Judith coughing?” Mayne asked. “I’ll open the door an inch.”

  “You’ll waken her,” Georgiana cautioned.

  “From the sound of it, she’s already awake.”

  With the lamp in one hand, Mayne used the other hand to open the door.

  As Georgiana peered in, saying “I don’t hear—,” Mayne pushed her into the room, hurried in behind her, and slammed the door. In a frenzy, he set the lamp on a table and strained to shove Judith’s bureau in front of the door.

  “What are you doing?” Georgiana demanded. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Quickly! Help! There’s no tim
e to explain!” Mayne yelled.

  Startled by the loud intrusion, Judith bolted upright in bed. Thirteen years old, she screamed, “Who’s there?”

  “Help me!” Mayne shouted.

  He heard the closet door in the corridor bang open. Heavy footsteps pounded along the carpet. Someone jolted angrily against the door. As it threatened to fly open, Mayne succeeded in shoving the bureau against it.

  “Get chairs! Anything to help keep the door closed!”

  Whoever was out there rammed a second time against the door. Mayne shoved his full weight against the bureau. With the third impact, Georgiana came to her senses and rushed to bring a chair, adding its weight to the bureau. The door had a lock, but it had never been used, and Mayne had no idea where the key was.

  The fourth time the intruder crashed against the door, the bureau lurched back. Mayne, his wife, and his daughter pushed harder to keep the intruder from storming in.

  “Father, what’s happening?” Judith pleaded.

  “God eternally damn it!” a man yelled from the opposite side of the door. He had an Irish accent.

  The door jolted inward, again shoving the bureau away. Mayne renewed his efforts to keep it in place.

  “The bed!” he shouted to the women. “Try to push the bed here!”

  But as they struggled, unable to move it, the intruder struck the door with such strength that the bureau nearly toppled.

  If he manages to get in, do the three of us have a chance to overpower him? Mayne desperately wondered. Is there a weapon in here, anything I can use to protect us? He couldn’t think of one. All he could imagine was that the intruder would have a knife and that he would charge in, slashing repeatedly.

  “Georgiana, help me keep pushing against the bureau! Judith, tie sheets together!” Mayne ordered.

  “Sheets?” Judith asked in bewilderment.

  “Like a rope! Do it! Make certain that the knots are tight! Georgiana, keep pushing at the bureau! Harder than you ever imagined!”

  “Your daughter will suffer the way my sisters did!” the Irish voice yelled beyond the door.

  The intruder charged with such force that part of the door cracked.

  He charged again.

  The crack sounded louder.

  “Judith, hurry!” Mayne shouted.

  “I’m trying, Father!”

  Looking over his shoulder, Mayne saw his daughter knotting one end of a sheet to another.

  “We’ll need several!” he told her. “As tightly as you can! Do you understand what we need to do?”

  Shoving against the bureau, Mayne directed his desperate gaze toward her window. In the dim glow from the lamp on the table, he saw Judith nod with comprehension.

  “Your wife and you will suffer the way my mother and father did!” the attacker yelled.

  The next time he charged, a piece of the door flew into the room.

  “Father, it’s ready!” Judith said.

  “Tie one end to a bedpost! Make certain it’s tight!” Mayne ordered, pressing his body against the bureau. Another piece of the door flew into the room.

  “Put on a dressing gown, Judith! Put on shoes!”

  Mayne was grateful that his wife was wearing a dressing gown, but when he looked down at her feet, he was dismayed to see that they were covered only with slippers.

  Another chunk of wood flew from the door.

  “Judith, open your window!” Mayne ordered.

  She hurried to it, but when she tried to push up, it didn’t move.

  “It’s frozen!” Judith exclaimed.

  “Push harder!”

  Abruptly, she managed to force the window up. A cold breeze rushed into the room. The man in the corridor was now kicking at the door, trying to shatter more of its wood.

  “Throw the sheets out, Judith! Climb down!”

  “But…”

  The street was at least thirty feet below them. The thought of falling and perhaps landing on the spikes of the wrought-iron railing terrified Mayne, as it no doubt terrified his wife and his daughter. But what threatened them on the other side of the door was even more terrifying.

  “I’ll make you drink your blood!” the Irish voice shouted.

  “Do it!” Mayne told his daughter. “Hurry! Go!”

  As the door trembled on its hinges, Judith surprised Mayne by how quickly she moved. Her face was pale with fear as she squirmed out the window into the darkness. Mayne and his wife continued to press against the bureau.

  He counted to ten. Was that long enough for Judith to slide down?

  “Now it’s your turn, Georgiana!”

  “I won’t leave you!” she insisted.

  “I’ll come after you! Do it!”

  Georgiana studied his features as if she didn’t think she’d ever see them again.

  “Go!” he urged.

  One of the door’s hinges threatened to break away.

  Georgiana rushed toward the window and squirmed through it. A moment later her face descended into the darkness.

  Without her help, Mayne couldn’t manage the strength to keep the bureau from sliding back.

  One, two, three…

  Mayne dug his boots into the carpet and pressed all his weight against the bureau.

  Six, seven, eight…

  The bureau slid toward him.

  Nine, ten.

  Mayne couldn’t wait any longer.

  He released his weight from the bureau and raced toward the window. The sheet tied to the post was slack, showing him that Geor­giana had reached the bottom. Without thinking he grabbed the sheet, backed out the window, and slid.

  The sheet felt cold from the winter air. At the same time, friction burned his hands. Through the open window, he heard a crash as the bureau toppled. He imagined the man rushing into the bedroom.

  Mayne reached the first knot and jerked to a stop, but he immediately grabbed lower and slid again. Above him, the intruder wailed with an intensity that Mayne could never have imagined.

  Wincing from the pain in his hands, he reached the second knot and jerked to another stop. Desperate, he again grabbed lower and slid as quickly as he could, ignoring the blood that was now on his hands.

  When he jolted to a final stop, his knees collapsed. His wife and his daughter hurried to raise him from the snow.

  “Run!” Mayne shouted.

  Looking up, he saw the dark outline of a man surging out the window, starting to climb down.

  They ran onto the snow-covered pavement.

  “This way! East! Toward the palace!” Mayne yelled. It was a quarter mile away. Constables were there in force. But can we outrun him? Mayne desperately wondered. His wife wore only slippers. Could she and their thirteen-year-old daughter outdistance their attacker? If they pounded on a neighbor’s door, how long would it take for someone to waken and reach the entrance?

  “No!” Mayne shouted. “This way.”

  He dragged his wife and daughter back toward their front door.

  The figure slid with alarming speed down the bedsheets.

  Mayne fumbled in a trouser pocket for his key.

  The figure released his grip and dropped.

  With trembling hands, Mayne scraped the key against the door’s lock.

  The figure landed, bent his knees, and rolled.

  “Father!” Judith screamed.

  Mayne shoved the key into the lock, twisted it, and thrust the door open.

  As the man sprang to his feet, Mayne briefly saw that he had a beard. The speed—indeed the frenzy—with which the man charged toward them was terrifying, his palpably savage emotion communicating a rage more extreme than anything Mayne had ever encountered.

  Mayne felt paralyzed by the force racing toward him. Abruptly, with a desperate shout, he pushed Georgiana and Judith into the house, hurried inside behind them, and slammed the door.

  The three of them pressed against the door as their attacker walloped against it. Mayne turned the key as the man outside struck the door again a
nd screamed.

  “He can smash through a window!” Judith warned.

  “Up the stairs! The master bedroom!” Mayne urged them.

  “But he’ll have us trapped!” Georgiana said.

  “Do what I ask!”

  A window shattered in the sitting room.

  They climbed hurriedly, hearing someone from a neighboring house yell, “What’s going on? You! What are you doing over there?”

  Out of breath, they passed the shattered door to Judith’s room and the open door to the closet where the intruder had hidden.

  With a final rush they entered the master bedroom, slammed the door, and slid a bureau in front of it. While Georgiana and Judith leaned against it, Mayne opened the closet and took out a firearms case from a corner.

  The case contained an Enfield rifle-musket, the improved weapon that English soldiers were using in the Crimea. The rifling in the barrel meant that bullets flew with greater accuracy. Some members of the gentry who lived in Chester Square had acquired Enfields for hunting boar and stags in Scotland. A duke had invited Mayne to a shooting holiday on his estate there the previous autumn, but the pressures of work had prevented Mayne from going.

  He tore a cartridge packet open and poured gunpowder down the barrel. After dropping a bullet down the barrel, he used the Enfield’s ramrod to tap the load securely into place. Then he placed a percussion cap under the weapon’s hammer.

  All night long, sitting in a corner, with Judith and Georgiana next to him, he aimed toward the door.

  Just west of the Tower of London sat a gin-house called the Wheel of Fortune. Convenient to the banks, insurance companies, and trading enterprises of the business district, the Wheel of Fortune was nestled on Shore Lane, near the Thames. Many clerks and even their supervisors made their way to it after their daily labors. They claimed to savor the quality of its pork pies, but the real attraction was the bargain price of the beer and the gin.

  Noting the late hour, the tavern’s owner herded his few remaining patrons out the door.

  “Closing time. Drink up. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks for your patronage. On your way now. Be careful of the snow. Don’t fall down and freeze to death.”