Sallie was well asleep again. Hester went softly to her own chamber, teacup in hand, and emptied its contents into the slop jar. Then, gathering a second shawl and a throw from her own bed, she was back with the child. Selecting the most comfortable chair in the room, she drew it close to the bed.
Now that the house was silent within, she became aware the storm seemed to have died down. Yet she found herself listening as if she expected some happening that had not yet come. Finally she went to the hall door of the room and, for no good reason she could give, stood with her ear against it. There was no sound.
Back once more in her chair, her feet at rest on a small footstool, yet close enough to the bed to be aware of any move from Sallie, Hester rested her head against the tall back of the chair, and, in spite of all her best intentions, her eyes closed. How long she dozed so she did not know but she came awake and sat upright.
Her first attention was for Sallie but the girl had not moved.
Hester pressed her lips together tightly, her hands curled into fists. She was certain that she had awakened because of some sound. The fire had burned quite low again. She made herself move to the hearth, put some lumps of coal on. But she did not lay aside the brass-handled poker, keeping it still in hand as she went toward the hall door.
This time she opened it a crack to hear the better.
There!
As well carpeted as the stairs might be, the old wood creaked under weight.
Someone was coming.
Now she could see light, a wavering glow that could only be that of candle flame. Without thought Hester opened the door wide.
Bertha stood at the top of the stairs. She uttered a startled gasp and looked at Hester as if her mistress were an apparition.
In one hand she held a candle, which now tipped perilously to one side so the wax dripped to the carpet. In the other hand there was a gleam of metal. Bertha had armed herself with one of the large carving knives.
"Bertha, what are you doing?"
"Oh, miss." The girl's voice was low-pitched but there was truly fear in it. "Oh, miss, I be comin' to fetch you. There was a noise—"
"What sort of noise?"
Bertha hesitated, frowning. "Summat like a door closin' wiv the 'inges gone to rust—"
"Here, inside the house?"
Bertha's frown deepened. "It could be."
For a moment Hester felt the tingling of sudden fear, then dismissed it with a shake of the head. "But that's quite impossible. We checked the doors together. And all the hinges were oiled when the new locks were installed."
But even as she spoke, her banished fear returned. New locks had been installed throughout the house, but not the laboratory across the way, where the outer door was yet to be replaced.
Hester started forward. "Come with me." She gestured with her poker. "And put that thing away before you cut yourself with it."
The girl thrust the knife through the belt of her apron and moved up beside her mistress, holding the candle high.
Together they entered the sewing room and crossed to the window. Hester halted and looked outward. The rain had ceased but the sky was clouded and the night was dark. Staring down at the black bulk of the building across the courtyard, she scanned the entrance. To her relief the outer door was closed.
It was not until she started to turn away that she saw the momentary glimmer through one of the upstairs windows. A light, flickering in that ill-omened cabinet above the far end of the laboratory! And then, literally in the blink of an eye, it was gone.
"Bertha, did you see it?"
"See what, miss?"
"The light across the way."
Bertha shook her head. "No, miss." She glanced down at the candle flame. "Per'aps it be a reflect'un on the glass from this 'ere."
The answer made sense—at least the sense Hester wanted to believe in now. Still, she must be sure.
"Please lift the candle," she said, then looked out as Bertha complied. But there was no sign of a reflection in any of the upstairs windows.
"Move it about, Bertha. The light may have been cast on the pane from a different angle."
Again the girl complied and for a long moment they both fixed their gaze on the darkened windows. Then, as the candle sputtered, Bertha glanced away, poking to clear the wick. It wasn't until Hester started to turn once more that she caught the flickering flare from the corner of her eye. An instant later it vanished, but now she knew there had been no mistake. And what she had seen was not a reflection.
Bertha looked up at her mistress. "Miss—?"
Involuntarily Hester's grip tightened around the handle of the poker. "Come!" she ordered, crossing to the doorway, then gesturing Bertha to precede her along the hall and down the stairs to the landing below. There she halted.
"What is it, miss?" Bertha's voice seemed to come from a long distance away. Hester shaped words with a mouth that was suddenly dry.
"Let me have the candle," she said. Bertha complied, and in its closer light Hester consulted her watch. The time was nine-thirty. And though the rain had ceased, the heaviness in the air hinted that this was but a temporary lull. She must take advantage of it now; there was no other choice.
"Bertha." Hester had to force herself to speak calmly. "Do you know how to reach Pembroke Square?"
"Yes, miss. Three squares south an' one east."
Hester nodded. "I recall Inspector Newcomen saying a police station is located at the corner crossing. You will please to go there immediately."
"But, miss—"
Hester ignored the interruption. "Inform them we are in need of a constable and ask if he might accompany you here at once."
The girl frowned, bewildered. "They'll want a reason—"
"Tell them there appears to have been a break-in out back. And that it would be best to notify Inspector Newcomen as quickly as possible, since he is concerned in this matter. I think mention of his name could be helpful."
"Ooh, miss, then there be some mischief what you've not told me—"
"Bring a constable and we'll see." This was the time for firmness, not faltering. "Now take your shawl and be off."
Before Bertha could utter further protest Hester was guiding her on a candlelit journey ending at the front door. Here she thrust the keys into the girl's hand. "I shall be upstairs with Sallie, so use these when you return." For the first time her voice betrayed the urgency seething within her, but not the fear.
And it was the fear that mounted with her as she climbed the stairs. Once Bertha had departed on her errand, with the front door closed and locked behind her, fear remained Hester's sole companion. When she reached the room to find Sallie soundly sleeping, there was momentary relief, but it was not until she made another visit to the sewing room that a further inspection dispelled her dread. The building below and beyond the window was dark once more.
Perhaps it had always been so, and the lights had indeed been no more than reflections. In such a case the police would take her for a fool. Still, better to risk their ridicule than the possibility of perils seen ox unseen. In any case, she hoped Bertha would not be long.
Returning to her post, Hester dropped into a chair at the bedside. Thank heavens the child was safe! Safe, and so deep in slumber after such an ordeal. In this, at least, she could be envied; as Hester leaned back she wished it were possible for her to close her own eyes, if only for a moment. And, in a moment, she had. It had been a trying evening.
Chapter 20
It had been a trying evening for Albert Prothore.
Getting about in the storm was the least of it; a stroke of luck provided him with transportation just around the corner from the Jekyll house. Nonetheless his journey was hardly pleasant; storm or no, the Strand was jammed with cabs and carriages at this hour. The discomfort of wet garments only served to intensify his impatience as the hansom's pace frequently slowed to a crawl.
Meantime his thoughts were racing. What Sallie had told them must have come as a shock
to Hester, but his own immediate response was one of sheer outrage. That low and debased creatures like Sallie's father might perpetrate such infamies he could at least understand, though not excuse. Even the little he had learned thus far while investigating in Sir John's behalf was enough to explain deeds born of degradation and desperation. But Faulkner's role in this affair was another matter. It was he, and others like him, who made it possible for the panderers and procurers to ply their filthy trade here and abroad, for poverty-stricken parents to sell their children, for children to sell themselves.
Upon approaching Trafalgar Square the cab, impeded by traffic ahead, came to a jarring halt, and this time the pace of Prothore's thought followed suit.
Hold on now, he told himself. Not so fast; no point jumping to conclusions. Club gossip about Faulkner was scarcely a substitute for hard evidence. There were other residences flanking the four sides of Cadogan Square, and any of these might well harbor elderly gentlemen with perverse inclinations. There would be no reason to mention his suspicions to Inspector Newcomen unless he could substantiate them. If Mrs. Kirby or any of her household staff furnished anything by way of proof, it would be time enough to speak up. Until such a juncture, what he meant to tell the inspector concerning Sallie should be sufficient.
Admiral Nelson stood steadfast against thunder, lightning, and driving rain, but Albert Prothore was grateful for the protection of the cabman's brolly as he was escorted to the shelter of Scotland Yard.
Once inside he was on his own in the crisscross of damp hallways flickering in the fitful flare of gaslight. Rain or shine, the corridors here remained crowded, the cubicular offices occupied, twenty-four hours a day. It was all very well to speak of law and order, but there seemed precious little of the latter here. Law and disorder would be a more appropriate description. Prothore was forced to make no less than three inquiries before finally finding his way to Inspector Newcomen's diminutive domain.
Newcomen was properly surprised by.his visit and even more taken aback by the account of Sallie's ordeal. It required nothing more on Prothore's part for the inspector to take action.
"No sense sending constabulary around until we know what we're after," he said. "What's wanted is prompt investigation. I'd best deal with the matter directly. D'ye have the street address?"
"I do." Prothore nodded. "Better still, I'll go with you."
"That won't be necessary, sir."
"By your leave, I should like to accompany you. Miss Jekyll is greatly concerned—"
"As you please." Newcomen busied himself donning a greatcoat preparatory to braving the storm. "But meaning no offense, sir, since this is by way of being official business, it's understood that I'm to ask the questions."
"Agreed."
The rain was still pelting down as the inspector led Prothore by a circuitous route to the square. Here, much to the young man's surprise, a cab stood at the curbing, then rolled forward immediately as they appeared.
"Jerry," the inspector murmured. "Reckon I'm his best customer."
And so he seemed to be, judging from the alacrity with which the cabby produced a brolly and ushered them across the walk and into the waiting vehicle. Prothore noted that Jerry had a second umbrella for his own use already opened and mounted above the driver's seat. The horse, less fortunate, had to be content with a battered specimen of straw headgear with a brim wide enough to protect both eyes from the onslaught of rain.
Once settled and rolling Prothore took confidence in the realization that the first stage of his mission had been accomplished. This confidence, he acknowledged, was increased by the presence of his companion. Inspector Newcomen was by no means the sort of chap one would seek out as a dinner guest or partner for a game of whist, but in a situation like this he was an ideal repository of trust.
During the drive he asked many questions. Mainly he seemed concerned with Sallie's veracity, though the lack of details in her story didn't trouble him overmuch.
"Drugged, I venture," he said. "Small wonder she couldn't tell more. Unless, of course, it's all twaddle."
"But there'd be no reason. And we both know she was in harm's way before." Prothore glanced at his companion. "Would you think it likely her father might have been behind this attack also?"
"Possible." Newcomen shifted in his seat as the cab lurched. "Bears looking into."
Prothore frowned. "It would appear you have a great deal to look into. This business of the grave robbery, as well as murder. And have you yet discovered the whereabouts of Mr. Utterson's manservant?"
"Pope?" The inspector shook his head. "No telling where that one disappeared to. Sunk without a trace."
"Do you surmise he might be responsible for his master's death?"
Newcomen sighed. "That's a hard nut to crack. What's lacking here is motive. Nothing in the house seems to have been disturbed, and the victim's wallet hadn't been emptied, so it wasn't robbery. I had a word with Utterson's clerk and the charwoman on hire for weekly cleaning, and they know nothing about Pope, or if there was bad blood between him and the deceased."
Prothore glanced sharply at his companion. "Would Pope have known the truth about Dr. Jekyll?"
"Not likely. Utterson was a closemouthed man."
"But his chief clerk, Robert Guest, must have had some inkling."
"That may be. But I still hold murder springs from motives, not inklings."
The inspector's tone was brusque but Prothore ignored it. Peering through the window at his right, he observed that the downpour had slackened; gas lamps kindled radiant reflections from rain-soaked cobblestones, transforming gutters into glitter. Yet lightning was far from plentiful here and the intervals between held only darkness in their depths. A cold wind slithered through the streets, and even inside the cab, with the added though somewhat dubious protection of his damp inverness, he felt sudden chill.
Could it be occasioned by fear? Such emotions were, of course, foreign to English gentlemen; if indeed he was afraid, it was not for his own safety.
Hester was his concern, she and the two girls unarmed and unsecured in the night. Even if no danger threatened from without, the very house that held them had been the scene of tragedy before; perhaps it harbored other perils still. He determined to return there without a moment's delay once the meeting with Mrs. Kirby concluded.
The rain had ceased entirely by the time Jerry brought cab to curb before the residence that Albert Prothore recognized from the other evening. It was hard to realize how much had happened during the short span since the night he had rescued Hester from Sallie's father and his companions.
Prothore tempered the thought with a rueful smile. "Rescued" was hardly the proper term; "forcibly removed" was closer to the mark. What a senseless little fool he thought her to be, coming to a place like this on that occasion! And yet here he was tonight, himself returning to the scene of— what? A crime, the suspicion of a crime, or merely the focal point of a hysteric child's flight of fancy?
Whatever the answer, he hoped it would be forthcoming shortly. The thought of Hester's plight could not be banished, but he did his best to concentrate on the mission at hand while accompanying Newcomen from the cab. Jerry had dismounted from his perch; he was feeding something by hand to the wet and weary horse as a reward for services rendered.
The wind seemed to swirl more swiftly even in the brief time required for the two men to proceed along the walk and up the steps to the front door. Prothore tugged at his hat brim to tighten it against rising gusts. The rain would be returning soon.
Once within the shelter of the doorway he stood waiting as the detective knocked. It was a matter of some moments before the energetic summons was answered. When the door inched open, the face that peered cautiously outward and upward bore no resemblance to Hester's description of the lady residing here.
"Yus?" The utterance was midway between a query and a croak.
The big man nodded. "We wish to see Mrs. Kirby," he said.
"'Oo 'ud I
say is callin'?"
"Inspector Newcomen."
The croak took on a guarded tone. "Yuh wiv th' p'leece?"
"Scotland Yard."
"Missus don't be 'ere."
The door started to close far more quickly than it had opened, but Newcomen's right boot wedged in the crack. "Not so fast," he retorted. "I'd like a word with you."
"Th' missus be aout." Again the thin sloven attempted to push the door shut but the inspector's foot remained firmly lodged. His hand tugged the edge of the door, pulling it forward to widen the opening.
There was a murmur of protest. "'Ere, whatcher abaout?"
"Mind if we step inside to talk?" Newcomen said.
The woman shook her head. "The chil'em is asleep. I'll not 'ave yuh makin' a disturbance."
The inspector made no reply, but retained his hold on the door to keep it open at this angle.
Now Prothore obtained a better view of the woman who confronted them across the threshold. From beneath a cloth cap reddish curls framed a blotched forehead and a crook-nosed face mottled by broken veins. He recalled Hester's description of the domestic she had encountered here, and tried to remember the name she'd mentioned.
Then it came to him and he smiled quickly. "Murch, isn't it?" he said.
"Yus." The eyes blinked assent.
"I am a friend of Miss Jekyll's, who came here to visit Mrs. Kirby this afternoon. It is important that we speak with her at once."
The woman frowned. "Th' missus 'as gone out."
"When?" It was Newcomen's interjection.
Murch shrugged. "Some'ut nigh a hour ago, per'aps a bit more—"
"The rain was coming down in buckets then." The inspector spoke sharply. "Why would she go out in the middle of a storm?"
Murch hesitated; when she replied she directed both her gaze and her answer to Prothore. "The lady 'oo was here— Miss Jekyll—did she say as 'ow the missus took sick?"
"I believe she did mention something about Mrs. Kirby suffering from headache."