City of Darkness (City of Mystery) (3 page)

“I believe I would like tea,”
Gwynette said, and Tillie went scrambling toward the door.

Galloway took his position behind the
desk.  Leanna was hit with a painful wave of nostalgia, remembering how many
times she had seen her grandfather in that very chair, poring over his
journals.  No, she thought, pressing her eyes closed, I won’t cry again.  She was
relieved when Tillie promptly returned with the tea tray and they were all able
to busy themselves with the familiar rituals of napkins and cups.  She was not
the only one upset, she saw, for Tom’s hand trembled as he took a saucer and,
for once in his life, William refused food.

“There’s a good deal of talk in the
opening about sound mind and such,” Galloway began.  “And I can assure you
Leonard was of sound mind.  The will was witnessed by a fellow solicitor and
one of his doctors who had just performed a most through examination.” 
Galloway grunted and picked up his spectacles.  “He begins by leaving bequests
to his household staff and to his alma mater, Cambridge.  He also leaves the
university his scientific papers and any proceeds which might be realized from
the publication of these papers.  I could spell out the particulars, if you – “

“Spare us,” William said. “The dons
can come tomorrow and cart out every skeleton and test tube in the place for all
I care.  Tell them to do so, in fact.  Anything that is left when we move in
will go directly to the trash heap.”

“Indeed” said Galloway, thinking that
genetics was a funny business.  Neither Leonard’s son nor his two eldest grandsons
had shared his love of learning.  The peculiarities of the will were now beginning
to make more sense.  He had tried to dissuade Leonard from the arrangement
himself, fearing the terms would be contested, but Leonard had gone to great
lengths to render the document unbreakable.  Now, looking at the solemn faces
of Tom and Leanna, Galloway understood for the first time why his friend had
been so tenacious.

“Indeed,” he said again, turning back
to the papers and beginning to read aloud.  “I leave a thousand pounds in trust
for the medical school expenses of my grandson Thomas.  If my grandsons William
and Cecil should decide to attend university in view of obtaining professional
status in any field, a like amount shall be drawn from the general coffers and
put in trust for them.”  William and Cecil both frowned, but remained silent
and after a pause, Galloway continued.    “Four hundred pounds a year will be
transferred from the general coffers into a fund for the maintenance of
Rosemoral.  This will allow all presently employed servants to keep their
positions, whether or not the house is occupied.” 

That’s odd, Leanna thought, looking
up from her tea.  Occupied or not?  She tried to catch Tom’s eye but he was
slumped his armchair, hand to his mouth, deep in thought.

“To my daughter-in-law, Gwynette
Bainbridge, and to each of my three grandsons, William, Cecil, and Thomas, I
leave a monthly allowance of fifty pounds, also to be drawn from the general
coffers…”

Everyone was frowning now.

It isn’t what he’s saying, it’s what
he isn’t saying, Tom thought.  Where does Leanna come into all this?

“The Bainbridge family emeralds and
the Gainsborough portrait of our mother, I entrust to my beloved sister
Geraldine,” Galloway droned on.  “Since she benefited from our father’s estate,
I leave her no other funds and believe she will understand my reasoning …”

Suddenly an idea began to dawn in
Tom’s head and he glanced quickly around the seated circle, trying to gauge if
the same thought had occurred to anyone else.  The reminder that his own father
had left money to a daughter, the reminder of a family tradition of heiresses,
Tom thought, his heart beginning to beat faster.  The confident look had left
William’s eyes and Cecil was bent forward, staring at a single flower on the
Oriental rug.   

“The estate of Rosemoral and all
surrounding properties,” Galloway was reading, “along with the stocks, bonds,
and monies on deposit at the Leeds Trust which constitute the general
coffers….” 

Galloway had everyone’s attention
now.  A clock struck in a distant hall and Tom jumped.  One.  Two.  Three. 
Four.  The chimes reverberated, trembling in the air.  It’s four o’clock, Tom
thought.  Four o’clock and the end of the world. 

“…I leave to my granddaughter, Leanna
Bainbridge.”

In the weeks and months to come, Tom
would lie in his dormitory room at Cambridge and try to reconstruct that
moment, wondering whose face had borne the most appalled expression.  Most
nights he would decide it had been Leanna’s.  She went absolutely white, as
pale as the paper in Galloway’s hand, and beside her, both Cecil and William
sat literally open-mouthed.   Gywnette, a master at hiding her emotions after
years of practice, gazed down into her tea cup as if she were trying to divine
the future.  Galloway rushed on to the last sentence of the document, nearly
stammering as he read. 

“My grandson Thomas is named executor
of the estate.”

That said, he looked up, and wiped
his brow.  This final statement seemed to have stunned the listeners fully as
much as the announcement of primary heir, for it was at least thirty seconds –
measured by the tormenting beat of the clock – before William rose shakily to
his feet.

“He was mad, obviously mad…”

Galloway gazed at the younger,
stronger man with no expression.  “He knew you would say as much, which is why
he went to such pains to make sure the document is beyond reproach.”

“Beyond reproach, my –“

“We’ll fight it, you must know that,”
Cecil said, moving to stand beside William.  “To leave a fortune of this size
to an nineteen-year-old girl –“

“Twenty.”  The voice seemed to come
from nowhere.

“I’m twenty,” Leanna repeated slowly,
also rising to her feet. 

“Well, I beg your pardon,” Cecil
snapped.  “That puts an entirely new face on everything.  And naming this boy
as the executor is surely the final joke of a man gone mad from inhaling too
much formaldehyde.”

“I’m not a boy, and Grandfather named
me executor for a reason,” Tom said.  “He knew I would protect Leanna, that I
wouldn’t let you break the will…”

“Protect her?” Cecil flopped back
into his seat with an ugly laugh.  “Well I’m sure our sister will sleep better
in her room tonight knowing that you’re her designated guardian.  Oh, but
they’re all your rooms now, aren’t they, darling?  Tell me, can mother and
William and I stay the evening, or do you plan to put us in the barn with the
livestock?”

“You must know that I never…” Leanna
stopped and tried to take a breath, struggling to inhale against the tight
ribcage of her corset.

“Leanna?”  Tom said, extending an
arm.  She was very pale.

“Perhaps you should rest, Miss
Bainbridge,” Galloway said.  “There’s a couch – “

Tom was moving towards her, but he
was too late.  Leanna made one last attempt to speak and then the floor rose up
and slapped her in the face.

CHAPTER TWO

September 9

4:05 PM

It may have been high tea in the more
civilized neighborhoods of London, but there was little time for ceremony at
Scotland Yard.  As had been the case for days, the front lawn was overrun with
reporters, eyewitnesses, whores, lunatics, preachers, and politicians, all
demanding to know what the police were going to do about the East End murders.

Trevor Welles cut through the crowd
with a speed which belied his size.  He was of a body type often called portly,
a term he detested, for he was proud of the fact his back and shoulders were
dense with muscles.  Besides, years on the force had taught him that a long low
stride covered ground as well as a run, and there were few men in the Yard who
could outdistance him when it mattered. 

As he entered the building, a desk
sergeant jerked a thumb to indicate he should take the stairs.  Trevor bounded
up three flights to the meeting room where at least two dozen plain clothes
detectives sat waiting.  At the front of the room stood a slate and a small
table with several items littered about the surface.   Trevor picked his way to
the front row.  Inspector Arthur Eatwell was sitting behind the table staring
at the bare wall in front of him and he failed to acknowledge Trevor’s
greeting.

“You may smoke, gentlemen,” the
Inspector said, without moving, and all the detectives pulled out their pipes. 
There were a few coughs, a scraping of chairs, and then a variety of aromas,
from cherry to leather, began to fill the air.

The door behind Eatwell opened and a
small, gray haired man entered carrying a black leather bag.  “Thank you for
joining us, Dr. Phillips,” Inspector Eatwell said, finally turning from the
wall. “Gentlemen, I’m sure you’ll all recognize our chief coroner.  Begin
anywhere you wish. ”

The doctor nodded toward the men, and
sat his bag on the table.  “Then I’ll start by saying to date Scotland Yard has
completely bungled the investigation of these two murders.”

A murmur swept through the room and
Eatwell’s ears reddened, although he kept his look of rapt attention.

“Don’t you mean three murders, sir?”
Trevor asked, raising one hand, and leafing through his journal with the other.
“What about Martha Tabram, found August seventh?”

“And there have been other knifings
of women in the East End this year,” came a voice from the back.  “Annie
Millwood in February, Ada Wilson in March, Emma Smith in April…”

Trevor turned to see that this last
speaker was Rayley Abrams, who was leaning against the far wall of the room.  
Abrams had come on the force a year before Trevor and his solemn demeanor,
coupled with his almost ludicrously thick spectacles, had earned him the
nickname “professor” around the Yard.    But unlike Trevor, Abrams knew how to
outthink his superiors without annoying them, how to make a suggestion without
it sounding more like an accusation.   Some predicted he’d make the rank of
Chief Detective by the close of the year, at least if he managed to attach
himself to a high profile case.  And no case in the Yard was drawing more
attention than this one.

The doctor glanced at Eatwell, as if
looking for guidance.

“Tabrum was stabbed thirty-nine
times,” Trevor blurted out, aware that he was repeating information well known
to everyone in the room, but still determined to make his point.  “That
indicates a killer in a frenzy, exactly the sort of man we’re looking for.”

“Our inquiry only concerns these two
women,” Eatwell said. “If we included every unfortunate in the East End we’d
fill up the walls.”  He stood to flip over the slate.  It read:  

Mary Ann “Pretty Polly” Nichols

Age: 42

Killed August 31, Shoreditch

Anne “Dark Annie” Chapman

Age: 47

Killed September 8, Hanbury Street

“Now, Doctor,” Eatwell said, “would
you care to specify your findings?”

Phillips advanced to the podium.  “My
efforts were hampered by the fact the bobbies who originally found the bodies were
rather, shall we say, overzealous.  Nichols was moved to a workhouse mortuary,
cleaned and washed before a doctor was even called in.  Who can say how many
vital clues were literally swept down the drain?” Eatwell looked at his
fingernails with sudden interest as the coroner went on.  “Things were not much
better with Chapman.  Her body was carried to a shed before it could be
properly examined and again, by the time I arrived, a good bit of evidence had
been destroyed. It’s been said before but must be repeated.  A body should not
be lifted and moved.”

In his seat, Trevor inwardly groaned. 
Despite the papers beginning to circulate on the importance of proper forensic
procedure, the bobbies were notorious for trampling the evidence.  Their casual
manner toward bloodstains, fibers, and body position was not surprising, for
even a few of the high-ranking inspectors had utterly failed to grasp the
significance of physical clues.  Eatwell, one of the worst offenders in
Trevor’s view, frowned at Phillips. 

“You’re suggesting we leave the body
as we found it, lying in a public street with a crowd mulling around?   Perhaps
you somehow managed not to notice it as you arrived, Doctor, but we have a mob
on the front lawn that’s growing by the hour.  The public is in a panic, and
the sight of these bodies…let us just say it wasn’t exactly death by natural
causes.”

You don’t calm a panic by moving the
bodies, you fool, Trevor thought.  You rope off the area and move the crowd.

“What I am suggesting,” Phillips said
calmly, “is that the best solution to public panic is bringing the killer to
justice.  And part of that task is to preserve every shred of evidence.”

“I agree,” Eatwell said, with such an
audible sigh it was plain he did not.  “Despite the difficulties, I assume you
did learn some things?”

“Of course,” Phillips said, glancing
down at his papers.  “We feel safe in saying the same person committed both
crimes.  The killer is most likely left-handed, for the wounds on both victims
were made in a left to right pattern.”  He illustrated with a trembling
diagonal slice of the air.  “If not left-handed, then he’s as skillful with the
left as he is with the right.  Both women had their throats slashed from ear to
ear, as the papers so gleefully reported, and in Chapman’s case the head was
almost severed.  These mutilations were deftly and skillfully performed on both
victims.”  The doctor looked up, his aged eyes sharp and piercing.