City of Light (City of Mystery) (12 page)

Rayley had spent the
afternoon aimlessly wandering the streets of the city.  Ostensibly he was on a
mission to verify the easy purchase of chloroform by citizens other than
doctors, but a stop at the first pharmacy he’d passed had proven not only that
chloroform was in ample supply, but that the placard advertising this fact had
borne the image of a plump, solemn woman no doubt meant to simulate the Queen. 
So he could not have said why even after his errand was complete, he had still kept
walking, why he was so reluctant to return to the mortuary and record this
essential new finding in his notes.   When evening finally fell he had no
appetite for his normal supper of sausage, bread, and cheese.  He was not sure
if he would ever again enjoy a baguette, and they had been his favorite.

And now, despite his
sleeping draught, he found himself wide awake.   Awake in that definitive way
that suggested there was little reason in trying to return to slumber, so he
may as well write Trevor with these new developments.  He fumbled for the box of
matches on his bedside table.  He had sent a telegram earlier but he knew the
Murder Club would be chomping at the bit for more details and he was eager to
learn their thoughts in return.  That bit about the blood on the bread. An
impressive piece of lab work, but would it serve as proof for other cases of
drugging or poisoning?  What would Tom make of the technique? 

His fingertips felt
numb as he brought the flame to the wick.  The autopsy had been even more
distressing than they usually were, and Rayley was feeling that particularly
gripping kind of guilt a detective feels when faced with the death of someone
he personally knew.  His thoughts ran along the predictable path:  I somehow should
have prevented it.  I should have seen more.  It should have occurred to me
that, in the midst of all his gossip and self-importance, Patrick Graham may
have actually stumbled into some sort of genuine danger.

Rayley moved to the
chamber pot in the corner.  As he made use of it, he leaned against the wall
and looked out his window at the sleeping city.  The moon was not entirely
full, but it was large enough to wash the alleyway below his room in silver.  Three
in the morning, he estimated, possibly four.  He would check his watch later to
verify, for this was one of the many little games he had devised for himself,
this guessing of the hour whenever he awakened in the middle of the night.  
Insomnia had followed him from London to Paris, as it would likely someday
follow him back.  Fitful sleep was a natural curse of the job.

This is the time of
night in which nothing can shield you, he thought, watching a cat jump from a
dustbin to a fence, and then right itself upon landing with a fluid sort of balance. 
This is the hour when no amount of money can protect you, no degree of cleverness
or beauty, no number of friends.  The time when we stand, each of us in the
dark, and face the most basic truth of human existence.

We are all alone. 
We all will die.

London

9:40 AM

“He says Graham was
in the Seine,” Trevor said, looking up from Rayley’s telegram.

“The man was
insane?”

“No, Geraldine, he
was in the Seine.  You know, the river that runs through Paris.”

“It’s pronounced
‘sin’ not ‘sane’” Emma said quietly.

“Indeed?” Trevor
snorted.  “Impossible language.”

“So Graham drowned,”
Davy said slowly.

“Yes, but most
likely with some assistance,” Trevor said, and he proceeded to read the short
message aloud.  When he finished, a thoughtful silence descended upon the group.

“Maddeningly
incomplete,” Tom finally said. 

“Rayley was paying
by the word,” Trevor said, “and thus he would be brief.  Besides, I doubt that
there would be much more to report at the time.  He’ll undoubtedly provide a detailed
account in his next letter.”

Davy nodded. “The
autopsy should at least be able to tell us if Graham was still alive when he
entered the water.”

“Let’s hope the man
was knocked unconscious in some sort of fall and never knew he was in danger,”
Emma said.  “Graham came across as such an amusing character in Rayley’s
letters that I felt as if I knew him.  And it’s hard to think of someone you
know, even if you know them in a fictional way, as suffering a prolonged and
frightening death like I’ve always imagined drowning to be.”  

Trevor folded the
paper and returned it to the envelope. “Either way, it’s a dreadful business. 
And either way, as the novelists say, the plot has most assuredly thickened.”

“Could Graham’s
death be connected to the fact they went up the Eiffel Tower?”  Emma asked. “Or
to Isabel Blout or does it have something to do with the Exhibition?  Or could it
all possibly be the result of sheer coincidence?”

“Rayley’s damn worried,”
Trevor said.  “He dictated precisely twenty words but I think we can safely
infer at least that much.  I don’t know the stance the French police are taking
in the matter, but at least one man in Paris isn’t treating this death as
coincidental.” Trevor looked around the circle at four somber faces. “In the
meantime, Tom’s quite right.  The report is maddeningly incomplete and until
Rayley provides us with more facts, it’s pointless for us to speculate. Consider
this telegram message a tease for meetings to come, because today the focus of
our discussion needs to fall closer to home.  We must debrief Emma on Cleveland
Street.”

There were nods all
around and a bit of scraping as Emma and Davy pulled their chairs closer
together.

“If it’s a real case,
perhaps I should excuse myself?” Gerry said.  “It’s fine enough for me to sit
in on your Tuesday Night Murder Games, but if this is true Scotland Yard
business…” An oddly perceptive offer from her and Trevor nodded, hoping his
relief at her voluntary departure wasn’t too evident.  During the walk over, he
had been debating about whether or not he should even share all the particulars
of Cleveland Street with Emma, before finally deciding it would be an insult to
withhold them.  But Gerry was a different matter.  Trevor waited for her to
leave the room and close the parlor doors with a definitive slam before turning
back to the others.

“We’ll start with
Tom’s physical exam of Charlie Swinscow.”

Tom was ready.  “It’s
been two weeks since Cleveland Street was raided,” he said, “which means two
weeks for any evidence on the boy’s body to fade. The problem with the anus is
that there are many small blood vessels, so while it is quite easy to injure
the area, healing is equally fast.  Nonetheless, I did find some signs of sexual
contact, based on some partially-healed tears.  Slight tears, I must stress, consistent
with penetration, although of neither a number nor a severity that would
indicate force.  Very little bruising.”  Tom looked up at them, brushing his
blond hair out of his eyes. “In short, it seems to bear out the boy’s own story. 
He’s had anal intercourse, but there’s no evidence of anal rape.”

Well, that was certainly
plain enough.  Whatever nerves Trevor had about discussing Cleveland Street in
front of Emma, Tom evidently did not share them.  Trevor glanced at the girl.  She
was merely looking at Tom with a quizzical frown while beside them Davy
clutched the armrests of his chair and stared down at his feet, motionless with
mortification.

“Perhaps the most
noteworthy thing about the boy was his size,” Tom said.  “Which I presume you
both noticed upon meeting him yesterday as well.  I’d have guessed him at eleven
or twelve, not fifteen, and I gather this Hammond fellow makes it a policy not
to feed his boys much.”

“Hunger rendering
them more pliable, I presume?” Emma asked, her voice gone high and breathy. 
“Or is the man merely cheap?”

“Both factors
undoubtedly come into play,” Tom said, almost cheerfully. “But malnourishment
will also delay the onset of puberty and I suspect that’s his real game.  His
clients don’t merely desire congress with men, which is relatively easy to
obtain, but with boys, which is riskier, and this is why they must seek out the
service of Hammond.  When you consider what he’s really selling, it’s easy to
see why a fifteen year old who passes for twelve is a valuable asset.”  He
rapped his fingers softly on the tabletop as he consulted his notes, a gesture
which Trevor suspected had more to do with excitement than nerves. “There have
been similar cases where young girls have been semi-starved to prevent the
establishment of a regular menarche – and in the process making sure they don’t
develop breasts or pubic hair or anything else that would give them away as
grown women.  A well-fed girl of the middle or upper classes will mostly likely
begin her monthly bleeding at the age of fourteen, but the average for the lower
classes is sixteen.  In cases of deliberate and sustained malnutrition it can
be held back even longer.”

“The human body is
clever,” Emma said hollowly. “It protects itself.”

“Indeed,” said Tom.
“The expressions of sexuality require energy, reproduction even more so.  If a
body isn’t obtaining enough nourishment in the form of food, it will simply
cease to perform any function that it can spare, menarche being chief among
them.”  Tom sat back in his chair and raised an eyebrow before continuing.
“Don’t glare at me like that, Trevor, I know I’ve digressed from the topic at
hand.  But it’s all quite interesting, is it not? I mean, when one sets aside
the human element and looks at it theoretically. ”

Trevor doubted he
would ever become accustomed to what passed for normal conversation around the
Bainbridge family dinner table; true, there were times when an unpleasant
subject needed to be broached, but must they broach it with such enthusiasm? 
He looked at Tom squarely. “And your conclusion?”

“Simply this:   If
the specialty of a certain business requires the trafficking of children, it
behooves the management to keep their employees – or perhaps I should say their
victims – looking childlike for as long as possible.”

 “We must find this
man Hammond,” Emma said grimly.

“We shall,” Trevor
assured her. “But we will not serve the department, nor these children, if we
allow our emotions to trump our reasoning.”

“Charlie described
certain sexual acts,” Tom said, “with enough clarity and detail that I have no
doubt he is telling the truth about both what he’s witnessed in the brothel and
his own participation.” 

“I don’t think any
of us ever doubted he was telling the truth,” Trevor said.  “It’s hardly the
sort of story a young boy invents, is it?”

 This observation
was met with a pensive silence and, after a moment, Trevor moved on. 

“And Davy, what did
you gather from your private interview?”

“It went just as you
predicted, Sir.  Due to our shared social station, or perhaps I should say our
shared lack of a social station, Charlie talked to me like a fellow,” Davy
answered. “He gave me the names and descriptions of seven clients, although he
only knew full names for three of them.”

“Are you sure
they’re legitimate?” Emma asked, her focus apparently restored.  “Might men not
use pseudonyms when visiting such a place?”

“I’ll finish
checking the list tomorrow but the first one was quite legitimate,” Davy said.
“Lord Arthur Somerset.”

“Oh Lord, a lord,”
Trevor said, although in truth he was not surprised.   Somerset had been in the
arresting officer’s report, along with a note from the Queen expressly asking
that Trevor and his team be attached to the case. “When the aristocracy is
involved, things always seem to twist.”

“Something about that
name sounds familiar,” Tom said.

“Somerset presides
over the stables of the Prince of Wales,” Davy said quietly.  “And thus, of
course, this means he manages those of the Prince’s son as well.  The Duke of
Clarence, that is.”

A collective groan
went up from Tom and Emma.

“Eddy strikes again,”
Tom said.  “I can only assume this Somerset chap accompanies the Duke on his
rides about town?   That they are boon companions and the best of buddies?”

Davy nodded. 

“All roads eventually
do lead back to Albert Victor, don’t they?”  Emma said. “Especially the muddy
ones.  I suppose when this part gets out the newspapers will have their usual
holiday.”

“Bet on it,” Trevor
said shortly. “Scandal sells papers, royal scandal most of all, and in that
sense Eddy can surely be declared the patron saint of Fleet Street.”

The Duke of
Clarence, born Albert Victor and commonly known as Eddy, was the Queen’s eldest
grandchild - in fact, he was the first born son of her first born son and thus
in direct line of succession. Through the years this heir to the British throne
had somehow managed to associate himself with every tawdry crime in London.  Rumors
of illegitimate children abounded, as did whispered stories of the darkest
sorts of amusements, visits to brothels of every imaginable sort.  At one time
he had even been considered as a possible suspect in the Ripper case.  He
always managed to emerge from the gutter unscathed, but, nonetheless, Eddy was
a perpetual headache to the monarchy.  By the light of day, the Duke of
Clarence was petulant, spoiled, obsessed with dandyish clothing, almost
certainly riddled with syphilis, and partially deaf.  By night things grew worse. 
It was widely claimed that Eddy was bisexual and possessed a special penchant
for equestrian gear.