Laura Lee Guhrke (23 page)

“Oh, no.” Sophie, dismayed, looked at Mick. “We could be too late.”

“You said the murder was going to happen after dark, and it doesn’t get dark until nearly ten o’clock at
this time of year. We’ll he at Covent Garden by about half past nine. That gives us plenty of time.”

“I hope you’re right,” Sophie murmured, but she still had grave misgivings, especially when the hour wait turned into two. With the vision of the murdered man still in her mind, every minute seemed an eternity, and by the time the train once again got underway, she was as taut as a bowstring. She said nothing, but she was very much afraid their efforts would be for naught.

Mick was as silent as she, frowning and abstracted, and she left him to his thoughts during the remaining train ride to London.

By the time they got to Paddington Station, it was half past ten and darkness had fallen. The theaters had let out, and hansoms were in short supply. They finally hailed one and reached Covent Garden by quarter past eleven, Just as they turned onto Bow Street, Sophie was overcome by a feeling of complete emptiness, and she knew they were too late. She grabbed Mick’s hand in hers, entwining their fingers tightly together.

“What is it?” he asked, looking at her in surprise.

“He’s dead, Mick. He’s already dead. We’re too late.”

He didn’t answer, but she felt his hand tighten around hers. When the cab turned onto Tavistock Street, where the Three Horses Pub was located, they found the street completely blocked off by the wooden barricades of the Metropolitan Police.

“Bloody hell,” Mick muttered. The carriage had barely come to a stop before he jumped down. Tossing a sixpence to the driver, he ran to the pair of bobbies
stationed at the barricade, and Sophie followed him.

“Rob, Archie,” Mick greeted them, nodding to each one as he said their names. “What’s happened?”

The one called Rob glanced at Sophie, then returned his attention to Mick. “Murder back there,” he said, jerking his thumb to the street behind him, which was crowded with policemen, reporters, and spectators who lived along that street and couldn’t be required to stay back.

“Who is it?” Mick asked. Though his voice was steady as he asked the question, Sophie knew he was dreading the answer.

Rob put a hand on Mick’s shoulder. “Mate, it’s Jack.”

“What? Jack Hawthorne?”

It was clear to Sophie that Mick knew the dead man. Of course, many policemen probably knew each other, but she sensed that this Jack Hawthorne had been a friend.

“I’m going back there,” Mick said and shouldered past the pair of bobbies. They did not stop him, but when Sophie tried to follow him past the barricade, the one named Archie put a hand on her shoulder. “Sorry, miss. No one’s allowed back there.”

Mick turned around. “She comes with me.”

Archie shook his head. “Sir, it’s DeWitt’s orders. If we let the lookers in, our lads won’t be able to move back there.”

“I know the rule, Constable. She’s a material witness in this case. Is DeWitt here?”

“Not yet.”

“When he gets here, I’ll clear it with him.”

“It’s a gruesome sight, sir. I’m not sure a woman should—” Archie broke off at the look Mick gave him, then he shrugged and let Sophie through. “As you please, sir.”

Mick reached behind him for her hand, and she took it, following him toward the entrance to the Three Horses. His tall frame and broad shoulders made it easy to cut a path through the crowd. Still holding his hand, Sophie followed him inside the pub, straight through, and out the back door, where another crowd of police officers were gathered. Some of them closest to the center of the circle were holding lanterns high above their heads. Spectators leaned out the windows of the building across the alley, watching the scene. There were some spectators actually taking notes.

Mick paused outside the pub’s back door. “Wait here,” he told her and walked toward the group of officers in the alley. Sophie watched as he entered the circle. Because he was several inches taller than the other men, she could see his expression as he looked down at the body on the cobblestones, but she hadn’t needed to. She felt his pain. She walked toward him.

Mick saw her coming. He met her halfway, grabbed her by the shoulders, and turned her around, keeping her away.

“Mick, I need to see it.”

“No.”

“I’ve already seen it, in a way,” she told him. “But I want to see it for real. This is important, Mick.”

His hands tightened on her shoulders for a moment,
then he let her go. “All right, but if you get sick, it’s your own fault.”

“I won’t be sick. He was your friend wasn’t he? Will you. . . will you be all right?”

“I’m fine.”

She knew he was lying.

He led her to the body. The other officers at the scene began to notice her presence, and they looked at her curiously.

“Who’s this woman?” one mumbled to another. “DeWitt will have Mick’s head for showing the body to some woman.”

She could feel their curious gazes fixed on her, but she ignored them. She focused on the dead man. The lanterns were still held high by several officers, and when Sophie reached the body, she saw a photographer setting up his camera to take pictures.

Sophie lowered her gaze from the photographer to the bloody mess that had once been a police detective named Jack Hawthorne. It was so much more vivid in reality. She felt the back of her throat tighten, and she almost did exactly what Mick had predicted. She almost threw up.

She turned her face away and found Mick right there, so solid and strong, like a rock to cling to. She grabbed his lapels and buried her face against his shirt front.

He stood there, holding her, with his friend on the ground and a group of fellow officers staring at him as if he’d lost his mind.

“I’m all right now,” Sophie said and straightened away from him. He let her go.

“Do you sense anything?” he asked.

“You’ll have to give me a few minutes. Go and do whatever you need to do. I’ll just step back out of the way and see if anything comes to me.”

He walked her back to the doorway of the pub, and she stood there watching as he returned to the body. He bent down on one knee and lowered his head, paying his final respects to a friend. Opposite Mick, there was another man on his knees over the body, a man wearing a bloodstained apron, and Sophie realized he was a doctor.

When a third man approached the body, Mick stood up to speak with him. Though she could not hear their conversation, she could tell that they began to argue almost immediately.

Sophie peeked between the people who moved past her to watch them. They were arguing about her. She saw the shorter man point in her direction, and she knew he was enraged by her presence. The doctor remained on his knees, ignoring the heated discussion going on above him. But a fourth man moved quite close to the pair, and began taking notes at a furious pace. He was not wearing a uniform, and Sophie wondered who he was.

The argument was brief, lasting only a minute or two. Then the short, angry man walked away, the man taking notes began to talk with the doctor, and Mick returned to her side.

“What is it?” Sophie asked. “That man seemed quite upset about me.”

“Well, he’s my superintendent. He felt that a young lady such as yourself has no place at a crime scene.”

There was more to it than that. Sophie opened her mouth, but before she could ask the real reason they’d been arguing, Mick spoke again.

“You were right. Jack was shot in the head. Looks like a small-caliber weapon, just like the one that was fired at me.”

She nodded. “When I saw it in my mind, I saw that his hat had a hole in it. That’s how I knew.”

“You were right about something else.” Mick took a deep breath and looked into her eyes. “His heart was cut out and taken away.”

She reached up and touched his cheek, sensing his pain, but he turned his face away.

“It was quite well done, too,” he went on, and she let her hand fall away. “Neat and quick, like a surgeon might do. It was done after he was dead. But why remove it? What for?”

Sophie knew the reason. “It’s a message.”

“What sort of message?”

“The heart is symbolic of love, of kindness and tenderness. The killer took it to convey the message that the man he killed had no heart. No compassion. No mercy.” She cleared her throat. “Mick, there’s something else.”

“What?”

“The killer isn’t finished.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”

By the time Sophie returned to the house in Mill Street, it was nearly one o’clock in the morning. She said good night to the young constable who had escorted her home in a cab on Mick’s orders. She entered the house
and found it dark and silent. It was clear that all the lodgers and servants had gone to bed long ago.

She fumbled for the lamp that Grimstock always left by the door for Sophie and her aunt when they went out in the evening, but it wasn’t there. Of course, Grimstock wasn’t expecting their return for several days yet. Sophie bit her lip, hovering near the front door. Thinking about what had happened tonight, what she had seen, only made her more afraid of the dark. She wished Mick were here. If he were here, she’d feel safe.

Being afraid of the dark was silly, she told herself. She took a deep breath, then held it as she ran up the stairs to her own room. Her bedroom wasn’t lit, but there were always a lamp and matches by her bed. It was only after the lamp was lit that Sophie was able to breathe again, taking in deep gulps of air until her heart resumed a normal rhythm and she felt calmer. But even after she had undressed, put on a nightgown, and climbed into bed, she still felt cold and afraid.

She wrapped her arms around her pillow and hugged it tight, wanting Mick there to hold her, but Mick wasn’t there. She was sick at heart and wanted to cry, but she couldn’t cry. She was exhausted and wanted to sleep, but she couldn’t sleep. All she could do was lie there and wonder why such horrible things happened in the world.

After about half an hour of lying there, she still couldn’t relax enough to go to sleep. She was unable to think of anything but that poor man Jack Hawthorne and the wife and children she knew he’d left behind.

She got out of bed and put on a pair of slippers, then
carried the lamp downstairs. She went to the place that had comforted her on many sleepless nights, that had soothed many of her nightmares away, that took her mind off the troubling things she often saw. She went into the conservatory.

She lit all the gaslights and took a look around, seeking something to do. Grimstock had watered everything while she was away, but she’d been quite neglectful of her gardens, both indoors and out, during the past few weeks.

She decided repotting some of the palms was the most important of the many tasks she could choose from. Sophie rolled up the sleeves of her nightgown, donned an apron, and set to work.

Though the house belonged to Auntie, the conservatory was Sophie’s. She’d earned that right by restoring the room to its former glory, one plant at a time.

She loved the outdoor gardens, too, but it was this room, to which she fled when she was troubled. As she worked amid the delicate plants and flowers, listening to the soothing sound of the fountain, the shock of what had happened and what she had seen began to fade.

“Sophie?”

At the sound of Mick’s voice, she peered around the tall palm on the worktable, but the trees and shrubs of the conservatory blocked her view. “I’m back here,” she called, and a few moments later, Mick found her.

“Is there any news?” she asked as he stepped between a pair of marble columns entwined with trumpet vines.

“No.”

He looked so tired. His new suit was rumpled, his tie was undone, the top buttons of his shirt were unfastened. It was so unlike him to be so disheveled that anyone who knew him could tell something terrible had happened. There were harsh lines of grief and anger in his face, showing the grim reality of what they had both seen, and she sensed that the pain he felt at the brutal murder of a man who had been his close friend had only worsened during the last few hours. “When did you come in?” she asked.

“Only a few minutes ago. I went upstairs and saw that your door was open and your bed was turned down, as if you’d tried to sleep and couldn’t. I guessed I’d find you here. Since I am in no frame of mind to sleep myself, I thought I’d join you.” He leaned back against the column behind him. “What is it you’re doing?”

With her trowel, she waved to the wheelbarrow full of soil and compost beside her and the cluster of palms nearby. “I’m repotting palms.”

“That sounds fascinating.”

She smiled at that. “It’s not the most glamorous thing one could do, I suppose.”

His gaze lowered along her body and back again. “I don’t know about that,” he answered. “An apron over a nightgown seems quite posh to me.”

She looked down and saw the dirt that stained her apron and dusted the sleeves of her white lawn nightgown. Laughing, she answered, “If Mama saw me now, I’d be whisked away to the dressmaker at once.”

“I didn’t know dressmakers were open at two o’clock in the morning.”

“My mother would find one.”

“She does seem quite determined in her quest to marry you off.”

“She has always considered the successful marriages of her daughters to be her life’s work,” Sophie answered as she scooped dirt into the terra-cotta pot before her, placing it around the root ball of the palm. “With Charlotte, she succeeded.” Sophie paused, her head tilted to one side. “If one considers Harold a success.”

Mick did not reply. Sophie looked over at him and found that he was leaning against the column behind him, his eyes closed, almost as if asleep on his feet. “Mick?”

He opened his eyes. “Hmm?”

“I’m so sorry about your friend.”

He closed his eyes again and was silent for a long time. “Jack saved my life once,” he finally said, not opening his eyes. “We were working a case in Lambeth. Some very nasty characters that we suspected of running a burglary ring out of Limehouse were hiding in a warehouse there, and we went in after them. Jack saw one of them pull out a pistol and aim it at me. He hurled himself at me as if we were playing rugby and slammed me down behind some crates stuffed with burlap bags of tobacco. I took a bullet in the shoulder as we went down, but if it hadn’t been for Jack, I’d have taken that bullet in the head, and I’d have died.”