Reckless Wager: A Whitechapel Wagers Novel (8 page)

Light filtered through the pale green curtains of 42 Moreton Terrace’s front window and Kate heard Solomon Thrumble’s voice before she reached the front step. She was late. Would there be time to change? She feared there would be no time to do anything but explain why she was tardy and where she’d been.

With shaking hands she fumbled the key against the lock before feeling the metal slide into place and hearing it click as it threw the latch. Stepping into the foyer, she shrugged off her cloak, smoothed her dress, and swiped at the dust clinging to her skirts. There was no hope for it. Her gown was too dark and the lighter marks of dust and dried mud too well embedded. So much walking had left her hem damp, even darker than the rest of her skirt. There was no hiding the fact she’d been out in the muck and mire.

“Kate, there you are.” Ada descended the stairs and spoke quietly. “Will and Mr. Thrumble are in the sitting room. I can hold them off a bit if you’d like to change your gown or wash before luncheon.”

Kate hugged Ada, clung to her. Her sister-in-law squeezed tight, only releasing the embrace when Kate’s shivers had eased.

“What is it?” Ada’s voice was a whisper, her green eyes glittering in the gaslight.

“I’ve just come from Whitechapel.” Once the words began, Kate couldn’t stop them tumbling out. “I go there several times a week to volunteer at a charitable infirmary, nothing like the work you did at the Samaritan Hospital. It’s just a small clinic, but it’s useful to those who live nearby on the Whitechapel Road.”

Ada didn’t speak, merely listened, and chafed the cold from Kate’s hands as her confession rushed out in hushed tones.

“I tended to a young woman last night. Rose is her name. She claimed she’d been attacked by the Whitechapel Murderer. By Jack the Ripper. She was cut here.” Kate lifted her hand and slid her index finger across the side of her throat. “It wasn’t deep.”

“There hasn’t been an attack in months. Do you think it’s the same man?”

Ada had never expressed an interest in the mystery of the murders in Whitechapel. She didn’t collect
The Illustrated Police News
, nor ask to look at any of the other clippings Kate had collected. But she’d grown up in the district, knew the area, and tended to the sick and injured at the Samaritan Hospital. Her mother still lived there above the pub she and Ada’s father had purchased years before. It was no surprise she’d be as interested in the victims and crimes as anyone.

“I don’t know. If it was, she is a very lucky young woman.”

“Did she speak to the police?”

Kate shook her head and Ada narrowed her eyes.

“She must.”

“Rose said she would only speak to a detective sergeant named Quinn. I sought him out, but he was… He was in no proper state to speak with her.”

“Sought him out where?”

Laughter, a warm baritone rumble, rang out from the sitting room. Kate recognized it as Will’s laughter. She and Ada both turned their heads toward the sitting room door before stepping closer and lowering their voices to the barest whisper.

“The Ten Bells.”

Ada clamped a hand to her mouth and her eyebrows shot up.

Kate closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She could hear the admonitions in her own head without Ada speaking a word of them.

“I know. It’s not a fit place for a woman to go alone. But Rose insisted she would speak to no one else.”

“Was he drunk?”

“Quite.” Kate had never seen her sister-in-law roll her eyes, but she did it now quite impressively before lifting a hand to her hip to emphasize her disgust.

“He did attempt to question Rose this morning at the clinic, but she’s gone missing.”

“Missing? Why? Where?”

Kate shrugged, but the thought of what might have become of Rose brought images to mind like those she’d seen in the penny gazettes. “She took herself off in the night. He’s still searching for her.”

Ada reached for Kate’s hands again. “Take a moment and refresh yourself. I’ll go and hold off the gentlemen for a bit.”

Kate nodded, lifted her skirts, and started up the stairs. An ache in her chest—a knot of worry and anxiety over Rose—still troubled her, but she felt lighter for having shared the truth of her work in Whitechapel with Ada.

“Kate?”

Ada spoke, her voice quiet, the volume doing nothing to diminish her tone of concern. “This is what you want, isn’t it?” Ada tilted her head toward the sitting room, indicating the place where Kate was to meet Mr. Thrumble and finally give him the answer he had been awaiting for so long.

Kate shook her head—a slow, subtle movement of denial. She forced her body into stillness before answering. “Of course. It’s time to marry again. To move on.”

“That doesn’t truly answer the question I asked.” A sad smile curved Ada’s mouth as she waited for Kate’s answer. When Kate made no reply, Ada took two steps and stood just below her on the stairs. “I never believed I would marry. And certainly not for love. But now… Now I cannot bear the thought of marrying for any other reason. For you. For Vicky. For any of the women I care for.”

No.
Kate had married for love once, for a desire so all-encompassing and complete she could see nothing else, nor listen to the warnings of those who cared for her and urged caution. She had heard only the sweet words spoken in Andrew Guthrie’s Scottish brogue, and she’d been his.

His to torment. His to blame and chastise and rage at until he was sapped of energy. That’s when he would come scratching at her door like a needy pup, begging forgiveness, vowing he’d changed, promising he would never speak a cross word to her again as long as he lived.

No.
Marrying for love was a foolish notion and only ended well for a lucky few. Kate rejoiced with all her heart for Will and Ada’s good fortune, but she couldn’t believe in such felicity for herself.

If she married Solomon Thrumble, there would be no grand passion, but nor would there be any great heartache. He would treat her well, and she would take care of his home and their children, if they were so blessed. Kate had always been good at doing her duty, and she would do her duty with Mr. Thrumble. Leave passion to the young and foolish.

Passion.
Her mind snagged on the notion and conjured memories that made her warm. The December wind still whipped against the window pane in the entryway, but she could no longer feel its chill. Instead her cheeks flamed, just as they had when Detective Quinn kissed her. Or had she kissed him?

“Kate?”

“I kissed him.” There it was. The truth—the most thrilling event in her life in ten long years.

Ada smiled before staring at Kate quizzically. “Who did you kiss?”

“Mrs. Guthrie, thank goodness!”

Solomon Thrumble’s diminutive frame filled the sitting room doorway, and his confused expression matched Ada’s.

“I am sorry to be late. I’m just going upstairs to change. I’ll be back down directly.”

Without waiting for a response, Kate started up the stairs again.

“Mrs. Guthrie.” Mr. Thrumble’s imploring tone stalled her. “We will have a moment to speak, just the two of us. Won’t we? I am quite anxious to know your feelings on a topic of great interest to us both.”

Kate couldn’t look at him. Guilt and desire warred with her sense of duty, and she feared he’d read all of it on her face. “Of course, Mr. Thrumble. I’ll just be a moment. Would you wait for me in the sitting room?”

She paused at the top step, waiting on his reply. It was long in coming.

“Yes, of course.” His voice was lighter, thinner, as if she had deflated him and all his hopes. Again.

****

“Next one over. Up the stairs. Number four, I fink.”

The man at the Flower and Dean Street address proved more helpful than Ben expected after an hour of knocking on doors. He hadn’t found Rose at Fieldgrate Street, but a woman there directed him to a Hessian Court. No luck there either. One rumor about Rose’s whereabouts led to another, and he was following a rabbit trail more than conducting an investigation. Despite his suspension and the fact he had no business conducting an official investigation at all, finding Rose was still urgent. If she’d truly encountered the Ripper, Ben needed to know every detail. And even if she hadn’t, he needed the satisfaction of knowing the girl’s fate. Mrs. Guthrie had come asking for his help, and he’d been unable to give it. The notion of disappointing her made his gut turn much more effectively than the tepid gruel he’d consumed just after the noon hour at The Ten Bells.

Making his way up the rickety stairs, he tripped on what he initially took to be a bundle of rags or discarded clothing.

“Oy!”

The child’s angry cry set Ben’s pulse galloping, and the bundle unraveled to reveal a boy who looked to be about ten years of age, though the grime on his face obscured his features.

“Sorry about that. Do you know where I might find Rose?”

“Wouldn’t tell ya if I did.”

With that the boy pulled what was left of his ragged collar up around his neck, skulked down the stairs, and dashed out onto Flower and Dean Street.

“Right.” That was the kind of response Ben had come to expect from the folks he’d met over the course of the morning. It was best Mrs. Guthrie hadn’t accompanied him. No reason for her to join him on the rabbit trail. Never mind that he missed the rich timbre of her voice. Never mind that he found himself craving her soothing scent. Never mind that since she’d gone his patience had fled too. He was more likely to bark at the next person he questioned than they were to send him on a useful lead.

He reached the door marked with the number four and knocked lightly. Rolling his head, he spread his feet and assumed a posture that planted his weight firmly, ready for anything.

The door swung wide and a young woman observed him from the other side of the threshold. It’d been awhile since he’d seen Rose, but this girl looked much as he remembered her. The resemblance made hope flare, a warm ember in his chest. A dingy patch of bandage at her neck and bruises marring the skin around her eyes fit Mrs. Guthrie’s description of Rose’s injuries, but it was the crooked, toothy smile that made relief turn Ben’s knees to jelly.

“Rose.”

“Well, if it isn’t Detective Sergeant Quinn. Been far too long since I’ve seen yer ‘andsome face.”

Ben ducked his head to hide a grin.

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am to find you, Rose. You gave Mrs. Guthrie and the ladies at the Fieldgate Clinic quite a fright when you disappeared last night.”

“She’s aw’right, isn’t she? That Mrs. what’s her name? I never liked the notion of her going to The Ten Bells. And when she never returned with ya—”

“The fault there lies with me, I’m afraid. I was a bit far gone last evening. I’m sorry I couldn’t come and speak to you. It seems you’ve an interesting story to tell. Shall we discuss it now?”

The young woman took her turn ducking her head at Ben’s declaration, and a soul-deep disappointment replaced his jubilance at finding her. She would lead him no closer to finding the Ripper than the boy he’d tripped over in the stairwell.

“Mrs. Guthrie is well. And eager to hear of your circumstances. I fancy she wishes to help you.”

“Wot? Her? And ‘ow might she ‘elp the likes o’ me?”

“I have no idea. But she seems a rather resourceful sort of woman.”

She flashed the jagged grin again. “That she does, detective. That she does.”

“May I come in, Rose? I need to take down your statement. I’d like to know exactly what happened to you last night.”

Rose shuffled her foot against the frame of the door, rubbing at the chipped paint and splintered wood. Then she lifted her head and peeped into the hall, looking both ways as if to ensure they weren’t being watched.

“I’m looking after me sister’s wee ones, but come in with ya. I’ll tell the truth of it.”

Ben ducked his head and followed Rose into to a room as cramped and unpleasant as any he’d ever seen, and he’d seen quite a few during his years of policing in Whitechapel. Slats of wood and bedding had been rigged to stack on top of one other, and other crude pallets of fabric scraps were laid out in front a small potbelly stove. A few children were asleep on the pallets, one small girl sat peeling a potato, no doubt to add to the boiling pot on the stove, another little girl worked on sewing in the corner, and one young lad stood near Rose protectively, his scrawny arms crossed over his chest. Ben counted seven children in all.

Rose pointed to a wooden stool, and he settled himself, feeling the tug of soreness in his muscles. He hated the ache. It reminded him of Penhurst and his suspension.

He lifted his hand to reach for the pad of paper and stub of lead pencil he often used to take notes during an investigation, but Rose began picking at her lip and darting her gaze about the room. She was nervous enough, and he needed to put her at ease.

“Would you start at the beginning, Rose? Tell me where you were last night prior to the attack.”

“I was working, wasn’t I? Same as every night.”

“Where? Which streets? Do your remember?”