Page 32 of Death of a Courtesan
Chapter Seven
Riley strode home through the steadily falling rain and swirling fog, cursing himself for handling the situation with Amelia so ineptly. He had been shocked by her suggestion and had panicked for a moment, but telling her not to be absurd had been downright ungentlemanly. He still recalled her devastated expression when he released her as though his arms were on fire and turned away, taking a moment to regain his composure.
What the devil was wrong with him? He should just have laughed off her suggestion, apologised for his lapse and changed the subject. But he could see now how confused she must have been by his impulsive action. Despite the attraction that sparked between them whenever they were in the same room, he had always been careful to keep their relationship platonic. And yet he was the one who had kissed her, so what else was she supposed to think he hoped to achieve by it? She had made it clear that she didn’t want marriage but equally clear that she enjoyed what he had so recklessly instigated.
She was a widow, experienced in the ways of the world, so her suggestion ought not to have shocked him quite so profoundly. It would not have done so if it had come from anyone other than his Amelia. He had set her on a pedestal in his imagination because, unlike other widows of his acquaintance, her behaviour had always been beyond reproach. But he realised now that he was away from her and his head was slowly clearing that she had only followed his lead. He was the one to blame. He’d been a damned fool to give into temptation, disturbing the status quo and effectively ruining their friendship. Astounded by her offer to become his mistress, his response had been nothing short of insulting and he wondered if things could ever go back to being the same way between them.
Did he want them to, or was it time to face up to his own growing desires?
He would see her again the following evening, having promised to collect her and escort her to his sister’s soiree. He was grateful to Cabbage for issuing the invitation in person, otherwise he was sure that she would have made an excuse not to attend. Cabbage had persuaded her that the two of them should perform together on the harp, so Amelia would have to keep the engagement or risk disappointing Cabbage. Riley smiled at the thought of his niece bubbling with excitement at the prospect of her musical debut. Amelia would not disappoint her, and Riley would find a way to put things right between them before then—somehow. She was all that he had ever wanted in a woman—beautiful, opinionated, spirited, brave, and more than a match for his mother.
Having her for a mistress would not be enough for him. It was demeaning even to think of her in such a role. This case must be getting to him. Memories of the depths some women fell to in order to satisfy men’s lust were fresh in his mind. And the men involved couldn’t be absolved from blame. His thoughts need wander no further than his father’s obsession with his actress if he doubted it. Women of Amelia’s status who thought they were entering into a discreet and exclusive arrangement often found themselves abandoned when their allure faded and they finished up in similar situations to Adelaide. The thought of Amelia reaching any sort of accommodation with another man filled him with a murderous rage. But there was absolutely no reason why she shouldn’t do so. Women had their needs too, even though they were not supposed to admit to them.
Damn it, he thought, skirting a deep puddle, he couldn’t take the risk of her turning elsewhere. She was his and always would be. But he couldn’t propose, which he was now determined to do, until he discovered why she was so disinclined to remarry. Something unpleasant had occurred between her and Cosgrove that would always be with her, coming between them until the subject was aired. She would damned well tell him what it was, he decided, setting his jaw in a rigid line, and he would somehow make things right again. It was the very least he could do for her.
Thus resolved, Riley reached home, but slept badly, disturbed by thoughts of his ungracious conduct. He was at his desk early the following morning, when the Detective Department was still almost deserted and he had the place to himself. Mercifully, the rain had finally stopped but the storm still raging inside Riley’s head was as violent as ever. He ignored his continued unease about Amelia and turned his attention to the papers on his desk, trying to concentrate upon the case.
Salter breezed into the office half an hour after Riley but still earlier than his usual time.
‘You’re up with the lark, sir,’ he said by way of greeting.
‘Come in and shut the door, Jack. I have a few thoughts to share with you.’ Riley leaned his elbows on his desk and took a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘Stout tells me that Adelaide’s fee for an hour of her time would have been three guineas.’
‘Blimey!’ Salter scratched his head. ‘I won’t ask how he knows, but it does explain why she was so exclusive. Not many could afford to pay that much on a regular basis.’
Riley went on to explain his various theories about Grant’s possible jealousy and the discovery of Mrs Arnold’s competing establishment.
‘We’ll have to have a word with her then, I suppose.’
‘We will indeed, but I can’t help wondering why Mrs Sinclair didn’t tell us about her rival herself.’
‘Professional pride, I expect. She thinks of Mrs Arnold’s establishment as being beneath her notice, despite the fact that they supply the same services and are in open competition with one another.’
‘Stout came back with some interesting information last night. He spent the evening in a Covent Garden tavern where Adelaide’s killing was the major subject of conversation amongst the regulars. One of them was in his cups, loudly proclaiming that Adelaide got what she deserved. Made quite a spectacle of himself apparently. Man by the name of Clement. Works at Billingsgate market.’
‘Doubt if he could afford Adelaide’s services on a fishmonger’s pay so I wonder how he knew Adelaide, if he did, or whether he was simply railing against her profession in general. Presumably Mrs Sinclair will be able to tell us if he was a regular.’
‘I would prefer to talk to him first. I doubt whether he killed her, or he would have had the sense to keep his mouth shut, but he obviously felt that her death was a cause for celebration. I’d like to know why.’
‘What’s the order of business today then, sir? We have a lot of suspects to interview.’
‘Not that many. I don’t believe for a moment that any of the clients she entertained on the night of her death came back to kill her, although we have to go through the motions. We’ll talk to Wallace, the Home Office clerk, because I doubt whether anyone else will be able to get anywhere near him. But he will talk to me, either discreetly or publicly here at the Yard. His choice. Carter and Soames can take Farmer the Ironmonger and Rawlings the solicitor’s clerk. We’ll do the Reverend Boyland,’ Riley added with a smile, ‘if only because I want to hear what excuses he comes up with for predilections that go against his calling as a man of God.’
Salter chuckled. ‘You and me both, sir.’
‘By the time we’ve spoken to those two, Huxton and his brother will be waiting for us at the hospital.’
‘I still think the scarred brother is the most likely candidate,’ Salter said as the two men headed for the main office to give instructions to their subordinates.
‘Possibly.’ Riley donned his hat and paused to reflect. ‘I feel uncomfortable about Miss Huxton’s reaction. Obviously, she didn’t enter a brothel at the dead of night and murder her niece, but she considered the girl to be a stain on the family’s good name, even if she didn’t know what had become of her. She doesn’t lament her passing. In fact, she’s spitefully pleased to have that blot removed on a permanent basis.’
‘Just because she didn’t do it herself…’
‘Quite. I’d like to know a lot more about that lady’s history,’ Riley said, thinking of Amelia’s comments the night before. ‘What happened to make her so sour?’
‘Some people are just born that way,’ Salter said, stepping onto the pavement and whistling to a passing cab which swerved to collect them, earning a round of colourful curses from the drivers of vehicles it cut in front of.
The hansom deposited them outside the Home Office a short time later. Riley gave his card to the porter. Not his official Scotland Yard identification, but a thick white embossed card simply bearing the insignia, Lord Riley Rochester, beneath the family’s coat of arms. Wallace would know who he was and why he was there. Sure enough, Riley and Salter were only kept waiting for a minute or two before Wallace himself came to collect them. He had his coat and hat on.
