Page 22 of Death of a Courtesan
Chapter Five
The two detectives caught their train from King’s Cross with seconds to spare. The guard closed the compartment door behind them, checked his watch and gave a loud blast on his whistle. With a belch of smoke the train dawdled away from the platform like a reluctant child, slowly building up a head of steam as it gained momentum. Riley sacrificed many of his personal standards in pursuit of his career, much to his mother’s chagrin, but drew the line at compromising his comfort when it came to travelling by rail. He and his sergeant had a first class compartment to themselves, the additional cost covered from Riley’s own pocket.
Riley settled into a corner seat, reflecting upon all they had learned about the brutal slaying of an innocent young woman. Despite the profession that she had entered into for reasons he had yet to establish, she hadn’t deserved to meet such a grisly end, and Riley would do his utmost to see justice served.
‘Here,’ Salter said, looking up from the papers he was perusing and grinning. ‘Tennyson did two years at Her Majesty’s pleasure five years ago for receiving stolen goods.’ Riley’s sergeant perked up as he extracted that particular detail from the information gathered by an especially diligent detective constable who had thrust it into Salter’s hands as he left the Yard. ‘I knew there was something off about him.’
‘Did he indeed?’ Riley flexed a brow. ‘We shall have to have a word with him about his past misdeeds in the very near future.’
‘You think his criminal connections might have put pressure on him to exploit his position with Mrs Sinclair?’
Riley shrugged. ‘The possibility crossed my mind. Once a criminal…’
‘Well, if anyone was in a position to let customers in through the back door and force the girls to service them for free then it would be him. The girls wouldn’t say anything either, because they relied upon him for their protection. Or there again, perhaps they got paid like always, but Tennyson pocketed Mrs Sinclair’s share, leaving her none the wiser. It would be a handy way to supplement his income.’
‘It’s a suggestion we shall certainly put to him.’
Salter sniffed. ‘I should be interested to know how he made the transition from gaolbird to gatekeeper in a high-end brothel.’
‘Mrs Sinclair must trust him.’
‘Always supposing that she’s aware of his past.’ Salter stared out the window at the passing scenery, barely visible through the thick cloud of sooty smoke belching from the locomotive. ‘Perhaps they’re related.’
‘We will find that out in due course, Jack, and also endeavour to discover what other secrets he’s keeping from us. We have to assume that his loyalties lie with Mrs Sinclair. He has a comfortable position within her establishment and he wouldn’t want to risk losing it.’
‘Putting aside the fact that it’s against the law to live off immoral earnings.’
Riley conceded the point with a tilt of his head. ‘Putting aside that detail and the fact that one of the girls was murdered on his watch.’
‘Which means he’ll say or do anything to make up ground in Mrs Sinclair’s eyes, especially if he has been letting his friends in through the back door. Whatever she tells him to say is what will be said.’
‘Now you’re assuming that she’s the one with something to hide,’ Riley pointed out.
‘Can I help it if this job’s given me a suspicious nature?’ Salter spread his hands. ‘You have to admit that someone ain’t telling the truth. More than one person in that cathouse has a hidden agenda, you just mark my words.’
Riley chuckled. ‘The day when the suspects in a murder case voluntarily tell us the truth will restore my faith in human nature, but I don’t see that happening any time soon.’
‘Just as well that we’ve become so good at reading between the lines, then.’
‘No one ever said this job would be easy, Jack.’
‘Where would be the fun in that?’
Salter returned to his reports and Riley resumed his cogitations. He had an uneasy feeling that this particular case would prove particularly testing and that the very worst form of human cruelty would prove to lie at its core. His detectives would track down and interview as many of the men who had been in attendance at the previous night’s party as they could, but Riley suspected that it would be an exercise in futility. He’d stake his reputation on the fact that none of them had killed the girl. The perpetrator was either one of the six men whom Adelaide had entertained that evening, a regular client who had not been in attendance—at least not officially—or someone from her past with a grudge to bear.
A member of the family they were about to visit, perhaps. If Adelaide’s whereabouts had been discovered, and if she had refused to return home and stop shaming her relations with her activities, there is no saying what actions an upstanding middle-class family might take to protect their reputation. Especially if her occupation had been discovered by someone who bore the family a grudge and was in a position to ruin its reputation by speaking out.
When they arrived at Ware, they discovered that cabs were far less abundant than in the capital. A word with the station master brought a trap after a ten minute delay, conveyed by a plodding cob and driven by a scruffy individual of few words that rose above a grunt. He knew where to find Haydock House, Adelaide’s family home, and drove them there without saying a word or showing the slightest curiosity about their arrival. In return for an advance on his fare, he nodded his agreement to wait for them.
Riley alighted from the rickety conveyance and took a moment to examine the house that confronted him. Set in neat yet unimaginatively planted gardens, the building was an equally unimaginative two-storied block of weathered bricks, with small windows and a slate roof. Smoke belched from both chimney stacks. The rain had subsided to a persistent drizzle, but the biting wind and the grey skies did little to enhance Riley’s first impression of a very ordinary, somewhat gloomy residence. Ordinary by his own standards, he reminded himself, but probably fairly salubrious in these parts. It looked to be set in about twenty acres of land, with several large outbuildings close at hand, although there were no livestock in evidence.
Salter opened the gate for Riley, and the two men’s boots crunched on the slick gravel as they made their way to the front door. The knock was answered by a plain young woman with a ruddy face who wore a maid’s uniform. Riley proffered his card and asked to see her master.
‘Be so good as to wait in here, sir,’ she said, looking flustered, as though visitors to Haydock House were a rarity and she wasn’t quite sure how to deal with them.
They were shown into a tiny north-facing parlour that had no fire burning in the grate. The temperature was artic and the room itself had a neglected and austere feel to it. The furnishings were sparse, the wallpaper peeling in places.
‘Give me the city any day,’ Salter grumbled. ‘It might be smelly and overcrowded and dangerous and all that, but at least all them people keep it warmer than this mausoleum.’
