City of Light (City of Mystery) Page 9

  But something in the situation niggled at him. Trevor selected a biscuit from the tray on Geraldine’s tea table, nestled himself more comfortably among the cushions on her divan. He would report what Geraldine had said, but he still didn’t understand why Abrams had asked him for a history of Isabel Blout in the first place. So he had met her socially, so he had found her – as apparently had so many other men before him – attractive. What of it? Evidently something was niggling at Abrams as well.

  “It’s just speculation, darling, silly Mayfair chatter,” Gerry said, wiping a crumb from her plump cheek. “Probably more motivated by envy of the woman’s beauty than a fair analysis of her character. You don’t have to share every detail with Rayley.”

  “No, Rayley isn’t frivolous. If he asked me to learn her history, he must have had a reason.” Trevor looked up, his gaze locking with that of Geraldine. “I’m going to tell him to stay away from her.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Paris

  April 23

  3:14 AM

  Rayley awakened in darkness so complete that it seemed to have closed over him like water. He’d been having a bad dream, he surmised, since his hands were clutching the bedspread and his forehead was velvet with sweat. He tried to remember, but the dream was fading even as his eyes fluttered open, leaving behind only the vague sense that he had been lost in a series of hallways, looking for a way out.

  He sat up on the edge of the bed, pausing a moment for the vertigo to pass. Yesterday’s autopsy must have shaken him more than he’d been willing to admit at the time. Graham’s body had lain on the marble slab of the mortuary table looking quite pristine at first, yielding no immediately obvious wound which would explain his death. It was only in Rayley’s second pass over the body that he had caught them, the four very slight bruises forming a crescent pattern around the side of the man’s mouth, nearly lost in the stubble of his beard. Rayley placed his own hand over Graham’s lips, shuddering only slightly at the coolness of the man’s flesh and his impulse was immediately rewarded. The bruises lined up perfectly with the tips of his fingers.

  Of course the fact that someone had placed a hand over the man’s mouth, even roughly enough to cause bruising, hardly explained his death. Rayley had glanced toward the end of the table where the coroner, Rubois, and Carle all stood silently watching him, their faces alert but noncommittal.

  “Chloroform?” Rayley had ventured.

  The advantage of modern words is that they rarely need translation. Rubois had nodded and the coroner had left the room, returning almost at once with a file of blood that Rayley could only assume must have been drawn from Graham’s body prior to his arrival. But could the French really test for the presence of chloroform in blood? The coroner said something quietly to Carle, who also slipped away.

  Rayley’s mind was churning. Chloroform had been used routinely in surgeries for probably the last thirty years in London and he could only assume Paris as well. That would put it most often in the possession of doctors and hospital attendants – dear God, were they really back on Ripper territory again? But then again, chloroform was often used to reduce the suffering of women in childbirth and had been popularized, in fact, when the Queen had requested its assistance in the delivery of her eighth child. The mother’s friend, it was sometimes coyly called, and this undoubtedly made it easier to obtain than most drugs. Available to midwifes, most likely, or even for sale at neighborhood pharmacies. All of Paris could be awash in chloroform for all he knew.

  The coroner had extracted a small amount of blood from the vial and was carefully holding the dropper up to the level of his eyes. Rayley couldn’t imagine what he was looking for. As any police officer well knew, chloroform was colorless and odorless, making it the perfect means for rendering a victim unconscious within minutes as well as being nearly impossible to detect through routine examination. But in that moment Carle had returned with a torn clump of a baguette, and to Rayley’s utter mystification the coroner had dropped dots of Graham’s blood in a pattern across its surface. Motioning for the men to follow, he’d led them to a second room and to a cage with perhaps a dozen small white mice. He pulled back the mesh top of the cage, dropped in the bread, and then the men stood back and waited. It seemed they were all holding their breath.

  The nasty little vermin, made all the more horrid to Rayley because of their strange pink eyes and nearly translucent skin, swarmed over the bread within seconds, fighting each other for a taste of Graham’s blood. Clever, Rayley thought, nodding toward the coroner. Disgusting but damn clever. Within seconds, the mice were stumbling. Within a few more, sleeping. And probably half of them dead within a minute of that, but Rayley had already turned toward the door, not needing to witness this final proof. He had his answer for why Graham, a hale and strapping young man, had slipped beneath the waters of the Seine without a struggle.

  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, nearly rigid 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.

  “Bertie 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 Bertie can surely be declared the patron saint of Fleet Street.”