A Lady's Guide to Mischief and Mayhem Read online

  “The Commandments are out of order,” Caro said after staring at the list for a moment. “Nate Slade, the first victim, was marked with the Tenth Commandment, ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goods,’ but the second victim, Martha Peters, was left with the Fifth, ‘Honor thy father and thy mother.’ And so on.”

  “Good point,” Kate said thoughtfully. “I wonder why.”

  “It’s possible the killer selects his victims based on things they’ve said or done and so chooses the Commandment to fit the victim and not the other way round,” Caro said. “I read in an article about Slade that he was known for his jealousy of his brother’s boots, which he himself could never have afforded on his wages. He’d complained rather vocally about them in his local pub the day before he was found dead.”

  “Oh!” Kate began shuffling through a stack of newspapers on her desk. When she found what she was looking for, she said with triumph, “Here it is. The fourth victim, Betsy Creamer, was overheard at a chophouse, near where her body was found, declaring that she’d not been to church in over a year. She was marked with ‘Remember to keep holy the Sabbath.’”

  It took them some time, but after the two ladies had read through the accumulated stories about the four victims, they found associations between each of the victims and something they’d done or said that went against the Commandments that had been left with their bodies.

  “This is important.” Kate shook her head in disbelief. “But we’ve had our best reporters on this story for weeks, and they’ve heard nothing about Scotland Yard making this connection.”

  “It’s possible they’ve already come to the same conclusions we have and haven’t told the public about it,” Caro said. “It’s my understanding that they don’t especially care for the press.”

  “But there should be some sort of warning,” Kate said. “People are in danger from this killer, and there’s been no warning about this.”

  “To be fair,” Caro said, “I wouldn’t know how to phrase such a warning and I’ve written four books. They were about cookery, mind you, but I’m not unfamiliar with words. Not to mention the fact that a great many people in London break the Commandments on a daily basis.”

  “I suppose that makes some degree of sense. We don’t wish to sound as judgmental as the killer, after all.” But Kate still believed the Yard could be doing a better job of getting the word out about the possible motives behind the killings. “And perhaps our column can do something to warn those at risk.”

  Quickly, they agreed on a basic outline for what they wished to convey in their first foray into writing as a team. Both thought it would be best to give an outline of who had been killed so far, a sketch of their ages and occupations, and whom they’d left behind. Neither wished to dwell on the “sins” that the killer had deemed serious enough to warrant death, so they kept their discussion of the notes and the Commandments to a paragraph at the end, where they issued a general warning that until the culprit was apprehended, the population at large should be very careful about whom they interacted with.

  It took them nearly two hours, but finally the two ladies had a sheaf of pages comprising the inaugural A Lady’s Guide to Mischief and Mayhem column.

  “I know it’s probably inappropriate to get pleasure from such a dark subject.” Caro smiled ruefully. “But that was fun.”

  “Life is hard enough that I think we must take our pleasure where it is offered,” Kate said pragmatically. “Thank you for agreeing to my mad invitation. Not only because this was fun but also because I think we can do some real good with our column.”

  “I hope so.” Caro stood and stretched her back. “At the very least we’ll be offering a feminine perspective on what has thus far been a very male-centered discussion.”

  “And if our writing can spur Scotland Yard into doing a better job and perhaps even catching the killer?” Kate asked. “I for one would not mind that in the least.”

  “Hear, hear.” Caro gathered up her things.

  “I know it’s early to talk about our next column,” Kate said, rising from her own chair, “but I think we should do a bit of investigating for it. Perhaps talk to the people at the places where the female victims were last seen.”

  Caro beamed. “It’s never too early to talk about writing. And I think we will get along capitally, because I was just about to make the same suggestion. When shall we start?”

  Kate turned back from locking her office door. “Is tomorrow morning too soon?”

  * * *

  “There it is, up ahead,” Kate said the next morning as she and Caro, accompanied by Caro’s very large footman, made their way through the heart of Spitalfields. “The White Hart.”

  It was their second stop of the day, which had begun with a trip to The Queen’s Arms in Whitechapel, where their questions had been met with blank stares and a decisive reluctance to answer them. Though they’d both donned their oldest, most unfashionable gowns for their errand, their cultured accents marked them as outsiders. That they’d also identified themselves as members of the press only made their task that much harder.

  Undaunted, they’d hailed a hansom cab and had him drop them a street away from their destination so that they could get a feel for the neighborhood.

  What they’d discovered so far was, in daytime at least, a lively area teeming with people. There were children playing games in the street, a few of whom watched the unfamiliar faces with unashamed curiosity. A beggar, to whom both Kate and Caro gave a few pence each, greeted them as they reached the corner.

  There was nothing that marked the area as any better or worse than other locations in the nation’s largest metropolis. And yet the body of a murdered woman had been found only yards away last week. Unable to help herself, Kate glanced toward the alley where Betsy Creamer’s body, riddled with stab wounds, had been found with a note about keeping the Sabbath day holy propped against her.

  “You’re to remain out here while we go inside, James,” Caro said to the tall young footman who seemed to be more aghast at their surroundings than the ladies he was accompanying.

  “But Mrs. Hardcastle made me promise,” the young man protested.

  “What my mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” Caro said sharply. “Besides, I’ve brought my pistol.”

  If anything, the man’s face turned more alarmed.

  Taking pity on him, Kate said, “I’ll make sure she doesn’t come to any harm, James. Wait for us here on the corner. We won’t be long.”

  James nodded at her assurance and turned to stand near the corner outside the chophouse.

  “Thank you,” Caro said in an undertone. “I didn’t realize how fastidious he’d become since he was elevated to footman. I used to be able to rely upon him not to take Mama’s threats too seriously when he was just a groom.”

  Kate felt a pang of pity for the young man. He very likely didn’t wish to lose his position. And who could blame him?

  “Shall we go inside?” she asked Caro instead.

  Together they neared the door of the bustling chophouse, where customers brushed against them as they exited the establishment and entering patrons crowded together as they made their way inside.

  The smell of grilled meat and unwashed bodies met them as they stepped into the dim interior, lit with gas lamps on the walls. It was clear at once that speaking with the barmaids would be difficult since even at this hour the place was crowded.

  But Kate had an idea.

  Taking Caro by the arm, she led her toward the back of the room where a door opened into the alley behind the building.

  “I was hoping to at least get a chop out of this visit,” Caro said as she followed Kate into the lane.

  “We were never going to be able to speak to anyone in there.” Kate shrugged as she scanned the narrow area for signs of life. Just to their right, a young woman wearing similar clothing to that of the servers inside The White Hart stood leaning against the back wall. “Look,” she whispered to Caro
.

  Her eyes lighting up, Caro followed Kate as she walked toward the woman.

  “Is it always this crowded before noon?” Kate asked as they approached.

  The girl had obviously been working for some time if the dampness of her hair and the grease stains on the front of her skirt were anything to go by. The cap she wore over her copper-colored hair was slightly askew and her eyes looked as if they’d seen far more in her young life than she should have.

  Those same eyes, a watery blue, looked on the two newcomers with suspicion. “Factory shift ends at ten, and today was payday.”

  “That makes sense,” Kate said agreeably. “We’re from The Gazette. Would it be all right if we asked you a few questions?”

  If anything, the girl’s eyes narrowed even further. “’Bout what?”

  Kate decided to go ahead and ask without preamble. “Were you working the night Betsy Creamer was here?”

  “Worked most nights when Betsy was here. She was a regular customer.”

  “So, you knew her well, Miss—?” Kate left the question dangling in the hopes that the girl would give her name.

  She was not disappointed.

  “Lizzie Grainger.” She frowned. “No ‘Miss.’ I ain’t puttin’ on airs.”

  “And I’m Kate and this is Caro.” Kate gestured to her friend, who had taken out her notebook and pencil from some hidden interior pocket of her gown. “Do you mind if we take notes?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Thanking her, Kate continued her questioning. “So, Lizzie, you said that Betsy ate here frequently? Did you know her well?”

  “Well enough. She didn’t deserve what happened to her, that’s for sure.” For the first time, Lizzie’s face showed real emotion. “She was a good girl. Who cares if she didn’t go to church? Not many around here that does.”

  “Were you working the night before she was found?” Kate asked again. “It’s just that there was a story in one of the other papers that noted she’d said something about not having gone to church on Sunday in over a year?”

  “Aye, I were here.” Lizzie scowled. “I even saw the fella she left with, though nobody from the police ever asked me about it.”

  Kate and Caro exchanged a glance. There had been nothing in the papers about Betsy having been seen with a man the evening before her death.

  “Can you describe him for me?” Kate asked.

  “He was a looker,” Lizzie said thoughtfully. “His clothes were fancier than we see around here, too.”

  She gave a speaking glance toward Kate and Caro’s gowns. “Like yours.”

  So much for their attempts to blend in. Kate realized now how foolish they’d been to think anything from their own closets would work. The gowns were several years out of fashion, but there was no disguising they’d been crafted by London’s finest modistes.

  “What about his hair?” Caro asked. “Light, dark?”

  “It was a bit lighter than yours.” Lizzie nodded at Kate. “And he was about as tall as you, too.”

  “Did he have a beard?” Kate asked. “Or side-whiskers?”

  Lizzie shook her head. “No, his face was clean.”

  Kate asked a few more questions, but it was clear that Lizzie had told them all she knew about the man’s appearance.

  “So, you said Betsy left with him that evening,” she said. “Was there anything unusual about that? Did Betsy often leave with men?”

  Lizzie scowled. “She weren’t no lightskirt. I told you she was a good girl. You’re like all the rest trying to make it sound like she was asking for it.”

  Kate realized her error and did her best to make amends. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply your friend was asking for what happened to her. I only wish to find out if this was the first time you’d seen her leave with this man.”

  “It was the first and last time I seen the man at all.” Lizzie seemed to accept Kate’s apology. “And what worried me about it was the fact that Betsy was almost falling down. I knew that gal for years and I never seen her drink enough to make her that bad off.”

  Could the man have poisoned Betsy’s food or drink?

  Tears shone in Lizzie’s eyes. “I should have gone after her. I would have if I wasn’t up to me ears in customers and I need this job. But still I should have gone after her. If I had, she might be here now.”

  Kate reached out a hand to touch the girl’s shoulder. “You had no way of knowing what would happen. And if you had followed them, he might have killed you, too.”

  Caro offered the girl her handkerchief and Lizzie blew her nose loudly into it. “Keep it.” Caro’s tone rose an octave when the barmaid tried to hand the soiled cloth back to her.

  “Would it be all right with you if we put this information you’ve shared in the paper?” Kate asked. She would, of course, give the description of the man Betsy had left with to Scotland Yard. “We won’t use your name if you don’t want. But it would probably be a good idea for us to give your name to the police so that they can talk to you.”

  At the mention of the police, Lizzie scowled. “You didn’t say you worked for them.”

  “We don’t,” Caro explained, “but if they haven’t spoken to you before now, it probably means they don’t know about the man or what you saw. It might help them find Betsy’s killer.”

  Grudgingly Lizzie nodded. “I s’pose it won’t do no harm.”

  Thanking her, Kate and Caro asked a few more questions about how long Lizzie had worked at the chophouse and some information about her background.

  By the time they made their way back through The White Hart and out the front door, they’d been gone for nearly an hour and the look of relief on James’s face when they emerged was almost comical.

  When he’d gone to hail them a cab, Caro turned to Kate with a gleam in her eye. “How did we find a bigger clue in this case than the Yard has found in all these months?”

  “I don’t know.” Kate shook her head. “But we’re going to add this interview with Lizzie to our first column. Even if this man she described isn’t the killer, at the very least he was the last person to see Betsy alive. And if he is the killer, then I for one look forward to having something concrete to warn the vulnerable women of London about.”

  “And if the police object?”

  “They missed their chance to interview Lizzie Grainger themselves,” Kate said firmly. “We’ll give them the information she gave us once we go to print, but they have no authority over me or my newspaper. And if they ask, I’ll tell them so.”

  Chapter Two

  Sir, you’ll want to see this.”

  Andrew Eversham looked up from the witness statement he’d been rereading for the umpteenth time.

  There had to be something here that he was missing.

  Already there were four dead at the hands of the so-called “Commandments Killer” and he hadn’t as yet found a viable suspect.

  It was hard to believe that before this incident, he’d been celebrated for his ability to solve cases that left other investigators scratching their heads in confusion. “What is it, Ransom?” He looked up to see the younger man holding up a newspaper. Was it already time for the papers to be out? A glance at the clock on the wall told him it was nearing dawn and he heaved a sigh. He’d been working all night and yet had found nothing in any of the documents that might point him to the killer’s identity.

  Taking the paper, still wet with newsprint, from Ransom, he read the headline and uttered a curse. “Who the hell is this witness?”

  A quick scan of the story revealed that one Lizzie Grainger had seen the latest victim, Betsy Creamer, leave with an unknown man on the night before she was found dead.

  After nearly ten years on the job, he knew better than to take one newspaper article at face value, but The London Gazette was known for its scrupulous attention to the facts—unlike some broadsheets that invented stories out of whole cloth. The author’s name gave him another start. He’d never heard of C. Hardcas
tle, but if memory served, Bascomb was the surname of the paper’s owner.

  “We spoke with everybody who was at The White Hart on the night Betsy Creamer disappeared, Mr. Eversham.” The chagrin on Paul Ransom’s babyish face revealed all. “I don’t know how this Grainger woman could have been missed.”

  Ransom might not know how it had happened, but Eversham did.

  He should never have trusted Adolphus Wargrove to conduct the interviews with the employees at the chophouse. He’d known his fellow detective liked to cut corners, but he hadn’t believed Dolph would be so sloppy with a case. It was well known within the Yard that his colleague also harbored jealousy over Eversham’s successes over the years, but to go so far as endangering lives in an effort to ensure this case went unsolved was too much.

  As if conjured by Eversham’s thoughts, the man himself strode in.

  “Bad break, yer lordship.” Wargrove’s grin belied his words. “How can you have missed such an important witness?”

  The nickname was one that the other man had bestowed upon Eversham as soon as he’d learned that Eversham’s father, a country vicar, was a baronet’s son. Never mind that the family had long ago disowned the elder Eversham for marrying beneath him. Or that Andrew Eversham had never even met his grandfather or any of his extended family. He’d managed to dispel most of the suspicion from his fellow officers and underlings at the Yard through careful police work and success in some of the more complex cases he’d been trusted with. And yet, Dolph Wargrove, who only saw Eversham’s successes through the lens of his own failures, never missed an opportunity to remind Eversham that he didn’t quite fit in among his colleagues.

  It had taken every one of his years with the Yard to prove himself to those who doubted someone from his background could do the job, but he’d managed it.

  And now, Wargrove would do his level best to make sure that this oversight of a key witness in one of the biggest cases Eversham had ever worked would be his downfall.

  He would have liked to blame the omission entirely on Wargrove, but Eversham had never been one to shirk responsibility. He’d known damned well when he delegated such an important task to a shoddy investigator like Wargrove he was taking a risk. But with half of his men down with the ague, he’d had no choice. He only hoped Darrow would understand.