A Lady's Guide to Mischief and Mayhem Page 3

  Careful not to let his colleague see his rising temper—any sign of upset on his part would only give the man satisfaction, which Eversham was determined not to give him—he said with a calm he didn’t feel, “I believe you took care of the interviews at The White Hart, didn’t you?”

  If he’d hoped for a show of remorse, Eversham was to be sorely mistaken.

  “It’s a poor craftsman who blames his tools, Eversham,” Wargrove said with mock disappointment. “I thought you were the one renowned for your famous deductive skills. Shouldn’t you have figured it out and directed your underlings accordingly?”

  “Since when have you ever considered yourself anyone’s underling, Wargrove?” Eversham couldn’t help scoffing at the other man’s false humility.

  Unable to take any more of Wargrove’s vitriol, Eversham rose from his desk. Turning to Ransom, who’d been watching the interplay between his superiors with wide eyes, he said, “Come with me. We’re going to speak with Lizzie Grainger before the rest of the papers get to her.” What he decidedly did not need was every bit of her encounter with the likely killer plastered across the front page of the afternoon editions before he’d had a chance to glean any new details from her.

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary, Eversham,” Wargrove said coolly. “I’ll be doing that in a bit. After you bring me up to date on the details of the case.”

  Eversham felt alarm prickle at the nape of his neck. Before he could question Wargrove’s words, the man continued, “Darrow’s removed you from it altogether.”

  “Don’t be absurd.” Eversham spoke before he could stop himself. “Darrow wouldn’t do that without informing me first.”

  “Go and speak to him yourself if you don’t believe me.” Wargrove shrugged. “And when you’re done, I’ll need that update as quick as you can. There’s a lot of missed ground to cover here, and I’d expect you won’t want to delay justice for another minute.”

  Eversham’s jaw ached from how hard he was clenching his teeth. Without a backward glance, he made for the stairs and Chief Superintendent Max Darrow’s office.

  “It couldn’t be helped,” his super said even before Eversham could ask. Gesturing him toward a chair, Darrow sighed when Eversham chose to stand. “You know as well as I do that as soon as the people lose confidence in the Met’s handling of a case, there’s nothing we can do to restore it.”

  “But, sir, I’m the only one who’s been on the Commandments case since the beginning.” Eversham tried not to sound aggrieved, but he’d never been taken off a case in his ten-plus years with the Yard. Not only was it a blow to his ego, but more importantly, if he was at fault, he deserved the chance to make things right.

  “And that’s why it’s time for a pair of fresh eyes.” The older man’s bushy brows lowered. “I didn’t want to tell you this, but there have been some inquiries from not only members of Parliament but also the Home Office about this case. They want the Commandments Killer caught, and they aren’t willing to continue on with you at the head of the investigation.”

  At that news, Eversham sat down heavily in the chair he’d earlier declined. He’d heard of other detectives falling victim to the ill winds of political pressure, but he’d naively never expected such a thing to befall him.

  The pity in Darrow’s eyes was almost his undoing. “I know it’s not what you wanted to hear, son, but my job’s on the line here, too. You’ve had a good run. Better than most. Let’s see what Wargrove can do with it for the time being.”

  “But Wargrove?” Eversham didn’t try to hide the disgust in his voice. He was no longer concerned about sounding petulant now that he knew there was no way to talk Darrow out of removing him from the case. “Sir, he’s the worst kind of investigator. Slipshod and at times dangerously incompetent.”

  “That’s enough, Eversham,” Darrow snapped. “My mind is made up, and criticizing your fellows won’t keep you from demotion.”

  He longed to tell Darrow that it had been Wargrove’s mistake that had led to the omission of Lizzie Grainger as a witness, but he knew casting blame now would only sound churlish.

  There was nothing for it now but to slink off and lick his wounds.

  “What do I do in the meantime?” Eversham asked, rising from his chair.

  “There’s plenty to be done downstairs. Speak to Manton and ask if he’s got files that need sorting.”

  If Darrow had spit in his face, Eversham could not have been more affronted.

  And yet, there was nothing to do but take his medicine and wait for the storm to pass.

  Ashamed and degraded, he left the superintendent’s office. The closing of the door sounded eerily like the click of imaginary leg irons, holding him in place while the investigation went on without him.

  * * *

  “This is the last one, my lady.” Flora hoisted the third and final mail bag of the day onto Kate’s desk at the newspaper.

  In the week since the inaugural run of Kate and Caro’s A Lady’s Guide to Mischief and Mayhem and their subsequent interview with Lizzie Grainger, letters had poured into the newspaper offices from all over the country with suggestions as to the identity of the mystery man with whom Betsy Creamer was last seen.

  And much to both Kate and Caro’s delight, they’d also received any number of notes from women thanking them for offering a feminine perspective on not only the Commandments killings themselves, but also crime in general. For make no mistake, even when we aren’t the ones what gets murdered, one Sussex woman had written, we sure be the ones what has to clean up the mess.

  If the accolades had been peppered with other, not so pleasant, missives whose authors objected to the very notion of women writing about such dark subjects, well, neither Kate nor Caro had been surprised. There were still a great many in England—male and female—who would never look kindly upon progress. Even when it contributed to the public good.

  “Thank you so much, Flora,” Kate told the bespectacled young woman. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “I daresay you’d disappear beneath a collapsed pile of newspapers,” Flora said wryly.

  Glancing around at her office, which was piled high with the last week’s editions of various competing newspapers, Kate had to admit her assistant had a point.

  “Will you be taking these to Miss Hardcastle’s now?” Kate straightened a pile of letters she’d set aside for Caro to look at. “I’ll have the next lot ready to go in the morning.”

  Before Flora could reply, Caro herself burst through the office door, an enormous Siamese cat clutched in her arms.

  “I’m sorry to barge in,” she said, looking flustered. “But I was walking Ludwig when I heard the news and I came right over.”

  Upon closer inspection, the cat appeared to be wearing a diamond-studded collar with a leash attached. As if sensing the attention, he began to struggle in his mistress’s arms and leapt to the ground.

  Turning back to Caro, Kate asked, “What’s happened?”

  “There’s been an arrest in the Commandments case.” Caro’s brown eyes, which were already large, were positively enormous with excitement. “I saw it on the front of the afternoon edition of The Times.”

  Whatever Kate had been expecting, it wasn’t that. “Are you sure?”

  Caro reached into the large embroidered bag she used to carry Ludwig when he wasn’t on a leash and pulled out a folded newspaper. “Here,” she said, “see for yourself.”

  Taking the paper, Kate saw that just as Caro had declared, one John Clark had been arrested for the murders of Nate Slade, Martha Peters, Leo Burke, and Betsy Creamer. Clark fit the description of the man last seen with Betsy Creamer at The White Hart on the night before her body had been found. There was no further information on how he had been linked to the other murders, but Mr. Adolphus Wargrove of Scotland Yard would be available to take questions that evening at six.

  “We did it,” Caro said emphatically. “Our interview of Lizzie Grainger led to the arrest of a killer.”

  But Kate would need to see the man for herself before she would be able to rest easy.

  The news that Detective Inspector Eversham had been replaced on the case by Adolphus Wargrove, thanks to their column, had been welcome, but from what Kate had been able to glean from the crime reporters in The Gazette’s newsroom, Wargrove wasn’t known for his investigative skills. And Kate found it suspicious that Wargrove had made an arrest only a week after he’d taken over the reins of the investigation.

  “Maybe.” Seeing her friend’s frown, she added, “I hope our work led the police to John Clark, but I must admit I won’t believe it until I hear more from Inspector Wargrove.”

  Caro patted her arm. “One of us has to be the skeptical one, I suppose.”

  Kate laughed in spite of herself. If only Caro had known her before her marriage, when she’d taken everyone at face value. The loss of her naivete had not been easy or painless. But she wouldn’t dare go back for anything. She liked to think that her eye wasn’t so much jaundiced as discerning.

  Even so, she wouldn’t be the one to rob Caro of her innocence.

  “Come,” she said. “Let’s go and see what Mr. Wargrove has to say for himself.”

  She moved to gather her things, and when she turned back around, it was to see that Ludwig was now sleeping peacefully in Flora’s lap.

  “How extraordinary.” Caro shook her head. “Ludwig dislikes most people. But he adores you, Miss Morrison.”

  “I have this effect on most animals.” The young woman shrugged. “I’ve become so used to it, I forgot to warn you.”

  “Warn me?” Caro asked. “I’m thrilled. You have no notion how difficult it is to find someone to take care of him when I’m away.”

  “Are you attem
pting to abscond with my secretary, Caro?” Kate demanded with amusement.

  To her credit, Caro looked rueful. “I won’t steal her permanently. Only when you don’t have work for her.”

  “I’ll look after him while you go to Scotland Yard,” Flora offered.

  And with Ludwig’s care disposed of for the time being, Kate and Caro set out for Westminster and Scotland Yard.

  They were several streets away when the traffic became such that the hansom cab they were traveling in drew to a halt. A glance out the carriage door was enough to show them that the streets were teeming with people.

  Clearly they weren’t the only ones who’d come out to see what Mr. Wargrove had to say regarding the arrest of the Commandments Killer.

  “I wish I’d thought to bring James,” Caro said as they disembarked. “I may dislike being reminded of the fact that I’m not as strong as a man, but I’m not so foolish as to think it’s not true.”

  “We should be all right so long as we stick together.” Kate looped her arm through Caro’s.

  It took them nearly half an hour to near the entrance to the Canon Row police station, which housed one of the most prominent divisions of the Metropolitan Police Force. A platform had been erected to one side of the door, which Kate supposed was so Wargrove would be able to be seen above the crowd.

  “What a spectacle,” she said in disgust. It wasn’t that she begrudged the police a moment to declare to the populace that a dangerous killer had been caught. If the man was found guilty at trial, just as much fanfare would go into his hanging. But Kate had never been easy with that sort of gruesome display either.

  “I suppose they’re thankful it’s as well attended as it is,” Caro said wryly. “I’d hate to think they’d put in all this effort at pageantry only to have no one show up.”

  As they watched, several men climbed the steps leading up the side of the platform. A portly man with enormous side-whiskers and a world-weary air stepped forward and called for quiet. It took some time for the crowd to settle, but eventually they did.

  Finally, the older man introduced himself as Chief Superintendent Max Darrow. He said a few words about how hard his men had worked on the case. How glad he was that they’d finally nabbed the man responsible for the Commandments killings. How he was certain the man would be found guilty by the courts. When he finished, he introduced Inspector Adolphus Wargrove, crediting his quick thinking for the capture of John Clark.

  Kate looked on with curiosity at the officer. He was a solidly built man with a barrel chest and wiry red side-whiskers. A receding hairline made him look older than she suspected he truly was. But it was the man’s words that she paid the closest attention to.

  “I stand before you today, good people of London, as the man who captured the Commandments Killer,” he said loudly. And as he’d apparently hoped, the crowd roared with approval. “Others tried before me, but I am the one who succeeded.”

  “This fellow is proud of himself, isn’t he?” Caro shouted from beside her. “It was our interview with Lizzie Grainger that got him a description of the killer. Yet no mention at all of our assistance.”

  “We didn’t do it for the thanks,” Kate reminded her. But she, too, was annoyed that Wargrove was behaving as if he had found John Clark all on his own. “Though they would be appreciated.”

  As Wargrove continued to speak, the crowd began to grow restless. More than once, Kate was bumped from behind, and though she and Caro struggled to remain together, one strong jolt separated them for good.

  “Caro,” Kate shouted above the din, but before she knew it, her friend had been swallowed up in the maelstrom and she herself was fighting to remain upright.

  The feel of a strong arm about her waist had Kate shouting again, though this time with fear. Twisting to get a look at her assailant, she could see only a clean-shaven face and a ruffled head of light brown hair. “Unhand me!”

  “Easy there, Mrs. Bascomb,” her captor said in the same way one might soothe a startled horse. Before she could ask how he knew her name, he continued, “Besides, if anyone should be concerned here, it’s me. I’m the one whose career you’ve managed to destroy.”

  This last he said calmly enough, but she could hear the leashed anger in his tone.

  “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, sir,” Kate said haughtily. Whoever this man was, he clearly had some quarrel with her and she wished to get away from him with all possible haste. And yet, with the crowd surging around them, it was impossible to move away.

  “Stop struggling,” he said curtly. “No matter how much I would rather leave you to this mob, I’m still a sworn officer of the law and it’s my duty to help you.”

  His words brought her up short. “Who are you?” But even as she spoke, she knew what he would say.

  “Detective Inspector Andrew Eversham,” he said, confirming her suspicions. “Now, stop talking so that I can get us out of here.”

  Chapter Three

  He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to gain by going to Dolph Wargrove’s self-congratulatory assembly, but Eversham most assuredly had not thought to encounter the authors of the infernal interview that Wargrove had used to arrest an innocent man.

  One of them—Miss Hardcastle, he supposed, thanks to Mrs. Bascomb calling out to her as Caro—had been swallowed up in the first wave of unruly attendees. If she was lucky, she’d manage to get far enough away to catch a hansom cab. In the meantime, it was taking every ounce of strength and concentration he had to keep the other journalist, Mrs. Bascomb, from being snatched away into the teeming masses.

  “I’m Mrs. Bascomb,” she said suddenly, as if their current posture would be less improper with introductions. “Though it sounds as if you’d already guessed that, Mr. Eversham.”

  He wasn’t sure what she expected him to say. Thank you for ruining a reputation it had taken more than a decade to build? It certainly wasn’t time for conversation. But despite his impatience with her, Eversham spoke up anyway. “Charmed.”

  That only made him feel like more of an arse.

  “If you don’t mind, let’s save the small talk for once we’re clear of these marauders.” That would have to do, he decided as he propelled them forward and toward a side street that would get them to the Embankment, where he could put his charge in a cab.

  It took twenty minutes of difficult maneuvering, but finally they managed to get clear of the densest group of bodies, and soon they were able to walk freely side by side.

  “I can find my way from here, Mr. Eversham.” Stiffly she held out a hand to him.

  He wasn’t quite sure how she managed it when he was taller than she by several inches, but somehow Mrs. Bascomb was looking down her nose at him.

  Eversham stared at her hand for a moment, trying to figure out how it was possible for him to be any angrier with this woman.

  He ignored her hand. “What is your given name, please?”

  She frowned. “I’m not sure what that has to do with—”

  “Ma’am, I just escorted you through a throng of people who were moments away from rioting. The least you can do is humor me by telling me what the ‘K’ stands for in your pen name.”

  It was a trivial detail, he knew, but he found himself wanting to know the full name of the woman responsible for his downfall.

  “Please don’t think I’m ungrateful,” she said hastily. “I am truly—”

  He cut her off again. “Just tell me your bloody name, please.”

  Her gray eyes widened at his curse, but she didn’t chide him. “Katherine.” She licked her lips, then went on. “Katherine Bascomb.”

  He studied her. He imagined at the beginning of the day her deep blue gown had been clean and her shiny black hair hadn’t been falling from its pins. And it went without saying that she’d probably been wearing a hat. And if he hadn’t held her responsible for the ruination of a career it had taken him over a decade to build, he might even have found her attractive.