A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis (37 page)

“I imagine she made you practice?” Finn prodded gently.

He nodded and ate another piece of fish.

“Good lad.” Finn turned to Rafe. “Obviously somewhere under the docks—St. Katharine possibly?”

Melville opened a large cabinet. “We’ve got several good charts of the Docklands.” Searching through cubbyholes and flat drawers, he pulled out two maps and spread them out on the tabletop. Rafe traced the aboveground route from the warehouse on Henry Street to the nearest mooring. “Has to be St. Katharine Docks. But where, exactly?”

Finn rubbed beard stubble and shook his head. “Won’t
be as simple as finding an American merchant ship and a cooperman.”

Rafe nodded. “The dock is teeming with both.” He recalled the old man outside the warehouse last night. “When Flynn and I were under the warehouse, just before the explosion, we found a passage that took us below the level of wine cellars—much older. Once we got ourselves back aboveground, I nearly stepped on an old sea dog lying in the street. I asked if he knew anything about the lower levels. The old sot rambled on about ancient underwater passages and river pirate caves.”

“I heard water.” Harry licked a finger. “Like the river at Henley.”

Rafe inspected a near empty plate and glass of milk. “An order of fish and chip and Harry is restored.” Rafe marveled at the resilience of children. Honest and always in the moment. No guile, and very few judgments. “I take it you enjoyed supper?”

Harry exhaled. “Better than Mrs. Coates’.”

“I would not mention that to her, if I were you.” Rafe gave him a wink and leaned back in his chair. “All right, even if we could locate the Yankee ship and the cooperage, who’s to say we’d find a passageway down into the caverns?”

“Blimey, I have just been inside the most amazing vessel.” Archie Bruce, Scotland Yard’s crime lab director, poked his head in the door. “Sorry I’m late. Got delayed dockside with Harbor Patrol. A Mr. Roger Spottesworth just towed in a twenty-four-foot submarine. Left your name, Rafe, and a Henley-on-Thames address.”

“When Professor Minnow went missing, I asked Spottesworth if he might tow her into town.” Rafe bolted upright. “If there are indeed underwater passages leading inland from the docks—we could use the submarine to get to the caverns.”

“Bloody hell you will!” Even with the office door closed, Melville’s bellow carried down every passageway on the third floor. “I’ll not send the best men I’ve got off half-cocked—into an as yet unknown underwater passage—in an experimental vessel.” An angry finger pointed to each man in turn, while a red flush climbed the director’s neck.

After that blast, Rafe sucked in a bit of air. “It is imperative we try for a rescue tonight. Tomorrow may be too late. We have no idea what kind of machine or contraption these blokes are planning to use for their ghoulish executions. And they have three more coming, by my calculations,” he addressed his superior.

Finn tried another tack. “As we are well aware, the signature Utopian Society murder theme is ‘the master’s demise by his own machine.’ The bittersweet irony of Dr. Frankenstein done in by his own creation.”

Melville snorted. “You make it sound like Shakespeare.”

The Yard’s cocky consultant grinned. “More of a nineteenth-century aesthetic—Mary Shelley with a bite of the Bard’s own wit.”

Rafe rolled his eyes. “Let’s assume, for a moment, that the sapphire stickpins are medals—job well done, lads, that sort of thing.

“Fabian confirmed the pins,” Finn added.

“Mallory’s men have thus far been awarded four out of seven. There have also been two failed attempts—Fanny and Minnow.” Rafe grimaced at the thought.

Finn pushed out of his chair and moved around the table. “In Minnow’s case, they more than likely planned to scuttle the sub by tampering with its ballast controls. The professor would have been found, eventually, at the bottom of the Thames if Rafe hadn’t fished him out of a sinking ship. Pun intended,” Finn added. “There is also the possibility that Fanny is to be number seven in some kind of grand finale. Whatever the scheme, the Utopians under Mallory did not foresee Special Branch getting onto them so quickly. Sending Rafe up to Edinburgh like you did must have vastly undermined their plans. And Rafe is correct, we must keep the pressure on.”

Rafe gathered Harry in his arms, anxious to get going. “Can we at least attempt to take the submarine under the docks—a trial run?”

“Does anyone know anything about how to operate this craft? And who’s going down in that bucket of . . .” Melville drew a deeper frown. “It’s not even seaworthy by last account.”

Rafe nodded to Finn. “Grab that old map.” He bit his tongue and made a great effort not to raise his voice to his boss. “Might we argue about this on our way to Docklands?”

Archie Bruce stepped into the fray. “I’ve had a look at the controls. With a bit of practice up and down the river, we’ll get the knack of it, sir.”

“Hold on.” Melville opened a desk drawer and took out several new pistols and a box of shells. “Brand new Webley Mk1s. Arm yourselves, gentlemen.” Melville loaded a pistol and handed it over to Rafe. The director looked him over with a kinder eye. “Do try to hold on to your weapon for a change, Detective Lewis.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.” Rafe slipped the Webley inside his jacket. “Any of those battery torches left?”

Archie pocketed his weapon. “We’ve got two in the lab—just take a moment to collect them.”

Outside 4 Whitehall Place, Rafe hailed a hansom and sat Harry on his lap. Finn squeezed in beside them. Zeno, Archie, and Melville followed after in the director’s carriage. Finn spread the map out on his lap and toggled a switch on the torch.

Rafe grinned. “First try and you didn’t have to bang it around—good sign.”

Harry blinked at the magical torchlight. Rafe took in the look on his son’s angelic face. “Quite an adventure you’re having.”

Exiting Blackfriars Underpass, they turned onto Upper Thames Street. Rafe pointed to the massive construction site out on the river. “See there, Harry. They’re building the Tower Bridge.”

“Actually, we may have only one boat basin to search, and a small one at that—take a look.” Finn hunched over the map tracing the route from Henry Street to the docks. “Assuming the underground caverns were made by nature and the passages connecting them by pirates—as the crow flies—” His index finger stopped at a triangular basin.

They soon ditched cabs and carriage for a river taxi, which got them to the Port of London Authority Harbor Patrol Pier in no time. Framed by the dark silhouette of the looming Tower Bridge construction site, Melville paced the length of pier, eyeing the submarine suspiciously. “Blimey, indeed.”

Rafe approached Zeno. “You’re about to become a father. Perhaps you’d like a bit of practice?”

“We’d be delighted. Cassie has just finished the nursery, you can sleep in nurse’s bed.” The detective smiled at Harry.

Rafe smoothed silky bangs and tilted his son’s chin. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to be brave a few hours longer. I must find Fanny and bring her home.” Harry nodded solemnly, none too pleased about it. “This very nice man and his wife will take good care of you while I’m gone.” Transferring the boy to Zeno, he turned away quickly and joined Archie and Finn dockside.

“You believe you can control this thing?” Rafe searched Archie’s face. Not a risk taker by nature, their young lab director shrugged. “Only one way to know, I suppose.”

Rafe ran a hand through his hair and turned to Finn. Glistening beads of sweat dotted the man’s forehead. “Crikey, this is a bit nerve-racking.”

Finn stared at him. “You have no idea.”

Chapter Thirty-three

F
anny picked up the skirt of her new dress and climbed the stairs. Silk again, in a mysterious shade of claret. She dreaded every step, as though she made her way toward the hangman’s noose—even the procession surrounding her felt like a gallows walk. The manservant, Aubrey, led the way, with another burly man close behind her. Mallory had sent an order—in the form of a request—that she leave her hair down. She had complied, tying her unruly mass of curls behind her head with a ribbon cleverly garnered from some trim on the gown.

Aubrey rapped tentatively and gestured her through the door. Something was wrong. She sensed it almost instantly. The suite was deathly quiet and darker than she remembered. The grind and clunk of a heavy door latch made her flinch. She trembled with each step as she ventured farther into the room.

Mallory lounged across a high-backed settee. His head lay against the sweeping curve of an arm, his long legs stretched across the other wing. Moving closer, she
could not help but notice his waistcoat and shirt were unbuttoned to his trousers. The narrow gap exposed a sliver of masculine flesh with a mat of dark fuzz that trailed from chest to navel.

She hesitated as he turned his head. His gaze swept over every inch of her figure before settling on the gown’s décolleté. He lifted a finger in the air and circled. “Turn around.”

On display for his personal pleasure, she pivoted slowly. A blaze of heat rushed to her cheeks.

“Come closer.”

His eyes appeared strained, and much redder than the usual black orbs that studied her with unblinking intensity. “You look unwell, Mallory.” She feigned a note of concern.

“I’m afraid a blistering headache is coming on.” He grabbed hold of her wrist and guided her around the side of the chaise. He rested his head back against the upholstered curve of the arm. “Place your hands on each side of my head—the temples.” She did her best to keep her hands steady. “Mm-mm, cold hands are soothing.” He closed his eyes. “Circle slowly.” Gently, she massaged his temples and he exhaled. “I suffer the occasional supraorbital neuralgia, due my head injury. Press harder.” He lowered his gaze. “Are you always so brave?”

“I hardly think of myself as brave. Might I try a different spot?” She moved her hands over his shaven head to the base of his skull and circled her fingers. “Here, perhaps?”

“God, yes.” He groaned with relief.

“What caused such a terrible wound? Surely you could grow an excellent head of hair to cover the scar.”

“A long and painful military tale.”

“Yes, but why choose to display such a mark?”

Mallory sighed. “After I lost my family, an uncle took me in—a military man who had sired a bevy of daughters. Raised me as a son—in his footsteps. I suppose I took to the military life with its order, its clear directives. I rose up the ranks rather quickly until the accident.”

He brought her hands forward again to his temples. “A mortar cannon exploded. Set off a chain of return fire. I don’t remember much after that.” Mallory gasped for air, as though bracing for a wave of pain. “There was a long period of unconsciousness. I thought I had died. No one could have been more surprised than I to wake up in hospital.

“As commanding officer I was assigned blame—cashiered out for negligence. They sent me to a mental hospital to be long forgotten. Over the next few years, I recovered most of my faculties.”

Fanny bit her lip. So, the men in dark suits and pointed collars were Mallory’s own private militia. “Your life does appear to be fraught with injustice.”

“Exactly the kind of life that turns an orphaned guttersnipe into an anarchist.” He reached up and drew her near, pressing her hands to his chest.

He showed her where he wanted her hands to go. Encouraged her fingers to travel over the soft mat of hair that covered a hard-muscled chest.

“Lower.” A whispered demand as he pulled her closer.
Her fingers traced the trail of hair down a flat torso. His belly quivered, and he groaned softly.

She was nearly cheek to cheek with him, her lips a breath away from his ear.

If she was his lover, she might whisper naughty promises of things to come. If she were his enemy, she might tear into the flesh of his ear—add her mark to his mutilation. Instead, she withdrew her hands from his belly and moved to press her lips to the scar on his head. Gently, she traced the zig, then the zag down the side of his skull.

IN THE DIM light of the submersible, Rafe studied his shipmate. Something a bit twitchy about Finn. The cool-headed Mr. Gunn was noticeably agitated.

“Don’t look at me that way. I’ll get worse if you keep looking at me that way.”

Rafe suppressed an urge to mock. “What way?”

“That bug-eyed, racked with concern way.”

Their trial run up and down the Thames had gone so well, Melville had waved them along. Tensions had eased, some, until they submerged. They were now well into the triangle basin. As the water grew progressively murky and strangely oppressive, Finn had begun to sweat bullets.

“Are you a hydrophobe, by any chance?”

A rolling of the eyes accompanied Finn’s sigh. “Normally, I’m more of an agoraphobe. Crowded spaces, enclosed public places—squares and the like. If I was the
self-diagnosing sort, which I suppose I
am
, I’d call this particular bout claustrophobia.”

Rafe puzzled over the man’s affliction. He recalled a rooftop facedown as the train pulled out of Glasgow. Finn had shot down old Ruddy-face as cool as you please. He sucked in stale air and exhaled. “What can I do to help?”