Castle Rouge (47 page)

I was born to be a supernumerary, and Irene, but we were not willing to play the roles we were born to.

And we weren’t about to do so now. It looked like I was about to extend my stay in Europe out of sheer indignation. That’s all right. Indignation is a reporter’s life blood. And my instincts were telling me that where the bland denials and the status quo rules, so does hypocrisy and wrongdoing.

“Then,” Irene added, “there is the matter of the international links to the Jack the Ripper slayings in London. Paris and Prague have both been the scenes of similar killings of women, and in Prague an infant was slain, too.”

“I’m afraid,” the King said, looking away, toward his empty throne, “that I am not much involved in these sordid police matters.”

The Baron nodded. “These killings that dominate the sensational press have little import on the life of the citizens otherwise. The matter has been contained in Paris and Prague. We did not allow the blood-hungry press to exploit the tragedies in these cities. London, being the first site of such heinous crimes, was lamentably slow to take control of the public’s venal interest in the details. We all know that such atrocities are nothing new in the world, and such examples should be kept from the public, lest they panic.”

“But these crimes are connected!”

“My dear Madame Norton, there is no proof of that. We can point out similar crimes in all these cities, recent and many years old. Man is not perfectible, alas, and—”

“And women usually pay the price,” she finished harshly.

He slapped his hands together and sadly shook his head. “I suggest you concentrate on finding your unfortunate friend. I also suggest you wait here in Prague for a reunion with your husband. I pray that you will not be too impetuous to do so.”

Irene glanced incredulously to the King.

He was brushing lint from the immaculate red wool expanse of his gilt-swagged chest.

“And the Baron de Rothschild in Paris—?” she began.

“He is entertaining the Prince of Wales and many others of great moment at his country house of Ferriéres. I would not care to disturb him at the moment.”

“The Prince of Wales and the Baron de Rothschild commissioned me to follow these crimes to their source.”

The Baron shrugged. “Perhaps next week, when I can wire the Baron and your husband is back.”

“Perhaps next week, three or six or ten more women will be dead, Baron.” Irene rose. “And my husband will be back sooner than next week, because I will see to it.”

The King stood, in both tribute and relief at her impending departure, I think. “Ah, Irene, no woman has such fire as you.”

“You should know, Willie, and you should remember the outcome last time. You got your royal fingers burned.”

“By the way,” the Baron said as she turned to leave, “I would not put false hopes in Sherlock Holmes. He, too, has been…advised to leave the matter alone.”

“I have never put my hopes in Sherlock Holmes, or kings and princes, Baron, but in myself and my associates. Good day.”

We left. Rather, Irene left, and we followed.

Quentin walked beside me as we trailed her out through the grand halls. He looked as grave as I have ever seen a man. She never missed a turn, and we were soon facing into a Prague midday of sunshine and golden spires.

“Your husband’s signature on the papers was authentic,” I said finally.

“Yes. I have always believed he and Nell were alive. I have just not known where, and why. We will have to find this Count Lupescu, or perhaps Bram Stoker will do so for us.” She looked at Quentin. “They obviously do not want us to investigate these Prague crimes further. So even more obviously that is our first step.”

“Agreed,” he said. “Where do we begin? You know more of this matter than I do.”

“Your husband,” I put in, “mentioned one killing of a woman in a letter to you. It was published enough in the city for him to hear of it.”

Irene nodded. “They can’t hope to keep everything quiet. As the King says, Prague is not a complete backwater. It is more forward-thinking than Transylvania!”

“Why would the Baron de Rothschild seek your aid in Paris and silence it in Prague?” Quentin wanted to know.

Irene gazed out over the picturesque rooftops of the city. “We can’t know what the Baron de Rothschild wishes, since he is not here. And we don’t have time to waste seeking his official approval. What is clear is that this particular local Baron, whoever’s interests he serves—and I suspect they are primarily his own—and the King are terribly afraid of the truth, so that is what we must uncover.”

“Brava!” said I.

Irene turned to me, surprise warming her deep brown eyes.

I laughed. “It’s a mistake to let me know I’m not wanted somewhere. Easiest way to get me to stay.”

She nodded.

“Where do we begin?” Quentin asked.

“At the brothel where the latest woman was killed, and where you met Bram Stoker.”

I was stunned. “You still think he could be the Ripper?”

Now Quentin Stanhope was stunned. “Irene, if you thought that, why did you—?”

“You have not heard all the various and sundry theories on the Ripper’s identity, from illiterate immigrants to the British royal family and all stations in between. But I am not concerned about Bram at the moment. He is, after all, safely out of the city and following his heart to the highlands of Transylvania. The man I am interested in is the furtive fellow who was described in the brothel only moments before the dead woman was discovered. One fact we do know is that James Kelly fled Paris and was identified en route here.”

In the carriage returning us to the hotel, Irene explained to Quentin the suspicious role the one-time incarcerated lunatic, convicted wife-killer, and upholsterer by trade had played in Paris.

“The man is utterly mad,” Quentin agreed when she had finished, “and could indeed be the Whitechapel Ripper. But how do his activities and whereabouts connect to those of that fiendish cult you uncovered in Paris?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “Sometimes I think that he has always and everywhere acted alone, and that his presence at the final cult orgy in Paris was accidental, more from his following us than us following him. He did seem to be…mesmerized by Nell.”

Quentin’s already swarthy face darkened with an angry flush. He looked quite lethal in his way. “It is unthinkable that this man or his demented cohorts could have her. Yes, let us find him if he still dares to remain in Prague, and I will have the truth out of him in no time.”

“He may be unwilling to talk,” Irene cautioned.

“That is of no consequence,” Quentin said so shortly that neither Irene nor I wanted to ask exactly why.

All the dark and savage mystery of the East was in Quentin’s face at that moment. From the tales he had told of their unbelievably barbaric ways, I had no doubt that Quentin Stanhope knew their methods well, and would use them.

I wondered what Nell would think to know she had inspired such deep but relentless loyalty. I know that I might wonder whether the defender was worse than the despoiler.

38.

Shades of Whitechapel

I never meant to stab you as I sat by you asking you to forgive me and you answered no. I took out my penknife and meant to frighten you, but something seemed to come over me and I went mad and stabbed you
.

—
JAMES KELLY’S LETTER TO HIS DYING WIFE,
1888

FROM A JOURNAL

Back at our hotel Irene gathered up the sketch of James Kelly while Quentin made a smaller sketch of the Chi-Rho pattern she had overlaid on the east bank of the city.

She took Nell’s portfolio with the two papers under her arm. Wearing Nell’s black faille surprise dress, all its frivolous pink facings buttoned shut, she resembled a ghost of her long-time companion.

The same thought must have struck Quentin, for he paused to look long and hard at her before he opened the suite door to release us on greater Prague.

“I am not a man much attuned to female fashions, or male, for that matter, but haven’t I seen that gown before, Irene?”

“It is Nell’s,” she said, biting her lip a moment after. “When it came to clothing that would travel well and quickly, I found Nell’s wardrobe far more practical than my own. Even Pink’s checkered coatdress resembles the garb Nell wore when she vanished.”

Quentin bent the same unnerving stare on me and my gown, then finally nodded and opened the door for us. “I’m not surprised that Nell has served as a good model for her friends in her absence. She would be most pleased,” was all he said.

I wasn’t about to say that I doubt Nell and I considered each other friends. Men must have their illusions about women, or we would all go mad.

We went on foot, by design. Irene said we must see Prague as a fugitive like James Kelly would, and Quentin agreed.

It was quite the picturesque city, particularly this old section, although lamentably filthy.

“How will we represent you and Pink at the brothel?” Quentin wondered.

Irene considered while we walked, hardly noticing as we stepped around offal in the street. “Perhaps as relatives searching for some lost sister.”

“And the sketch of Kelly?”

“Her fiancé perhaps, also lost. They had eloped together, unwisely but well, then had become separated by the confusion of the city.” Irene was weaving her playlet now, embroidering on our story and our roles. “He fears she has been forced to support herself. You are…Pink’s fiancé. I am her older sister. We need not be searching for one of the dead women, only a fictitious girl who is in danger of becoming like her.”

“Dead?” I asked.

“A prostitute first. Then dead. I am sure the brothelkeepers and their residents are atremble at these violent deaths. They will not doubt our concern.”

“And how,” Quentin asked, “will you explain the fact that I am English and you and Pink are American? They can’t have too many American girls seeking places in brothels here.”

“You would be surprised,” I told him. “The harlot of exotic background is always an asset in a brothel. Or a European brothel, rather,” I amended, thinking that his experience was likely to be Eastern.

He apparently read my assumption, for his complexion darkened again. “It is true,” he admitted, “that I am foreign to European espionage, and brothels. And how are you so expert in the subject?”

Before I could retort that it was my profession, Irene directed her attention to a narrow street of four-story, tall-windowed buildings. “Is this the street where the brothel is?”

I consulted my pocket watch. “Four-thirty. It is a good time to visit. The girls are just awakening from naps and getting ready for dinner later and the
grande promenade
. The attendants will be out in full force.”

Indeed, the laundryman’s cart was drawn up before the building, and he was trundling his bags of fresh linen inside like Santa Claus with his sack of toys.

We followed in the tracks of his clogs and found ourselves in a dark and musty hall where an old woman with a scarf crossed over her flat bosom served as a combination concierge and coatchecker.

She called some Czech words at us.

Irene immediately turned and began caroling back, only she mixed Czech, German, and English.

“Ah, some English. Speak?” Using her trilingual approach and many gestures—to me, Quentin, herself, hand to heart, she inquired after “Madame” in French. A word that seemed to be universally recognizable. The old soul’s braid-topped white head nodded us within.

Irene immediately went to a door, opened it, and peered down the dark stairs it revealed.

The old woman shook her head violently and gestured us to another door.

This one opened on stairs going upward and it we took, although Irene glanced longingly back at the forbidden door to the lower regions as we mounted higher in the house.

“Information first and exploration later,” she told us. “The second floor. Madame.”

The second floor offered either more opportunity to climb or a short hall with three steps ending at another nondescript door.

This we approached, and Quentin knocked.

It was opened by a girl of fifteen perhaps, dewy and wide-eyed, who opened it wider when Irene murmured the magic word, “Madame.”

Within was a large cozy chamber in the Viennese style, filled with lighted tapers and sparkling cut-glass droplets and very over-stuffed furniture in designs like padded hearts for Valentine’s Day.

Madame was plump, pretty, perhaps forty years old. Her curled reddish hair surrounded her beaming features like a Cupid’s coiled mop, and she was gowned in emerald brocade like a rather attractive sofa.

I had never seen such a kindly looking madam, although all I had met were able to pretend beneficence toward their men customers.

She bade us sit and perched at the very edge of her sofa as Irene pantomimed the melodrama of our common dear one, our loss, our concern, our need to ask questions. Again she resorted to three languages. Again she made herself understood.

In two minutes the madam’s expressive face was limpid with sympathy.

In three minutes Irene was rapidly whispering translated words in English to me and my ever-handy notebook. Quentin sat by, watching and reading my notes over my shoulder, nodding with sorrowful mein whenever Irene glanced his way.

Irene opened the portfolio and produced the cabinet sketch of James Kelly. The particularly clever feature of having a fine artist draw it was that it seemed quite a natural thing to have, like the preliminary sketch for a portrait. Its presence not only allowed witnesses to quickly say yea or nay to the likeness, but lent an air of legitimacy to our supposed quest. This man we sought was not a criminal, but a lost dear one.

It struck me for the first time that it was odd she had not made such sketches of Nell and Godfrey. Then I realized that she had not expected them to be seen beyond the moment of their abductions, if indeed they had been abducted.