Willing (15 page)

Her chest tightened. Damn it, Constance, you’re safe, she thought. She was safe here in Alisdair’s estate, far from the city, far from this place where bodies could be found in alleys and under railway arches. She was safe. She was going to be safe.

Police are looking for any information on the whereabouts of one Sally Hart, and one Constance Tully, both residents of Spitalfields in Whitechapel. If anyone has any information –

Her mind flitted across the memory of the young woman who came to the Keg and Barrel asking after Sally, but these other words drew all of her attention. Constance stared at her name, letting each letter bleed into the white of the paper until her sight became too blurry to comprehend it. They thought she was missing. The Star Newspaper had reported her missing.

My god, she thought. They think it could be me.

“I don’t know about you, but I am ravenous.”

Alisdair appeared in the hallway, facing the conservatory as though searching for her. When he finally turned and met her gaze, his face fell and he rushed into the warmth of the kitchen, taking her by the shoulders to search her face. “Constance, are you unwell? Come sit.”

She shook her head. “I have to go home.”

“What? I thought you were happy here.”

His voice had risen in tone, a hint of worry tipping it to higher octaves.

She frowned, her brow furrowed. God, she
was
happy here.

“They think I’m missing. They think I’m -”

She stopped, unable to breathe. These stories filtered through Whitechapel, girls she’d never met, girls she’d seen in passing who worked from their community houses, or from the alleys. When she heard about Rose Mylett, a woman they’d found dead in a yard, strangled to death by her own collar, Constance had said a prayer for the woman. She’d met her more than once, but not known her well. The girls taken by the Ripper had lived down on Dorset or Flower and Dean Street. She didn’t frequent such places and didn’t know them. She didn’t know any missing girls to grieve over when the papers spoke of
The Whitechapel Mystery
– the headline used to describe the murder of an unknown woman, her torso found in the foundation of the new Scotland Yard building a year before. Constance had been lucky, she wasn’t a Rose Mylett or an Alice McKenzie. She’d been taken in by the Grisholms, if forcibly made to work in the sex trade by your landlord could be equated as taken in. Still, she’d been kept off the streets, and never beaten by pimps or gangs. She’d been blessed with safety, the Keg and Barrel untouched – until now.

Dear God, they think I might be dead.

“Constance, love. Look at me. Get her a drink of water, will you Margaret?”

The larger woman hustled across the kitchen as Alisdair led her out of the room and down into the cool air of the conservatory. She was feeling lightheaded, startlingly so, sitting into the offered chair just before her legs went out from under her. Margaret appeared at her side with a glass of cool water as Heidi set a plate of fruit and cheese on the table at her side. When Alisdair glanced at the maid, Heidi nearly chirped at him. She was worried.

“Maybe she needs to eat something!”

Heidi knelt by her chair and began fanning her, causing the tiny wisps of hair Constance kept loose at her ears to tickle across her neck. Constance sat there, swaying just so, the newspaper still clutched tight in her hand. With a gentle coaxing, she opened her cramped fingers, letting Alisdair take the paper from her. He read it in silence, his expression growing more grim with each passing second.

“Well, we’ll send word right away, won’t we?”

“No, I can’t. I have to go. They can’t just hear it, I have to go home.”

Alisdair shook his head. “Are you not happy here? Have I done something, Constance, to displease you?”

He knelt before her, his own concern now overshadowing Heidi’s as he took her hand in his and squeezed.

Constance inspected every tiny detail of his face, growing fonder of each one as she did. “No. Not at all. I still have to go.”

“Why?”

She took a deep breath. “Because there are girls there that think you’re responsible for the missing girls. If I don’t go, I worry they may lead the Police to you.”

Alisdair stared at her, his dark brows drawing together. “Then let them come. I can produce you, alive and well. They will see I am no murderer. Certainly no ‘Torso Killer,’ surely.” He gestured with the crumpled piece of
The Star
before twisting it in his fist and tossing it onto the floor.

Constance reached for him. “I have friends there, Ali. They need to know – need to see that I’m alright. Tell me you understand.”

Heidi darted her eyes toward Constance at the word Ali, then quickly averted them toward the table. Alisdair only slumped back onto his knees and exhaled through pursed lips.

“Will you come back?”

Constance nodded, urgently. “Of course I will. I will be back in time. I promise you.”

He stared at her, lips parted as though he meant to say something, but he didn’t speak. They sat there together in silence a moment, Heidi still fanning Constance as though doing so would hide the eavesdropping nature of her presence. Constance didn’t mind the curiosity.

“Gregory is off for a time this week. I’ll get Thomas. He will drive you into the city.”

With that, Alisdair rose to his feet and slipped out of the room, his gait strangely slow for his usual regal air. He moved like a dejected child, stubbornly protesting his bedtime.

Constance turned to Heidi, smiling. “I think I might like some of that cheese now.”

Chapter Eleven

“Constance!”

The voice was shrill, betraying worry and relief, and no small amount of disbelief as Octavia and half a dozen other girls rushed the front doors of the Keg and Barrel. It was early evening and the tavern was beginning to fill up with customers and clients, but all girls abandoned their patrons to show their solidarity for their returned sister. Constance accepted their open arms, letting them squeeze her and take her by the face so they might get a better look at her. Each girl was disheveled, in various stages of undress, and not one of them made comment on her own appearance, buttoned to her chin in a forest green satin gown, tailored to her exact measurements by some of the finest dressmakers in London.

“My girlie, we fought you was the girl that they’s found under the bridge. We fought it was you!”

Constance shook her head as the other girls chimed in their agreements. “I’m alright. I’m safe.”

“Where in the bloody hell ya been, then?”

The girls all turned to meet the source of the booming voice, feigning rage and indignation at Constance’s sudden resurrection. Yet, when Constance turned to meet Berty’s gaze, her face warmed and she opened her arms, wrapping Constance in a heavy hug.

The turbulence of her return died down, many of the girls returning to their tables and the laps of various gentlemen. Berty dragged Constance over toward the bar with Octavia in tow.

“Will you be staying, then?”

Constance shook her head. “Not yet. I’m due to return this evening.”

Berty pursed her lips. “I see.”

With that, she slipped back behind the bar, leaning her tits onto it to take a mustached man’s drink order.

She sat with Octavia, keeping the girl from several potential clients as the two of them caught up. Octavia kept touching Constance’s knee as they spoke, squeezing and smacking it for emphasis. Constance smiled at her friend, her olive complexion brighter when she smiled.

“Oi, Connie, love. Got a fella here’d like ta speak wit ye.”

It was getting dark out by now and Constance turned to find Henry standing before her, the former bartender now looking the part of a proper businessman with his curly red hair slicked back with pomade. Next to him was a short gentleman in black long coat, vest, and derby hat, his own mustache waxed and curled perfectly.

The man quickly introduced himself to Octavia. “Detective Kevin Jenkins.”

“Detective!” She exclaimed, recognizing the fellow from the previous month. He gave a pleasant nod, tipping his hat. He seemed pleased to be remembered. “Evenin Mum. Had us a bit worried there for a spell.”

She’d seen a constable in at this hour before, and though detectives did come from time to time, that was to sample the Keg and Barrel’s various delicacies, and they never declared themselves. She bowed her head just so. “I’m sorry. I should’ve realized, otherwise I’d have sent word of where I was.”

“Naturally. And where exactly was that, Ms. -?”

“Tully.”

“Ah, yes. Of course. Constance Tully.”

She stared into his dark eyes a moment, a strange, joyless smile etched on his worn face. His demeanor seemed greatly changed since the last time she encountered him. He gave her an eyebrow wiggle.

“What’s that?”

“Your whereabouts, miss.”

“Oh, of course.”

She stopped, pressing her hands into the skirts of her satin dress. When she opened her mouth, she let her mind run as wild as it wished. “I was staying with family, sir.”

“Family? Is that so? Whereabouts?”

Whereabouts again. Damn it, whereabouts indeed. Think Constance, think!

“They’re down in the Cotswolds.”

“Goodness. Bit of a trek, that.”

“It is, sir.”

“And what brought you down there, then?”

Constance swallowed, catching Octavia’s eye over the man’s shoulder. She was glaring at her, confused.

She turned her eyes away, boring a hole into the man’s collar as she searched for an answer. “Had a bit of a bad run with a client. What with the bit of news you brought with you last you were here, I wasn’t feeling safe in the city. Needed to get out of town. Clear my head.”

He nodded. Clearly, the detective remembered their conversation about the recent murder of Alice McKenzie, and his inability to assure her that the Ripper wasn’t back for another round. With a torso now found in Pinchon Street, she was sure he wouldn’t blame her for her caution.

“I see. Did the client look anything like this, would you say?”

With that the detective produced a small folded piece of paper, unfolding it before her as she watched. The sketched face from within the folds suddenly glared out at her and she set her jaw to still any betrayal of expression. She swallowed, staring down into the familiar and stern gaze of Lord Alisdair Alfred Newington.

She shook her head with slow deliberation, trying hard to feign confusion. “No sir. Not at all.”

“No? You’re sure.”

She met his eyes, but only for an instant. “I am, sir. Very sure. Why? Who’s that?”

He nodded, folding the piece of paper and tucking it back into his pocket. “Some witnesses describe him as Sally Hart’s last known client. Now, what about Sally Hart? Have you seen her, then?”

“Not since she left the Keg.”

“I see.”

Detective Kevin Jenkins took a pocket watch from his vest pocket and checked it before glancing around the room with idle interest. “Tell me, when was the last time you saw Roger Tims?”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Why? Hasn’t he been around?”

Octavia shook her head from over the man’s shoulder.

“From what I gather, no.”

“God. I haven’t seen him since I last spoke with you, sir. You remember that, sir? He hasn’t come back?”

“I do. I do. Still, haven’t been able to find the lad, no. Well, if you do hear from the man, you will contact me, won’t you?”

“Of course. You don’t think he has something to do with any of this, do you?”

He turned, tugging the hem of his coat closed around him. He spoke over his shoulder. “He is a person of interest at this point, nothing more. Mr. Poole! Will you allow me to question a few more of your girls?”

Berty visibly stifled at this behind the bar, but did not say a word. Constance fought to keep her hands still at her sides. She was shaking.

“Constance! Why didn’t you tell him?”

Octavia was at her shoulder, hissing into her ear.

“I had nothing to tell him.”

“You recognized that face as well as I did.”

Constance turned on her friend, grabbing her by the wrist and pulling her to the small hallway behind the bar. The small space smelled dank and musty, the stench of kegs in the basement mixing with a hint of some hidden vermin rotting under the floorboards.

“I didn’t tell him a damn thing, and neither should you!”

“Oh, I already did! What were ye thinkin? They’re lookin for Roger now, you know that? Think he’s the Torso Killer or the Ripper or wha’ever because bof you and Sally disappeared.”

“But I didn’t disappear!”

“No, but Sally sure’as and she was last seen with your lad!”

“That isn’t possible.”

“Oh it is! Connie, see reason damn it!”

Constance looked down at the floorboards, as though she might find some epiphany in the cracks and crevices there. “Alisdair is no murderer.”

“How do you know that?! You don’t know ‘im, Connie. He could be anybody and you wouldn’t know anyfing -”

“Miss Constance. Are you ready to return?”

Constance startled, turning to find Thomas waiting by the bar, his coat buttoned to his chin, his hat tucked under his arm. Constance stared at him, licking her lips as various faces about the room turned their attention to the footman. He was as out of place there as royalty. She searched for words, ready to flee the familiar smells of men, of beer and sweat and sex. She walked toward him, touching her hand to his offered arm. A figure rose from his seat in the corner, turning to give special attention to her conversation. It was Detective Jenkins, and she watched him out of the corner of her eye as she took two sharp breaths.

“No Thomas. I won’t be returning with you.”

He stared at her a moment, confused. “But Mum -”

“I will write a note to my cousin, if you would deliver it for me?”

Thomas met her eyes for a rare moment, then returned them to the ground. “Of course, Mum.”

Constance searched behind the bar, finding a small scratch book and pencil. She scribbled her note, penning it in jovial tones.

Dearest Cousin,

I am saddened to say that I will not be able to return at present. Though it is with a heavy heart that I write this note, please trust that my reasons are pure.

Amor Vincit Omnia.

Constance

Constance tucked the note into Thomas’ front pocket and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. Despite the confused look on his face, Thomas followed her lead, turned for the tavern door, and disappeared out into the cool, autumn air.