“Was this lock on the door at the time of the murder?” he asked.
“No, sir.” Hannah frowned, obviously bewildered by the question. “Pa had to install a new one when he rented the premises. The one that was on before was broken.”
“Any idea how it got broken?”
Hannah shook her head, baffled. “How would I know that, sir?”
“Never mind.”
Hannah coughed slightly and once again took up her tale. “After letting her handsome lover in on that fateful night, Joanna Barclay gave Lord Gavin a most passionate kiss, took him by the hand, and led him up the stairs. Little did he know that he was climbing to his own death.”
“No, I doubt that he had any inkling of his fate,” Anthony agreed, studying the staircase.
“Come along, sir. I’ll show you their secret love nest.”
Hannah started up the staircase that led to the rooms above the shop. He followed, listening to the groans and squeaks of the old treads.
She did not go downstairs to open the door for him. She heard him smash the lock, and then she heard his footsteps on the stairs.
At the top of the narrow steps, Hannah swept out a hand to indicate a cozy little sitting room. There was not much in the way of furniture, Anthony noticed. A chair for reading, a table, a lamp, and a heavy trunk. It appeared a lonely little space.
“Furnished just as it was on the night of the murder, sir,” Hannah assured him. “As I was saying, Joanna Barclay led her doomed lover into this very room, sat him down, and gave him a glass of wine.”
Anthony looked at the table. “I don’t see a glass. How do you know she gave him something to drink?”
“Drinking wine is the sort of thing lovers do together.”
Anthony nodded. “Should have thought of that.”
Hannah’s voice lowered to a theatrical whisper. “There was a violent quarrel.”
“Did you make up that bit, too?”
“It stands to reason that they argued, sir,” Hannah said patiently. “Why else would she have murdered him?”
“An excellent question. Did anyone hear the shouting?”
Hannah sighed. “There was no one living next door at the time.”
“What was the quarrel about?”
“According to the reports in the press the quarrel came about because Lord Gavin told Miss Barclay that he was going to cast her aside in favor of another.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Hannah was clearly bewildered. “Why, because he was tired of her, I expect. She was his mistress, after all. Gentlemen often get tired of their mistresses. Everyone knows that.”
“Please continue.”
“Very well.” Hannah drew herself up and pointed toward a curtained doorway with a dramatic flourish. “Joanna Barclay invited the elegant Lord Gavin into her bedroom one last time. He went with her little knowing he would never leave it alive.”
Anthony went to the doorway and pulled the curtain aside. There was a small dressing table and a wardrobe. The sheets and quilt on the narrow bed were pulled back and rumpled, presumably to indicate energetic lovemaking. There were some old, rusty brown stains on the carpet.
“After their last passionate embrace Lord Gavin fell asleep,” Hannah explained. “Joanna Barclay rose from the bed, picked up the poker you see there next to the nightgown, and struck her doomed lover most violently on the head.”
A demure white-lawn nightgown edged with dainty lace was draped across the lower portion of the bed.
“Did you replace the bedding?” he asked.
“No, sir. Everything in this room is guaranteed to be exactly as Pa found it when he opened the museum. I shake out the sheets and the nightgown once in a while and dust the furniture, but that’s all.”
Anthony walked to the bed and looked down. “There are no bloodstains on the sheets. Did you wash them out?”
“No, sir.” Hannah frowned. “I don’t recall any bloodstains on the bedding.”
“Probably because they are on the carpet,” Anthony said mildly.
Hannah struggled with that discrepancy for a moment and then brightened. “I expect Lord Gavin woke up just before she hit him and rolled off the bed onto the carpet in a futile attempt to dodge the blow.”
“That’s certainly one plausible theory.”
He opened the wardrobe. Two faded dresses and a pair of shoes were inside.
He walked back into the sitting room and crouched beside the trunk. There was a sturdy lock, but it was open. He raised the lid and looked inside. It was empty.
“What did you find inside the trunk?” he asked Hannah.
She screwed up her face into an expression of deep concentration. “If there was ever anything inside, it was gone before Pa rented the place. Why do you ask?”
“Never mind. It’s not important. I was merely curious.”
“Well, then,” Hannah said, “after Joanna Barclay murdered Lord Gavin in that terrible fashion, her nerves were shattered. She sobbed bitterly.”
Joanna Barclay had fitted the trunk with an expensive lock. Whatever had been stored inside must have been of considerable value to her. The lock had not been broken. It had been opened by someone who either possessed the key or knew how to pick a lock.
“They say she committed suicide,” Anthony remarked, rising.
“I was getting to that part.” Hannah gave a theatrical shudder. “Like I was telling you, after she murdered her handsome lover, Joanna Barclay plunged into a fit of despair. She went to the river, threw herself off a bridge, and drowned. They found a feathered hat caught on a bit of drifting wood.”
“But they never found the body.”
“No, sir, that’s true.”
“Thank you, Miss Tuttington. Your tour was very educational.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it, sir.”
A short time later he left Tuttington’s Museum wondering what had been in the trunk and why a woman who planned to take her own life would have bothered to take the contents with her. It occurred to him that for a little over a year he had been obsessed with the questions that swirled around Fiona’s death. Those questions still required answers. But for some reason it was the mystery of another woman that compelled him now.
29
The monthly accounts had balanced nicely, showing a handsome profit again. Madam Phoenix put down her pen and closed the journal. The improvements she had made with the funds provided by the new circle of investors were paying off as she had anticipated.
It was going on midnight. Raucous male laughter could be heard from the grand reception room below.
The gentlemen were indulging themselves in the excellent champagne and brandy, lobster canapés, roasted duck, and all the rest of the expensive hors d’oeuvres and spirits that had helped make Phoenix House the most elegant brothel in London.
It was not just the food that had captured the attention of the wealthy, jaded men who came here each night. Madam Phoenix was well aware that the chief attraction was the quality of the women who were available for an hour or two of pleasure.
The females employed in Phoenix House were not common streetwalkers. They were well bred, well educated, and fashionable. Most of them came from the respectable classes, widows and single women who found themselves alone in the world or trying to pay off a husband’s debts. All had one thing in common: They had been faced with abject poverty for one reason or another. They had chosen Phoenix House over the streets or the river.
Three brisk knocks sounded on the door.
“Enter,” she said, turning around.
The door opened. A pretty young maid, dressed in a tightly corseted gown that displayed her breasts to advantage, bobbed a curtsy.
“The client has arrived and is being escorted to the chamber, Madam.”
“Thank you, Betsy. You may go back to our guests.”
“Yes, madam.” She dropped another curtsy and disappeared.
Madam Phoenix waited until the door closed behind the maid before walking across the room to a bookcase.
She tugged on a hidden lever. The bookcase swung open, revealing a narrow passage that was dimly
illuminated by a wall sconce. She moved inside and closed the panel behind her.
The original owner had ordered the concealed passageway built because he did not like to encounter servants on the main stairs or in the formal hallways. The hidden corridors allowed the staff to move unobtrusively throughout the house without being seen by their employer or his guests.
The former proprietor of the brothel had found another use for the secret passageways. After she disposed of her predecessor, Madam Phoenix had continued the tradition. At various points along the way small holes had been cut in the walls, allowing views into the adjoining rooms. The openings were discreetly concealed with paintings on the opposite side of the walls. The occupants of the rooms were unaware that they sometimes provided amusing entertainment for those who paid for the view.
Only the most valued clients were informed that the opportunity to watch others indulging in a variety of sexual acts was available. The fee was exorbitant, of course, but thus far none who had been offered the chance to take advantage of the service had refused to pay it.
Some distance along the corridor she descended a cramped flight of steps. She went a short distance along another corridor and stopped in front of a small hole in the wall.
The room on the other side was lit by a gas lamp that had been turned down very low. The walls and ceiling were covered in black velvet. A bed occupied the center of the room. It was sheathed in ebony silk sheets. Black velvet manacles dangled from each of the four stout posts.
There was a glass-fronted cabinet against one wall. Inside were a variety of devices, including several sizes of whips and some unusual implements.
As she watched, the door of the room opened. One of the pertly dressed maids ushered the client inside.
“Miss Justine gave orders that you are to undress, fold your clothes, and lie down on the bed to await her pleasure,” the maid said.
The client nodded eagerly. “I understand.”
The maid departed. Metal clanged on metal when she locked the door behind her.
The client undressed with obvious enthusiasm. He folded his clothes neatly and put them on the dresser. He was already fully aroused. He lay facedown on the bed.
The key scraped in the lock again. The door opened to admit a tall woman dressed in a severe, tightly corseted dark gown. She looked like a governess.
“You may stand beside the bed,” the woman said in a cool, bored voice.
“Yes, Miss Justine.”
The client obediently stood.
“Go to the cabinet of correction equipment and select a whip. The large one this time, I think. I can see that you did not fold your clothes as neatly as you ought to have done. You must be punished.”
“Yes, Miss Justine.”
The client opened the cabinet and removed the whip.
“Kiss the whip before you give it to me and then put on the blindfold.”
“Yes, Miss Justine.”
The client dutifully pressed his lips to the hilt of the whip before handing it to her. He walked to a table,
picked up a strip of black silk, and wrapped it around his head, covering his eyes.
“Lie on the bed. Facedown.”
“Yes, Miss Justine.”
The client used his hands to feel his way back down onto the black sheets. When he was in position Miss Justine walked around the bed in a leisurely manner pausing at each post to secure his wrists and ankles. She picked up the whip.
Madam Phoenix turned away from the opening in the wall and started back toward the staircase that led up to her study. There was no pleasure to be had watching Elwin Hastings undergo his punishment. The bastard enjoyed it, after all. He paid dearly for it.
She went back to her private quarters via the concealed hallways.
Things were going very well here at Phoenix House, but a problem loomed. It was clear that something would have to be done about Louisa Bryce. She was asking far too many questions.
She opened the door of her private apartment. He was waiting for her, as she had expected.
“Darling.” She smiled and went into his arms.
He kissed her deeply, hungrily. His fingers found the fastenings of her gown. A few minutes later he pulled her down onto the bed.
30
The restaurant was the one they had begun using a little over a year ago when they had wished to meet
privately. As was their custom they occupied a booth at the rear of the premises. From that position Anthony and Fowler both had a clear view of the entrance.
The small establishment was owned by a French chef and served a truly remarkable coq au vin. It also boasted an excellent selection of wine. It’s chief attraction, however, was that it was tucked away in a tiny, anonymous lane, quite remote from Scotland Yard. Fowler did not have to be concerned about being spotted by any of his colleagues.
“I told you last year that Gavin’s murder and Miss Barclay’s suicide had no connection to the deaths of Miss Risby and Mrs. Hastings,” Fowler said. He forked up a bite of the chicken.
“I’m sure you’re right.” He had to be careful about this line of questioning, Anthony thought. There was a bond between himself and Fowler because of their mutual interest in learning the truth about Fiona Risby’s death, but Fowler was still a detective. “Nevertheless, I find it interesting that so many women chose to cast themselves into the Thames in the space of less than a month. What do you know about Lord Gavin?”
Fowler snorted. “As far as the Yard is concerned, the world is better off without him. I believe his widow is equally pleased to be free of the bastard.”
The vehemence in Fowler’s tone made Anthony pause. He lowered his fork slowly back down to his plate. “You did not mention your strong feelings on the matter when we discussed Gavin last year.”
“No offense, sir, but I didn’t know you well at the time.” Fowler picked up his wineglass and took a sip. “If you will recall, we had only just met. I told you as much as I thought you needed to know in order to satisfy yourself that there was no link between the Gavin affair and Fiona Risby’s death.”
“I see. Now, of course, you have made me curious. Why are you pleased that Gavin is no longer among the living?”