Authors: Cheryl Ann Smith
The duchess gave her a sidelong glance.
This time it was Laura who sighed. “You’re right, they would.” She looked to the open door. From somewhere in the house, she could hear male laughter. She grimaced. “I am quickly discovering that men do not have the sense of a goat.”
Miss Eva nodded. “True. Thankfully they have us to inject reason into their lives.”
The two women shared a wry smile. “Will you stop His Grace from going?”
“As if he would listen to me.” Her Grace slowly shook her head. “Let them have their fun. It will do them good to get their knuckles bruised. They will come back puffed up like peacocks and feeling like they can conquer anything.”
Laura nodded. “I understand His Grace once took a bullet for you?” This was a story she was eager to hear.
Miss Eva was stoic for a moment before a grin widened over her beautiful face. Her eyes danced. “I must take Simon to task for spilling my secrets.”
“I assure you, he said nothing until after I discovered who you were,” Laura said, and turned back as the loud clomp of hurried footsteps came down the staircase.
Simon and His Grace paused only long enough to stop in the doorway and grin like naughty boys before they were off in a bustle of activity and humor-filled voices.
Simon and the duke were dressed in dusty trousers, stained white shirts, and a pair of similar scuffed brown coats that had likely spent time in the duke’s stables. Wool caps, worn low, had completed the costumes. Laura hoped they would not be recognized as peers if they kept their heads down. And if they refrained from speaking to anyone in their lordly voices, the disguises might actually work.
“I suppose we are in for a long night,” the duchess said glumly. “It would do me no harm to tell you the story of the night I rode off to rescue a kidnapped courtesan.”
W
hitechapel was a place for less fortunate souls—those who came from rural areas to London looking for work but couldn’t afford the higher rents in the more prosperous sections of town. Some had fallen on difficult times for many reasons, and some were born into poverty. Whatever their stories, there was an overall feeling of sad desperation that cloaked the area.
Simon smelled the acrid mix of slaughterhouse and brewery as the hackney pulled to a stop before the address Crawford had given the driver. The three men alighted and requested the driver wait. It took the promise of a large fee to get the man to agree—that and a pistol he pulled out from beneath his seat to lay across his lap.
A few of the buildings clung to the façade of respectability, though Simon knew that after dark the façade would crumble as the dangerous element of Whitechapel came out to play.
“It appears as if Mister Smoot has let his property turn ramshackle,” Simon remarked with a grimace. Soot already dusted his borrowed clothing. “I thought you said he was wealthy.”
Crawford snorted. “Do not let the soot and disrepair fool you. In an area such as this, you don’t show your wealth. You might end up with a crushed skull and empty pockets.”
His Grace grunted his agreement. “Let us step lively, gents, before the ruffians sniff out the gold in my pockets.”
They walked to the door and knocked. The next few minutes were spent arguing with the clerk in order to gain entrance to the building, It was coercion from Crawford, and the well-bred tones of the duke, that finally convinced the man that they weren’t thieves and to let them inside.
“As I explained, Mister Smoot is not here,” the clerk said smugly and swung out a hand to indicate no Smoot. “He, er, left the building, and I am unsure of his return.”
Simon felt the clerk’s deception. He clearly knew where Smoot was off to. Loyalty, or fear, kept him from speaking up.
Crawford didn’t believe him either and peppered him with questions. The clerk answered with a whiny voice that grated on the ears. Simon took the opportunity to look around.
The room was a large warehouse, stacked from floor to roof with shelves holding goods from all areas of the world: carpets, bolts of cloth, tankards of ale, anything a lady or a gentleman in Mayfair or Berkeley Square could want. There was even a sarcophagus set out on thick stone slabs.
Unable to resist the pull of the ancient artifact, Simon walked over to examine the item closer.
He knew enough about Greek history to suppose that the figure carved on the lid was either a king or a god. He brushed his hand over the smooth stone and wished he’d paid more attention in school.
His Grace joined him. “It is a fascinating piece.” The duke leaned to peer into the sightless eyes. “He should be returned to his homeland.”
“The mummy has most likely already been ground up for some witch’s tonic,” Simon remarked. He hated the desecration of tombs for tonics and potions. It was a disgrace. “I understand some of the mummy potions are said to cure impotence.”
“Anyone who believes that nonsense
should
suffer that malady.” The duke straightened. “To drink the ashes of the dead as a cure for your ailments is foolish.”
Simon nodded. He glanced at Crawford. “Has he been able to gain anything further from the clerk?”
“Only that Smoot has gone looking for a prostitute. He does so twice each day. Otherwise, he denies knowing what Smoot does outside of this business.”
“Perhaps it is Smoot who makes his own potions,” Simon jested wryly. “He sounds like a virile chap.”
His Grace smirked. “That is something I’d rather not think about. It will give me night terrors.”
The men walked back to Crawford and the clerk. The clerk had a stubborn set to his jaw. “You are welcome to search the alleys for a man with his pants around his ankles and a whore on her knees, worshipping his manly staff. Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have work that needs my attention.”
Without another word, he spun and walked off toward the back of the warehouse.
Crawford expelled a breath. “I do hate the idea of wandering the seedier parts of this area, but I have a feeling that if we don’t find Smoot before his clerk tells him of our visit, we may never find the man.”
“If he believes we are secretly investigating his wrecking operation, he may flee,” Simon concurred. “He has the means to hide out indefinitely.”
His Grace nodded. “We still have some time until nightfall. We might as well get started.”
They left the warehouse and the duke paid off the driver. There was no reason for him to wait. They weren’t sure how long the search would take. It could be hours.
As he looked around the dismal area, Simon thought of
Laura. Her life could have ended in a place such as this, sold by Westwick as a prostitute to service any man with a coin in his pocket.
Rage burned hot in his belly. He hoped wherever Westwick was now, he was suffering for his crimes.
“You know Whitechapel, Crawford,” he said gruffly. “You shall take the lead.”
Simon desperately wanted to see the matter concluded. He hoped that Smoot would be a key to helping the case along. “Shall we begin behind the warehouse?” Crawford said. “If Smoot has gone off to find a woman, he shouldn’t be far. If he is a frequent customer, the doxies will come to him.”
“Lead on,” the duke said.
Simon kept watch for footpads as they walked around the warehouse. The space between Smoot’s warehouse and the one beside it was narrow. They stepped over a sprawled-out drunkard who was snoring loudly, the top half of his face covered by a worn cap. The smell coming from his filthy body and clothing made Simon’s nose and eyes sting.
But the worst was yet to come.
“I smell blood,” Crawford said as he stepped over a broken chair and cautiously peered around the corner of the building. He held out a hand to warn Simon and the duke to proceed with caution. “Keep alert, lads. I think a crime has been committed here.”
The back of the warehouse was scattered with discarded crates and papers and anything that was of no use to Smoot. The rubble was riddled with rats that scampered out of sight.
Simon frowned. In this area, much of these discards would be of use to the poor. It was odd that the wood hadn’t been touched. The question was answered when a chain rattled.
“Step back, Your Grace, Crawford.” Both men took a few steps back, puzzled. Within seconds a pair of dogs, gray and brown and of undetermined ancestry, trotted out from behind the crates, heads low, bodies tense. They rumbled with low growls.
The first lunged at Crawford, only to be jerked upright by his chain. This sent the other into a barking frenzy. Soon both dogs were barking and growling. They carried on that way for several minutes before finally giving up their attempts to eat the men and settling back on their haunches to pant.
“This explains why the rubbish remains untouched. I suspect these beasts have eaten their share of crate thieves,” Simon quipped. “Now we know the source of the blood scent. They have devoured Smoot.”
“It is certainly possible,” Crawford said. “Did you notice that the clerk didn’t warn us of the dogs?”
Simon turned back to his companions and caught sight of a boot sticking out from behind a crate.
“Do not dismiss my observation quite yet, gentleman,” Simon remarked as he walked slowly toward the boot. “I think I may have found the missing man.”
The boot was still on a foot, which led to legs, as Simon stepped over a pile of junk and peered behind a broken crate. He found a man lying partially on his back, the upper half of his body, and head, slumped against the wall. His eyes were halfway open.
There was blood everywhere. “I don’t think the villain in this case was dogs.” Simon squinted. “There are no dog bites.”
“His throat has been cut,” Crawford said as he squatted down. A sudden choking inhalation brought Crawford stumbling to his feet. “He’s alive.”
Simon bent down. “Who did this to you, man?”
He received no answer. That one last desperate breath had been his last. Crawford squatted again and closed the dead man’s eyelids.
“Is it Smoot?” the duke asked.
“In spite of the blood, I can see that his waistcoat is red. I am quite certain it is Smoot.”
Gingerly, Crawford began to examine the body while His Grace went to alert the clerk to send for the Bow Street Runners. As a man attached to several crimes, Smoot’s death would be of particular interest to the Runners.
Dropping down on his heels beside Crawford, Simon confirmed that the other injuries on his torso were not consistent with a dog attack. His open trousers and exposed cock left little doubt as to what he was doing when he was killed. “It appears all the wounds are from a knife.”
Crawford nodded and eased Smoot’s head to the side. There was a deep slash from one side of his neck to the other. “That explains the bloody spray,” Crawford said. “His attacker used his blade well.” He turned to Simon. “Smoot couldn’t have lived long with that wound. I think we chased the killer off.”
Simon rose. He began a search of the area. The killer had to be bloodied when he left Smoot. There was little doubt that the merchant had fought for his life. The cuts on his hands showed his attempts to save himself.
Unfortunately, except for several bloody footprints that ended at the street, there was no sign of the culprit.
He returned to Crawford. “The man got clean away. I did find smaller footprints, too. Whoever the woman was who was with Smoot, she either helped the killer or ran when he was attacked. She has also vanished.”
The investigator nodded. The duke reappeared, dragging the protesting clerk by the coat. They stopped near the body. The clerk let out a whimper and stumbled backward.
“The whore killed him?” He wobbled. The duke jerked him upright.
“His killer wanted something from Smoot,” His Grace said, holding the quivering man. “If he did not get the information he sought, he may come back for you. Tell us what you know and I will find you a safe place to hide.”
The clerk began to blather as tears ran down his face. He answered their questions at a rapid clip. His information was thin. However, they did learn a few interesting bits about Smoot’s last days.
By the time they’d wrung all the information they could from the clerk, he had nothing left and dropped to his knees.
The arrival of the Runners ended the interrogation.
Sometime later, Simon, His Grace, and Crawford were able to leave the Runners to their investigation. As they couldn’t reveal the real reason for seeking out Smoot, they’d claimed to have been searching for a special gift for the duchess and had heard that the merchant dealt in all sorts of exotic items. It was by accident that they’d found the unfortunate Mister Smoot.
The explanation was accepted. The duke was a man of high standing. The Runners had no reason to question his account of their visit to Whitechapel.
It took an eternity to wave down a hackney and they climbed aboard for the ride back to Collingwood House.
“I need a drink.” Simon leaned back on the squabs. The hackney headed back in the direction of Mayfair, but Simon shouted out the window for the driver to find them a tavern.
F
or several hours, Laura and Miss Eva shared stories of their childhoods, and laughed and groused over the troublesome nature of men. When the dinner hour arrived and still no sight of the trio, they ate and groused some more. The hour grew late before male voices, upraised in song, sounded from somewhere outside the front door. The two women rose and walked into the hallway as the butler swung the door wide.
It was almost impossible to distinguish the men as the same group who had left many hours previous. They were rumpled, bloodied, and scuffed. Yet they seemed to have managed to keep themselves somewhat hearty and hale, as they all walked in on their own volition—mostly.
“There is my darling wife,” the duke said, his voice booming. “Lovely as ever. Isn’t she lovely, Simon?”
Simon nodded. “She is indeed pleasing on the eyes,” he agreed, but his attention was on Laura.
She frowned, her expression matching that of the duchess. Simon smelled as if he’d fallen into a barrel of ale.
Crawford gave the duchess a wink and withdrew from the house, clearly finding escape preferable to being party
to any arguments that may ensue from bringing the duke home well into his cups.