He takes more time over Vilaseca than the others, getting each measurement right to the millimeter. After all, success will do more for the cause of anthropometry than anything he could say in its favor. Or that Dr. Taylor could, come to that. Renfrew was watching, but his attention has drifted now, and he does not disguise a wide yawn as he sits with a glass of brandy held against the bulge of his belly. Robert reminds himself, this is the main shortcoming of anthropometry: the time it takes to measure a subject. Soon, though, when he files the cards, when he is able to produce the match from the hundreds he has brought with him—then he will spark Renfrew's interest.
When he has finished he separates the two sets of cards he has made for each man, and files one set in amongst the many others in the drawers of his case. Then he and Danforth step outside to the corridor. Danforth rubs his hands together. "We've got him," he whispers, "and he doesn't suspect a thing."
"Either that," says Robert, "or he's being careful to hide any sign he's detected the trap we've laid."
"No man could be that able to mask his anxiety. As I examined his hands I took the trouble to feel his pulse, a trick of mine. It was as slow and even as the ticking of that clock." He nods to a tall clock standing at the blind end of the corridor.
"Nevertheless—"
"Nevertheless, I will ask Whalen to tell me if he looks as though he is going to flee. If I inform him as to the nature of our suspicions, he'll be eager to help."
Robert is about to protest when the door opens. Renfrew— apparently it is he who has taken charge of the proceedings. He ushers them in, then hands them both two cards.
The room is silent while they work. Robert rifles through his drawers of cards, through H
eads: Length, Medium,
then
Right Ears: Long
and, within a few moments, has the first card pulled out. The second takes him a little longer. For a moment he looks through them to compare, then hands them to Renfrew, who makes a note of the time.
At the other table Danforth is still sorting through his records. He plucks out one, then slips it back in, his face a little flushed now. Indeed, it gets redder the longer he searches, flipping back and forth through the cards. Ten minutes, fifteen, and only then does he hand a card to Renfrew. One card, not two.
Robert has already taken a seat and helped himself to a glass of brandy. Renfrew checks the cards. All of them do indeed match, and he says as much. The men call out, "Bravo, bravo."
Danforth gives a small bow, and stretches out his hand to Robert. "You see," he says to their audience, "the two systems with their strengths and their weaknesses. With fingerprints, an efficient system of classification to allow easy retrieval is still lacking. But"—he raises a finger, looking at Renfrew—"collection of fingerprints is quick, and they offer another advantage: no two sets are alike. With fingerprints there can be no mistaking a man's identity—they are as much a part of him as his soul. He can burn his skin, he can cut it, but the new flesh will grow back in the same pattern."
It sounds like the speech of a man making excuses, thinks Robert. It must be apparent that without a classification system, fingerprints are useless for purposes of identification; they can do little more than confirm an identity found through anthropometry. All those prints to sort through to find a matching pair—the same problem that photographs posed—surely Danforth cannot expect that the Troup Committee will overlook this obstacle? Besides, and he stretches his chest, if after all these years no system has been devised, perhaps one will never be, or at least not soon enough to be of practical use.
The evening is soon over. In the foyer the men shake hands. Vilaseca steps through the doorway, and Danforth's eyes follow him, like those of a cat forced to let a mouse escape down a hole. Soon only Renfrew is left, and he shakes their hands again.
"Most interesting," he tells them. "To have had a demonstration is invaluable, absolutely invaluable."
Danforth rocks onto his toes. In his coat he looks like a well-dressed scarecrow, so thin and full of angles. "Well," he says in a hushed voice, "I have to admit that there is more riding on the demonstration than simply the good opinion of the Troup Committee, or the interest of our friends." He bends his head forward and flicks his tongue over his lips in a way that makes Robert uneasy. "Our young friend Vilaseca shares many characteristics with the infamous Villanova, you recall? The dreadful case at the Central Bank of Buenos Aires?"
"Who cut the throat of his colleague and escaped before he was convicted?"
"The very man."
Robert twists a button on his coat. He should have guessed that Danforth wouldn't be able to contain his excitement.
Renfrew splutters, "Good God, Danforth, what are you about? Shouldn't Scotland Yard be informed?"
"They can't act. They need more evidence than that of his nationality, his sudden wealth, and the similarity between the names. Hence this evening's demonstration—now we have information I can telegraph to Argentina." He pulls Robert's card from his pocket and taps one gloved finger against it. "We have him, I assure you."
Tilting back his head, Renfrew lets out a bark of a laugh. "You old dog, Danforth. Very clever. You had us all. Well done." He claps one hand on his back. "You'll let me know the minute an arrest is imminent, won't you?"
"Certainly."
Robert's boxes are by his feet. A porter picks them up and carries them to a hansom waiting outside. Robert shakes hands with Danforth and walks out into the street. The night is freezing, the fog thick enough to reduce the lights on the far side of the street to a vague glow. He climbs into the cab and breathes on his hands. The cold is a relief, a welcome diversion from the unease creeping through him. If Danforth's plan works they will share the glory, and the case for anthropometry will be difficult to assail. If it should not—they will share the shame of it.
Chapter 22
O
nce the doctor has peered into the chamber pot, Jane covers it with a cloth and carries it away. A stink seeps out of it, a filthy, thick stink that she turns her head from as she comes down the stairs. Perhaps Price is ill after all, despite the doctor's assurances to Mrs. Robert.
The smell clings to her, even when she has emptied the pot and wiped it clean with a rag. She's climbing back up the stairs when Sarah's head appears below her around the banister. "Hey," she calls softly, "down here."
So Jane comes down, pot in one hand, pushing a few strands of hair from her eyes with the back of the other. It's not often that Sarah seeks her out, and when she does it means trouble.
Sarah takes her by the arm and steers her down the rest of the stairs, all the way to the kitchen. Mrs. Johnson is not at the stove. She is not in sight at all. Only Elsie watches them, and she gives a sly smile from the end of the room as she sweeps a broom across the floor. Sarah nods her head to the area. "A visitor," she whispers, and opens the door for her.
Jane only just has the foresight to put down Price's pot and push her loose hair under her cap. In her dirty apron, her face most likely sweaty and red, what a sight she must be. She flaps her apron and the skirt of the dress, as though that will be enough to shake Price's reek from her. Of all the times, she thinks, of all the times in her day. But if she didn't go out to him—then what would he think? For it is Teddy, it must be.
She steps outside and peers up to the railings. There he is, a red scarf loosely wrapped around his neck, his breath steaming out of his mouth. As he sees her he beckons. He has a new coat, by the look of it—one of his master's castoffs. And here she is, a maid with other people's dirt on her, stinking of their filth, as though this is all she is worth. Her throat is tight. She shouldn't have come out. Don't let yourself cry, she tells herself—for if nothing else she'll find out if he loves her, because what man who didn't would want her after seeing her like this?
A quick glance over her shoulder, but there's no Mrs. Johnson striding out of the door to catch her, no Mrs. Robert watching from a window, so she hurries up the steps, watching his face, seeing if it changes when he notices the soot on her clothes, the unkempt look about her. It doesn't. Instead he peels off one glove and, as she reaches the top, lays his warm palm against the side of her face. "I was just passing. I had to see you."
"Just passing?" she says.
"Well, a few streets away. It didn't take that long to walk here. My master sent me out with a couple of messages. I couldn't very well pass up the chance of giving you a message of my own."
"Oh?" She holds his hand against her cheek.
"Yes," he says. He tilts off his hat and, in its shelter, he touches his mouth to hers. A delicate kiss, then he reaches behind her and pulls her towards him, though the railings are between them. His mouth is warm and soft, and she lets him hold her like that, in full view of whoever from the house may be watching.
M
ina has been expecting something, but not this: it arrives during breakfast, a letter that she lays down by her plate.
"Another letter of condolence?" Robert reaches for the toast. "Who's it from this time?"
She pokes through her scrambled eggs with her fork. She has no appetite, not since she recognized the handwriting on the envelope. "Oh," she says lightly, "I don't know." It wouldn't do to leave it there, unopened. To veer from the usual, that is to invite suspicion. So, with her hands feeling ungainly, as though they might knock over her coffee or send the small jug of milk flying across the tablecloth, she reaches for it. Robert passes her the letter opener. With a quick slit she has it open and unfolds it.
My dearest Nora,
I remember the feel of your lips on mine, the way your breast
would be crushed against my chest. Do you? I thought I was
dreaming when I saw you in Mortimer's—a married woman
now. Does he send your heart racing in a way I never could?
You made a fool out of me—it's not the money, it's the way you
told me you longed for me and I believed you. However, you
know that I do not easily give up, and I see no reason to now. I
will still have you—you owe me that much.
Then his initials at the bottom of the page.
A hot rush of panic rises from her belly, but she has the foresight to fold up the letter, even as she pushes back her chair and mutters, "Excuse me—I'll be back in a few minutes."
Robert's mouth opens in surprise. She can still see it as she pulls the door closed behind her and climbs the stairs. Her legs carry her up, though she's barely aware of the fact that they are working, working. When the toe of her shoe hits a riser and she stumbles forward, it is all she can do to make them lift her the rest of the way, up and up and up—these bloody English houses with all their stairs—to the water closet on the half-landing. She pushes the door open, leans hard against it to close it. A key is in the lock—she turns it. Then she lifts her skirts and lets herself down on the toilet seat, head bent to breathe into her hands.
Did she think she was going to escape? Did she really think she could pull herself free of her old life? She squeezes her eyes shut. There should be no tears, no pity for herself. Surely there is a way to fend off Popham, but she cannot think. The inside of her head is hot. Her thoughts run helter-skelter.
She knew he'd found her out—she tells herself that none of this should be a shock. Still—a letter that he must have known would arrive in front of Robert, the nature of what he wants. Not money, but her. The letter crumples in her hand as she tightens her fingers over it. He asks if she remembers. Oh yes, she remembers. The sour scent of his skin, the press of his tongue into her mouth. The way she'd sigh as if such pleasure was too much for her. How hard that was— winding herself around him, sliding a hand up his thigh, groaning when his hands wrung her breasts through the silk of her dress, promising him whatever he wanted because she had to. After all, she was the bait, and he was the fish Flyte wanted to reel in. And now? Now he wants revenge for her helping to make a fool out of him.
She hears footsteps outside the door, and she raises her head. It's Robert, his voice low and urgent. "My darling," he's saying, "what has happened?"
She takes a moment to pitch her voice just right: a little tremulous, yet bright nonetheless. She calls out, "I must have eaten something that was a little off."
"Should I call the doctor?"
"No, no. Please—I'll be fine."
Once his footsteps have retreated down the stairs she stands and rips the letter into shreds. They float in the toilet bowl, the ink bleeding into the water. Then she lowers herself back onto the seat and empties her bladder.
O
pening the door, Jane peers through the half-light. In the bed she sees a hump—the widow, still in bed at this time of the morning. There is a noise, low and broken. "Ma'am?" she calls. "Ma'am, shall I get you ready for breakfast?"
The widow sits up suddenly, and Jane jumps. She is crying, letting out great spluttering sobs that shake her body. "Can't any of you just leave me alone?"
Jane comes closer to the bed. "Come on now, ma'am. You're with friends here."
"Friends?" She laughs, then pushes one hand against her mouth. It doesn't stay there. In a moment she pushes her fingers through her hair, hard, as though she wants to wrench it out by the roots. "Perhaps you're right. They're the only friends I have." She sinks forward, and from the shaking of her shoulders, it is evident she is crying again.
There is something distasteful about this young woman and her misery. It is almost more than Jane can do to touch her. Yet she does. She stretches out one hand—her red hand with its knuckles thickening from the heavy work that fills her days—and lays it on the widow's shoulder. It's no different, she thinks, than a piece of furniture. Hard to the touch yet a little warm, like wood.