A Coldblooded Scoundrel Page 8

  Devlin waited till her footsteps had retreated down the stairs, before venturing into the bedroom. The lamp had been turned down to a mere flicker in the darkness, and Devlin was loath to tamper with it, for fear of waking Freddie. He drew near to the bed in which the young constable lay sleeping, reached out to touch one of Freddie's hands, cradling the limp fingers against his palm as he sank into a chair. He forced himself to look, to assess and catalogue the damage. Random bruising on the face, and a nasty cut above one eye that had swollen and puffed to astonishing proportions - Devlin sighed, drew the covers back from Freddie's naked torso. They had been at him with fists and feet – Devlin traced the map of bruises with his gaze, not daring to touch Freddie for fear of causing him more pain than had already been endured. He saw what looked like puncture marks from hobnailed boots along the young man's sides, and further down his thighs; it was clear that more than one man had provoked and sustained this. Devlin vowed that he would scour the bowels of London until he found them. Perhaps he wouldn't even allow them benefit of trial, he thought savagely, perhaps he'd kill them all himself, with just his bare hands and perhaps a pair of hobnailed boots....

  "Sir."

  "Shhh...don't try to talk." Devlin had sworn he would not weep, but his tears burned his face like vitriol. "I came as soon as I heard."

  "I've been stupid, haven't I?" Freddie's grip tightened on Devlin's fingers. "Didn't keep my head down like you taught me - went charging in like a bloody maniac."

  "Freddie...." Devlin pressed his lips to the young man's palm, the one place on his body that remained undamaged. "So help me God, I'll find them - I'll find them and I'll deal with them, supposing I swing for it!"

  Freddie freed his hand, pressed his fingers against Devlin's mouth. "Hell Fire Club," he murmured, and then, "Kiss me."

  "Oh no, Freddie, I'll hurt you."

  "You'd never hurt me," Freddie said, and Devlin damned himself for a blackguard. He bent and pressed his opened mouth against Freddie's parted lips, unprepared for the young man's hungry assault or his own eager response. "Phoebe told me everything," Freddie murmured, sinking back against the pillows. A slight smile played about his lips, and Devlin fancied that the laudanum was claiming him again.

  "Phoebe?"

  "A woman on your arm is the best camouflage, sir. Even Mr. Harker thinks so."

  Devlin snorted. "Mr. Harker! As if Mr. Harker would know a woman from his watch chain!"

  But Freddie was already too far sunk in sleep to hear him, and finally, Devlin crept quietly from the room.

  "Inspector Devlin - " Phoebe hugged him tightly, took both his hands in hers. "Violet has made tea - please come and sit with us."

  Devlin perceived Donnelly sitting near the fire, devouring the largest Chelsea bun that Devlin had ever seen. At Devlin's approach, the chemist looked up and mumbled something through a mouthful of pastry, then buried his face in his teacup. "Thank you." Devlin took the cup and saucer, but declined a Chelsea bun - his stomach felt as if some Yorkshire codger had used it for a round of ferret-legging.

  "Violet was telling me that Constable Lewis might do better if he stayed with us for the duration of his recovery." Phoebe glanced across at Violet, now semi-recumbent on a chaise longue and smoking a cigarette in a long ivory holder. "This is a most discreet household - and Violet and I can provide for most of Constable Lewis' needs right here. With assistance from Mr. Donnelly, of course."

  Intellectually, Devlin knew that she was right, but he feared to have Freddie languish under any protection but his own. "I expect you're right," he allowed reluctantly. He wondered how he might go about his daily duties, knowing that Freddie was the recuperative hostage of two tribades in a brownstone house in Kensington.

  "We'll take good care of him," Violet interjected. "He will want for nothing - Phoebe and I will care for him as though he were a much-beloved brother." She smiled as Phoebe came to stand behind her, a hand upon the redhead's shoulder. "As far as this Whittaker is concerned, Freddie will appear to have vanished from the planet."

  Devlin laid his teacup down. "It's not Freddie that he's interested in." He held his tired, aching head between his palms. "He's after me."

  Donnelly started, his teacup clanking in the saucer. "Good heavens, whatever for? What have you done to him that he needs to seek this kind of vengeance?"

  Devlin laughed mirthlessly. "A long and sordid tale, Mr. Donnelly."

  Violet Pearson cast a curiously assessing gaze at him. "I expect Whittaker didn't take too kindly to your throwing him over, all those years ago."

  Devlin would have reacted, except his nerves had long ago surrendered. "Who told you?" he asked, his fatigue lending a deceptive mildness to the query.

  Violet shrugged, an elegant lifting of her slender shoulders under the smoking jacket. "We each have our histories, Inspector."

  Devlin stood up to go. "Well, be that as it may, I do have a murderer to catch, and other business to attend to before this is all tied up." He laid the cup and saucer on a side table. "Ladies - thank you for the tea. Mr. Donnelly, your presence has been most helpful."

  "Where are you going?" Phoebe started forward, tugging at his sleeve. "Surely you're not going out after this Whittaker again - at this hour?"

  "Surely I am, Miss Alcock - and 'this Whittaker' as you are wont to call him, is not likely to wait upon my pleasure before he strikes again." Devlin shoved his hands into his gloves. "Trust me - I know him well enough to know he never hesitates."

  "Inspector Devlin, if I may be so bold, you are exhausted, sir!" Violet Pearson rose from the chaise longue like a cat uncoiling itself, and shook her long hair out. "Why not stay here till the morning? We are only too happy to provide you with a bed."

  "Because I must make my way to Fowler Street," Devlin replied. "It's time Mr. Harker and I joined forces, whether it's to our mutual benefit or not."

  Donnelly roused himself. "Devlin, if you like, I can come with you - "

  Devlin considered it for a moment, then waved it away. "No - but thank you. Perhaps you might remain to care for Freddie. I'm sure you can do the most good here, where you're needed." Besides which, he told himself, it was necessary that he speak to Harker alone, without Donnelly's mitigating influence.

  "Sarah Whittaker." Devlin didn't bother to sit down, this not being a social call. Besides, he knew that if he sank into one of Harker's comfortable chairs, he would be asleep in moments.

  ...someone was drawing a blanket over him, and he fought it, clawing at the obstruction, seeking to remove it...he couldn't let them draw the sheet over his face, because he wasn't dead yet, and wouldn't be for a long time -

  "Devlin, lie still." Harker's voice came to him in the half-light, warmer and more comforting than Devlin would ever have thought possible. "You would think I was trying to smother you." The solicitor drew the blankets round him, and turned to blow out the lamp. Devlin felt his body compress the mattress as Harker turned over and sighed.

  "Doubtless you will ask about Sarah Whittaker."

  "I was going to, yes." Devlin was floating in warmth, absolutely safe and comfortable. He must speak to Mrs. Taylor about getting a feather bed, he decided sleepily.

  "John Whittaker's mad wife." Harker paused for so long that Devlin wondered if the solicitor had drifted into sleep, but Harker was merely yawning. "...in a lunatic asylum...easily located...."

  Devlin asked the question he'd been waiting to ask all night. "Will you help me?" He could just make out Harker's features in the gloom, the pale glow of his face and his white nightshirt.

  "Of course." Harker was lying on his side, facing Devlin, and he was smiling. "But sleep now, my dear Inspector - for I see you are desperately in need of it."

  Without thinking - without even the primeval cushion of instinct to guide him - Devlin curled himself into Harker's arms, his head against the solicitor's shoulder. He felt Harker tighten the embrace around him, until he was drifting in the shared warmth of their twinned bodies, and he wa
s nearly asleep when Harker lifted his chin and kissed his mouth.

  He fell asleep to the motion of Harker's fingers in his hair.

  Nine

  The lunatic asylum at Bethlehem Hospital - more familiarly known as 'Bedlam' - never failed to depress Devlin to the uttermost. During the course of his duties as a constable and later, as a police inspector, he had often had cause to visit the hospital, and he always came away from these visits feeling rather more depressed than when he'd gone. There was just something about the dim, grey building and its dim, grey inhabitants that seemed to drain the life out of him, and instill in him a sense of overwhelming hopelessness.

  He and Harker had arisen early this morning, breakfasted upon an excellent repast prepared by Mrs. Cadogan, and taken a cab to Bedlam, hoping to find Mrs. Sarah Whittaker, the wife of John Whittaker, and possibly the best witness they could have as to his whereabouts and his motives.

  "Did you sleep well last night, Devlin?" Harker climbed into the cab briskly, tucked his long legs against the seat.

  "Yes, in fact, I did." Devlin grinned. "You have a remarkable method, Mr. Harker, of lulling someone to sleep."

  "Ah, Devlin - even the most austere of us is often prey to creature comforts." Harker snorted, privy to some joke that even now played itself about between his ears. "Donnelly has often urged me to take up some diverting personal habit."

  "He didn't come home last night?" Devlin wondered if his presence had perhaps driven a wedge between Harker and the chemist.

  "He sent word by messenger that he would remain with Constable Lewis - Miss Alcock and Miss Pearson were quite insistent that he accept their hospitality." Harker stiffened to attention. "Ah - we're here!" He leapt out of the cab with Devlin hard on his heels, and it wasn't until Devlin had ascended some several steps that he realised the cabbie was still waiting (with rather ill grace) for payment.

  "Ah..." Devlin fumbled in his pockets, counted coins into his hand. "I think that should do it, cabbie. Thank you."

  The man looked disdainfully at Devlin's offering, wondering why coppers were so bloody cheap and how come he hadn't got a tip? He ought to take his cab and go across the Channel to the Frogs - at least they knew how to express appreciation.

  Devlin caught up with Harker just inside the door. The solicitor was leaning against the wall, feigning nonchalance, but Devlin could detect something rather uneasy in his air of studied carelessness, the way he flicked his walking stick rather nervously against first one shoulder, then the other. Nursing sisters hurried here and there, some balancing trays with medicines, and Devlin saw a burly orderly go by with what appeared to be an oversized leather dog collar. "I expect she's on the wards," Devlin said.

  Harker, gazing steadily before him, saw nothing.

  "Mr. Harker?" Devlin touched the solicitor's arm. "Are you alright?"

  Harker seemed to pull himself back from some precipice, and straightened abruptly. "Devlin! What are we standing here for? We have work!"

  Devlin followed as Harker led the way down the dimly lit corridor, always keeping to the side and a little behind the solicitor, in an effective shadowing position. Devlin had little experience in dealing directly with lunatics - thankfully, his scope had been confined to flying visits and note taking - and he wasn't sure how secure the locks and bars were in this place. He'd been here not five minutes and already his skin was beginning to crawl; another five and he'd run gibbering into the bright October morning. He wondered how Harker could stand it: quite apart from the stench (a cross between human feces and an open sore) and the noise (men and women crammed alike into overcrowded cells, some silent while others shrieked and howled) there was the general air of helpless desperation that seemed to corrode his soul.

  Harker stopped in front of an iron door that was bolted and padlocked from the outside. "Do you see that woman?"

  Devlin stood on tiptoe to peer over Harker's shoulder, saw the crouching figure of an elderly woman. Her iron-grey hair was matted with twigs and straw, and flowed unconfined over her narrow shoulders; her feet were bare, and for clothing she wore only a shredded linen shift. Her hands and face were filthy, the fingernails grown long and savage, and as she sat and watched them, she rocked back and forth on her haunches, peering at them mutely, a creature entirely untamed.

  "Is it Sarah Whittaker?" Devlin asked - but this woman was old, and John Whittaker surely would have taken a woman of his own age, given his vanity for such things.

  "No," Harker replied. "It is my mother."

  Devlin waited while an attendant unlocked the complicated series of bolts that would admit them to Sarah Whittaker's cell. He was prepared to see just about anything - especially now, after Harker's shocking revelation. The door swung back and they stepped into an interior that was painted white, with a high window that admitted some small degree of light into the room. Someone had gone to the trouble of fixing curtains there, and Devlin could easily discern the care that had gone into creating the delicate embroidery and ruffled edges. Just underneath the window was a writing desk with a selection of pens, a blotter, and an ink bottle; the chair adjacent was draped with a scrap of discarded velvet - probably to hide its worn and battered appearance.

  "Mr. Harker - " The woman on the bed rose gracefully and moved to where they were, reached to shake Harker's hand. "I am so grateful you have come. Your legal counsel was always most welcome to me in days gone by." She peered over Harker's shoulder at Devlin. "But who is this friend of yours?"

  She was a small woman, neat and tidy, with blonde hair coiled at the back of her head. An apron, much smudged with various bright colours, protected her dark dress, and Devlin realised that she'd been painting, that there was an easel in the corner of the room with a half-completed figure on it. "Inspector Phillip Devlin, Scotland Yard, mu'um."

  She squeezed his hand warmly. "I imagine you expected to find a howling madwoman, did you not, Inspector? But I am retained here for other reasons."

  "Madam, you are most gracious in agreeing to this visit." Harker gestured that she should sit down. "Inspector Devlin and I are engaged in an investigation concerning your husband - "

  "Ah. My husband." Her lips curved into a merry bow. "If he may be called so, for I have not seen him this five years." She nodded at Devlin, standing by the desk. "We were married for convenience, as I was carrying his child."

  Devlin blinked. "What happened?" It was an awkward, unfortunate question, but it couldn't be helped.

  "It was not meant to be, Inspector." She cast a glance towards her easel in the corner. "And it effectively erased all hope of future children from our marriage." She gazed at Harker. "John Whittaker is a madman, Mr. Harker - of that I have no doubt. I am not certain what has so disturbed his mind, but I hear talk that his brain is addled by disease." She smiled at Devlin. "Even in this place, we do receive some news."

  "Forgive me, Madam - " Devlin felt compelled to interject. " - but you yourself, if I may say so, do not seem particularly mad."

  Harker shot a look at the inspector. "She's not," he said. "And that's precisely why she's in here."

  "My husband's family have great wealth, Inspector, and even greater influence. Whatever John wants, he tends to get. When I became...inconvenient...he decided to put me away - "

  "That's barbaric!"

  " - and so here I am. John, or some representative of his family, meets with the hospital administrator on a regular basis. The meetings are to ensure that I remain just where I am. He has corrupted or coerced all the higher members of the administrative staff, all with an eye to keeping me incarcerated here."

  Devlin was sickened. If he'd had no better reason to pursue and catch Whittaker before this, he certainly did now. "That a woman such as yourself should be - "

  "Then do your best to capture him, Inspector. And I might be free." She shrugged, and offered them a smile of resignation.

  "In the past few days, John Whittaker has gone on a killing spree." Harker laid this information out before h
er with his usual precision and economy of words. "A police constable has been ambushed and badly beaten, and members of Scotland Yard have received veiled hints that there is worse to come. The most recent murder was done on the very steps of Scotland Yard!"

  Mrs. Whittaker thought for a moment, gazed at first Harker and then Devlin. "It may be that his brain is entirely destroyed by whatever this disease is - but John was always shockingly unconventional in his behaviour. It has much to do with these friends of his."

  Devlin snapped to attention. "What friends?"

  "The Hell Fire Club, Inspector. Doubtless you've heard of them. Oh, many people in London nowadays think it died away at the end of the last century, but that is an erroneous assumption."