“What do you want?” squeaked Cyril. “Our money?”
“I want you to kiss your friend on the mouth.”
“Bugger you,” hissed Berrow.
Becket clicked back the hammer on the pistol. “Oh, do what the maniac says,” howled Cyril, “or he’ll kill us.”
He grasped Berrow by the shoulders and pressed his mouth to his. Becket melted into the shadows as the magnesium flare went off.
Neither man saw the flash, both having their eyes tight shut. When Cyril released Berrow, he looked wildly around. There was no sign of anyone. Both men took out their silk handkerchiefs and wiped their mouths.
“Disgusting!” raged Berrow. “Let’s get out of here. Scotland Yard shall hear of this.” He set off down the street.
“Hold on,” said Cyril. “We can’t tell the police.”
“Why not? We were forced to kiss each other by some maniac with a pistol.”
“The police will ask where it took place. If we say Verney Street, they’ll think we’re a pair of you-know-whats. And I told you that someone opened my safe and stole that negative and photograph.”
Berrow stopped short. “What are we to do?”
“We can’t do anything.”
The next morning, both Cyril and Berrow received envelopes delivered by hand. In each envelope was a large photograph of them kissing each other. The brothel behind them was also in the picture. Each received the same letter. “If you go near Lady Rose Summer again or interfere in her life, go near her home, or threaten her in any way, this photograph goes to the police and the newspapers.”
Cyril went straight round to Berrow’s town house.
“You got one too! What are we to do?”
“I’m sure this is the work of that counter-jumper, Cathcart,” growled Berrow. “Let’s keep clear of Lady Rose while we think of a way to get back at him.”
The earl was having a late breakfast with his wife when he was told that Captain Cathcart had called.
“Send him in,” he ordered, and when Harry arrived, “have some breakfast. Pull up a pew.”
“Just coffee, please,” said Harry. A cup of coffee was given to him by a footman.
“Have you any news?”
“Not before the servants,” said Harry.
“You lot, get out of here,” ordered the earl. “And no listening at the door, either.” He turned to his wife. “You’d better go, too, my dear. Unsavoury stuff.”
“Before you go, Lady Polly, and before I give my report, I wish to inform you that I would consider it a great honour to renew my engagement to your daughter.”
“Not that again,” said the earl.
“I think you will find that your daughter is not indifferent to my suit. Lady Rose needs someone to protect her from danger.”
“You drag her into danger!”
“I had nothing to do with her finding that body in Hyde Park.”
“True. Oh, well, after your behaviour the last time you were engaged to her, she won’t want anything to do with you. Try if you like. Now, to business. My dear?”
When Lady Polly had left the room, Harry described how Berrow and Cyril had been forced to kiss each other. “They know that should they even go near Lady Rose again, the photograph will be sent to the police and to the newspapers.”
The earl began to laugh. Rose had seen Harry arrive. She could hear her father’s roars of laughter and wondered if it could be because Harry had asked for her hand in marriage once more.
“By Jove,” said the earl, “that’s brilliant. But why don’t the police shut that den of iniquity down?”
“I am afraid high-ranking people use it.”
“Demme, this town’s a sewer, a veritable sewer. Ghastly fellows preferring it up the tradesmen’s entrance. Thanks anyway. I suppose you’d better see Rose, but mark my words, you’re in for a rough rejection.”
The earl and countess were bemused when they were asked to come to the drawing-room to find their daughter wearing a sparkling engagement ring and smiling up at the captain.
“Your daughter has done me the great honour of accepting my hand in marriage,” said Harry.
“I think you’re both mad,” roared the earl and stormed from the room. Lady Polly remained. “I suppose Mr. Jarvis will have to cancel your engagement now to Sir Peter and then announce this engagement. Really, Rose, do try in future to be more conventional. Brum said he saw you sneaking back into the house when I had given you strict instructions not to leave it. You may take your leave, Captain Cathcart. Mr. Jarvis will let you know of Rose’s social engagements.”
Harry kissed Rose on her cheek. “Friends again?” he whispered.
“Friends,” echoed Rose softly.
To Rose’s relief, her mother made no protest at her plan to help the poor of East London by serving in the soup kitchen at St. Matthew’s in Whitechapel. Charity was fashionable provided one went armoured with the usual protection of footman and lady’s maid.
Rose decided to take Miss Friendly with her, Daisy having suddenly and vehemently refused to go.
Daisy said she didn’t want to run into old acquaintances. It wasn’t because she had become too grand, it was because they’d make a mock of her while demanding money at the same time.
So Rose set off the following morning, Matthew having arranged her visit with the vicar.
The lady running the soup kitchen was a Mrs. Harrison, whom Rose remembered from her suffragette meetings. She was a thickset middle-class woman with a no-nonsense air.
She supplied Rose and Miss Friendly with long aprons to protect their clothes and told them to supply their own next time.
Rose had not been prepared for the rank smell of so many diseased and unwashed bodies. But she smiled and ladled soup into bowls while Miss Friendly handed out chunks of bread.
Her beauty was appreciated by the poor. She smiled at each and said a few words of comfort. One old Cockney was particularly grateful. “The Good Lord sent you, missus,” he said. “I saw the light in prison, I did. Chaplain says God would take care of me. You is an instrument of the Lord.”
He moved on. Rose’s feet began to ache. “How long do we have to stay here?” she whispered to Miss Friendly.
“Another hour,” murmured Miss Friendly. “So many hungry people.”
At last it was over. Rose felt a glow of achievement as she was driven off. She had promised to return on the following day.
Her scalp became increasingly itchy as the day wore on. She rang for her lady’s maid. “Turner, would you see if I have a rash on my scalp?”
Turner took the bone pins and pads out of Rose’s elaborate hair-style and brushed out her long hair.
“My lady, you have lice!”
“Lice!”
“Head lice. I will fetch a tooth comb and disinfectant.”
Rose spent an agonizing hour bent over a sheet of white paper while Turner combed out the lice with a toothcomb soaked in disinfectant. Then her hair was washed several times.
Rose remembered that Mrs. Harrison’s hair had been bound up in a tight turban. She could only be glad that she was free of social engagements that evening. What if all the lice had not been discovered and some fell on the captain!
When she went to sleep that night, she dreamt she was floating down the river in the rowing-boat with Dolly. “You’ve missed something. It’s right under your nose,” said Dolly. Rose awoke with a start. Someone had said something or done something recently that was important. She racked her brain, but could not think what it was.
∨ Sick of Shadows ∧
Eight