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‘I hope not…at least, not in your heart. Come on, my pet.’ He pulled her gently to her feet and led her out of the room, across the landing and into her bedroom. Within moments he had her resting on the bed, and he was kissing her gently. He stopped abruptly, went back to the door and locked it, then he took off his coat and waistcoat, threw them on a chair, unknotted his tie, walked back to the bed. He began to unbutton his shirt as he stood looking down at her, smiling. Once it was unbuttoned, he reached for Lily, brought her to her feet, held her close. ‘You’ll never know how much I missed you last week,’ he murmured, and untied the white silk ribbon at her throat. Slipping the peignoir off to reveal her smooth, creamy shoulders, he went on, ‘And I know that you missed me, didn’t you?’
Their eyes met. Deep green impaled brilliant blue and locked. Neither looked away. At last he bent into her, kissed her, let his tongue slide into her mouth…so warm, so soft. The taste of her thrilled him. He moved the nightgown, gave it a slight pull, and it fell to her feet; he took off his shirt and brought her to him, closed his arms around her. ‘Remember what I said, nothing hectic,’ he whispered against her tumbling gold hair.
‘But I want it to be wonderfully hectic,’ she whispered back, and began to unbutton his trousers, fumbling as she did so.
‘I’ll do it,’ he muttered, and she went back to the bed and lay down on her side, watching him finish undressing. As he walked towards her she was momentarily startled. How had he become so aroused, so quickly? She shivered slightly. He seemed so potent, so virile, more than ever at this moment.
One of the things Lily loved about Ned was that he did not rush at her, handle her roughly, or press his cause. He was always gentle, tender, loving, giving her pleasure before he took his own. And this afternoon was no different; he stroked her, touched her, kissed her breasts, brought her nipples to tender points. His hands trailed over her with tenderness, touched her neck, her hair, her stomach, slid between her thighs, encountered her most feminine part, brought her sighing to pleasure until she was calling his name. Entering her, he pressed his hands under her back and lifted her towards him, and their movements together were rhythmic: as always they were in tune with each other, as one. And they soared together, carried upward by their joy in each other, and their ecstasy. And later when he was spent, when he rested against her, sighing and stroking her face, he said quietly, in a low, very serious voice, ‘Only you, Lily, only you.’
It was late when Amos Finnister arrived in Whitechapel, almost nine o’clock. As he stepped out of the hansom cab he said to the driver, ‘Wait for me here. I’ll be about an hour, no longer.’
The driver touched his cap. ‘I’ll be right ’ere, guv.’
Amos walked away from the hansom, thinking what a lovely night it was. Sky like black velvet, splattered with an array of silver stars. Dazzling. Not too cold. No wind. Yes, a nice night. He stood for a moment looking out towards the Thames. He had always loved this long, flowing river; when he had been a small boy his father had brought him down here to the East End, brought him to the docks, told him wonderful, magical stories…stories of the tall ships which sailed in from all over the world, carrying chests of tea from Ceylon, gold from Africa, diamonds from India, sapphires from Burma, spices from the West Indies, silk from China…exotic goods transported and traded…how adventurous it had sounded to him then. It still did, if the truth be known.
Whitechapel. A mixture of humanity—folk from all over the world. He knew this place so very well, not only from those childhood visits to see the big ships and eat whelks and winkles out of a bag with his father. But from his days on the beat when he had patrolled this place every night. Friend and foe alike down here near the docks. Still, it was colourful, and cheerful, despite the poverty that prevailed, the degradation and the vice, the crime. He had many friends down here…some of them were the costermongers, and their pearly kings and queens who ruled the roost, talked rhyming slang and boasted of being born within the sound of Bow bells. Good people.
Not a bad place, Whitechapel. Worse places in this heathen world.
He sniffed. What a fragrant smell that was, floating to him on the night air. He sniffed again, transported to his past for a split second. Thoughts of his father intruding again. His Da, such a good man. Killed too soon, and too young, in the line of duty. A copper like he had been, and perhaps that was why he had become a bobby. For his father, to honour his father’s memory.
Amos stopped. Sniffed again. And decided to buy a meat pie. His mouth was watering so much he simply couldn’t resist.
Within seconds he spotted the man with the cart and increased his pace. As he drew to a standstill the vendor touched his cap respectfully. ‘Evenin’, guv. Want a cornish or a meaty?’
‘A meat pie. With plenty of gravy, please.’
‘Best in Whitechapel me wife is, best cook is wot I means a’course.’ The vendor took a pair of tongs, clamped them on a pie and showed it to Amos. ‘See its crusty top? Bootiful brown, guv.’ As he spoke the man placed the pie in a small white paper bag, picked up a ladle of gravy and dribbled it over the pie.
‘How much is it?’ Amos asked, anxious to take a bite.
‘Tuppence, guv.’
Amos paid, took the bag with the pie, bid the man goodnight and walked off; he was smelling the pie with pleasure, waiting for it to cool. A moment or two later Amos went and sat on a wall under a street gas lamp, and slowly munched on the meat pie, savouring every bite, enjoying himself more than he had in a long time.
The pie was his supper, and such a treat. Much tastier than the slice of bread and cheese Lydia perpetually offered him, or her other mainstay, cold lamb on a bread bun. He sighed to himself, hating his sudden critical thoughts of his wife. She wasn’t well, really. Poor Lydia. It was her migraines which bothered her the most. And sometimes rheumatism. Poor Lydia. Full of aches and pains. Always miserable. Never a happy thought these days. Poor Lydia. Indeed.
Amos had demolished the pie in short order, and now as he wended his way down towards Limehouse, he decided he needed a drink. Perhaps a pint to wash down the pie, he decided. Why not?
The Black Swan was hereabouts…the Mucky Duck the locals called it. As it hove into sight Amos hurried his steps, was swinging in through the double doors within seconds.
At the bar he asked for a pint of bitter, and swigged some of it down immediately it was in front of him, frothy, delicious. Good beer. He might even have another one.
The bartender came back, peered at him in the murky gaslight. ‘Used ter be a copper round ’ere, din’t yer?’
‘That’s right.’ Amos smiled at him. ‘Retired now. Finnister’s the name.’
The bartender chuckled. ‘I remembers now. Sinister Finnister we used ter call yer.’
Amos laughed with the man, drank up his beer, put his money on the counter, said goodnight and promptly left. He set out again for Chinatown in Limehouse, an area filled with small shops where all manner of goods were sold, from silks, clothes and jewellery to medicines and herbs; Chinese laundries, Chinese shops, restaurants and even opium dens also dotted the streets. Amos loved the food the Chinese made, and had forgotten about it until this moment. He had fallen hard for the fragrant wafts of the pies of his youth, and had succumbed. Too late now to partake of the Chinese food. Another night.
It was not long before Amos reached his destination. Mr Fu Yung Yen had a small shop set back from the street; the light was burning in the window as Amos hurried towards the door. After rapping several times, and proclaiming, ‘It’s Amos Finnister,’ the door was finally opened.
Fu Yung Yen was dressed in a long black cotton gown with a small standup collar; he had long pigtails and a round porkpie hat was perched on top of his greying hair.
He smiled when he saw Amos, and said in his whispery voice, ‘Come inside. Cold night.’
The shop was dimly lit and there was a strong smell of spices, herbs and roots in the air. Mixed in was the whiff of camphor and perfumed oils. It was not an unpleasant smell, and Amos never minded coming to the shop.
‘How is wife?’ the Chinaman asked, smiling.
‘Bad migraines again, Mr Yung Yen. I need her usual headache powders, please.’
The Chinese herbalist nodded and went behind the counter, began taking portions of white powders out of various pots. Finally, after pounding them together, he poured the mixture into a small paper packet, sealed it and handed it to Amos.
‘I need the ointment for her aches and pains…pains in the limbs.’
‘Ah yes. Understand. My balm.’ This too was quickly produced, already in its own small glass pot.
Leaning over the counter, looking at Mr Yung Yen intently, Amos handed him a small piece of paper. ‘Do you happen to have this in stock?’
The herbalist read it, and nodded. ‘How much you need?’
‘Whatever you think.’
‘For one good long sleep, yes?’
Amos nodded.
‘Wait minute.’ The Chinaman disappeared through a door and it was a while before he finally returned. He put a small package wrapped in purple paper on the counter.
‘Thank you,’ Amos said. ‘How much do I owe you?’
Smiling, Fu Yung Yen made out a bill.
Amos read it, read it again, took out his money and paid without protest.
After putting the various packets away in his overcoat pockets Amos nodded. ‘Good night, Mr Yung Yen. And thank you.’
‘Come back.’
‘I will,’ Amos answered, but as he left the shop he wondered if he ever would.
TWENTY (#)
It was late when Edward Deravenel left Lily’s house, much later than he had intended. And now as he crossed Belsize Park Gardens and headed towards the main road he realized hansom cabs were scarce in this area. There was not one in sight.
Glancing around again, noting that the road was almost devoid of traffic, he set out to walk, telling himself he would come across a hansom in no time at all.
Striding out at a rapid pace, heading for Primrose Hill leading towards the centre of London, his mind automatically went to the numbers in the notebook and the conclusion he and Alfredo had finally come to earlier, that there was some kind of trouble with the mines producing gold and precious gems. The number for Burma had not been written in the notebook and so they both presumed the production of sapphires was continuing without problems as it had for some years.
The man who approached him had sprung from up from nowhere, or so it seemed to Edward.
‘Egscuse me, guv,’ the man said in a guttural Cockney voice. ‘Can yer tells me ’ow to get ter ’ampstead? I be lost.’
Edward shook his head. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m afraid I can’t,’ he replied, as polite as always. ‘However, if you keep heading north I think you’ll be going in the right direction.’
The blow came from behind, the heavy truncheon striking him on the shoulder and then on the back. The brute force of the blows brought him to his knees, and he cried out, clutching at the air as he fell, almost as if he were reaching out for the stranger who had just spoken to him. The man was not there, Edward realized, he had disappeared.
Another blow came down, this time on the crown of his head. Edward fell forward instantly, his face hitting the ground. He was knocked out, unconscious.
There were three men altogether, the pedestrian who had distracted the target and the two giant bruisers who were armed with truncheons. The three men conferred for several seconds, then one of the assailants bent over Edward, peered at him, then straightened.
‘Don’t t’ink e’s breeving, mebbe e’s dead,’ the assailant whispered, and straightened. ‘Best we get goin’ afore the bleedin’ coppers get ’ere.’
The men ran off down the road. It was so deserted the sound of their boots was like thunder, echoing loudly. Drizzling rain and the wind were keeping everyone at home tonight.
Edward lay on the pavement where he had fallen. The road remained empty, without pedestrians or carriages. No one came for a long time.
Neville sat with Amos Finnister in the waiting room of Guy’s Hospital, filled with apprehension, silently praying that Ned would be all right, that he would regain consciousness soon. He had been badly beaten, but it was the blows to the head which were causing the problems.
The two men remained silent. Neville, ashen-faced, his expression bleak, was so troubled and worried he did not want to talk; Amos did not dare. He was afraid to intrude on his distracted employer, who was lost in thought.
The door to the waiting room opened and Neville’s wife Nan stood there with Cecily Deravenel. The two women hurried in, and Neville instantly rose, went to greet them. Placing his arm around his aunt, he led her over to a chair, and introduced her to Amos.
Nan had already met him, since he was a frequent visitor to the house. It was she who now turned to Amos and said, ‘Thank you, Mr Finnister, for everything you’ve done for Mr Deravenel. If it hadn’t been for you, then I don’t know what would have happened to him.’
‘It was lucky I happened to have my man on duty, keeping an eye on Mr Edward,’ Amos murmured. ‘I know the young gentleman will be better in a few days, I feel it in my bones.’
Looking intently at Amos, Cecily said in a warm voice, ‘I want to thank you, Mr Finnister, for all you’ve done for my son. But I’m still not quite sure what exactly happened last night.’ She glanced from Amos to Neville. ‘Who was it that attacked Ned?’
‘We’re not sure, Aunt Cecily. The police think it was a random attack, more than likely a robbery. Edward had only loose change on him, no bank notes when he was found. They must have been in a hurry because his gold pocket watch was not taken.’ Neville shook his head. ‘The problem is the police have no leads.’
‘Why do you say they, as in…they must have been in a hurry?’ Cecily asked, staring at her nephew.
‘For obvious reasons, Aunt. Edward is unusually tall, taller than most men, and very strong. It would take several men, therefore, to overpower him, in my opinion.’
‘Yes, of course, I see what you mean.’ Taking a deep breath, she went on softly in a saddened voice, ‘You would have told me if there was any news, so I’m making the assumption there isn’t any.’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Neville touched her arm consolingly.
Cecily bit her lip, tears brimming, and she instantly stood up, walked across to the window, remained there looking out until she had recovered her equilibrium.
Returning to the chair, she said to Amos, ‘Would you be kind enough to tell me the whole story, Mr Finnister? I’m afraid I’m a little confused, perhaps because I’m so upset.’
‘It’s not surprising, Mrs Deravenel, under the circumstances. I’d be happy to fill you in, so to speak. It’s like this…From time to time, Mr Watkins and I have discussed the possibility that Mr Edward might be…well, in danger, because of the situation with the Grants. For most of his spare time he’s with Mr Will Hasling, but we decided, Mr Watkins and myself, that when he was alone he ought to have, well…a bodyguard. My man is on duty every day, but he’s not always needed. Late yesterday afternoon when Mr Edward left the office he was alone. There was no sign of Mr Hasling. My man immediately followed Mr Edward, who went to Belsize Park, and—’
‘To see Mrs Overton?’ Cecily interrupted.
Surprised though he was to hear this, Amos nodded and went on. ‘My man hung around, loitered in the vicinity. Mr Edward was at the house for about three hours, and he left soon after nine. It was very dark last night, and apparently the area was lonely, no one around, and no hansom cabs. My man realized that immediately. He was some short distance behind when Mr Edward was attacked by two very big men and—’
‘The bodyguard was outnumbered,’ Cecily said quietly.
‘That’s right, Mrs Deravenel. Once the men, three men altogether, had fled the scene, Harry Forbes, my employee, ran to Mr Edward and was relieved to find him alive. He then went in search of a policeman. Luckily he found one at the top of Primrose Hill. More help was fetched, and Mr Edward was brought here.’
Cecily nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Finnister, now I understand.’ Glancing at Neville, resting her hand on his arm, Cecily murmured, ‘Could we go outside for a moment, I’d like to talk to you, Neville.’
‘Of course.’ He helped his aunt up out of the chair, and the two of them walked out of the waiting room and into the corridor.
Once they were alone, Cecily leaned closer to Neville, staring into his face. ‘It’s the Grants, isn’t it?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Neville confirmed, grimacing. ‘The whole thing was handled very clumsily, badly, and so it’s most transparent. His watch was left in his suit pocket, and so was the notebook. Only bank notes were taken. To make it look like a robbery.’
‘But he never has very much money on him,’ Cecily pointed out. ‘As often as not Swinton has to pay the hansom cab out of the household petty cash when Ned comes home.’
‘It’s the Grants, there’s no question in my mind about that. Who else could it be?’
‘What are we going to do about them, Neville? They’re a menace.’
‘Reprisals. There will have to be reprisals, I think. To put them on notice that they have met their match in Ned and myself. However, I want to think things out carefully, not act in haste, or rashly. We must be subtle, and we can’t do anything that would involve us with the police. Don’t you agree?’
‘I do indeed, and I will leave it to you, Neville. You are a clever man, I know…you take after my brother, your father.’
‘Michael Robertson,’ the doctor announced as he came into the waiting room several hours later, just before noon.
He was smiling as he approached Neville, who had risen and was walking towards him.
‘Neville Watkins, Dr Robertson. I’m Mr Deravenel’s cousin. From your expression I’m encouraged to believe he has regained consciousness.’
‘Yes, indeed he has. However, he is sleeping at the moment, and we feel he must be allowed to sleep, not be disturbed for a while.’
‘I understand.’ Neville brought Cecily over to the doctor, and introduced her. ‘This is Mr Deravenel’s mother, Dr Robertson, Mrs Cecily Deravenel.’
After shaking the doctor’s hand, Cecily asked, ‘Was my son in a coma?’
‘Not a coma, no. But he was unconscious, and he still has concussion, but I can assure you he will recover from this ordeal, Mrs Deravenel. He really will.’
TWENTY-ONE (#)
As he blinked in the dim light and slowly awakened, Edward was momentarily disoriented. Blinking again, and endeavouring to push himself up in the bed, he realized that every bone in his body ached.
Looking around the room, so white, pristine, sparsely furnished, he understood at once that he was in a hospital. Sinking back against the pillows, he tried to focus his mind and as he did so he began to remember the events of the night before. Leaving Lily’s later than he had intended, walking up from Belsize Park Gardens, looking for a hansom cab. The stranger stopping him, asking for directions, and then the unexpected attack from behind.
Lifting his arm, he gingerly touched his head, felt the bandages, then slowly let his fingers roam over his face. He knew it must be bruised, even a little bit battered, because it was sore, and hurt when he touched it. His shoulders and back ached; now he remembered those heavy blows, the way he had gone down onto his knees so quickly, had lurched forward as additional blows had landed on his head.
Who had attacked him last night? Thieves, wanting to rob him? Or had the attack been arranged by the opposition at Deravenels? He had no idea. Neither did he know who had found him, or how he had been brought to this hospital.
After a few moments, Edward managed to sit up; throwing back the bedclothes he swung his long legs to the floor. For a moment he thought he could not stand but eventually he did, instantly realizing he felt weak and slightly dizzy. He sat down heavily on the bed, wondering how to summon a nurse. He needed to ask questions, needed to know more.
