Tracy Rowan Suffer the Little Children

Suffer the Little Children

by Tracy Rowan

Torquere Press

www.torquerepress.com

First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2011

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Suffer the Little Children

by Tracy Rowan

CONTENTS

One
Two
Three
Four
Five

* * * *

Suffer the Little Children

by Tracy Rowan

Suffer the Little Children
By Tracy Rowan

Suffer the Little Children

by Tracy Rowan

One

After three months of loafing in the sun on the Riviera, we

came up to Paris at the beginning of October. Romney wanted
to see the Eiffel Tower, and I had a great desire to visit the
Moulin Rouge, a new cabaret in Pigalle. (Romney is the
intellectual, not I; my own father often chides me for not
being more like him.) Though we were too late to see the
Exposition Universelle, we enjoyed long strolls on the
Champs-Elysees, the Tuileries, and the Bois de Boulogne;
days exploring Notre Dame and the Louvre, and nights
enjoying some of the less elevated pleasures of
Montparnasse, Montmartre, and the Latin Quarter. The trip
made a new man of Rom, putting a bit of much-needed
weight on his spare frame and erasing the dark circles under
his eyes. To see him enthusiastic about the view from the top
of the Eiffel Tower, trail after him as he searched through
every book dealer's stall on the Left Bank, or watch as he
danced with the shop girls of Paris in one of the fabulous
cabarets, did my heart no end of good. It was like seeing a
flower burst into bloom.

To see him sleep peacefully was all the repayment I could

ever have asked for. I love watching him sleep. It isn't just
because I love him, though I admit that's reason enough to
sit back and appreciate the sight of him dozing in the late
afternoon sunlight. It isn't because he's beautiful, because
he's not, not in any conventional sense, with his oddly
mismatched eyes, ungovernable curls, and sardonic little twist

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to his otherwise delicious mouth, though I find him more
beautiful than anything I've ever seen. Love will do that to
you. Mostly I enjoy the sight of him sleeping because awake
he is almost never peaceful. Asleep, he is unguarded and
untroubled. There is no furrow between his brows, no frown
of concentration or half-hidden sadness in his hazel eyes. He
looks tranquil when asleep, and younger than his almost
thirty years. Seeing him so is worth anything to me, which is
why we were in Paris.

His last case was, even by my lights, a simple thing, but,

as it involved a Russian princess and a pink diamond the size
of a child's fist, it captured the public imagination in a way
none of his others ever had. So I, feeling that the story was
too important to entrust to the crime journalists of London,
turned my dilettante's hand to working up my notes and diary
entries into a first-hand account of the events, embellishing a
little, and occasionally changing a name to protect the guilty
but highly-placed. It was snatched up by The London Reader
under the pseudonym "David Fitzhugh"—my given names—to
spare my family any notoriety on my account. I was paid a
surprising amount of money for it. It proved so popular that
not only did the magazine buy the rights to the other tales I
had penned about his exploits, but I now have an agreement
with that magazine to document all future cases. Nicholas
Romney is quickly becoming a household name in London,
and I now have the honor of being his Boswell and the
pleasure to treat him to this well-earned vacation, his first in
more than a decade, our first together. To me, it's a kind of

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honeymoon. I don't know how he views it; he is less a
romantic than I, or at least pretends to be.

I had been awake for some time just watching him sleep

when he stretched and opened his eyes, gazing up at me
through his long, dark lashes. "Fitz. What's the time?"

"Nearly four. Did you sleep well?"
He smiled. "You tell me," he said, making me chuckle. "Did

you sleep at all?"

"No. My attention was elsewhere." In truth, I had had my

fill of sleep. Rom, on the other hand, sometimes seemed part
cat, spending hours napping in between bouts of furious
activity. I lay down beside him and wrapped an arm around
his waist. "You need a haircut," I observed, ruffling his dark,
tousled hair, though I did tend to prefer it a bit long. There is
something fey about Romney's face when it is framed by his
unruly hair.

He drew me down into an embrace. "I don't know why you

love watching me sleep," he said, "but I always feel safer
when you do." Then he kissed me.

"What shall we do tonight?" I asked him. "What about the

opera and then dinner at Bofinger?"

Before he had a chance to respond, there was a rap at the

door. It was a bell boy with a telegram for him. He read it
over twice and dropped it on the demilune table by the door.
"I feel like celebrating," he said. "Let's go out dancing."

Without waiting for a reply, he sprinted out of the room,

barefoot and in shirtsleeves, with his collar open but still
fastened to his shirt, so it flapped in the breeze. Propriety

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means nothing to Romney when he gets an idea in his head,
which is one of the reasons why he is so good at his work.

Romney is a private investigator. When someone wants a

mystery solved but does not necessarily wish to have the
police involved, they come to men like Romney. Sometimes
the police will come to him, for they know that he is not only
a discerning student of all the most modern forensic tools, but
that he has a quick and analytical mind, and a memory which
borders upon the supernatural.

At that moment, though, it was his sudden burst of activity

that concerned me, for Romney's moods can be even more
ungovernable than his hair. I picked up the discarded
message. It said, simply: "Bishop murdered in church.
Investigation opened. Mother asks will you come home? G.
Romney."

What on earth could a telegram like this do with Romney's

sudden rise in spirits, I wondered, but I knew him well
enough to know that asking might simply provoke a stubborn
silence. He would tell me in his own time or signal that it was
acceptable to ask questions.

After a few minutes he returned, wearing a grin, and

bounced onto the bed where I'd stretched out. "We're going
out tonight, my dear David, and we're going to dance.
Together."

That surprised me. He was never one to be at all

demonstrative in public, possibly because of the stigma
attached to relationships such as ours in our own country.
"Together?"

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"Yes. Together. I needed to send a telegram, and on the

way back I spoke to the concierge about a place where it
would be... unremarkable for two men to dance together." He
jumped up and into a waltz with an imaginary partner. "Come
and dance with me now; you need the practice," he teased.

I smiled as genuinely as I could, though I confess I have

never been fond of places where the mandrakes gather. Alas,
I am not good at keeping my feelings hidden from Romney,
and he said, "You don't care for the idea, do you?"

"It's not that, Rom. It's just..."
"What?"
"Those places, they're so often filled with anxious and

unhappy men."

He lay down beside me again and pulled me into his arms.

"I suppose they must be, though I hadn't thought much about
it."

"And there but for the grace of God, et cetera," I added.

"It's not unlike being aware of your own mortality."

"You fear becoming one of those anxious, unhappy men?"

he asked, clearly surprised.

"Yes, Nick. A little. I reject the labels such as 'invert' or

'Sodomite,' but sometimes I find myself thinking that what we
are is wrong somehow. I know I shouldn't, I mustn't," I said
holding up my hand to stop his protest. "Most of the time I
shrug it off, but one day perhaps I won't be able to, and..."

He cupped my face in his hands. "As long as I draw breath,

my dearest, you will never have reason to fear such a fate
because you'll never be alone. I know there is nothing wrong
with us. I will never allow you to think there is, either."

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I wanted to believe him, but I knew our small, secret world

and how quickly even the most loving relationships could fall
apart thanks to external pressures. Though as I considered it,
I realized that if he ever left me, I would probably simply die
of misery and that would be an end to it. "You're right," I
said, and kissed him. "Because you won't easily be rid of me,
either."

"Then shall we celebrate being burdened with each other

for the next half century at least? Two ancient, doddering old
men quibbling to the end. And dancing."

"That sounds perfect to me. Now let's dress. You promised

me a night on the town with dancing, and I shall want dinner
as well. And champagne!"

We did finally decide on an early dinner at Bofinger, a

brasserie in the Marais, nestled into a black leather bench
seat under a magnificent domed-glass ceiling. Instead of
champagne, we drank good beer and stuffed ourselves on
Alsatian food like onion tarte and choucroute. By the time we
finished, I wasn't sure I could manage a dance, but Rom was
insistent.

We spent the rest of the night reeling from one cabaret to

another, finding the establishment that had been
recommended to us less than appealing, peopled as it was
not only with the anxious men I found so distressing, but also
many young, working-class men who were looking to earn a
bit of brass. When one of them had the audacity to approach
us, I found myself aching to strike him. Instead, I caught hold
of Romney's arm, pulled him back onto the dance floor, and

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propelled him toward the door. "We are leaving now," I told
him, and he laughed out loud, something he didn't often do.

"You never did like competition, did you, Fitz?"
"Shut up," I said, and kissed him hard before we stepped

into the street.

We finally made our way, as we had so often done

recently, to the Moulin Rouge, where, well-lubricated by beer
and recognizing that in the enormous crowd we would hardly
be noticed, we did dance together, and not a single person
took notice of us as far as I could tell. We waltzed and
polkaed and drank champagne under the radiant strings of
electrical lights. We listened to the band and watched the
crowds from our balcony table. We also danced with a great
many girls and had a lively time of it.

I confess that I am a great favorite with the fair sex. I am

tall and slender, and I've been told that my face and
features—being fair-haired, with light green eyes and a not
unpleasing countenance—are that of an angel, though am not
inclined to think of myself in such seraphic terms. Rather, I
suspect that many women, like cats, gravitate to those who
are indifferent to their charms. Perhaps we are a challenge,
perhaps we are safe, or perhaps we are simply a source of
uncomplicated amusement. In any event, neither Romney nor
I lacked for partners that night. In fact, as I watched Romney
enjoying himself in a manner so different from his normal
reserve, I began to wonder if these high spirits masked
something else, some deep and troubling desire to derive joy
from a situation that most would consider joyless: the death
of another human being.

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I do not judge him. Long ago I learned that Romney's

mind was different from mine, his view of the world complex
and sometimes inexplicable. I have also learned that he does
what he does for reasons which make absolute sense to him,
and—once he has explained them—to me. Most of the time,
at least. I do not judge him, but I sometimes worry about
him.

The evening ended where it began, on our bed at the

hotel, me lying there watching Rom remove his evening
clothes like a gift unwrapping itself. He was careful with his
dress clothing in a way I never was. In spite of obviously
having been raised to be a gentleman, he had known want. I
had not and was as careless as any well-brought-up young
man who had always had servants to care for his things.

He removed his jacket first and put it on a hanger,

brushing it with both hands. His shirt was still as crisp and
white as if he had only just put it on, and against his honey-
colored skin and dark hair, it almost glowed. I have seen him
disheveled, even filthy and reeking, and have loved him no
less for the dirt and stink, but at that moment he seemed to
be enveloped not only in light but in a bubble of pure, fresh
air, and I smiled to think of it. How lost in him I could
become, had become, with never a second thought. Life
without him was unthinkable.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked me as he

removed his collar and cuffs and put them away.

"You."
"What about me?"

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"How much I love you, how remarkable you are, how

beautiful."

"That's you, not me." He shrugged out of his braces and

began to unbutton his shirt. "Beautiful, elegant, perfect..."

I could no longer lie there and watch, so I arose and went

to his side, pushing his hands away and unbuttoning his shirt
for him. "Gratifying as I find it to be described in such glowing
terms, it is my intention to make love to you until neither of
us can see straight any longer." I unfastened the braces and
threw them on a chair.

"Is that a promise? No, Davy, put them away properly."
"I don't know how someone who is so careless with his

everyday clothing that he frequently wanders about looking
like a scarecrow can be so missish at other times. It's a plan
more than a promise," I admitted. "I have no real data on
how much you're capable of enduring before your eyes lose
focus, never having had the strength to record the moment in
the past. I seem to recall that it happens somewhere between
hour two and hour six..." At which point he effectively
silenced me by pressing his mouth against mine and snaking
his tongue between my lips.

"You're so ridiculous sometimes," he whispered between

kisses.

I pressed him up against the door and drew both of his

arms up above his head, holding them in one of mine.
(Romney is smaller than I am, but far stronger. I hold him
only by his consent.) Then I gave myself the singular pleasure
of touching him, tracing the charming slope of his nose, the
curve of his cheek, brushing his long, dark lashes with the

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tips of my fingers. I kissed his cheekbones, where a light
dusting of pale freckles marred his perfect skin. I trailed my
hand over his jaw line to his throat and down beneath his
vest, touching him less delicately, seeking more of the
sensation of flesh on flesh, the deliciousness of feeling how
his skin lies smooth on the muscles of his chest, shoulders,
and arms. When I pulled his shirt and vest loose from his
trousers and pushed it upward, to lay his chest bare, I heard
him sigh softly, and once again he sighed as I rubbed my
thumb against his nipple.

"Davy..."
"Mmmm?" I said, not quite ready to leave off my

exploration of the most beloved territory.

"I love you."
"And I, you," I told him just before I released his arms and

set to kissing his chest. Inexplicably, he squirmed away.

"I can't," he said. "I'm sorry." He pulled away from me and

walked over to the chair where the braces lay in a tangle.
"I'm sorry," he said again as he rolled them neatly and put
them away in a dresser drawer.

I knew enough about him to know that his life had not

been an easy one. Here and there he had let things slip: His
father died when he was quite young. He was estranged from
his family and had been on his own since he was fifteen. In all
the years we'd been together, he had never truly opened up
about the time before we'd met. After that point, his life was
a book open to me; he kept no secrets from me as far as I
knew, and from the time we took lodging together and lived
as much like a married couple as we were able, I had

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occasionally had cause to regret his honesty. I had, in fact,
learned from hard experience that if I asked a question to
which I did not truly wish to hear the answer, I had only
myself to blame for the misery it might provoke in me. We
had fought occasionally in those early years about his
unwillingness to lie to me about his feelings or his needs, but
I had come, in the end, to appreciate his forthrightness. Once
I overcame my desire to be told simple, pretty lies, I learned
how valuable truth was between partners.

So that night, when he refused me, I knew that whatever

it was he was feeling was troubling him deeply, and did not
press him. Rather, I said, "Why don't we have a glass of
brandy? A nightcap will do us both good."

I put on my nightshirt and fetched the brandy. When I

returned to our bedroom, he had also donned his night
clothes and was busying himself with putting my clothing
away. He looked troubled.

"What is it, love? Can I help?"
"Did you read the telegram?" He took a glass from my

hand.

"Yes."
"Then you know it was from a family member, my eldest

brother Geoffrey to be precise. And you know the situation as
he outlined it."

"A bishop has been murdered, and your mother wishes you

to come home. Beyond that I have presumed nothing, nor
had even enough information to make an educated guess."

"You could not guess the meaning." He sipped his drink.

"The bishop who was murdered was my stepfather, Bishop

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Hugo Oliver, who was the Bishop of Kensington, though I'm
certain he had ambitions to rise above being a suffragan
bishop. As you could not have mistaken my high spirits for
anything but happiness at his demise, you will no doubt then
deduce that I loathed the man."

I permitted myself a small, ironic smile. "Step-parents do

seem to provoke strong, negative emotions."

Rom sat down on the bed and crossed his legs beneath

him. "The bishop was the stuff of a child's nightmare; the
Grimm brothers could not have dreamed him up. Within a
year of marrying my mother, he began to... interfere with my
brother William. When William grew too old to be of interest
to him, he began with me. From age eleven to the point
where I fled from my home at age fifteen, I was his
Ganymede." He took another drink of brandy, an almost
convulsive gulp.

I am not a violent man, but I knew such rage at that

moment that I was hard-pressed to control it. Had the bishop
been there in the room with us, he would have been
murdered a second time and in as hideous a manner as I was
capable of imagining. As it was, that rage drew tears into my
eyes, and I had to look away for a few moments until I could
govern my emotions. After a good swallow from my own
glass, I managed to ask, "Why did no one stop him?" in a
voice that was nearly normal. He heard the emotion there,
and I saw the bleakness in his dark eyes.

"I never wanted you to know," he said softly. "I never

wanted you to look at me and think about what had been

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done to me. To look at me and see..." He stared down into his
glass.

It was up to me to make the moment right, so I mastered

my righteous anger and took hold of his hand. "I could never
look at you and see other than what I have always seen, the
man I adore, my heart, the other half of my soul." I took a
deep breath. "You need never say another word about this."

"No, it's past time for me to speak of it. Now it's begun, we

need to lay the past out on the table and slice it open the way
the coroner would a corpse."

"That's a vivid metaphor," I teased, provoking a sidelong

smile from Romney. "Very well, let me get the brandy bottle,
and we'll sit up and talk until you feel we've done enough
dissecting for one night." I padded back out to the sitting
room to fetch the bottle, and by the time I returned, he was
looking more like himself. It was a relief as I had seen him
spend days at a time in the darkest of moods, neither eating
nor sleeping, barely speaking. I promised myself that if there
was anything that I could do to prevent this devil of a bishop
from taking one more moment of happiness from my love, it
would be done, no matter what it might cost me.

"You asked why no one stopped him," Romney began.

"William never spoke of it to anyone, though I knew. I often
heard him weeping at night and had seen things I oughtn't. I
tried to tell Geoff, but when he asked William, William denied
it absolutely, and later he thrashed me for mentioning it.
That's how I got this," he said, indicating the broken pupil of
his left eye, the pupil that remained permanently dilated.
"William hit me and it never worked properly again. Then

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when Hugo began to take an interest in me, I tried to tell
Mother..." The look in his eyes was far-away, as if he was a
boy again. "She didn't seem to understand what I was saying.
She told me she knew that sometimes children disliked their
step-parents, but that if I made a better effort with the
bishop, I might one day come to see him as a true father.
Then she slipped and said 'As I do,' which was when I began
to understand that whatever was between them was nothing
like a normal marriage. I told Geoff, and he told me that if I
ever spoke of this again, he'd beat the lies out of me. I never
told my sister, Suzannah. William began to talk about taking
holy orders, and I resigned myself as much as was humanly
possible because I came to wonder if there wasn't something
wrong with me."

Something clenched at my belly when he said that. He

noted it and shook his head. "Children misunderstand things,"
was all he said.

So we talked well into the night, sitting up on our bed with

the windows open to the autumn night and the lights of Paris
glowing beyond. By the time they were winking out, Rom was
growing sleepy. He leaned up against my shoulder and closed
his eyes. "D'you remember the day we met?" he asked, his
words slurring a little.

"How could I forget?" I said, leaning my cheek against his

feathery hair.

* * * *

The day had begun badly with my father insisting I come

along with him to interview a surgeon who was to give

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testimony in a wrongful death suit being brought against a
colleague of his. My father always conducted his own
interviews, for he said that to do otherwise was to invite
embarrassment at best and disaster at worst. He would never
enter a court unless he had spoken to every witness
personally. He rarely lost a case and was never embarrassed
in court.

I hated the idea of going along and complained bitterly and

loudly until he hauled me into his office, slammed the door,
and said "Sir, enough! I know this is not what you wish to do.
Indeed, you have made it most clear that your interest in the
law is as lively as my interest in whatever it is you get up to
in your spare time—of which, I might add, you have entirely
too much. However, I would be remiss in my duties as a
father and a citizen of this realm to turn a silly, useless
creature like yourself out into the world with no notion of how
to earn his bread."

I tried to tell him I had a very good idea of how to earn my

bread, but he held up a quelling hand and said in his best
performing-for-the-jury voice, "Be silent, sir, for we will settle
this matter today. You are my eldest son, and no matter what
you may think of the way I treat you, I want only the best for
you. Pray do me the courtesy of believing that I am acting in
your best interests when I make certain demands upon you
such as the one I make today. As you are already twenty-two
and have no prospects at all, I believe you should reconcile
yourself to a career in law, but that is entirely your choice.
However, until you are prepared to leave the family home and
make your own way, and can prove yourself a responsible

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adult, you will come to work here each day and do as you are
told to the absolute best of your ability and without
complaint. Do I make myself clear, David?"

To which I could only reply, "Yes, sir, you do." My father,

Sir Charles Malvern, is an imposing figure, standing well over
six feet in height, with a great leonine head and a mane of
dark golden hair, a steady, searching gaze, and a voice that
frequently froze people where they stood. I was not immune
to his natural air of authority no matter how much I tried to
convince myself that I was.

Mercifully, his barrister voice was replaced by the more

familiar paternal one. "Good. Then gather your things
together. We will leave in half an hour. Oh, and change your
tie," he said, with a curt gesture toward the red tie I was
wearing. It was the only time he had ever commented upon
my choice of accessories. I had often imagined the moment
when I would be called upon to defend my jejune attempts to
be daring with wit and eloquence, for I was, after all, the son
of a famous barrister. Thus challenged, I said nothing, for
there was nothing to say. Without ever berating me, he made
me understand that my hesitant dandyism was, so far from
being daring, merely a bar to being taken seriously. A childish
affectation, nothing more.

And so, put firmly in my place in sober, borrowed tie and

carrying pad and pencil, I waited in the cab and tried not to
think about how utterly I had been routed by my father's
blunt and inarguable demands. There were rules, and I would
follow them until such time as I was in a position to make my
own.

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The interview with the surgeon occurred in a classroom at

a teaching hospital. He had just finished an anatomy class,
and my eyes were drawn to the table upon which a figure lay,
draped in a stained cloth. I could not help but imagine what
was under that cloth, nor what had stained the reeking
sawdust on the floor, and I began to feel vaguely ill. I tried
staring at the single gaslight that illuminated the center of the
room, but instead became ever more aware of the
unwholesome-seeming shadows that lay just outside the
circle of light. I felt the hair at the nape of my neck stirring,
and for a few moments I was a child again and fearful of the
dark.

A young assistant busied himself with the odious task of

cleaning up the befouled sawdust that covered the floor
around the dissecting table. A student no doubt, and a poor
one at that to be forced to work in such a capacity to pay for
his education.

"We are ready to begin," my father said, and then more

quietly added, "Focus on the job, lad. It will help."

His voice brought me back to reason and steadied me. He

was right, as usual, and as I took down the questions and
answers, I found myself less and less bothered by my
surroundings, though the sharp and unwholesome stink of the
place remained an unpleasant reminder.

"Had you ever seen Doctor Phelps confuse symptoms?" my

father asked the surgeon.

"Never," the man replied, and as I put pencil to paper, I

heard someone clear his throat.

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"I beg your pardon, sir, but that's not quite accurate." It

was the lab assistant. He stood clutching his broom so tightly
his fingers had gone white. "The doctor often made mistakes
in marking down symptoms. You've remarked upon it in my
hearing, sir."

The surgeon's thin lips grew thinner. "I think you're

mistaken, boy. You shouldn't be making statements on things
about which you know nothing." To my father, he added, "As
if I would disclose my thoughts to a lad of that sort." Then he
gave a laugh that rang false, for his mien was sour and there
was something in his eyes I did not like or trust. "Boy, you
can finish in here later."

The assistant stood there for a moment, then left the room

after depositing his broom and bucket beside the door.

"These boys get jobs cleaning the labs, and straightaway

they think they're doctors. Still, someone has to do the dirty
jobs, eh?"

My father's smile did not reach his eyes but was convincing

enough. "Indeed. Young David here is my own son, and I can
barely get an honest day's work from him." At that, he leaned
over and looked at the page I'd been working on. "And when
he does, he's as foolish as a courting lass. David, will you
never learn to write legibly?" he asked, taking the notes from
me. "Well, never mind, as you've not bothered to do much
more than scribble a bit of that doggerel you're so fond of
writing and the nonsense that boy spouted." He ripped the
page from the pad, wrote something on it and handed it back
to me. Clearly he was willing me to keep my mouth tight shut
about what was really on the page. "Since you're no good to

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me here, I want you to run over to Valincourt and Wilkes and
get me a box of the cigars I favor. I've written it down
because I know you cannot hold a thought in your head for
more than five minutes at a time. Tell them to put it on my
bill. Can you do that, do you think?"

"I do try," I said petulantly, and winked at my father as I

rose and headed to the door.

"I'll be back at the office by three, sir. Get it right."
Once outside the classroom, I took a good look at what

he'd written. 'Find that boy and take him to the office. I need
to speak with him.' It made me feel like a spy.

It didn't take me long to find the boy; I just followed the

noisome odor of formaldehyde to a washing-up closet. He
didn't seem surprised to see me, either. "Sir Charles wants to
talk to me," he said. Up close, I could see that he was older
than I had first imagined, perhaps my age.

"What makes you think that?"
"Can you think of another reason why you'd be standing

there, looking both apprehensive and happy to be out of that
room?"

He was right, of course, but his certainty chafed me a bit

as I still considered I was having a bad day, particularly as I
had just been humiliated by my father on this young man's
account. It was for good reason, but I had not been happy
about it. So I stepped into the closet, closed the door behind
myself, pulled him into my arms, and kissed him. Hard. It
was a foolish thing to do, and as soon as the kiss broke I
knew that there was a chance I'd regret my impetuousness.

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He could easily have set the law on me for what I'd just done.
I managed a cheeky "There's one."

I wish I'd paid more attention to the moment, for I didn't

know at the time how rare it would be to see Romney
nonplussed. "Why did you do that?" he asked.

I shrugged, "It seemed to make a kind of sense at the

time. You asked if I could think of another reason why..."

"Yes, I know I did, but you could just as easily have

responded verbally."

"True, but it would not have had the same force, would it?"

In truth, I was starting to feel a little panicky because I
simply couldn't tell what he was thinking. I was imagining
myself brought up on charges of indecency and beginning to
feel sick to my stomach.

He thought about it for a moment and said "No. Nor would

it have been nearly as pleasant." With that, I found myself
able to breathe again.

I took him back to the office, where we sat talking until my

father returned. As it turned out, we had a great many
interests in common, being particularly fond of music and
literature. I asked him how he knew who my father was, and
he replied that he kept up on things like that. Things like
what, I asked him, but he just smiled. "Things," he said. I
was intrigued and about to press him on the subject when my
father returned.

"David, feet off the desk! Good, you saved that scrap of

paper," he said, noting the page I'd laid on his desk. "I don't
suppose you thought to interview this young man—I'm sorry,
I don't know your name, sir."

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"Romney. Nicholas Romney. It's my fault about the

interview, Sir Charles. I didn't want to talk to Fitz here at
first, but he made me see how important it was, so I've only
just agreed." That was as smooth a lie as I'd ever heard. I'd
later have reason to consider how strange it was for a man as
compulsively honest as Romney to have such a facility for
falsehood. It was also odd of him to have used a nickname for
me after so little acquaintance, but if my father thought it
odd, he did not show it.

I was sent from the room for the duration of the interview,

but I loitered in the waiting room because I didn't want
Romney to disappear from my life without at least trying to
find out where he lived. Though I was no innocent, I had
never felt such an attraction to another man before. It made
all my previous dalliances seem inconsequential. However
Nicholas Romney had stirred something in me that no one
else had ever before touched, and I was anxious to explore all
these new feelings. Perhaps it would go nowhere, perhaps it
was even dangerous, but I had to know.

When they came out of the office, my father was smiling

and so was Romney, who came over to me and shook my
hand. "Thank you," he said, and I felt a piece of paper
pressing my palm. "You were correct; I feel I've done the
right thing. Thank you, too, Sir Charles, for listening to what I
had to say. I feel a good deal better about the situation now."

"You've been a great help, Mr. Romney. It is I who should

thank you. And remember, if there's anything else you can
think of which might help, please don't hesitate to contact us.
David, give him a business card."

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I pocketed the paper Romney had given me and pulled a

business card from a tray on the desk. "Remember," I said,
"do not hesitate."

"I shan't. You mustn't, either."
I stood there and watched him go. I was about to read his

note when my father called me into his office.

"You did very well, David. I'm proud of you." Then, as if

that weren't remarkable enough, he offered me one of his
cigars. "Perhaps I can use you in a different capacity in the
future. What would you think of investigative work?" he asked
as he lit the cigar for me. "I do think you might have the
makings of a spy."

I was not certain that it was entirely a compliment, but I

didn't care. "I felt like a spy today, sir, and I enjoyed it. I
would love to do investigations for you," I said with absolute
truth.

"Good. We'll discuss it at a later date, shall we? Oh, and

next time I tell you to change some silly piece of clothing,
remind me of today. That tie might have come in handy."

Surprised as I was, I was also confused. "How so?" I

asked.

"It made you look a great fool, and it would have put the

surgeon more at ease when I told you to leave the office. As
it was, it took me a good bit of time to get him to open up
again after you left. I think he suspected that I'd sent you
after Mr. Romney."

I honestly didn't know how I felt about that revelation, so I

decided to smile and nod. After all, he was smoking a cigar
with me; that had to mean he didn't think of me as a

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complete idiot. He handed me a sheaf of notes. "Give these to
the copyist on your way out and then call a cab. I think we'll
make it an early evening. Your mother and I are going to see
Pirates of Penzance at the Opera Comique."

"Haven't you seen that before?" I asked.
"Yes, but, according to your mother, there is no such thing

as too much Gilbert and Sullivan, and I cannot think of a
single reason to disagree with her assertion. Though I know
she would be happier if Lely were singing the lead. She is
devoted to worship of Lely's voice... silly woman," he added
fondly. My mother was my father's single weak spot.
Whenever he spoke of her, his eyes went soft, and his 'silly
woman' was like a florid declaration of love from a mere
mortal.

We finished our cigars, and I took the notes to Miss

Richardson. Then I locked myself in the WC to read Romney's
note. 'Fitz, we need to discuss an important but rather
sensitive issue, related to the events of this afternoon. Please
meet me outside the hospital tonight at seven. Side entrance.
Come alone and tell no one.'

I confess I was disappointed. I had hoped for something

more promising, something a bit more intimate. At the same
time, the air of mystery was intriguing, which was why I
arrived at the appointed place almost half an hour early. I
found Romney sitting on the steps with a pair of suitcases
beside him. He had a cigarette in his mouth and holes in the
bottoms of both shoes.

"What's all this?"

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"All my worldly possessions," he said lightly. "Alas, I've

lost my position at the hospital."

"Because of us?" I was horrified.
"No, because I don't know how to keep my mouth shut. It

doesn't matter; I'll manage. I always have."

I picked up one of his suitcases and he the other. "You

were living here?" He nodded. "Where will you go?"

"You don't know of any cheap lodging, do you?"
"Can't you go back home, at least for a time? Surely your

family..."

"I have no family," he said with an air of finality.
"We'll find you something," I promised. "But first let's have

a bite of dinner. We owe you that much, especially under the
circumstances."

He caught hold of my arm as I turned. "You owe me

nothing."

"Then consider it something I wish to do."
I took him to a restaurant not far from King's where a

great many students ate when they were flush, which is to
say it was a modest establishment but not cheap. Once we
had been seated and had something to drink, I asked Romney
what his concerns were. "You did say it was sensitive, so I am
prepared to listen without recording the conversation if that is
what you would prefer, but believe me when I tell you that
my father is the soul of discretion to whom you might say
anything."

He looked at me for a moment as if I had suddenly chosen

to recite 'How Doth the Little Crocodile' and then he shook his
head. "Not this," he said gravely, causing me to fear the

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worst. "Sir Charles would not want to hear this, nor would I
ever consider saying it to him." That was it, I thought. He was
going to blackmail me.

I felt so helpless, knowing as I did the legal gravity of

situations such as this. With a crawling feeling in the pit of my
stomach, I asked, "What is it you wish to say to me?"

He leaned close and whispered, "I would like to go to bed

with you."

I could not stop smiling. How could I not grant such a

simple request, after all?

We found a hotel near the college and checked Romney in

under the name 'Ernest Figgs.' I gave the clerk my business
card and said "My client must not be disturbed during his
stay. Is that understood? If anyone, man or woman, comes
here asking for him, you must undertake to inform me. I shall
be in the parlor until morning, standing guard. You must take
care to be discreet. Do you understand me?"

Perhaps I overplayed the role, for the clerk looked at me in

sheer terror. "Sir, if there's likely to be violence done, how
can I let you stay here?"

"Do not trouble yourself. There is no danger of violence.

However until morning, my client's whereabouts must not be
known." Then I added, sotto voce, "You will be doing a
service to the Crown."

He seemed startled, but pleased with it. One thing I had

learned early from my father was that playing to someone's
ego rarely failed to produce results. "A pleasure, I'm sure, sir.
Here's your key. If there's anything else..."

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I tapped my nose with my forefinger and winked. "I shan't

forget your help," I told him.

As we climbed the stairs, Romney whispered, "Who is after

me?"

"A jealous husband. Or wife. Or both."
"I have been busy."
"Indeed you have. It's my job to protect you from your

own wicked ways."

"Words cannot express my appreciation."
"I feel certain you'll find some other way to express it," I

said. I was correct. I found him to be not only generous but a
practiced lover, a fact which would later cause me some
unhappiness. At the time I reveled in his skills, content to
have him explore my body without any hesitation, without
any suggestion of shame or regret. Though my experience
was clearly the lesser in spite of being two years his senior at
the ripe old age of twenty-two, I followed his lead absolutely
and learned what touches would give him the greatest
pleasure, what words titillated him, and how ardently he
would return every kiss or endearment with interest. It felt as
if he was coming back to life after a long sleep. With each
intimacy, something new in him seemed to unfold, and the
pale, quiet young man from the lab brightened and bloomed
in my arms.

Had we not been so young, we might have taken time to

savor the acts and each other. But youth is demanding, and
as soon as we had recovered ourselves from one coupling, we
moved swiftly into the next, and the next, not flagging in our
intent until first light.

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We lay entwined, damp and sticky, hearts racing, gulping

air and idly stroking one another, so hungry for the touch of a
new lover. His face was pressed against my own; his mouth
so close to my own I could almost taste him. I felt the warm
rush of his breath as he exhaled and I chuckled weakly. "I
believe I am spent, utterly," I informed him.

"As am I, but it was a fair price, was it not?"
I had to admit that it was. I learned what it was like to

sleep with Romney, learned that deep, almost spiritual
pleasure of being in the warm circle of his arms as I fell
asleep.

* * * *

Romney awoke with a snort. "What's the time?" he asked,

rubbing his face and brushing back a stray lock of hair. "It's
nearly dawn, isn't it?" The sky, the city, even the air itself
was a kind of pearly, pinkish-gray just before sunrise.

"Why don't you lie down? You'll get cramped sleeping like

that."

"Only if you'll lie down, too," he muttered, pulling the

duvet up over us both as I stretched out beside him and
wrapped my arms around him. There was a deep animal
pleasure in lying beside him, soaking up his warmth, and
breathing in the subtly spicy scent of his skin and hair. Even if
we could never make love again, I would still want to sleep
beside him every night. Fortunately there was no reason to
assume a sexless future. We had begun early and had yet to
find the limits of our pleasure in each other.

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It was only a little past nine when there was a knock at the

door. I slipped out of bed, threw on my dressing gown, and
answered, only to find that it was another telegram for
Romney. Something else from his family? I hadn't asked him
what his initial response had been, though I'd guessed at it
based on our conversation the previous night. This, I
supposed, was them begging him to return or damning him
for his refusal. I still harbored the darkest feelings for the lot
of them and wished them all ill for the pain they'd let him
endure.

Still, the telegram was for him and I had no right to

destroy it. I did not miss the wild, fearful look in his eyes as I
woke him out of a sound sleep, a look I'd seen before but
never understood until that moment. I wished that I could go
back and erase the knowledge of what it meant. "Telegram," I
told him.

He rubbed his eyes, sat up, and read it over twice before

he said, "I have to go home now."

"You owe them nothing," I said.
He nodded as he handed me the telegram. "I owe

something to justice, Davy."

The telegram read: 'William has confessed. Mother begs

you to come home. Geoffrey.'

[Back to Table of Contents]

Suffer the Little Children

by Tracy Rowan

Two

We arrived in London by the boat train, rather early in the

day, but there was a carriage waiting for us at Victoria Station
courtesy of my father. In spite of the convenience, Romney
didn't seem too happy about it. It was damp and chilly. I put
up the windows and threw one of the rugs over our laps.

"How much did you tell him?" Romney asked as we rattled

through streets just starting to bustle with activity.

"I asked him if he would consider taking William's case."
"That's a little premature," he said coldly. It had not

occurred to me that Romney would have any concerns about
my father knowing what was happening. Indeed, how could
he not know?

"Nick. It's in the newspapers."
He glanced up at me and nodded wearily. The dark circles

were back; all that good work undone, I thought miserably.

We dropped our things off at the flat and took the carriage

on to my father's offices. He was already there, drinking
coffee and poring over some files when we arrived.

The curious thing about my father is that while he had

never actually spoken about my relationship with Romney, he
nevertheless treated him with the same kind of paternal
affection that he showed to Caro's husband and Eddie's new
wife. He respects Romney's brilliance, and sensed his fragility
even before I did. The older I get, the more surprised I
become at how intelligent my father really is.

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My mother, on the other hand, has told me on more than

one occasion that Rom is 'a very nice boy, and we're glad to
have him in the family.' I'm not sure if she knows what goes
on in our bedroom, but I don't expect she needs to. She loves
him, and that's enough. Eddie likes him well enough, but lives
his own life with much the same emotional distance he gives
to all of us. I suppose that bespeaks acceptance; with Eddie,
it's hard to tell.

On the other hand, my sister Caro, the eldest of us all, has

actually asked me what two men get up to in bed. I told her
to mind her own business, but she does still plague me with
questions when she's feeling mischievous. My sister is
something of a bluestocking and quite unusual, though
considering our parents and their political and philosophical
liberality, it is perhaps not so odd that she should be a
modern woman with a mind of her own.

Father greeted us warmly and told us to sit down. "I've

asked Miss Richardson if she would prepare a bite of
breakfast for you both, as I know you probably haven't eaten
yet today. You can eat while we talk." As if on cue, the door
opened and Miss Richardson entered with the tea trolley. How
she'd managed to make eggs, sausage, and tomatoes in that
little kitchen where she fixed tea each day, I couldn't imagine,
but it smelled delicious, and my mouth began to water.

"I don't think I had the opportunity to tell you both how

proud I am of you," Father said as Miss Richardson set the
plates in front of us. "Romney, your work on your last case—
what was the title, David? "The Mystery of the Tsarina's
Diamond"?—was outstanding, and David, your writing has

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improved tremendously. So much better and more fully
realized than those early penny dreadfuls, amusing though
they were. I quite forgot myself as I read the story. The
account was most exciting, was it not, Miss Richardson?"

"Indeed it was, Sir Charles. The whole office was talking

about it. Well done, Mister David."

"Thank you, Miss R.," I managed between bites.
"Will that be all?" she asked father
"Yes, thank you. I'll call you if the boys need anything

else."

"That's very kind of you, Sir Charles," Nick said around a

mouthful of buttered toast.

"Credit where it's due. Now, about your brother; it was

very foolish of him to confess to a murder he didn't commit."

I was surprised, but Romney didn't seem to be. He just

nodded. I realized I was missing something, but while I was
often slower than he on picking things up, in this case it
bothered me not in the least. I did not really care to
understand very much about the bishop and how he came to
what I considered to be a just end. I applied myself to my
breakfast and listened.

"He's effectively brought the investigation to a temporary

halt, though, which allows us a little time to do a bit of
sleuthing of our own."

"You speak as if you're taking on the defense, Sir Charles,"

Nick pointed out. "For which I am grateful, but I was not
aware..."

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"Naturally, if your brother's solicitor already has

representation in court, I'll be happy to step aside, but I will
always come to the defense of family if I am needed."

"Thank you, sir. I would not allow William to be

represented by anyone else if I had a choice."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that. I've spoken to

Inspector Hopson, who has suggested to me that this respite
will not last more than a day or two at the most, so I think it
would be best if we began as soon as you boys finish
breakfast. Hopson's agreed to let Romney evaluate the
evidence. In fact, I think he rather wishes you'd give them a
hand. They're being pressured."

"The church?" Rom asked. If they had even an inkling of

what the bishop had been up to, they'd want him in the
ground and forgotten as quickly as possible. I looked over at
Romney, whose face was carefully neutral, but I knew he was
thinking the same thing I was.

"He has not said as much, but I think we can presume at

this point in time that the church is the most likely source."

We chatted about strategies while Romney and I finished

our meal. Finally my father said, "Romney, I have to ask you
something." My belly clenched and I put my fork down. "Did
you know that your mother had left her husband?"

Romney seemed surprised. "No sir, I did not. But then I've

had no contact with my family for fifteen years. I presumed
my brother found me in Paris through David's publisher."

"No, he found you through me. When I read the news, I

contacted him on your behalf. I was not aware at the time
that there had been such a complete estrangement, and while

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I feel I did the right thing, I also feel as if I should apologize
for having acted without your permission."

"You need not be concerned. I appreciate what you have

done. My instinct was to ignore the situation, and that would
have been wrong. About my mother, you say she had
separated from Bishop Oliver?"

"Nearly ten months ago. She has been living on her own.

As a widow."

Rom surprised me by laughing. "I did not give her credit

for a sense of humor," he said. "You're going to ask me if I
think her capable of murder, I believe. For the record, I do
not, though my mother is, to the best of my recollection,
somewhat eccentric. I do not think she has it in her to kill.
The police think the bishop was killed by a woman, then?"

"Yes."
"They must have cause."
"I'll let Hopson tell you about it."

* * * *

I returned to the office after that first night with Rom,

feeling a strange mixture of giddy joy and righteous
indignation at the way he'd been dismissed by the school.

When my father learned that Romney had lost his position

because of the investigation, he determined to find him
another. "We must make things right for the lad," he said.
"He shall not suffer for doing the right thing." To that end, he
arranged for Rom to interview for a position at Scotland Yard
as a kind of dogsbody.

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"I have no doubt that once they deduce how clever the boy

is, he'll work his way up to something better." And as usual
he was right. Romney never became a constable, much less
an inspector—though brilliant, he was not suited to the
discipline of the force. He ended by assisting in cases where
there was a good deal of forensic work to be done, working
most often and most closely with Inspector Hopson, who had
taken a liking to him.

"Hopson tells me the boy has a good eye," my father told

me one night. "You've done well yourself, David. I'm quite
proud of the way you've stepped up in the last year and taken
on some responsibility at work." He said nothing about my
stories, which I'd begun to sell as penny dreadfuls, but I
hadn't expected him to. He still thought it was a phase,
though I calculated that it was a phase that brought in
enough that I could now present a plan which had been much
on my mind since meeting Romney.

"Thank you, sir. Accordingly, I think it's time that I was on

my own, or at least as close as I might come at this time. I've
spoken to Rom, and he is willing to share rooms with me."

My father peered at me over the top of his glasses, and in

one awful moment, he understood what I was telling him and
I knew it. I think perhaps my heart stopped beating at that
moment.

"Well," he said at last. "Well." Then he removed his glasses

and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "David, are you sure?"

"Yes, sir."
He nodded. "Nicholas is a steady boy and a good influence,

it would seem. You could do worse." Then he stood and shook

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my hand. "You've become a hard-working, responsible adult
of good character, which is all I've ever wanted. I'm proud of
you, sir." Then he did something so out of character that it
took me months to assimilate. He gave me a hug and I heard
him whisper, "Oh, Davy..." He left his study, and I remained
there, frozen, knowing that somehow my whole life had just
changed.

My mother cried. To this day, I do not know if it was

simply because I was leaving her nest, or if my father had
explained things to her. She fussed and she wept, she packed
random books from the library, and she asked Cook to make
sandwiches for me to take along. I left for my new rooms in a
carriage brimming with boxes and bags and a hat which
turned out to belong to Caro's husband. When I arrived, Rom,
who had come down to meet me, began to laugh.

"Are you in there?" he called.
"Oh, shut up and help me."
"Your mother helped you pack, didn't she?"
I shoved several bags out onto the pavement and climbed

down over them. "She actually went out to the kitchen, took
two of Cook's best French copper pans, and packed them in
Father's Gladstone bag! My mother is odd," I reflected.

"She is adorable. We can certainly use the pans for

something. Come on, old man, let's get you settled."

How easily it was achieved. We took the entire second

floor of a house owned by a captain's widow. There were two
small bedrooms and a large, comfortable sitting room. There
was a modern bath with a great copper tub and running
water, too, which was an incredible luxury for the price we

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by Tracy Rowan

were paying. The rooms were all furnished rather fussily, but
we had been told that there would be no problem about
refurnishing to our own taste in the future. The second
bedroom would be Romney's workroom. We left the bed and
dresser in there for the sake of propriety, and he occasionally
dozed there while in the midst of some research. It was there
that he familiarized himself with the latest in forensic science
by reproducing various tests he'd read about. He set up a
small photography lab in the bath and grew some sinister-
looking plants in the window.

The other bedroom was where we slept and made love as

often as we chose. It was dark and cozy, with a fireplace, and
heavy drapes over the windows. I felt safe there, as if the
world could never intrude on our time together. Sometimes
we talked for hours in the big, mahogany bed, and by
unspoken agreement no work was ever brought into that
room. It was our haven.

The sitting room was everything else: library, common

room, the place where I wrote my stories and where callers
were entertained, though we had few of those. Romney was
not very social, and my friends, though amusing, didn't really
fit into our life together. I occasionally met with them at a
pub or saw them when Romney and I went to the theater.

Caroline had once said to me, "It's odd, but now that I'm

married, it's as if I've become another person. My old friends
all seem so young and silly." I hadn't understood what she
meant then, but once Romney and I moved to our shared
digs, I felt it, too. I'd grown up, I was all of twenty-three, and
yet it seemed to me that I'd matured decades since meeting

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Rom. It was an exciting time, and I had Rom with whom to
share it.

* * * *

We three arrived at the police station and were greeted by

Inspector Hopson, who straightaway told Romney he was glad
to see him and would be gladder still of his help. "I can't
prove your brother didn't kill Bishop Oliver, but my nose tells
me that he didn't."

"You've always had a sharp nose, Hopson. What can you

tell me?"

"It's better I show you."
He laid out the evidence in front of us: a stack of photos, a

bloody letter-opener and sheaf of bloodstained papers, a
scrap of fabric. Romney looked at the photos first. "Inspector,
your men are getting better at this. Excellent detail."

I peeked over Rom's shoulder and immediately regretted

it, for he was looking at photos of the bishop's torn and
bloody body.

"Unfortunately, they don't show the wounds as clearly as I

would have liked, but we're working on it. Photography is
such a new tool, after all, and hauling those cameras around
is more work than most able photographers like to do."

"Cameras are here to stay, Inspector. They will grow

smaller and lighter. The public will clamor for more
convenience." Rom laid out several images and studied them
closely. "I know his height, and I can see the relative height
of the wounds, suggesting that his assailant was shorter than
he was by a good six inches. A woman or a small man."

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"Or a child?" my father asked. I wondered for a moment if

he knew about the bishop's proclivities. But my father was a
man who looked carefully at all possibilities before making a
judgment. It was a question he would have asked regardless.

Hopson shook his head. "No, Sir Charles, the angle was

wrong on the wounds and their depth would require more
strength than a child would likely have."

"How deep were they?" Romney asked. "And how many

wounds were there?"

"Not so deep as a man's strength might make, but as I

say, no child could have inflicted them. And there was no
clear killing wound. The bishop bled to death from ten
separate wounds. As you can see from the photo of the body,
here," Hopson said, pointing to a photo from the morgue
which again made me look away, "There's a downward pull on
some of the wounds. You can tell by their size relative to the
size of the letter-opener, which was the murder weapon.
Whoever did this was very angry."

Privately, I was pleased. I'd hoped he'd suffered.
"So a woman, then," I said.
Romney replied, "Probably, but we'll need more than that

to counter a confession from William, not to mention
withstand pressure from the church to prosecute the
confessed murderer. It is the church, is it not, Inspector?"

"Right as usual."
"Also consider, David, that this throws suspicion squarely

upon Romney's mother," my father reminded me. "She had
left him, which for some would be, if not motive enough, then
a suggestion that she might have reason to do him harm."

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by Tracy Rowan

Romney looked up, surprised but not alarmed. "Surely that

wouldn't hold water, sir?"

Father gave a brief shrug. "The human mind operates to a

great degree upon emotion."

"Hopson, were there two glasses of wine?" Nick asked the

inspector.

"Yes. We didn't think it significant beyond suggesting that

it was someone he knew."

"That, but also that it was someone whom he considered

his equal, or at least someone he would choose to drink with.
We're dealing with a woman who has a great deal of freedom,
for she was out alone at night. I would say she had been
married for some years or was a widow, and in a social
position that put her, if not above criticism, then beyond it
somehow. Hopson, I'd like to have a look at the scene."

"We have gone over it pretty well."
Romney nodded, but he said, "Fresh eyes."
"Romney, is it possible that your stepfather was having an

affair?" my father asked, and Hopson jumped on the idea.

"The very thing I was thinking, Sir Charles. It would

explain everything. Lovers' quarrel and all."

"No." Rom gave me a sidelong glance. "The chance of that

being the case is very nearly zero," he said. "Not that he was
faithful to my mother, but women weren't temptations."

There was a heavy, embarrassed silence in the room.

Romney looked up and blinked. "My stepfather was a
pederast, gentlemen, which is one reason why the church is
applying so much pressure in this case. They likely knew
exactly what he got up to in the vestry, and they don't want it

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by Tracy Rowan

coming to light. I'm going to guess that if he hasn't already
been buried, they're pushing for it."

"They pressured your mother to bury him with what I felt

was unseemly haste," my father replied. He wore a carefully
neutral expression—the sort he often wore in court—but I
knew what it was costing him because his fist was clenched
so tightly that his knuckles were white.

"Of course she did as they told her." Romney put the

photos down and examined the letter opener. "She—our
murderess—didn't know, or didn't care that we could use
these fingerprints to help identify her," he observed. "Have
you tested the fabric for blood?"

"We used peroxide. There was blood."
Nick examined the fabric closely. "This is expensive

mourning. She is a well-to-do woman who was out of deep
mourning and well into a later stage where she was able to
wear silk and lace, and even, perhaps, has begun to wear
muted shades of gray or lavender on occasion. I would
venture to guess it was her husband she'd lost, based on the
aforementioned degree of freedom she had, though it is by no
means impossible that she enjoyed much the same freedom
for most of her married life. I'm not sure if the scrap is
traceable, but the lace is Chantilly. If it was bought in this
country, there could only be a few places from which it could
have come. You might want to look into that, Hopson. The
rest of this dress could surface again, particularly the lace."

My father took exception. "She'd be mad to keep a blood-

spattered gown that could link her to a murder."

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"True, but remember that this is a woman who can afford

servants. Unless she burns the dress herself or packs it up
and flings the package into the Thames, someone else is
likely to be charged with the disposing of it. That person will
almost certainly try to salvage something of the very fine silk
and what is likely to be quite a lot of expensive lacework.
Look at the way the lace is stitched to the silk. This is not a
trim from cuffs or hem, but an overlay, perhaps a lace bertha,
which means there could be several yards of very costly
Chantilly lace looking for a new home. As it's black, very few
people would notice the blood stains on the lace once it's
rinsed. Hopson, you might tell your men to be on the lookout
for it at some of the open air markets, perhaps talk to some
vendors of used clothing or fabric."

"Good idea," Hopson agreed.
"Perhaps, perhaps not," Romney replied. "London is a

large city, and there are a great many citizens who are
looking to turn a bit of a profit. It could be anywhere. Would
it be possible to go to the church now?"

On the way out, my father caught hold of my arm and

drew me aside. "Did you know? About the bishop, I mean."

"He told me after the first telegram arrived."
"David, did he... Bishop Oliver, I mean, did he ever..."
"Yes. Nick and William both."
My father's lips thinned—always a sign that he was

building up to a fury, so I patted his hand in a kind of weak
gesture of comfort. "I think right now he needs us to pretend
we've forgotten about it."

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"Of course." He took a couple of deep breaths and relaxed

visibly. "It's beyond comprehension," he said, avoiding my
eyes. Then he asked, "Do you need anything? This can't be
easy for you either, Davy. If you need someone to talk to..."
It was a side of my father I wasn't used to seeing. I knew he
was a loving man, but he rarely brought so much to the
surface.

"I'll be fine. I like thinking that the bishop suffered."
I derived some comfort from my father's brittle smile.

"God help us both, so do I."

On the way to the church, Rom chattered softly to himself,

an odd habit that usually signaled his mind was restless and
unfocused. Hopson was familiar with it, I supposed, since he
glanced up briefly and then turned his attention to his notes.

"Why was she there?" Romney was muttering. "It wasn't

sexual, and a spiritual conversation rarely will lead to
murderous fury. So why was she there? Money? Was it about
money? What about money?" and so forth. My father seemed
startled but said nothing. Then Rom seemed to snap back into
the present. "Drive around the side just past the south
transept and pull up near the Lady Chapel," he told the
driver. He hopped out of the carriage near an unremarkable-
looking door, put on his tinted spectacles, which he wore to
protect his broken pupil from too much sunlight, and began to
inspect the grounds. "A few prints in the mud here, but those
may not have anything to do with our case."

"Why are you looking here?" Hopson asked.
"There's a private entrance."
"No one mentioned this," Hopson said, clearly annoyed.

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"They might not have thought of it; this church has a

surprising number of secret doors and passages. Only the
bishop used this one. It leads directly to his office. He used to
leave a key behind some stones..." Nick began to poke and
prod at the pieces of stone near the gutter, and suddenly one
gave way in his hand. "Hah! I still remember. Will and I found
this one day, though we never told the bishop. I doubt we'll
need it. If the murderer came through here, then the door
may still be unlocked." He tried the door and found it
unlocked as he'd suspected, but he kept us from entering.
"Not yet. I need to be first in, before anyone tracks the place
up. Matches?" After a few moments, someone produced a
box, and Nick lit the gas lamp just inside the entryway.

"Good, no one's cleaned in here." The spectacles came

back off, and he handed them to me, as he tended to lose
them if left to his own devices. Then he got down on his
hands and knees and peered at a faint mark on the stones.
"Fitz, loan me your pencil." I passed it to him and watched as
he carefully outlined the print. When he finished, it showed up
clearly as the mark of a woman's boot. "Small feet for her
size. It's likely she has no children."

"What?" What on earth was he talking about?
One of the constables must have found the pronouncement

as bizarre as I did, because I heard him mutter, "Oh please!"

My father took quick and decisive exception.

"Nevertheless, Constable, he is quite correct. When women
have children, their feet grow larger because of the extra
weight. Thus, women with small feet for their relative height

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by Tracy Rowan

have very probably never given birth. You might want to
mark that down."

I believe it was Inspector Hopson who snorted with

amusement, but couldn't be certain. My father leaned over to
me and said, very quietly, "Your mother complained her feet
grew two sizes before you were born, sir," which nearly set
me off on a laughing jag that was abruptly cut off when
Romney returned my pencil to me with no writing tip at all.

"I liked that one."
"The world is full of Dixon Ticonderogas," Rom told me.

"Go sharpen it; I shan't say anything brilliant until you
return."

I went off grumbling and applied knife to pencil until I had

a useable point. They were still all standing around in the
entrance when I returned, and there was some muttering
going on.

"He's going over every inch," Father said. "Does he always

do that?"

Hopson and I said, "Yes" in unison.
"Bloody handprint on the wall here, by the stairwell;

another indicator of both gender and height."

"How?" asked the cranky constable. "She could've raised

her hand up or had it low down; you don't know."

"Come over here, Constable, and I'll show you. Fitz, your

pencil?"

"Oh no... Rom!"
"I'll buy you another. Please."
With an aggrieved sigh, I handed it over.

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"All right, Constable, now why do people place their hands

on the wall as they walk through a corridor?"

"Could be it's dark and they're feeling their way," he said.
"Very good. Now please shut your eyes and take a step

while reaching out to feel your way." The constable did as he
was asked, and as he laid his hand on the wall, Romney said,
"Now stop. Leave your hand there." He stepped forward and
outlined it quickly. "What other reason?"

"She could 'ave stumbled."
"Quite right." Then Romney gave the constable a light

push so he fell toward the wall with one hand out to break the
fall. "Don't move now," he said as he outlined the position of
the man's hand yet again.

"She could've reached out another way like I said. Down

low maybe."

"By all means, show me," Nick said, and each time the

constable touched the wall, Nick outlined his hand. "Now
please compare your hand positions to the one in blood. She
reached out at about shoulder height to steady herself slightly
at the foot of the stairwell, just the way you did when I
pushed you; just the way any of us would to steady
ourselves. It's instinctive. Hand and fingers flat against the
wall, thumb pointing forward. That puts her height at around
five foot, three inches. Give or take."

It was also obvious the constable didn't care to admit that

Romney might be correct. "Well, she could have reached up
high, like this," he said, slapping his palm on the stone well
above his head.

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by Tracy Rowan

"She could have, of course, but that wouldn't steady her.

And it would mean she was about two feet tall."

"Oh, for God's sake, Mitchell, go wait outside. You're

wasting our time," Hopson barked, his moustache bristling
more ferociously than usual. "Can we get on with this?"

"Here endeth the lesson," Romney said, smiling at me as

he handed back the pencil. "I'll buy you two," he promised.

"No, don't bother." My father drew his own reservoir pen

from his pocket and handed it to me. "You're a writer now,
David; you need proper tools. Don't let him destroy that,
they're expensive." In an offhand moment, my father had
given me his blessing on my choice of career. I was
speechless.

"This door opens in a bookcase. Easy enough to open from

out here if you know where the latch is, but completely
hidden from inside the room," Romney was saying as he led
the way up the long, narrow stairwell and opened the door to
the bishop's office. "Another bloody handprint on the
banister," he observed. "It might provide a useable
fingerprint, so, gentlemen, if you will take care not to touch
it, I would be most obliged."

We stepped into a room flooded with sunlight that

streamed through a bank of leaded windows. It was lined
floor to ceiling with bookcases filled with fine old volumes,
and in the center stood a heavy, cherrywood desk covered
with intricate carvings. It might have been a beautiful room
had the light not shown clearly the multiple large bloodstains
on the carpet.

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"I don't think they'll ever get that clean," Romney

observed as he pushed the hidden door shut behind us.
"Inspector, did you bring the photos?"

Hopson passed the stack of photographs to Romney, who

began to compare them to what the room looked like now. He
walked about, looking from photo to room and back. He did
this for a full five minutes before he said, "They fought first
before she stabbed him. She may have been fighting for her
life." "Inspector, did you go through the desk?"

"Yes, nothing there but diocesan business."
"Men like Bishop Oliver have secrets, and those secrets are

often ones that need hiding places. You found nothing to
suggest any sort of wrongdoing?"

"Nothing."
"Then perhaps there is more to find."
"Where does the other door lead?" I asked, nodding at the

great carved oak door which now looked like the only
entrance to the room.

"Back down to the church. There's a corridor with two

doors, one that opens on the south side of the reredos, just
behind the altar, and a second that opens into the transept.
The first is one of those secret doors he loved and it allowed
him to come down out of his office just before services
without having to walk through the church at all, rather like
God making an entrance. The second was the one used on an
everyday basis. We're actually above one of the chapels that
flanks the Lady Chapel just now, but it's so cleverly designed
that it's very hard to tell that there are rooms up here.

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by Tracy Rowan

There's another office on the other side. If I remember
correctly, the sexton uses it."

"So you suspect that there is something hidden in here?"

Hopson asked.

"I would put money down on it," Romney said. He was

looking around the room, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"Will, Suzannah, and I used to wait up here after services
occasionally. I seem to recall the bishop getting very angry
with us once for looking at his books, which made no sense to
me at the time, for we were allowed to look at all the books
at home. Then the next time we were here, I noticed that
they'd been rearranged. They would seem out of place," he
said to himself. "Books that do not belong, or that..." He
smiled. "Or that should be in a set. Good old Gibbon," he
said, reaching out and pulling a heavily tooled, leather-bound
volume down from an upper shelf. "There should be five more
of these," he said, showing the book to the rest of us,
"probably on the higher shelves, out of the way where they're
unlikely to be noticed. Very probably they will show an
inconsistent dust pattern from the volumes on either side. If
you could find them?"

"Could you be more specific?" my father asked with a

perfectly straight face, taking Romney aback. He still didn't
realize that the great Sir Charles Malvern had a lively sense of
the absurd.

Rom opened his volume, and a stack of banknotes fell

from a space that had been cut into the pages. "Curiouser
and curiouser," he said to me.

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by Tracy Rowan

"Oh, sweet Jesus," Hopson exclaimed. He laid his book

down on the desk, and we all saw the stack of photographs.
Pictures of children, some of them with adults. Again, I had to
turn away, though this time it was to hide the tears that
flooded my eyes. I scrubbed at them with my sleeve, and
someone patted me on the shoulder.

"There may be more, gentlemen. Be warned," Romney told

us.

He was right, of course; there were more photos, all

equally vile. There was more money as well. Though we didn't
count it, the number of bills and denominations suggested at
least a thousand pounds. One book held a paper that was
written in code.

"Well, what do we have here?" Romney studied the page.

"I love a good cipher. Fitz, what say we have a go at this
tonight if Hopson will allow us to copy it?"

I was grateful for something to think about beyond those

photos. "I'm willing. Inspector?"

"Have at it, lads. We'll put the rest in evidence until we

know if it has anything to do with the case. Any thoughts on
what it all means?"

"The pictures speak for themselves," Romney said. "But

the money..." He frowned. "Wait. Let me see those
photographs again."

He sorted through them quickly, making several stacks.

"I'm sure you've seen a good deal of pornography in
evidence, Inspector. Do you recall ever noting that a great
number of them in any single collection shared the same

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by Tracy Rowan

background, but different models? Or the same models in
different settings?"

"Not really. I suppose it's possible, but it's not terribly

likely, unless the photos were taken by the same person in
the same place. And most customers buy in dribs and drabs."

"Take a look at these, then," Romney said, shoving a stack

at Hopson.

"Do I have to?" the inspector asked wryly. Nevertheless he

dutifully studied them with growing surprise. "You're right. It
is the same setting."

"And these two." Rom handed him a pair of photographs.

"Same girl, but she's a few years older in one. And these;
same child. Here are three of the same boy, but again he's
older in one than the other two. The bishop had a regular
supplier who had access to the same children over a period of
several years."

"Brothel?" Hopson said.
"Most probably. The photos are probably a side business,

or perks for regular clients. A brothel with its own photo
studio, if I am not mistaken, for they would neither be likely
to parade the children through the streets, nor, as you so
rightly pointed out, would a photographer, even one who
would do work such as this, wish to carry his equipment with
him to frequent sittings. I'm going to say that this house will
be somewhere close to my mother's house or the church. Or
perhaps his club. It would have been convenient for him to go
undetected."

"Should be a hanging offense," Hopson muttered. "Well, I

think you can put paid to your brother's confession, Romney.

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by Tracy Rowan

The evidence you've found, plus what we have, should be
enough to rule him out."

"Now it's looking bad for my mother, isn't it? Unless the

size of the foot and handprints are vastly different from those
of my mother—and I don't believe they are—she will look like
the most likely suspect now that William is no longer one."

"Let's take things one step at a time. Are we finished here,

Romney?" Father asked.

"For the time being." He looked around the room. "Oddly

peaceful, isn't it?" he said quietly. "I remember when I was a
child, I thought it was a beautiful place. A castle."

We had just left the church and Hopson was putting the

key back in its hiding place when Rom began to laugh. "It just
struck me funny," he said. "The bishop was murdered in the
church of St. Thomas a Becket."

There was some chuckling from the constables, and my

father snorted, and then tried to cover his amusement with a
cough. "He's a strange young man," Father whispered to me.

"You have no idea," I replied.

* * * *

Life with Romney was an exercise in toughening up. From

the moment I saw him in that dissection room, I'd had to put
aside my instinct to run in the other direction. With things
about which most well-brought-up young gentlemen are
ignorant, Romney is in his element. He is a skilled street
fighter, can hold more liquor than any man I have ever
known, and never seems shocked by anything.

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by Tracy Rowan

His association with the sort of people I might not have

even looked at in the street has forced me to set aside my
notions of class distinctions and view each person as in
individual, with virtues and vices not dependent upon their
station in life. Certainly the revelations of his stepfather's
abuse was forcing me to shake off sentimentality as he had
and look squarely at the problem of pederasts and child
prostitution.

Romney is a hard-headed pragmatist. He knows far better

than I the value of a shilling, and he has a very clear idea of
exactly what it can buy in our city. Gentlemen box; there are
rules. Romney is a street-fighter. I once chided him for his
lack of attention to the rules of wrestling, and he said,
"Fighting is about staying alive, Fitz. I don't think rules are
likely to deter someone who is trying to kill you."

"This is a sport," I told him.
He gave me one of his looks and said simply, "For you,

perhaps."

Still, I had no conception of what he meant until, just after

he left the police force to set up as a private investigator, he
was hired to find a man who had stolen jewelry from a well-
to-do widow in Belgravia. At the outset of the case, I thought
it was foolishness and said as much. "Why doesn't she just
set the police on him? It's simple theft."

"Hardly simple, Fitz. She doesn't want anyone else to

know."

"Why not?"

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by Tracy Rowan

"She didn't say, but her reticence convinces me that she

was intimate with him and doesn't want that fact bruited
about."

"Oh. Married man?"
"Possibly, but from her description, the problem may be

more that he is working class. A married man of her own
class would have a good deal to lose, while she might recover
from the scandal after a few years. A man of a lower class
has nothing to lose in that respect, and might, if arrested,
cause a far greater scandal that would dog her for the rest of
her life."

"She might have thought of that before she took a roll in

the dirt. What?" He was staring hard at me.

"I expect better of you, Fitz."
I was surprised and a little hurt to be reprimanded in such

a manner, though I realized fairly quickly that Rom was
correct. I had made a judgment on something that was not
my business.

"I suggested she simply write off the loss, as it didn't

amount to more than about seventy-five guineas. He took
several items that had sentimental meaning to her."

"Surely he's sold them by now."
"I told her that, but she said she would buy them back."
"That does encourage people to take advantage, does it

not?"

"Unfortunately, it does. A client's wishes are paramount.

We are not the police, after all, nor any sort of moral
authority."

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by Tracy Rowan

At the time I thought it was a shame we weren't the latter,

but I'm older and wiser now.

It took hardly any time at all for Romney to trace the man,

who was found lying in the police morgue, having been shot
once in the head at close range. "Neat work," Romney said as
he inspected the body. "Not an extra ounce of effort here. I
suspect he was taken utterly by surprise by someone he
knew."

I found it strangely dreamlike to be staring at a body with

a perfect hole in its forehead. Having seen only one corpse in
my life, that of my grandfather who was heavy with age and
illness, it was not how I expected death to look—young and
still almost vigorous, though with a strong suggestion that
something was missing that should have been there. At the
same time, the peace I'd seen in the face of an old man who
had died in his sleep, I saw also in the face of this young man
who had died violently. I noted that in my book as Romney
walked around the table scraping the man's fingernails and
inspecting his clothing. A young constable who had been
assigned to the case, probably almost as an afterthought,
stood to the side and took notes.

"Hops, beer, stale beer," Romney muttered as he worked.

"Wheat beards. Brewery." He looked up. "Brewery. He worked
for a brewer. Constable Randall, be sure to mark that down."

"Yessir." The constable's pencil flew.
"How can you tell?" I prepared to take down the

explanation to use in my story, but all he said was "Hops,
wheat, stale beer soaked into his boots. What else would it
be?" and I was disappointed. I had only recently read a story

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by Tracy Rowan

entitled "A Study in Scarlet" about a fictional detective, and
much as I had enjoyed it, I harbored the suspicion that
Romney was twice the detective this other chap was and not
nearly as annoying. "Is that all?" I asked.

"Do you want me to tell you the location of the brewery by

sniffing the hops?"

I grew excited. "Can you do that?"
Rom rolled his eyes. "Good heavens Fitz, you read too

much nonsense."

"Well, I don't know!" I snapped.
"There are a lot of breweries in England, sir," the constable

observed.

"Fortunately, we don't have to worry about any except

those within and quite close to London. I fear it's going to be
a lot of legwork from here on in." He stared down at the
body. "Handsome beggar, though, wasn't he?" Rom observed.
"You can see where she'd be quite taken in."

Though he was right, and I could appreciate the chap's

classically handsome profile and wavy chestnut hair, I still
harbored the belief that the widow might have been wiser to
have remembered her situation and saved herself this grief. I
held my tongue.

It didn't take long to locate the man's employer, either, a

brewer with an establishment in Earl's Court. From there we
obtained the location of his lodging. As it had become a police
matter because of the murder, Constable Randall
accompanied us but gave Romney carte blanche to do most of
the investigating.

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True to form, Romney went over everything with a careful

eye. "Tidy but not fastidious. Literate enough to read the
newspapers. He was a gambler... and, hullo, he cheated."

"How d'you know that, sir?" Randall asked, clearly

disbelieving.

"That he was a gambler is obvious from the accoutrements

of gambling. Why would one man have four decks of cards
and a bowl filled with dice and coins unless he was a
gambler? That he cheats would seem likely given that he was
also a thief, but it isn't hard to find the evidence if you know
what to look for. Here, Constable, let me show you. Fitz, you
come and watch, too. You should learn this."

He showed us the weighted coins that were easy to

manipulate in coin tosses, the rigged dice and how to throw
them, and the marked cards and how to read them. By the
time he'd finished, Randall was looking at him with something
approaching awe. "How'd you learn all that, sir?"

Rom grinned. "I had a misspent youth, Constable, but

have managed to get some use of it. Now, you'll never let
anyone cheat you, will you?"

"No, sir, I will not."
"Good man." Rom snagged a book from a pile on the table.

"It looks as if he kept an account book, which seems to be
related to his gambling." He started at the beginning of the
book and then flipped to the last entries. He frowned.
"Interesting."

"What?"
"Perhaps nothing. Let me finish here before I make any

pronouncement." He went through a small stack of papers

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by Tracy Rowan

upon which the account book had rested. "Look at this:
gambling stubs, races, fights... What's this? Our man Cullen
was a member of the Earl's Court Workingman's Club.
Constable, that should be looked into; you might want to
mark it down."

"Oh, right. Thank you, sir."
"He had taken a few IOUs, but all are marked 'paid.' This

one notes a debt that he owed. 'Owed to Jefferson, one
hundred pounds.' That's a lot of money." He went back to the
account book. "Look here, the week before he took the
jewels, he made a lot of bets and lost most of them,
apparently. He owed someone a lot of money and couldn't
make up the sum with his gambling. That has to be why he
stole."

The Jefferson note was pinned to a pawn ticket. "This man

had a very tidy mind. He should have put it to better use.
Hmm, dated a week ago, the same day the jewels went
missing. What do you suppose this will turn up?" he asked,
waving the pawn ticket with something like boyish glee.

As it turned out, he was quite correct. The ticket led us to

the missing items, and Romney redeemed them with the
money his client had given him for that purpose, though as it
turned out they'd been pawned for twenty pounds. While
there, I looked at some of the pawned items and made some
mental notes as to how I would enliven my story of a
straightforward investigation with enough detail to appeal to
the imagination of the British public. There were jewelry and
objets d'art, of course, but I saw also musical instruments,

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by Tracy Rowan

sporting equipment, and even taxidermy. There was a story
in those things, I was sure of it.

"I guess that puts paid to our involvement," I observed,

putting my notebook and pencil away.

"Technically, yes."
"Technically? Not in fact?"
Romney looked over at the constable who was busy writing

in his notebook. "I feel odd just leaving him to it like that."

I was anxious to be off so I could start putting my notes

together for the story. "He'll get help," I insisted.

Rom shrugged. "Even so, I can't help but feel that I'm not

finished here. Look, you take these back to Mrs. M., and let
me go with the constable and see if I can't at least figure out
why the man was murdered. From there, it shouldn't be much
harder to find the murderer."

"Oh, no, you are not getting rid of me that easily. If you're

going, I'm going." Some things trumped a good story, and
one was watching your lover going off to confront a murderer
with nothing more than a pleasant but mousy police constable
to defend him. As if Rom needed defending. But if he did, I
wasn't going to trust that defense to anyone else.

"Always glad to have you along, Fitz." To the constable, he

said, "Constable Randall, I was wondering if you'd mind us
tagging along. I realize our part in this is over, but we're both
anxious to find out the details of the murder."

The man's face lit up. "Not at all, sir. You're quite welcome

to come along." He actually looked relieved. "I'd consider it
an honor."

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"Where shall we start, then?" Romney asked, and Randall

peeked at his notebook.

"The, uh, Workingman's Club, sir?"
"I concur. I think you've made an excellent decision."
"Thank you, sir." Again, he flashed an awe-struck look in

Rom's direction.

"You're good at that," I said to Rom as we left the

pawnbroker's shop.

"At what?"
"Being a true gentleman. A lot of other people would just

have told him what to do. Not many men know how to get
what they want while making it seem like it's the other chap's
notion."

"Sir Charles does. I owe your father more than you can

imagine, Fitz."

On the way, Rom conferred with our policeman, always

framing his suggestions as questions. More than once we
stopped so that Randall could write something down in his
notebook. By the time we reached the club, he was looking a
lot more sure of himself.

Once there, we stood a bit apart while Constable Randall

interviewed several people who all said pretty much the same
thing about Cullen. He was a pleasant chap, good-natured,
had an eye for the ladies, and loved to gamble. The barman
knew him best, it seemed, and explained that he and Cullen
often talked a bit of business. "What with him bein' in the
brewing trade and all, we enjoyed passing a few comments
when he came in."

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"Can you think of anyone here in the club who was his

particular friend?" Randall asked him.

"He got along pretty well with most people, I'd say. A

particular friend, though? Maybe Mr. Jefferson. They often
went to the races together."

"Where can we find this Mr. Jefferson?" Randall asked.
"Wherever there's a game of chance. I'd say check the

back room at the Rose and Crown, down the street. We don't
allow gambling on the premises, but Jefferson was always
trying to get up what he called a 'friendly' game that ended
with money being exchanged, if you get my meaning. He'd
been asked to leave here more than once for that very
reason, and just last month he'd lost his membership over a
fight with another member. Gambling debt. Terrible bad
temper he has. Cullen was a gambler, too, but he didn't break
the rules that way. Always very upright was Mister Cullen.
We'll miss him. He was a pleasant bloke."

Constable Randall stepped up. "Could you describe this

Mister Jefferson for us, sir? It would be most helpful."

The barman obliged, and Randall dutifully noted everything

in his book, thanking the man for his trouble.

On the way to the Rose and Crown, Randall asked Rom,

"You have any theories, Mr. Romney? Could this Jefferson
chap be our man?"

"I theorize that we shall learn something from Mr.

Jefferson, but it would be unwise to make more of the
information than that. It is so easy to make a guess and then
see connections where there are none."

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Randall was looking at Rom with something like worship.

"Thank you, sir. I hadn't ever thought of it that way."

According to the barman at the Rose and Crown, Jefferson

hadn't been in that day. Beyond that, he maintained a
stubborn silence which left us no choice but to quit the
premises. As we left, Rom said, "Randall, I wonder if there
might be a way to get in by the back door."

"The very thing I was wondering, sir. Did you see that man

nip into the back when we walked in? A police uniform is
something of a red flag to criminals."

"You think we'll find Jefferson there?" I asked Romney,

who was fishing in his pocket.

"I think it's certainly possible. I'm guessing that other man

either went back to warn someone, or didn't care to be
interviewed by the police. Here, take this." He pressed a small
pistol into my hand.

I was horrified. "What's this for?"
"Safety. I don't expect trouble, Davy, but that's usually

exactly when it happens. Jefferson may be a murderer, and
he may just have been warned of our presence. Take it for
my sake. If you have to use it, do so. Do not hesitate."

It was a measure of how concerned he was that he was

calling me by my Christian name in public, in consideration of
which I accepted the pistol and nodded. He moved to catch
up to Randall, who had already opened the door and was on
his way in.

Then, without warning, I heard a shot fired and saw

Randall fall

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"Around the front, Davy, quickly!" Rom yelled, and without

thought, I ran.

I reached the door of the pub just as it burst open, and I

lifted the pistol and fired it into the air.

"Halt!" I shouted, and the man in the doorway skidded to a

stop. A second man plowed into him from behind, and they
both fell forward as I stepped back, out of their way.

I saw a third man behind them pointing a gun at me, and

again I fired, but directly at the armed man this time. He fell,
clutching his leg and groaning. The other two lay on the
pavement with their hands in the air, looking fearful. "Don't
shoot again, sir. We won't try nothin'."

A moment later, Romney came running through the pub,

stopped to check the man on the ground and relieve him of
his pistol. "Randall is alive, but needs a doctor, and we need
the police." He threw me Randall's whistle. "If you would be
so good as to sound the alarm?"

I blew several blasts on the whistle, and it was no time at

all before police constables started arriving on the scene.
From that point on, they took over, and I returned the pistol
to Romney with a sense of relief.

"That was awful," I told him as we waited for the

ambulance to take Randall to hospital. "I've been shooting, of
course, but nothing prepared me for the experience of
shooting a man."

The constable was in good spirits, his wound relatively

minor, though Rom had told me that he feared it would cost
Randall some mobility in his arm, which would almost
certainly mean the end of his career.

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"You're a hero, Constable Randall," Romney told him.
"Me, sir? No, it was you who caught the blokes."
"Us? Never. We were just assisting. You were the first on

the scene and suffered the consequences. That makes you a
hero by my standards."

"Really, sir?"
"Really."
Randall was still smiling as they loaded him into the

ambulance.

"Tell me you have Mrs. M.'s jewels."
I patted my pocket. "Safe as houses."
"What will you call this one?"
"The story? I think perhaps ''The Strange Case of Lady

Allingham's Tiara'.'"

"Good heavens."
I shrugged. "Is it solved, do you think? Was one of those

men a murderer?"

"Possibly. I would guess that there will be enough

similarities between the bullet taken out of Cullen and the one
taken out of Randall that it will give the police the link they
need."

I was confused. "How so?"
"Oh... well, bullets can be matched by manufacturer,

caliber, and often even by the marks left on them by the
barrels of the guns that fired them. There have been a
number of most interesting cases in the United States," he
continued, warming to the subject, "in which rifling marks..."

"I have no clue what you're talking about, Rom, and I'm

too tired to care. May I please have a simple answer?"

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He grinned at me. "Manufacturer and caliber will be

circumstantial, but added to the evidence against Jefferson,
perhaps enough to persuade his confederates to testify
against him. If the police can find matching rifling marks on
the bullets, then it would be enough to charge him. Or should
be. The forensic science is solid, but remains relatively new
and unsophisticated at this time. It will become more detailed
and more accepted in the future."

"You think?"
"Oh, yes, it will be an incredibly useful tool in the future."

He rubbed his eyes. He'd lost another pair of dark glasses
earlier in the week, and the sunlight bothered him. "I might
write a study on it myself one day. Fascinating stuff. In any
event, it might not convict a peer, but it will go hard on a
man like Jefferson. I have a suspicion that our mystery will
prove to have been about Cullen cheating Jefferson and trying
to pay off the debt with the money he'd gotten from pawning
the stolen jewels. If Jefferson was as evil-tempered as we've
been told, he probably took the money Cullen offered and
shot the man, assuming that he would get no more of what
he was owed."

We walked on up Brompton Road, shoulder to shoulder.

"You did well," he said. "I'm impressed."

"I do not like guns."
"Nor do I," Rom replied. "The people we deal with do,

though."

"You know, when you made the decision to set up as a

private detective, I thought it was a bit of a lark, that you'd
be hired to find kidnapped dogs and heiresses who had

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eloped with foreign cads. I did not expect guns and dead
bodies."

"Take heart, Fitz, I do not think there will be many of

either in our future."

* * * *

Father dropped us at our rooms, and as we walked in the

front door, I was hit with a wave of fatigue. "I need a nap,
Rom. I'm sorry; I can hardly think."

"I know. You have huge dark circles around your eyes. Go

on and sleep. I want to take a look at this cipher and see if I
can't deduce at least its nature."

I wanted to protest, but I was simply too weary. "Have

fun," I said, and stumbled off to our bedroom, where I
managed to remove my hat and shoes before I fell onto the
bed, still wearing my coat and suit.

I woke a couple of hours later to find Romney lying next to

me, fast asleep. I reached out, pulled him close, and wrapped
my coat around him. "Mmm, warm," he muttered. Then I
slept again.

It was dark when I awoke. The door to the parlor was

open, and I could see Rom sitting in front of the fire with a
book on his lap. "Did you break the code already?" I called to
him.

"No. I've only been up for fifteen minutes. Bessie came up

to ask if we wanted dinner. It's chops tonight, so I told her
yes. She said there's apple turnovers for afters," he added
with a happy grin.

"Let me wash up."

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By the time I'd finished, dinner was on the table and

Romney was pouring some wine for us. "When we finish
dinner, we can work on the code. I was distracted earlier; I
could not stop thinking about all that money. Fitz, it has to
have something to do with why he was murdered. No rational
human being keeps so much cash hidden in books unless he
either needs it for unsavory reasons or fears having to
account for it. We must be allowed to look into his financial
records. Unfortunately, that means that I shall have to speak
with my mother and brother."

I set to work on the chop and potatoes, but after a few

minutes I felt I had to stop and ask, "What is it you fear,
Nick? What power she has over you, you give to her."

"I know that." He set his knife and fork on the plate and

sat back in his chair. "My mother is quite childlike, Fitz. She is
almost a porcelain doll in her appearance, being barely five
feet in height, with perfect skin and teeth, golden hair, and
wide blue eyes. She is also very doll-like in her manner. She
is..." He sighed. "She is dependent. She was barely sixteen
when she married my father, who was thirty years older than
she. She remarried as quickly as she could after my father's
death, utterly without regard for the sort of man to whom she
was entrusting the welfare of her children. She was
unwilling... no, unable to believe that this man in whom she
had placed all her hopes for her own future was anything
except her knight in armor, and to that end, she refused to
believe me when I came to her, begging for help.

"It is hard not to love my mother," he continued. "Even

now, I believe I do still love her in spite of all her failures as

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both a mother and a responsible adult. Yet I am angry with
her, too, and would find it difficult to show her a bit of
warmth or affection. It would not be such a problem if she
understood the reason for my anger, but I promise you that
once we are in the same room, she will behave as if I am the
one in the wrong for not playing the loving and dutiful son.
She simply cannot understand what her sins of omission have
done to William and myself."

"Perhaps she's changed," I offered. "People do, Nick. She

left the bishop for some reason. Perhaps when you see her..."

"Perhaps," he said. "I suspect she left him for the same

reason she would have murdered him if she was capable of
murder. To get his attention." He sipped his wine and smiled
reminiscently. "Of course it isn't really amusing, or shouldn't
be, I suppose, but my brother Geoffrey once said that Father
died to get away from her."

"What?" It was so alien a concept to me that I couldn't

assimilate what Geoffrey had meant.

"What he meant was that she was so great a burden even

on a man like our father—who, by the way, I barely knew, so
I have only Geoff's and Suzannah's word for what he was
like—that she was so great a burden on him that dying was
the only way he could escape the back-breaking responsibility
of being her husband. It wasn't really that funny, though at
the time we laughed. I wonder what he thought would
become of us," he added in that strange, distracted manner
he often displayed when something troubled him.

I decided that it was time to change the subject. "Well, I

know that unless someone does something about your hair,

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by Tracy Rowan

you will come to a bad end, my lad. As I hold out no hope of
getting you to a barber any time soon, I am going to trim it
for you."

Romney's expression went from troubled to terrified. "Oh,

God, no, Fitz!"

"Oh, yes. Now hold still." I went to fetch a pair of scissors,

a comb, and a towel. When I returned, he was wearing his
bowler. "Take that off and behave."

"You're a hard man."
"I'm tired of you looking like a street Arab." I wrapped the

towel about his shoulders and combed the tangles out.

"You said you liked it long," he reminded me. "Said it

made me look, and I quote, 'fey.'"

"You have gone beyond fey, my love, and are pushing the

boundaries of girlish," I lied. Rom had long ago passed the
point of ever looking girlish again. "As you know, I find all
things girlish less than alluring."

"We can't have that, but don't you think that it could wait

until I could find time to get to the barber?"

"No, I do not. Unless you propose to begin wearing dotted

Swiss and carrying a parasol, I think a trim is in order." What
I didn't say was that he was beginning to look like some of
the more effeminate members of my old set, a look I actively
disliked. There was a fine line between puckish and Wildean
aesthete, and I was determined to keep Rom on the side I
preferred. Besides, we needed a distraction just then.

"Well, then, cut away. Perhaps I should just shave my

head."

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"You do, and we're finished," I threatened, beginning to

clip. After about half an hour, I realized that there was now a
fine line between a tidy Rom and disaster, and thought it was
probably a good time to stop. It was shorter than I'd planned,
and a bit lopsided, but I fluffed at the hair on the left side of
his head and it seemed to balance the effect a bit.

"How does it look?" he asked.
"Um... shorter."
"Your tone doesn't bode well." He got up and went to the

mirror near the door, where he studied himself for a few
moments, then mussed his hair with both hands and finger-
combed it into a more pleasing arrangement. "Barbering is
not something you should consider if you ever decide to look
for a new career," he told me. "Now let's get to work on that
cipher."

We sat down at Rom's stained and scarred work table and

studied the encoded page. Romney stared at it for a long
time, drawing grids upon a separate sheet of paper, filling in
letters, and then scratching them out. He'd done that three or
four times before he sighed and drew out the alphabet across
the top of a fresh sheet.

"I do not believe this to be a complex cipher because I

begin to see letter patterns. Look here," he said, pointing to a
spot on the page where the format of the cipher seemed to
change. "Ignore what is above this line for a moment and tell
me what you see."

"Aside from nonsense?" I asked. Nevertheless, I studied

the lines in question and replied, "It is a list, is it not?"

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"Precisely. I believe it to be a list of names and other

personal information, which is why there are no common
patterns within these lines. They do not contain pronouns or
conjunctions or any sort of punctuation, and they all have
approximately the same construction."

I looked again and said, "There are repeated patterns at

the beginning of some of the lines, though, where the first
word begins with an 'X.' X-N-W... wait... would it be 'Sir'
something?"

Romney nodded. "I think it must be. Well done, Fitz. So

now we look at the alphabet and match the letters X-N-W
with S-I-R... ah. It is most probably a simple Caesar cipher
with a shift of five. See here? X is five letters off of S; N, five
letters off I; and so forth. This part of the page at least is
simplicity itself."

We made quick work of translating the names and found

the bishop's among them, but further we could not go.

"Why would the names be simple and the rest not? Would

the names not be the most important part of this page? Is it a
different cipher?"

"It could be, but I doubt it. It might be a different shift. I

don't know. There's something familiar about it, but I cannot
place it."

"What sort of information would be included with the

names?" I asked him.

"Addresses? Financial information? No, that's not likely as

there are no numbers."

"No numbers written as numerals," I countered, and Rom's

face lit up.

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"Written out? Brilliant, brilliant Fitz, that's exactly... No, it's

not," he said, both puzzled and annoyed. "It should be. Each
of these sections is approximately the same length. Which
says that it's a consistent piece of information. That would not
be addresses, but could easily be amounts of money. Damn!"
His gaze traveled over the lines again and again, turning
occasionally to consult the chart showing the shift, and finally
he exclaimed: "Je suis un idiot enormes! They're in French!"

Once we'd cleared that particular hurdle, the rest of the

page was simple enough to decipher and translate. We found
ourselves looking at what appeared to be something like a
contract, though not precisely a contract, nor was it clear
what it was for.

I read it aloud: "'You hold a reminder of a bond you have

made with us and with each other. Should one break the
contract, all will suffer the consequences. Below, the names
of the company and the extent of their involvement.'"

"It would appear that there was more on the bishop's

platter of naughtiness than just children. What had he gotten
involved in?"

"Some financial scheme? With the French?"
Rom shook his head. "That doesn't seem very likely, Fitz.

This is somewhat amateurish for all its trappings of secrecy.
Criminals do not ordinarily operate in this manner. They don't
leave tracks for the police to find, and if someone crosses
them, they take care of it privately, so I think we can
eliminate any organized criminal enterprise. This is different.
These are all people who stand to lose a great deal if seen to
be involved in some illegal or immoral enterprise. Look at the

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list of names; knights, businessmen, even a marquess. The
person who wrote this has something to lose, too, or he
wouldn't be committing even this much information to paper."

"It might not be a criminal enterprise," I reminded him.

"The English love their secret societies and blood bonds."

He laughed. "That they do. In this case money is involved,

and whether it was criminal to begin with, it could have
become so. Though I see no woman's name on this page, so
there's no way of knowing if the murderess was involved in
this."

"The widow of one of the 'company' wreaking her revenge

on the men who ruined her husband?"

Rom stared at me. "What a lurid imagination you have,

Fitz. You were born to be a writer."

"Apparently even my father thinks so. He gave me a

reservoir pen."

"He's proud of you. He's even read those penny dreadfuls.

Be honest, my work has elevated yours, has it not?"

"Oh, shut up."
Romney chuckled. "It's late, and I'm for bed," he

announced. "You may stay up all night inventing plots
involving pirates and the white slave trade if you wish..."

"The Sacred Emerald of MacGherkistan."
That stopped him. "What?"
"That's what this is all about. The Sacred Emerald of

MacGherkistan. And pirates, of course. It's no good without
pirates. All of these men served in MacGherkistan during the
Relish Wars."

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"The Fourth Chutney Regiment of Foot, where they heard

tales of the fabulous Sacred Emerald, as big as a cucumber,"
Romney added.

"They found it, and they stole it." I put the lamp out and

we walked together to the bedroom. "On their way back to
England, one of the company met a beautiful pirate girl
named Sophinisba."

Romney stopped short in the doorway. "Why in the name

of all that's holy would a pirate name his daughter
Sophinisba?"

"I don't know. Pirates are mysterious. I'm surprised you

don't know that."

We lay in bed and spun the story of how Sophinisba, the

lovely pirate girl, murdered the bishop to get the emerald
back.

"Why did she have it in the first place?" Rom asked

sleepily.

"Because her mother, who hasn't appeared in the story

until this very moment, was a high priestess of the Gherkin,
and was foully murdered by minions of the bishop." I had no
idea what I was talking about by then, but I carried on
gamely.

The story grew sillier as we got more and more sleepy, and

finally veered off into a kind of dream world of giant pickles,
naval battles on the Serpentine, and my old retriever, Cassie.

"You must write this," Rom told me just before he dropped

off, and my last thought was that it would be the story that
made my fortune.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Suffer the Little Children

by Tracy Rowan

Three

We slept in the next morning, still shaking off our travel

weariness. After breakfast, we went down to Father's office to
show him what we'd deciphered.

"We wondered what your thoughts might be, Sir Charles."
"How so, Romney?" Father asked as he leafed through the

morning mail.

"Have you ever seen anything like this?"
Father stopped what he was doing and looked up. "Good

heavens, Nicholas, what happened to your hair?"

"Fitz. He took exception to its length last night."
Father stared for a moment and then said, "David,

barbering is not your forte. Now let me see what you have."
He pored over the paper for a few moments before he said,
"There's nothing legal about it; it is not a contract. In fact, it
is perilously close to a suggestion of blackmail, though it
would seem that both the author of the document and the
men named therein have an equal share in the danger. Good
heavens, Lionel Havisham? What has he to do with this?"

"You know him, Father?"
"He was a solicitor. Made a fortune representing

businesses that, well, I always thought too many of them
operated too close to the edges of the law. Retired now. He
once asked me to take one of his briefs, if I remember
correctly, but I didn't."

"Any connection you can think of between Havisham and

Bishop Oliver?"

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"Apart from appearing on this list? Not really, but if I think

of anything, I'll certainly let you know." He glanced down the
list, scowling. "I know a good many of these names by
reputation. I should not like to think of these men being
involved in any sort of criminal enterprise."

"It doesn't seem to make much sense that they would be,"

I said. "I know the names by reputation, too, and they're all
well-to-do; they have no need for illegal schemes to make
more money."

"For some people, there's never enough money," my

father reminded me. "Where do you boys go from here?" he
asked, clearly fascinated by the process.

"I want to look through the bishop's financial records, but I

will need my mother's permission."

"Not necessarily. If Inspector Hopson believes they're

necessary to the case, I feel certain he would agree to a
subpoena should your family prove uncooperative. Perhaps
they won't balk at the idea. It is in their best interests to
cooperate with this investigation, after all. David, ask Miss
Richardson to place a call to Geoffrey Romney at the Oliver
residence."

"They have a telephone?" Rom was clearly startled by the

idea.

Father had had one installed at home, and Mother

complained so bitterly about it that he had it moved into his
study. I remained neutral on the subject. They had their uses.

The call went through fairly quickly. Father leaned forward,

putting a great deal of energy into the task of speaking into
the transmitter rather more slowly and deliberately—and

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substantially more loudly—than he normally did, producing a
sound that was even more startling than his barrister voice,
impossible though that seemed. "Hello! I should like to speak
with Mr. Geoffrey Romney. This is Sir Charles Malvern
speaking. Sir. Charles. Malvern," he repeated. "Yes. Yes, I
shall wait."

"Any louder, Father, and you might as well be shouting out

the window to him."

Rom chuckled. "They won't always be so cumbersome,

Fitz. I say, Sir Charles, may I speak with Geoff when you're
finished?"

"Of course," he said in his perfectly normal voice, only to

switch back a second later to his loud and rather frightening
telephone voice. "Yes, is this Mr. Geoffrey Romney? Sir
Charles Malvern here. Can you hear me?" Pause. "Yes, I can
hear you quite clearly. Mr. Romney, I am calling to ask if we
might have access to the financial records of Bishop Oliver.
Yes, this is in aid of solving the murder, yes. I see. Might you
contact his solicitor, then? Or shall I? Excellent, thank you,
Mr. Romney. I have your brother, Mr. Nicholas Romney, here
with me in my office. He wishes to speak with you." Pause.
"Yes, he is here in London. Shall you speak with him? Very
well, I will now relinquish the transmitter to Mr. Nicholas." He
gestured to Rom, who took his place at the transmitter.

"Geoff! Yes, we're back in London. How is Mother? And

Suzannah? And William, how is he? Yes, Geoffrey, I do care
or I would not have asked. Yes. Yes, I do understand.
Nevertheless it was a foolish thing to do, Geoff. No, foolish.
You must keep him from saying any more, do you

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understand?" There was a long pause, during which Rom's
face took on the blank look he used to cover difficult
emotions. "Yes, I shall come to the house soon. I must speak
with the servants. No, the servants, Geoffrey!" he shouted.
He rolled his eyes. "No, Geoff, there will be time enough once
I have proven William's innocence. No, Geoffrey. Please at
least try to..." He gave a huff of impatience and then began
to rub his hand over the mouthpiece and shout, "What's that?
I can't hear you. The line has a great deal of interference
suddenly. I shall have to hang up. Good-bye, Geoff."

He broke the connection and laid his head down on the

desk with a huge sigh. "Preserve me from my family," he said
to the blotter.

Father patted his shoulder. "We'll take care of obtaining

the records, Romney. You do whatever else needs doing."

"Thank you for all your help, Sir Charles. Unfortunately, I

now have to sneak around to the servants' entrance of the
house to try to get information without encountering my
family. Luckily they're awful snobs and never go below stairs.
Come on, Fitz, let's be spies."

Father cleared his throat and we both stopped in our

tracks. "Nick, come and sit down for a moment first, will
you?"

We went back to the desk and sat. Nick didn't look too

happy.

"Nicholas, I think you know that I am fond of you and

happy to have you as a member of the family. For that reason
alone, I feel that I may be excused for giving you unasked-for
advice about your own family."

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"I know what you're going to say, Sir Charles, and I..."
"Then do me the courtesy of allowing me to say it, and

we'll be done with it. I agree that you have reason to resent
and even dislike members of your family. That your
stepfather was allowed to interfere with you and your brother
is nothing short of a sin in my eyes, and I heartily wish there
was some way to force some legal redress for your suffering.
But there is none, Nicholas. That is a fact we all must face.

"However," he continued, "there is a greater issue here,

and that is the one of your chosen profession. Will you truly
allow your feelings to interfere with your responsibility to
uncover the truth? Will you allow your avoidance to
compromise your work?"

Rom looked as if he'd been hit with a ton of bricks, rather

the way I always felt when Father lectured me without ever
raising his voice. "No, sir," he said in a barely audible voice. I
don't believe I had ever seen him cowed before.

"Then I would suggest that you make your family your first

priority today. Get the information you need, then speak to
the servants. I shall do what needs doing on this end."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, Sir Charles." Romney bolted out of

his chair and for the door.

As we were on our way out, Father called, "Come to

dinner, and I'll have your information for you."

There was a long silence between us as we went by cab to

the Oliver house. Finally, Romney remarked, "Your father is a
good man. You're a fortunate son."

I found it impossible to tell him how my natural gratitude

for the affection of my father had been increased a thousand-

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fold by the revelations about Romney's stepfather. How can
you say to the one you love, "I am so lucky not to have had a
life like yours?" I settled for observing that I hoped with all
my heart that I deserved both my father and my mother.
"And you," I added.

Rom's lips quirked up at the corners a little. "I can't speak

for your worthiness with regard to Sir Charles and Lady
Sarah, for I consider them to be exemplary in all things, but I
promise you that you deserve to be loved, and I'm the man to
do it."

I found it impossible to stop smiling.
Once we'd reached the house, an imposing white Georgian

in Kensington, Rom took a deep breath and rang the bell. To
the servant who answered, he said "Nicholas Romney to see
Geoffrey Romney." The girl's eyes widened. "Please come in,
gentlemen," she said, and scurried off, leaving us waiting in
the vast hallway. A minute later, the butler arrived.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I apologize for the girl, she is new.

May I ask who is calling?"

"My name is Nicholas Romney. I'm here to see Geoffrey,

my brother, or some other member of the family. If it's not
too much trouble," he added with more than a bit of
archness. Clearly the place was already having a negative
effect on his state of mind.

"Not at all, sir, let me show you to the drawing room,

and..."

"I do know the way, thank you. I used to live here." He

stalked off and I followed, thinking that if it hadn't all been so
deadly serious, it might have been amusing.

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"My God, I'd forgotten how ugly this place is. I apologize

for my family's lack of taste, Fitz, and I feel like breaking
something expensive," Rom said as he paced around the
ornate, claustrophobically crowded room. "I wonder if they'd
miss this ormolu urn." He pushed the urn slowly toward the
edge of the mantel until I pulled him away from it.

"Stop that!"
"You're right. Shame on me."
"Shame on you for what?" someone asked. I turned to face

a tall, fair-haired man of middle years. "What are you up to?"

"Smashing the crockery. Hullo, Geoff. Good God, you've

gotten old."

"Nick. I didn't think we'd see you here. It's been a long

time. What's wrong with your hair? Can't you afford a decent
barber? You're dressed like a costermonger."

"It hasn't been nearly long enough for me, Geoff, but Sir

Charles convinced me that it would be a mistake not to
interrogate you all." Nick flung himself into a chair and
stretched his legs out. "Where's Mother? Out shopping?"

As I realized that Nicholas wasn't about to introduce me, I

did the job myself. "I'm David Malvern, Sir Charles' son."

"Nicholas has no manners. Pleasure to meet you, Malvern.

Your father has been a great help to us."

"So why did Will confess? Has he told you?"
Geoffrey looked rather pointedly at me instead of Rom and

said, "His reasons are deeply personal." I think he meant it to
be solemn, but he did it so badly that Nick laughed and I had
to bite my lip to keep from being rude myself.

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"Oh, you mean because he's finding it hard to live with

himself after having lied about Ollie buggering the both of
us?"

Geoffrey went purple. "Nicholas!"
"No faux delicacy, please. Fitz here knows all about it. So

does Sir Charles, for that matter, so you needn't pretend you
don't. The way you did when it might have made a difference
to us both," Rom added. "Is he here?"

"He's in the solarium with Mother."
"Punishment enough," Rom muttered. "I'll need to speak

with them both. Tell me, does she still believe I was lying
about The Buggering Bishop?"

"I wouldn't know," Geoff said, stiffly, avoiding my eyes.

Then he seemed to deflate. "I don't know what she knows or
believes anymore. She's quite changed."

That seemed to bring Nick up short. "How so?"
"I believe her mind might be going. She has become even

more detached from the realities of life than when you were
at home. You know she left him nearly a year ago and went
off to live with friends, telling everyone she was a widow?"

"I'd heard as much. I assumed she'd just done it to get his

attention."

"When did you get to be so cynical, Nicholas?"
"I'd guess it was the day I found myself bent over that big

desk in his office with my pants around my ankles."

"Just shut up about it!" Geoffrey shouted, clenching his

fists.

"Or what? You'll thrash me? You're welcome to try, Geoff.

In fact I wish you would, because I would enjoy beating you

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senseless. Now, let's go talk to Will and—God help us all—
Mother."

I hung back. I wasn't sure I would be welcome or that I

even wanted to hear that interview, but Nick turned around at
the door and said, "You're coming, Fitzhugh!" Crossing him at
that moment didn't seem like a good idea.

Geoffrey let Nick lead the way and dropped back to speak

to me. "Malvern, I apologize for that scene. My brother has
always been highly strung. I hope that his attitude will not
deter Sir Charles from taking this case."

It was the absolute wrong thing to say. No one apologizes

for Nick in my presence. No one. "Romney, I know Nicholas
better than you ever will. Sir Charles and I are involved in
this case for his sake, not his family's, so you needn't try to
make me an ally by belittling him." I strode ahead and caught
up to Nick as he entered the solarium.

It was difficult for me to look at anyone but Nicholas, so

strong were my feelings against the others assembled there.
What I did see was a terrible study in contrasts, with the
bishop's widow sitting in a shaft of sunlight. Beside her, a
large blue-and-white Chinese urn held a climbing rose that
was the same pale blush as her cheeks. She looked startlingly
youthful in spite of her silver-gilt hair and the black crepe of
deepest mourning. Her blue eyes were clear and her skin as
perfect and translucent as a girl's. Except for his coloring,
Nick was the image of his mother.

By contrast, William was a tall, thin, nervous man with

prematurely gray hair and dark-circled eyes. Like Geoffrey, he
was generally unremarkable unless one considered that he

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was, at thirty-five, only five years older than Nick, but looked
older than Geoffrey, his elder by seven years.

Nick didn't mince words with them, but that was no

surprise. "What sort of an idiot are you, William? Confessing
to a murder you couldn't have committed. Do you realize how
much more difficult you've made this whole situation?"

William stood up and stuck his chin out. "I did do it!" he

insisted. "I did kill him and I'd do it again."

"No, you didn't. Sit down," Nick barked, and William sat

like a good dog. There wasn't much fight in him. "This would
all have been simpler if you'd just kept your mouth shut. Now
all the suspicion will fall on Mother." He turned to his mother
and said, "I don't suppose you did it, did you?"

"Did what, Nicholas?" As Geoffrey had indicated, there was

an oddly detached quality about her, as if she didn't
remember that it had been fifteen years since she'd seen her
youngest child.

"Murder your husband?"
"Goodness, no. Why would I do that?"
"Because he molested your sons, for one thing."
"Nonsense. Don't start that business all over again,

Nicholas. Geoffrey, the bishop never bothered you, did he?"

"No, he didn't, but..."
"William? You have no complaints about your stepfather, I

trust?"

William just stared at her. "I killed him," he repeated,

though with rather less conviction than the first time.

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"Nonsense," she said again, and bent to sniff the rose that

bloomed beside her. She seemed composed and vacant, a
beautiful facade, nothing more.

"For once I agree with Mother," Nick said. "That's

nonsense. Will, come with me. You and I need to have a little
talk. Fitz, come on. Not you, Geoff. Stay and keep Mother out
of trouble." He led us out into the garden, onto a path choked
with fallen leaves and hemmed in by boxwood.

"Will, why did you confess? We all know you couldn't have

done it. Were you afraid that Mother had?"

William went pale but said nothing.
"That's it, isn't it? You think she killed him. Unfortunately,

the bulk of the evidence does point to a woman's hand. If
you'd kept your mouth shut, we might have skirted that issue
long enough to find the killer, but as it stands now, you've
implicated her by your transparent confession. I can't believe
you care enough about her to be willing to swing for her."

"I don't. Care for her, that is."
Nick sighed. "It's that way, is it? Nothing left?"
William sat down beside a sluggish fountain filled with

algae and leaves. "I never told you how sorry I was for lying,
Nick. I was glad when it was you and not me. Now the
memories are eating me alive."

Nick sat down beside his brother. I could tell that he was

trying to be as comforting as he could, but I could also see
that he couldn't even bring himself to touch William. "You
can't let them. That's letting the bastard win, and I will not let
him do that to either of us. Now you're going to recant your

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confession. If they ask, just say you did it because... Fitz,
help me here."

"Diminished capacity," I suggested. Privately, I thought it

wasn't far from the truth. In his own way, William was as
empty as their mother.

"That's good. Diminished capacity. It means you weren't in

your right mind at the time of your confession, which you
weren't, so it's good enough."

"I was in my right mind."
"William, you haven't been in your right mind for years.

Believe me when I tell you that if you prove uncooperative,
I'd have no trouble telling the world what Ollie did to both of
us, so you might want to consider doing as I say."

William grew even paler, and he held up a hand as if to

hold Rom off. "I'll do as you say, but what about Mother?"

"She'll be fine. You leave it all to us."
"We none of us deserve saving, Nicky. Only you. You're

the only brave one among us. We should all be punished..."

Nick made a face. "Look, if you'd be happier if I beat you

senseless, wait until I finish this investigation and I'll oblige.
Or you can go confess your real sins to someone who cares. I
just want to be sure you don't meddle any further."

William nodded. "I shall recant my confession and not

involve myself further."

"Good, now let me go speak with Mother."
We went back into the solarium where a serenely

composed Mrs. Oliver sat reading while Geoffrey paced. She
looked up and smiled prettily. "Are you boys back already?
Did you enjoy your walk?"

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Nick sighed again and sat down beside her. He took the

book out of her hands and laid it on the bench. "Mother, you
and I need to talk, and you must pay attention."

"Of course, Nicholas."
"You do know that your husband, Bishop Oliver, was

murdered, do you not?"

"Yes, dear."
"He was murdered by a woman."
"Was he?" My father might have seen something in her

face to belie her calm, but I saw only mild surprise and a lack
of concern that suggested that the bishop's widow didn't
begin to appreciate what was happening.

"I'm afraid that people will think that woman was you.

Please don't say it's nonsense."

"Now why would they think that?" She didn't have to say it

was nonsense, her tone managed to convey the idea quite
clearly. I began to understand how she could drive someone
as pragmatic and sensible as Nick to want to tear his hair out.
She was already irritating me, and I hadn't nearly so orderly
a mind as he.

"Circumstantial evidence points to that possibility, and as

you'd left him and set up as a widow somewhere else, you
would appear to have some sort of motive to wish him ill."

"I did," she said.
"Oh God," Geoffrey muttered.
"Why did you wish him ill, Mother?"
"He was unkind to me. Would you boys like some tea? I'll

have some sent up."

"No, thank you. In what way was he unkind to you?"

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"He raised his voice to me and struck me."
"Why did you not tell us, Mother?" Geoffrey demanded.

"I'd have turned the bounder out of this house."

"I wanted to handle it in my own way. Believe me, he

understood that I was not to be trifled with again. I knew he
would come around eventually. Are you sure you won't have
some tea? Cook has made an excellent orange cake."

"Not right now, thank you." Nicholas caught hold of her

chin and turned her face first to the right, then the left,
brushing the hair back as he studied her. "So it was not so
much that you wished him ill, but that you wanted him to see
the error of his ways, is that it?"

"I suppose that is what I mean. Nicholas, you're so clever.

I always said you were the cleverest of my children and the
most trouble."

"Thank you so much," he said dryly. "I need to speak to

Geoff for a moment."

"Of course."
Nick got up and caught hold of his brother's arm. "Geoff,

you need to pay attention to what I am going to tell you now
and do exactly as I say. I feel certain that the police will want
to interview Mother. When that happens, you must call Sir
Charles and have someone here to represent the family's
legal interests. Do not speak to anyone until there is a legal
representative with you. She must not say that she wished ill
upon her husband. She must make it clear that she left here
because he had behaved badly toward her and raised his
voice. Do not volunteer the information that he struck her,

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but do not lie if they ask. You must hold your temper. If you
feel you cannot, leave the room. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, of course, but..."
"There are no buts in this case, Geoff. Once Will recants,

suspicion will fall directly upon Mother and for good reason. I
cannot stop it from happening, though I will try my best to
find the true murderer quickly. You're going to pay Sir Charles
a good deal of money to represent the family's interests, so
make use of him."

Geoffrey looked annoyed, but he nodded. "All right, I'm

putting my trust in you, Nick."

"And you'll say what?"
"That it was a family disagreement that got blown out of

proportion by Mother."

"Good." He turned. "Will, recant. Mother, you never wished

your husband ill. Do you both understand?"

William nodded, and their mother said "Not really,

Nicholas. But if you think it's important..." Her voice trailed
away and she resumed her reading. Nick rubbed the bridge of
his nose as if he had a headache.

"Now I need to interview the servants. I need to know

what Ollie's habits and schedule were like. Come down with
us, Geoff, and make the introductions."

Geoffrey took us below stairs and formally introduced us to

the butler, Mr. Justice, explaining that we were working with
Sir Charles Malvern to solve the murder of the bishop. The
staff, he said, was to give us their full cooperation.

Within fifteen minutes, Mr. Justice had organized the staff

in the common room, and I had amassed a list of facts about

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Bishop Oliver. He was austere and regular in his habits, rising
each morning at six, engaging in vigorous exercise for half an
hour before bathing and having a breakfast of one soft-boiled
egg, two slices of dry toast, and a cup of tea. He spent the
morning visiting the parishes within his diocese, each one on
its particular day. He returned promptly at one for his dinner,
which was meat or fish with two vegetables. Though he liked
his sweets, he ate dessert only on Sundays when he expected
the cook to produce something special. From two to five he
attended to parish business, and from five to six he napped.
One day a month, he reported to the diocesan bishop, having
been himself a suffragan, or assistant bishop for the diocese
of London, thus answerable to the Bishop of London for the
Kensington area.

Bishop Oliver usually combined his tea and dinner, eating

promptly at six thirty, and always a light meal of a sandwich
of leftover meat and some fruit. He did not indulge in alcohol
at home unless he had a visitor, and then he would join them
in a glass of sherry or brandy. Three nights a week—Monday,
Wednesday, and Friday—he would return to the church of St.
Thomas a Beckett to work there between the hours of eight
and eleven. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays he went
to his club, keeping the same hours. On Sunday, he spent the
evening at home in his study, reading. He retired at midnight.
Since Mrs. Oliver had gone on an extended visit to relatives,
none of their friends had visited the house.

Though it was not said, the impression was given that

Bishop Oliver had no friends of his own, but had relied upon
his wife to arrange a social life beyond the demands of the

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church. Curious about the extent of those demands, I asked,
"What about other churchmen and their wives? The deacons
and archdeacons, for example."

"No, sir, not since Mrs. Oliver's departure."
"And before that?"
"There were occasional gatherings."
"As many as you would expect from such a community?" I

asked, pressing the point.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, sir. There were

occasional church-related gatherings while Mrs. Oliver was at
home, though none in her absence."

"We'll need to speak to the coachman," Romney said. "His

name?"

"Miller, sir. I'll send someone to fetch him."
"Don't bother, Mr. Justice, I know where the coach house

is. We'll find him."

The butler clearly didn't like being left out of the

conversation Rom was going to have with the coachman, but
he saw us to the door and asked, "Will there be anything else,
sir, or may I dismiss the staff now?"

"By all means, Mr. Justice, they may be released to attend

to their duties. I have no further questions at this time."

The door shut behind us, perhaps a bit more emphatically

than was necessary.

"Extended visit to relatives?" I asked with a laugh.
"We do love our euphemisms. Besides, Madam is back in

residence. It wouldn't pay to suggest that she deserted him
now that she pays their salaries. What was all that about
church gatherings?"

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"I'll explain later, after we speak with Miller. Hallooo," I

called from the door of the coach house. A head appeared
from behind an elegant brougham. "Yes?"

"You would be the Oliver's coachman, Miller?"
The man emerged, wiping his hands on a rag. "Yes, and

who would you be?"

Rom introduced himself and explained that he and I were

working with Sir Charles and the police. The man nodded.
"What d'you need to know?"

"His habits. We understand from speaking with the family

and staff up at the house that Bishop Oliver was a man of
regular habits."

"Admirably so, yes. In fact, you could set your watch by

his schedule."

"Indeed. I'm told that mornings were occupied with parish

visits. Six days a week?"

"Yes. On Sundays we went directly to the church."
"Once a month he visited the diocesan bishop, is that

correct?"

"Yes, usually the last Thursday of each month." I noted

that on my pad.

"Afternoons he spent at home."
"Yes, as far as I know. Mind, I used to take Mrs. Oliver

around to pay calls or to shop in the afternoons, so I couldn't
say for sure that he never left the house, but he never left it
with me. Since she went away, I'd say I'm about ninety-nine
percent certain that he was always home of an afternoon."

"His evenings were spent either at the church or his club,

is that correct?"

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Miller nodded. "Three nights at the church, three at his

club. And on the seventh, he rested." I wasn't sure if Miller
was trying to be funny or not, so I wrote down what he said
and tried to keep a straight face. Rom apparently had no
trouble figuring it out at all because he chuckled.

"Very good, Miller, very amusing. Now you say you could

set a watch by his comings and goings. Do you think you
would be able to recount them?"

"Of course, sir." Miller then began to rattle off the bishop's

regular comings and goings so quickly that Rom held up his
hand.

"You're going too quickly for Mr. Malvern here." I was

about to protest, but Rom then said, "Why don't you give us
the account starting with Sunday evening and going
backward?"

Miller frowned at him for a moment, then shrugged, and

launched into a recounting of the Bishop's schedule in
reverse. It was identical to what Mr. Justice and the rest of
the staff had told us. "The only time his schedule changed at
all was sometimes when he was working at the church, and
then he might be a bit late."

"How late?"
Miller considered. "To the best of my recollection, never

more than half an hour."

"So you didn't think it was odd when he didn't appear at

precisely eleven on the night of his murder?"

"No."
"When did you start to think it odd?"

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"Around midnight. I didn't want to disturb him, though; I'd

done it once and gotten the rough edge of his tongue for it.
Anyway, he kept the outer door locked, so I couldn't have
gone in that way. I just waited."

"When did you finally decide to check on him?"
"I know it sounds a bit daft, but I waited until almost one.

I'd have waited all night except I knew Mr. Justice would be
waiting up, and I'd catch hell from him if I didn't check soon.
With Mr. Justice there's no forgive and forget, if you get my
meaning. So I decided to take my chances with the bishop. I
went in by the front entrance, found the sexton, and we went
up together, as you probably already know."

"Yes, I've heard as much from Inspector Hopson, who

interviewed the sexton. Now, when did you arrive at the
church that night?"

"Quarter of the hour as usual. I liked to be there waiting

when he came out."

"You saw no one else leave?"
"No."
"Well, then, I think we have all the information we need.

Thank you, Miller. We appreciate your cooperation. We'll be in
touch if there's anything else."

"Righty-oh," he replied, and went back to the brougham.
"Not much to go on," I observed. "Why on earth did you

have him recite all that backward? Or at all, really, since we
had the account from the house servants?"

"To confirm what the staff had told us, and to eliminate the

possibility that there had been some coaching going on by Mr.
Justice."

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"How do you mean?"
"If he had memorized that information, telling his story

backward would have confused him. But the story was sound,
so we have a trustworthy picture of Bishop Oliver's habits."

"What now?"
"Now we go to his club, The Cadogan. It's just off Sloane

Square. I want to look around the area a bit, get a feel for it.
Let's walk; we could both use the exercise."

It was a beautiful autumn afternoon, flooded with golden

sunlight and cooled by a light breeze. As we walked, we fell to
talking about the case and what we'd learned. "Rom, what
was that business with your mother's face?"

"When she said he'd struck her, I was reminded that the

photos I saw of his body showed that the knuckles of his right
hand were abraded, or at least it looked as if they were. I'd
gone back to check them after we viewed the scene because
there was a possibility that he had struck the woman who
killed him. Had it been my mother, she would still have had
some trace of bruising on her face or throat, and I saw none
at all. I'm going to ask Hopson to send a photographer
around to document that fact. Just as an added bit of
insurance."

"So you're certain she didn't murder him?"
"The possibility exists, certainly, but the probability is very

low, Fitz. It is not the sort of thing she would do. You heard
her explain how her grand gesture of leaving and living as a
widow was to make him feel guilty for having shouted at and
struck her. That is her style. I wish she hadn't pretended to
be a widow, though. That makes it all so much more difficult.

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Now tell me why you were pressing Justice about church
society."

"It may be nothing, but as you know, I have an uncle who

is an archdeacon in Shropshire, and while I recognize that
things may be different here in the city, I doubt they'd be
tremendously so. It's a close-knit community in the church.
Mr. Justice gave the impression that there was very little
church-related social activity in the Olivers' home, and that
doesn't seem right to me. Your mother would have been
expected to be a hostess to the wives of the clergy serving
under the bishop, but even after her departure, there should
have been regular gatherings, if only a monthly tea of a
Sunday afternoon. He would have elevated their housekeeper
to the position of hostess if need be, but entertaining the
deacons and archdeacons under your authority is the done
thing. If Bishop Oliver did have ambitions, as you said, then it
would have been even more important for them to have a
strong social presence in the community. Yet, there seems to
be no evidence of it." It suddenly occurred to me where I'd
failed to follow up my line of questioning. "Damn, I should
have asked Miller if your mother often attended church-
related activities outside the home or if she did charity work. I
fear I'll never get to be good at this detective business."

"What's your point, Davy?"
"That it's possible your mother and stepfather were being

sent to Coventry by the clergy and their families, albeit in a
delicate manner."

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100

"Ostracized? Oh wait, you mean you think that the clergy

knew, or at least suspected that the bishop was engaging in
pederasty?"

"Or something that they wanted no part of. It's impossible

to know for sure what the problem was, always assuming
there was one. It could have been a personality clash or just
Mr. Justice not being very forthcoming. What he told us
sounded wrong to me. It all points to the community having
the bare minimum of contact with the Olivers. That sounds
like some dirty little secret to me, but perhaps that's just my
lurid imagination at work."

Rom grinned. "I love your lurid imagination. It's most

useful. I hadn't thought about that aspect of their society.
Now I think about it, there used to be a great many
gatherings at the house in the early years of their marriage,
particularly church-related ones, but of course Mr. Justice
wouldn't have known that because he wasn't in their service
at that time. Well done, Fitz!"

"Thank you! High praise. I find it disturbing to think that

they knew, or thought they knew, something that damning
and did nothing about it."

"With that one, admittedly important exception, Bishop

Oliver was a very dull man," Rom reminded me. "He hardly
seems to be the stuff of which criminals are made. His time is
utterly accounted for, so unless the servants know something
they're not saying, I don't see how he had the time for any
other sort of criminal activity. That's also why I think the
money and that cryptic note we deciphered is in some way
related to his pederasty.

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101

"However," he continued, "ask yourself if he remained at

his club on those nights."

"What do you mean?"
"It's all too perfect, Fitz, don't you think? Three nights a

week from eight to eleven at the church, three nights at the
club. Something is missing. I doubt we'll find it at the church,
but I'm thinking we might find the missing piece at The
Cadogan. Nowhere else would he have had the same freedom
to come and go as he pleased, so long as he met his carriage
at eleven."

"What about the staff at the club?"
"They would have been beneath his notice."
"Oh, come now."
"What was the name of the under-housemaid at your

parents' home before you left?"

"How would I remember that?"
"What did she look like?"
I couldn't recall that either, so I scowled at Romney. "I

was young."

"Your father knows because he's a barrister and has an

eye for detail and an excellent memory. I would guess that
your mother knows because she is not only a thoughtful
woman but one who pays a great deal of attention to the
running of the house. Your brother and sister will not know.
Caro will know her own servants, up to a point, and Edward
will know none of his except for the butler and his man, and
perhaps the housekeeper. My mother would know her
housekeeper, Mr. Justice, and Miller, though the latter she
might not know by name. This is the way our society works,

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Fitz. Servants are virtually invisible. Ah, and I see we have
found The Cadogan."

It annoyed me that he was right.
"Are we not going in?" I asked as he began to stroll down

the street, looking each building up and down.

"Not yet. The bishop was a regular in the evenings when

there would be a wholly different staff on duty. We'll come
back tomorrow, Saturday being one of his regular nights.
Right now I want to get the feel of the area."

"Why?"
"Nothing firm yet. Once we speak to the doorman at the

club and the desk clerk, I'll know enough to proceed. Until
then, shall we have a stroll, build up an appetite for dinner as
long as your parents are providing it?"

The autumn afternoon was cool and sunny, so loitering

was a pleasure. We walked up and down the streets of
Kensington and Knightsbridge, Romney taking everything in,
occasionally passing a comment on a particularly good (or
bad) bit of architecture. We loitered for almost an hour
outside a fashionable modiste. Though he never made it
obvious, I've known Romney long enough to know when he's
observing without seeming to observe. He was watching what
appeared to be a private residence across the street. He
chatted with me, joked, laughed, and never missed a thing
going on there.

"Observe, Fitz," he said eventually. "Number twenty-

seven. It's a brothel."

"Is it?" I swung 'round and stared, and he barked with

laughter.

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"Don't stare so, Fitz!" He caught hold of my arm and pulled

me down the street. "There are several around here, I'll
wager. That one is expensive. The girls are quite beautiful
and very well dressed."

"How do you know that?"
"I saw several come out. One even crossed directly in front

of us, didn't you notice?" I was embarrassed to admit that I
had not, but then women, even beautiful ones, rarely
registered with me. "She went into the modiste's
establishment and is in there still. I expect that this shop
opened because of the brothel trade." His brow furrowed for a
moment, then he said, "Fitz, make a note in that book of
yours to tell Hopson about this place to look for Chantilly
lace."

I made the note and asked, "Do you think they'll find the

same lace?"

"Instinct tells me no, but instinct will not provide evidence.

That would be legwork."

We walked up to Hyde Park, stopping once or twice to

observe some establishment or other. "Are you going to share
anything?" I asked as we sat beside the Serpentine and
watched the sun grow low in the sky. It would soon be winter.

"Only that we passed three houses of ill-fame on our walk.

To my certain knowledge, that is. There might have been
more that I missed."

"I don't believe that. Not up here."
"This is the perfect place for an expensive and discreet

establishment. Gentlemen do not pick up women on the
street. Well, most don't," he amended. "Unless they have a

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taste for the gutter, they want their indiscretions to remain
discreet."

"What has this to do with the bishop, though?"
He sighed. "Perhaps nothing, but there is a missing piece,

I'm certain of it. My intuition tells me as much, and I have
learned to trust it almost as much as I trust you."

I was idiotically pleased, but tried not to show it. "So you

suspect that at some point, he left his club and made his way
to one of these brothels. I thought you said that he was not
interested in women."

"He wasn't. Nor men."
It took me a moment to understand, so enormous was the

meaning. "Dear God, Rom, you don't mean that somewhere
around here..." I could not bring myself to say it.

"It stands to reason. There will always be gentlemen who

wish to engage in that sort of activity. Some aren't even
particular about age as much as they are adamant about
having a virgin. Intact girls are at a premium in London."

I didn't begin to understand. "Why?"
"They're clean; they have no unfortunate diseases. That

for one reason quite apart from age. And then there is, I am
told, a certain cachet to being first."

I could not help but consider that so many members of my

own sex were vile beyond the telling of it. "Rom, I do not like
this case. We should go back to Paris, drink champagne, and
let the memory of Bishop Oliver fade into oblivion."

"Allow my mother to hang for a crime she didn't commit?

Or perhaps my brother, for he did confess, after all, and
politically motivated convictions are not unknown."

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I was shocked and outraged. I could hardly believe it

possible and said so.

"Oh, it happens, Fitz. Do you recall that case of the bank

clerk who was imprisoned a few years ago for embezzling
funds from an MP's account?"

"Of course."
"The clerk had nothing to do with the theft. It was the

bank manager who took the funds. He passed them on to the
MP's opponent in the general election that year. The man won
and kept the manager out of prison by pushing through the
prosecution of one of the clerks for the crime."

"I don't believe that!"
"You don't have to. It's the truth whether you will or no.

Unfortunately, no one can prove it now." He patted my
shoulder. "I'm sorry, Fitz, I know you want to believe well of
people. Let's catch a cab. We have just enough time to get to
your parents' house for dinner."

Along the way, he expressed his concerns about his

mother. "We've established enough evidence that the bishop
was killed by a woman that William may go free, but
suspicion will then fall directly upon Mother. With the church
pressing for a quick resolution, she may become the victim
here." He frowned. "If I have to, I will present his bishop with
the evidence of his pederasty and promise to give the story to
the press if they continue to meddle."

I did not say that I would be hard-pressed to weep for her

in that case. I did not much care if William ended up in
prison, either. Neither of them had done their duty and
protected Romney from the bishop's foul attentions. This was

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what he felt he needed to do, and I? I was there to support
him.

My parents had begun eating by the time we arrived, and I

was shocked to see my father sitting at the table, poring over
a stack of papers as he ate. It was a cardinal rule of the
house that work and family meals were not to be combined.
Mother noted my surprise.

"He gave me a choice. We could skip the opera, which

means missing the last performance of 'Lamentations of
Jerimiah' at the Theatre Royal, allow one of Nick's relatives to
go to prison... Hullo, darling," she said, kissing his cheek. "Or
I could allow him to work through dinner."

"You see what her priorities are," Father said, without

looking up from his papers.

"Is it Lely?" I asked, and they both nodded, though my

mother's nod was more enthusiastic.

"And La Tempesta," she added. "Of whom one has heard,

but never before had the opportunity to see on the stage."

"Oh, that's right, she's that French woman everyone

speaks of so highly," Nick added as he sat down on Father's
left. "Hullo, sir. Is that the information we asked for?"

"Indeed it is, and there is a great deal of it."
"Odious man," my mother said. "Come and talk to me,

darling, while they put their heads together. I should not like
the fate of one of Nick's family on my conscience."

"Silly woman," my father replied. Nick grinned at me.
"Now you must come along with us tonight," Mother

insisted. I looked to Nick for help, but he shrugged.

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"I wouldn't mind. We can't go to The Cadogan until

tomorrow. We've been told that the bishop only ever went
there on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday evenings, and I'd
prefer to go when there's a greater likelihood of speaking with
people who knew him well. As far as I'm concerned, once Sir
Charles and I look over these papers, we're free for the
evening."

So instead of going home after dinner and engaging in

some sport with Nick, I found myself sitting in my parents'
box at the Theater Royal, listening to Durward Lely and La
Tempesta. I don't mean to imply that it was a bad
performance, but I'd rather have been home and in bed than
watching my mother watch Lely.

"I'm thinking of challenging the man to a duel," Father

muttered as the lights went on for the first interval.

"Charles, do behave. Oh, look, it's Lady Starkley!" Mother

nodded to the woman in the next box, and Father rose to
greet her.

"Sir Charles, Lady Malvern, how good it is to see you

again." She was superbly beautiful in spite of wearing a bit
too much makeup, with dark auburn hair done up in a simple
twist and held in place with diamond pins. She wore a gown
of shimmering silver-gray silk lavishly ruched at the neckline
and sewn with seed pearls, all very much ahead of the
London fashions. She wore a collar of diamonds that
encrusted her long neck and could have paid for the entire
opera production with money left over, and a pair of diamond
teardrop earrings. By comparison, most of the other women
in the theater looked a bit frumpy and over-dressed. I was

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proud, though, that my mother's understated tobacco-colored
silk gown and topaz-and-diamond necklace set her apart from
the crowd as well. "Who are these handsome lads?" Lady
Starkley spoke precisely, but with a hint of a French accent.

"Our son, David, and his friend, Nicholas. They have

recently returned from Paris."

"Paris! How wonderful for you both. It's a magnificent

city."

"Bien sur, Madame. Paris est votre lieu de naissance?"

Rom asked.

"No, but you are close, M'sieu Nicholas. I was born near

Beauvais, but spent my youth in Paris. David, has your
mother pressed you into service yet for our charity?"

"Not yet, Madame, but I feel certain that it is only a matter

of time."

She laughed. "Your mother wears a velvet glove, but her

hand is iron."

Father's smile became just a bit less genuine. He disliked

even the appearance of criticism when it came to Mother.

"Nevertheless," Lady Starkley continued, "I have reason to

be grateful to her for pressing me into service. The work we
do with the poor has been so enriching."

"Oh, my dear, I am just so grateful to you for your help,"

Mother replied.

They chatted for a few minutes, and then Lady Starkley

said, "Will you excuse me? I saw an old friend on the way in
to the theater and promised to visit her box during the
interval." She took her leave with a rustle of silk.

"Have I met her before?" I asked.

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Mother shook her head. "I only got to know her a year or

two after you left home. Though, of course, you may have
seen her at the theater or opera."

"I do not like that woman." Father had taken his seat and

was looking through the program, but Mother was staring at
him. "What?"

"You don't need to like her, but I appreciate the work she

has done for our charity. Aren't you going to get me some
champagne?"

"Good heavens, you silly woman, send the boys."
"Odious man. Davy, Nick, would you mind terribly?"
"I was just about to offer," Nick said. "Come on, old man,

let's fetch some refreshments."

On the way to the bar, Nick observed, "We always seem to

meet some acquaintance of your family's here, don't we?"

I knew the meeting he was thinking of.

* * * *

La Traviata; that was the opera we'd gone to see. Father

had invited us along, but at the last minute he and Mother
had begged off, so we found ourselves alone in their box,
playing the well-heeled young men about town. During the
interval, we got up to stretch our legs. Romney offered to go
fetch a couple of glasses of champagne, and I lit a cigarette.
As I stood there, watching the quality milling about and
making small talk about almost everything but the opera, I
heard someone say, "David Malvern!"

"Sir James!"

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"I never expected to see you here, though I thought

perhaps your parents..."

"Mother felt unwell, and Father doesn't generally come out

to the opera without her. He's more devoted to verdicts than
Verdi."

Sir James—a solicitor and an old friend of the family—

chuckled. "He always did enjoy his work too much. Give them
both my best when you speak to them. What have you been
up to, young man? It's been far too long since I saw you."

"I tried the law, sir, but it wasn't for me. I haven't the

head for it."

"No, neither does young Jamie. He takes after his mother."
"How is Lady Cavender?"
"She took the twins and decamped for Italy and says she

will be there through the winter. I am already missing her."

"I know how lost Father would be if my mother were to do

the same. A few days of freedom he might enjoy," I confided,
"but hardly an entire season, in spite of him always calling
her 'silly woman' or 'confounded woman.'"

"Hah, yes! I always thought it covered a deep and abiding

affection on his part."

I nodded. "They are devoted to each other."
Just then, Romney returned with our wine. Before I could

make the introductions, Sir James went pale, uttered "Good
lord," and hurried off.

"What on earth was that about?" I wondered aloud.
Rom took my arm and steered me back into the box. "I'll

tell you later."

"You know Sir James?" I asked.

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"Later, Davy."
"I think not. What is this about?"
"How do you know him?" he asked.
"Our families are close. What is this about?"
"Then this is going to be awkward. Do you recall my telling

you that there was a time in my life when honest work
seemed impossible to come by, and I lived by my wits and
my looks?"

"Yes."
"Sir James was one of my patrons."
I wasn't taking it in, wasn't comprehending what he was

telling me. "Patron."

"He kept me."
"Kept you?" I felt incapable of thought; nothing was

making any sense.

"Oh, for God's sake, Davy, he was my lover. He kept me in

an apartment—"

"That's not possible. Sir James is married and he has six

children! You're deranged." I sat down and stared at the
libretto, but all I could see was Sir James' pale and frightened
face as he beheld Romney. Tears began to rise, and I sucked
in a few deep breaths to calm myself.

Romney sat down in his seat, but he said nothing and did

not look at me again.

A few minutes into the next act, I rose abruptly and left

the box. I could not think; I felt as if I could not breathe. I
ran down the stairwell and out onto the street where I
breathed in the cool night air and wondered if perhaps I had
gone insane. Then I caught sight of Sir James standing

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nearby, smoking a cigar and looking flustered. He saw me,
and his eyes widened. For a moment I thought he would flee,
but then he walked toward me. "David," he said quietly. "I
don't expect you to understand..."

At that moment, Romney burst through the doors and

nearly ran headlong into us. He looked right at Sir James and
said, "I'm sorry sir, I shouldn't have been running, but I was
worried about Fitz." He turned to me. "Are you quite all right?
You looked so ill just now." He showed no sign of knowing Sir
James at all, not even when he turned back and said "Fitz
seemed to be taken ill as the act began, sir, and I was
concerned about him. Thought he might need a bit of help.
Hullo, weren't you the gentleman I very nearly met earlier?
You seemed a bit under the weather, too. I wonder if there's
something going around."

It was elegantly done. Without a false note, Rom let Sir

James know that whatever had passed between them was
done and would never be alluded to. That Sir James was safe.

"I am sorry," I managed, feeling genuinely ill, but only

from the overwhelming release of tension.

"That's all right, so long as you're not in need of medical

assistance."

"I'm fine. I just needed some air."
Romney sighed. "That's a relief." And as if he'd suddenly

remembered himself, he said to Sir James, "I don't know
what I'm thinking. I apologize. My name is Nick Romney, and
I work at the Yard," letting Sir James know that he, too, had
something to lose.

"Sir James Cavender."

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"How do you do, sir," Romney said, extending his hand. Sir

James shook it.

"I want to go home," I told them.
"Right, I'll fetch a cab. Sir James, can we drop you

anywhere? You are feeling better, are you not?"

"Much better, thank you."
"I'll be back in two ticks." He ran off down the street.
There was a heavy silence after he left, but finally Sir

James said, "Your friend is a remarkable young man."

"Yes. Yes, he is. He's become rather like a member of the

family."

"I see."
So... there it was, laid out between us. We were the old

and the new, and we understood one another in a way I had
never thought to understand someone like Sir James. I looked
at him and recognized that my feelings had changed toward
him. They were no longer simple and affectionate. I was not
sure that I didn't hate him now, nor that he did not hate me.
When the cab arrived, he and I parted with brief nods, not
meeting each other's eyes.

In the cab, I did the unthinkable. "I hope the irony is not

lost on you that we had gone to see La Traviata." I did not
look at Romney, but I could imagine the hurt in his eyes, and
somehow it made me feel a little better to know that all of us
were unhappy.

We arrived home, and Rom went right to his room. I

lingered in the parlor for a time, and when he exited his room
and made for our bedroom, he looked right at me and said,
"Did you think I was a virgin?"

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"No, but I didn't imagine you'd been kept by a friend of my

family, a man whom I had thought of almost as an uncle."

Romney's expression was ironic. "My ability to foresee the

future must have failed me in that case, though I very much
doubt I've made too much headway amongst your
acquaintances. Shall I make a list of my lovers so you can
plan your life around not being embarrassed by my
company?"

"It might be nice not to be embarrassed in public again,

yes," I countered, "or to embarrass anyone else." He made a
dismissive noise and walked past me. I followed him. "It's a
very real concern. Romney!"

"For God's sake, Davy, give me a little credit. It was hardly

a case of me swanning up to Sir James and shouting 'Hullo,
old man, looking for a bit of fun, are we?' The two of you
made the scene. I had nothing to do with it."

"What if my parents had been with us?"
"They weren't."
"But what if they had been?" I was actually whining. Even

then a small, rational part of my brain was screaming 'Shut
up!' but the rest of me wasn't listening.

"What if they had been? I repeat, I didn't make the scene."

He began to undress for bed, and so did I. I fear I did
violence to my tie and several buttons on my shirt in the
process.

He turned away from me in our bed, his back rigid, and it

made me angry to think that he thought of himself as the
wronged party in all this. If anyone was, I reasoned, it was
Sir James, for he had been publicly humiliated. Never mind

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that no one else had any knowledge of what had passed
among us, and that Romney was the only one to have kept
his head that evening. His quick thinking had constructed a
graceful way of allowing all of us to escape with our dignity
intact. Never mind that I had, for a time, been wishing Sir
James consigned to the fires of hell for ever having touched
Rom. I was hurt and angry. I wanted to be hurt and angry,
and to that end, I was irrational in my judgments.

I was not ignorant of his past, but when it had been vague

and far from our life together, it had hardly mattered. And yet
that evening I was not only brought face to face with it, but
the face was one I knew, and the reality of it frightened me.
What we did, what we were, was illegal. We could have been
put into prison just for being there together.

As I lay there in the dark stewing over this, I heard

Romney say, "It's not right, you know."

"What isn't?"
"That any of us should have to care. Sir James and I

should have been able to greet each other amicably, without
any fear that our pasts might damage the people we love.
You shouldn't even have had to think about how your parents
might have reacted. It's not right that anyone should fear a
moment like that."

"We all do. We can't change the world."
He turned slightly, and the contours of his face were

limned by the light from outside. "We can't let the world
change us, Davy," he whispered, and then he turned away
again.

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I continued to stew and fret over the incident with Sir

James until Romney was utterly out of patience with me. He
told me quite bluntly that he was not going to apologize for
who he was, what his past had been, or a situation over
which he had had no control whatever, and that was an end
to it. He began to spend more time at the Yard, and when he
was home, he skipped meals and locked himself up in his
workroom. He said he was engaged in a knotty problem at
work that required some extra investigation, but I knew
better. I also knew that it was up to me to resolve this in my
own mind, that I was the one with the problem.

Finally one day, I approached my father. "Sir, I need to

speak with you privately."

He looked a bit surprised, but nodded and said, "I have

some free time now if you would like to come to my office
with me."

I followed him, sat down, and tried to approach the issue

from the most rational position, which was an utter failure, of
course. "I am about to, in effect, confess to what is thought
of as a crime, though I do not view it as such."

My father's countenance never altered. "Then we shall

treat this as a privileged communication. Please continue."

"Though you and I have never spoken of the situation so

bluntly, I now wish to state for the record that Nicholas
Romney is my lover."

"I see," Father said. I heard a slight catch in his voice, but

he recovered himself and added, "Is there a reason why you
chose to tell me at this time? Has something happened?"

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"Not in any sense that might involve the law, sir. Please

have no concerns on that account. Romney and I are discreet,
and we shall always be so, for it is in both our natures to be
reticent about feelings save in private."

Father nodded. Knowing him as I did, I could see that he

had relaxed slightly.

"The other night, something troubling occurred, and it has

put a blight on our relationship. We were at the opera, and I
encountered... Sir, I'm sorry, but I'm going to tell you
something that will almost certainly implicate a friend of the
family in criminal behavior as well, but I have no other way to
explain the situation."

"The privilege extends to those other people we discuss,

David." He managed a smile. "You've forgotten a good bit of
your legal training, haven't you?"

"I thought that was the case, but I couldn't trust this to my

memory. The issue goes deeper than legal concerns, though,
does it not?"

"Yes, it does, Davy, but I always think it's best to know the

truth." That one statement, a statement of such strength of
character, changed my life for the better that day. I felt as if
a weight had fallen from my shoulders. It really was best to
know the truth.

So I told my father the whole story. I could see that

despite his practiced demeanor of calm, he was surprised
when I revealed that it was Sir James Cavender we had met.
Perhaps not as shocked as I had been, though, and I said as
much to him.

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He sat back and steepled his fingers, and remained silent

for a full minute before he replied, "One has, what shall I call
them? One has notions about people, Davy. That is not to say
one judges."

"Yes, well, that is a lesson I have yet to learn."
He managed a smile. "It is something that takes time to

learn. This has made your relationship with Nick difficult?"

"Very. You see, sir, apart from being jealous, which I

admit I was... I am, I also cannot stop imagining how it might
have been had you and Mother been there. I have made
myself quite ill thinking about that."

Father reached out and laid his hand on mine. "Then

you've done the right thing by telling me the truth, for it
would have been a terrible shock to find out in such a
manner, but I must tell you that we have understood
precisely the nature of your relationship with Nick for some
time now. Your mother and I have spoken of it, and while it
was troubling initially, and I confess that I had hoped it would
be just another phase, you have shown yourself to be steady
in your affections, and for that I can never fault you. Further,
it has not altered in one single respect the love we feel for
you, or our affection for and acceptance of Nicholas in your
life."

"Thank you, sir. But..."
Father surprised me by laughing heartily. "You were a

fretful child, David, and I fear you still have the tendency to
worry over things that are never likely to happen. I
appreciate your concerns, but let me assure you that Sir
James would have been the one to be embarrassed, not your

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mother or myself. As far as the alteration of our feelings
about Sir James, that is no concern of yours. His actions are
his and his alone, and he must bear the weight of them,
whatever that might entail. Let this be a lesson to you, sir,
that secrets can be awkward if not dangerous."

"We are not allowed the same freedom that you and

Mother are," I reminded him.

"No. However now you and I have cleared the air; you

need have no worries with regard to your family. We will
always stand behind you and support you."

"You and Mother, at least," I said, wondering what Eddie

and Caro might say. Well, I knew what Caro would say.

"Davy, do you really believe that your mother and I have

not discussed the matter with Edward and Caroline? It was
made abundantly clear to them that they and their families
were to treat Nicholas with the same respect and affection
which they feel due to their own spouses. There was no
argument from either of them, just a firm accord that within
the family, there would never be a word of censure on the
subject. No matter what we think of the law proscribing the
sort of relationship you two have, and for the record I think it
unjust, one must never lose sight of the fact that family is the
highest concern. Even the law cannot trump the love of
family. And so say we all."

I think that must have been the longest and certainly the

deepest statement of affection I ever heard from my father. I
had never heard him set anything above the law. So, with a
greater understanding between us, I prepared to leave Father

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to his work, but I did have one more thing that weighed upon
my mind. "May I ask, have you ever been jealous of Mother?"

"You mean apart from her foolishness over Lely?" he asked

with a smile. "Yes. You probably have never thought about
this—children rarely do—but your mother is an attractive
woman, and she had many suitors before we married. There
was one, a handsome young man of good family and a large
personal fortune, who courted her vigorously. For years after
we were married, I suffered the torments of hell whenever
they met in public and fell to conversing. I even considered
warning him away from her, which would not only have been
extremely bad form but would probably have provoked your
mother into locking me out of the bedroom for the next fifty
years, and neither you nor Edward might ever have been
born.

"I asked your grandfather the very question you are now

asking me, and he said, 'Don't be an ass. She married you,
didn't she? Don't make her regret her choice.' Whenever I felt
jealousy after that, I would remember my father's words and
feel less threatened. In fact, we saw her former suitor the
other night when we dined at the Royale. He has a rich but
stupid wife, his robust chest has succumbed to gravity and
turned into a paunch, and he has lost most of his hair. On the
way home, your mother turned to me and said, 'I hope now
you accept that I am not prepared to elope with him.' She has
a memory like an elephant. Silly woman."

I rose to go and extended my hand. "Thank you, sir, you

have put my mind at rest." He shook it, but did not release it
immediately.

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"You do know that we love you, your mother and I?"
"Yes, sir. I do, and I hope you know that I love you both."
"We shan't speak of this again," he said, and cleared his

throat. Nor have we. Yet that day stands out in my mind as
the one where I grew closer to my father than I had done
through all the years of living with him, and the day on which
I realized that he was not only a brilliant and decent man, but
a kind and loving one as well.

I went back to our digs and found Romney in his

workroom. Without even pausing to remove my hat, I strode
over to him and kissed him. "I love you," I told him. "I don't
care what your life has been, who you know, or how you
know them; I love you, and nothing will ever change that or
come between us again."

For the second time in our acquaintance, I saw Romney

flummoxed. "I... what?"

"I was wrong, and I'm sorry. I shall never judge you again

for anything in your past, and while I cannot promise not to
be jealous, I shall at least make the attempt to think
rationally before I thrash any man who might try to lay a
lascivious hand on you. Particularly the aged and infirm
ones," I added with just a touch of gratuitous meanness.

He began to chuckle.
"Furthermore," I continued as I dragged him toward the

bedroom, "I promise I shall not keep you naked and chained
to our bed in the future unless you feel you might enjoy it,
nor will I refer to you as my personal pleasure toy except in
private and during moments of extreme passion."

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By then Rom was laughing so hard he could not speak, so

I flung him onto the bed and myself on top of him and began
to tear at his clothes, lick his face, and tickle him until he was
begging for mercy. I undressed him, flinging his clothes, or
what was left of them when I'd finished tearing them off his
body, into the corners of the room, and while I unfastened
my trousers he reached up, took the hat from my head, and
put it on his own, and I pressed my face to his chest and
laughed until I wept.

* * * *

We ordered four glasses of The Widow and made our way

back to the box where Mother and Father were quibbling in
their affectionate way about the merits of the opera. As usual,
Father had taken up the position that it wasn't nearly as good
as the last production they'd seen, and Mother was insisting
that it was the best production yet.

"I'm not sure I'm going to give you your wine," I told

them. "You're both becoming very silly in your old age."

"She does it on purpose," Father muttered.
"He does it on purpose, too," Mother replied.
I rolled my eyes at Nick, who laughed at the three of us,

so clearly happy to be part of my clever, mad, affectionate
family that it shone from his eyes. For a moment I thought
that of all I could ever have given him or would give him,
family was the best, most generous, most healing thing I had
to give. I was glad of it.

After the opera, we went back to my parents' home to pick

up the paperwork so that Nick could work the information into

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his timeline. Of course there was no escaping without a
sandwich and brandy, so it was past one before we arrived at
our rooms.

"Oddly, I'm not the least bit sleepy," I said brightly, pulling

his thoughts away from the case at last. He looked up at me
through his impossibly long lashes and smiled.

In the years since we met, Romney has changed. At

twenty he was still very much a boy, slender and almost
girlish in his good looks, with an elfin face and dark hair that
curled when it was damp. I loved him then, loved his face and
body as it was. Over the years, as he has grown into his
adulthood and become tough, muscular, and wiry, as his face
has begun to mature, I grew to love him even more, though it
hardly seemed possible.

To lie beside him in our big mahogany bed and touch his

fine skin, trace the curves of muscle, feel the heat rise in him
as I aroused his desire was like a miracle to me. That we
could be together like this in spite of the laws and
conventions which conspired to prevent it made me feel as if
we were locked in a kind of secret fraternity of mind and
heart. It made our moments together, made him so much
more precious.

He signaled that he wanted me to lie back and let him

explore my body, which I was all too willing to do. He had
fine, long hands, a delicate touch, and a seemingly endless
curiosity about how my body worked, what aroused me, how
a touch, even a word whispered at the right moment could
set me off. On that day, he applied himself to laying a line of
soft, slow kisses from the hollow of my throat to the root of

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my cock. When he began, I enjoyed the experience as one
might enjoy just another session of love-making. By the time
he reached my breast, I was already beginning to be aroused,
my cock stirring with anticipation.

"I like it that you're hairy," he told me. "I like the feel of it,

the scent of it. It's beautiful. Did you know that?"

"I believe you've mentioned it in the past," I replied,

willing him to get on with it.

By the time he reached my navel, I was erect and trying

very gently to hurry him along the path to his ultimate end.
Instead, he dipped his tongue into the hollow, so very lightly
that I might not have noticed had I not been so focused on
exactly where his mouth was. It was almost too much. I
whimpered softly and felt, more than heard, him laugh quietly
against the flat of my belly, ruffling the hair so slightly that
my muscles quivered from the delicate sensation.

By the time his lips were brushing the sensitive flesh just

above my cock, it I was straining toward release with such
ferocity that Rom had to hold me down. Still he did not hurry
the process, nor pay any heed to my entreaties to end my
torment. The warmth of his breath on my skin as he hovered
above it made me shudder with desire. I was nearly blind
with it, insensible to anything but the soft brush of his lips on
hyper-sensitized skin.

He moved downward, and I had reason to hope that he

would have mercy on me, but it was not to be. Rather, he
blew a stream of cool air across the underside of my straining
member, and I moaned so loudly that even in my fever I
feared the noises I was likely to be making quite soon would

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bring our landlady to our door, demanding to know what the
matter was. I grabbed a pillow and pulled it across my face
and groaned again, and then suddenly I felt Rom's kiss, so
delicate, so tantalizing, so light on my cock's head that I
could not hold back any longer. I climaxed violently, howling
into the pillow as I lost all control.

Afterward, I was shaking. Romney pulled the pillow away

from my face and kissed me on the mouth, laughter bubbling
between us. "How do you do that?" I managed to ask.

"I know your body better than you do," he replied, trailing

his finger through the spatters of semen on my belly. "I know
what drives you mad. You give me so much power," he said
quietly. "How is it you can do that?"

It was in my mind to say, "Because I love you," but I knew

it was only part of the truth, and a part that might hurt him if
I said it aloud. For the truth was, I could give him power
because I had never had it taken from me. The revelation of
childhood abuse had made so many things clear, not the least
of which was why Romney, even at his most abandoned, held
something back. Why there was something in him I had never
been able to touch.

"You make me this way," I said, hoping that it would be

enough and yet not too much. Sometimes pillow talk was not
nearly as serious as I imagined it was.

It seemed that this time it was not serious, and I was

relieved. He licked me clean and then said he wanted to
bugger me into a stupor, to which I readily agreed.

Sometimes it was all just enough.

[Back to Table of Contents]

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Four

We left for The Cadogan about eight the next evening,

taking a cab there. Upon arriving, Romney went directly to
the desk and asked to speak to the regular night clerk.

"That would be me, sir, Meakins. How can I be of

assistance?"

"My name is Nicholas Romney and this is David Malvern.

We are helping Inspector Hopson with the investigation of the
murder of Bishop Oliver."

"I see, sir. Do you have any proof of this?"
Rom smiled. "Apart from my word as a gentleman,

Meakins? No. If you have a telephone, you might place a call
to the Yard and speak to the inspector."

"Or you might place a call to my father, Sir Charles

Malvern, though he might be dining right now. Still, if you
deem it worth disturbing him. I'm sure he wouldn't mind.
Much."

Meakins managed to glare at us without actually

suggesting ill will, an impressive feat that I would like to have
learned. "We'll let that pass until I know what it is you wish to
know," he said, obviously not quite ready to disturb my
father. "If it is something that I can tell you without breaking
confidence, I shall be happy to help."

"I should simply like to confirm that the information I have

been given is correct. I have been told by the members of the
bishop's household that he came here three nights a week
between eight and eleven."

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"Yes, that is correct."
"Saturday would have been one of his regular nights."
"Yes."
"Yours as well?"
"Yes, sir. I am at this desk Tuesday through Saturday. I

knew Bishop Oliver well, I'm honored to say."

"Are you able to tell me what he did here? Nothing

specific, just a general account will suffice."

"What most of the other members do." He went to his

favorite chair, ordered a brandy, and read the newspapers or
sometimes the latest number of Punch. Occasionally he would
indulge in a cigar—we have a very fine humidor here—and
very occasionally he might pass a few comments with another
member, but he rarely left the reading room except on his
Saturday strolls."

"I see. I presume that he never said where his strolls

would take him?"

"No, sir, it was not my place to ask."
"Quite right. Did he engage in a stroll every Saturday

night?"

"Yes, sir. He would arrive, have a glass of brandy, and

then leave again at about eight thirty."

"Returning before eleven, I presume."
"About ten thirty. He would come in, have another brandy

and a cigar, and at eleven sharp he would leave the club to
return home."

"Yes, that does agree with what I have been told. Thank

you for your cooperation, Meakins. Come along, Fitz."

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We left the club, but instead of having the doorman hail us

a cab, Romney engaged the man in conversation. "I imagine
you see a great many comings and goings," he observed.

"Yes, sir. Not much escapes me, being as how all the

members come past me on the way in and on the way out."

"Did you know Bishop Oliver by sight?"
"Of course, sir. Imposing gentleman; honor to have him as

a member here. He'll be missed. Good tipper, too," he added.

"I imagine he was. Tell me... I'm sorry, I don't know your

name."

"Sykes, sir."
"Tell me, Sykes, did you ever note which way he went on

his Saturday strolls?"

"Hard not to," Sykes said and then stepped away to open

the door for a member. "Evening, Mr. Wilkinson. Lovely
weather we're having for this time of year."

Mr. Wilkinson allowed that the weather was indeed fine,

and disappeared into the club.

"As I was sayin', it'd be hard not to notice as he always

went in the same direction—straight up Sloane Street."

"He was a man of very regular habits, then."
"That he was, sir. Every Saturday he'd arrive at eight on

the tick, then he'd come back out at exactly eight thirty and
say to me, 'Time for my constitutional, Sykes,' and he'd walk
on up the street at what you might call a brisk pace."

"He'd return at ten thirty?"
"Yessir, and just about on the tick again, only he'd be

strolling on the way back. Very relaxed and happy-looking for
a man who just had a two-hour constitutional."

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Romney smiled and fished in his pocket as he spoke.

"Sykes, something tells me you don't think he was walking
that whole time." He produced a guinea and handed it to the
doorman.

"No, sir, I don't. With all respect to a man of the cloth, and

a dead one, too, I think he might have been visiting some
other sort of establishment."

"Really? What sort?" Rom held out another guinea.
"I don't like to say, sir," the doorman told him. "As I don't

know for sure, and it wasn't my business to be speculating.
You know there are a number of places in this area where a
man might go for a bit of entertainment, if you catch my
meaning. I'm thinking that he kept to his schedule regular-
like, too, as would befit a man of his regular habits. Keep it in
its place and no one would be the wiser, nor begrudge him a
bit of happiness. Man works hard all week solvin' spiritual
problems, and on Saturday it's time for a bit of earthly
relaxation." He let the thought trail off, but his meaning was
clear enough.

"Well, we're men of the world, Mr. Sykes, aren't we?"
"Indeed we are, sir."
"Tell me, in the years you've known him—how many would

that be, Sykes?"

"A good dozen."
"In all those years, had that been his pattern? A stroll

every Saturday night?"

"No, sir. He began to go out on Saturdays about two-and-

a-half or maybe three years ago. Before that, he'd leave
occasionally, but there was no pattern, as you say. Just the

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odd stroll, sometimes down Sloane Street, sometimes off to
the west. Every once in a while he'd have me fetch a cab.
When he started having a regular walk on Saturdays, it
occurred to me that he'd finally found a place he liked, or
maybe had a girl put up somewhere nearby. Someone
sympathetic."

"Sykes, you have been invaluable." Rom handed him one

last guinea. "Now I'd appreciate it if you'd find us a cab. One
with a driver who knows the area and can tell us a bit more
about the things we've been discussing. Perhaps show us a
few of those places."

Sykes tapped his nose and winked. "Say no more, sir. I'll

have one for you in a jiffy."

He rabbitted off and I said, "Rom?"
"Hmmm?"
"Why did you bribe Sykes but not Meakins?"
"It might have insulted Meakins. In his position, he would

feel above simple bribery, for the confidence the members
place in him is worth more than money. In any case, he
wouldn't have been as impressed with the money as with the
idea of authority. Perception is all," he told me.

Sykes returned fairly quickly with our cab. "I've told him to

take good care of you gentlemen. It's been an honor, sir, to
assist you. I hope to see you again."

As it turned out, the cabby had an almost encyclopedic

knowledge of all the entertainments in the area. "What's your
pleasure, gentlemen? Dinner? A show? Gambling?"

"Opium?" Romney asked, and I bit my lip.

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"You're a sport, sir. Yes, you can find that up nearer Hyde

Park if you've a mind."

"Perhaps later. Right now, something more athletic."
"I see. Well, there's a good deal to choose from. What's

your pleasure?"

I was speechless at that point. My mouth moved, but

nothing came out.

"Perhaps something a bit different tonight. What d'you

say, Fitz?"

"Whatever you like," I managed.
"What I'd like is a virgin," Rom told the driver in an

unctuous voice.

"Shouldn't be a problem, lots of places around here have

the odd one layin' about," the driver said, and gave a wheezy
laugh.

"Oh, I know about that sort of virgin; they're all chicken

blood and bad acting. No, a real one. A young one. Really
fresh, very clean, you know?"

"I know just the place, in walking distance of your club, sir,

just up at Pont and Sloane, opposite the park. You have to
know someone to get in there. Bein' as how there are some
very special things to be had there, if you get my meanin'.
Very fresh ones."

"Oh, that is disappointing. Are you sure?"
"Positive, sir."
"Oh, well. Fitz, what's the name of that club where your

friends congregate?"

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For a moment, I had no clue what he meant. I didn't see a

lot of my friends anymore. Then I realized what he was
talking about. "You mean Pandora's Box in Chelsea?"

"The very one. Driver do you know that one?"
"O'course I do," he said, sounding almost insulted that

there would even be a question.

"Good man. Let's give that a try. We know they'll let us in

there."

We arrived at Pandora's Box while it was still half empty

and found a table with an excellent view of both stage and
clientele. Romney looked around, clearly amused. I, on the
other hand, was vaguely embarrassed at the atmosphere of
self-conscious decadence, with walls and ceiling hung in
heavy Oriental fabrics and festooned with colored lamps and
bad faux-Oriental art.

"Your friends are artistic, are they not?" Romney

whispered to me.

"They're not my friends."
"Of course they are. I'm sure they think of you with

affection when they think of you at all."

That made me snort with laughter. "I know I was like this

before we met, but I've forced that out of my mind."

Rom patted my hand. "Be glad you had the opportunity to

be wild and foolish. I say, I think we should indulge a bit,
don't you?" He waved a waiter over and ordered absinthe for
both of us.

"I hate that stuff," I hissed at him.
"Hush. It will make us seem mad, bad, and dangerous to

know."

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"Couldn't I be almost as dangerous with brandy?"
"Only if you wanted to seem like a dangerous grandfather.

By the way, I'm Nicholas Michaels while we're here, and I'm
looking for something quite special."

"So I not only have to drink that green filth, I have to pimp

for you as well?"

"You catch on quickly. Now be a good boy, and you'll have

your reward later tonight."

The waiter brought our absinthe, and I grumbled a good

deal but dutifully prepared the foul stuff. I sat on an
uncomfortable chair and pretended to sip the noxious liquor,
hating every moment we spent there.

Then, at half past nine, our presence paid off.
"Good heavens, can it be David Malvern?" I tried very hard

to put a smile on my face, but even when I was a part of this
crowd, I hadn't liked Jeffords, having always thought of him
as something of a bad lot in spite of his athletic good looks.
"Are you slumming, darling? And who's this?" he asked, eying
Romney in a way I very much didn't like.

"Jeffords, it's been a long time," I observed with perfect

truthfulness. "This is Nicholas Michaels. Michaels, this is
Albert Jeffords. We went to university together."

"Until I got sent down for being naughty. D'you mind if I

join you boys? I'm meeting some friends, but they don't seem
to have arrived yet."

"Of course you must," Rom told him. "Something to

drink?"

"What you're having."

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Rom waved the waiter over and ordered another glass of

absinthe. "I don't think there's enough appreciation of
naughtiness," he said to Jeffords. "I've been trying to talk
young Malvern here into helping me find something... quite
special, but he's come over all stuffy with me about it."

Jeffords raised an eyebrow. Among the set I hob-nobbed

with, my tastes were fairly well known, so he must have been
wondering what I would have drawn the line at. Apart from
himself, that is, for though he had made his interest clear to
me on a number of occasions, I had made my disinterest in
him equally clear each time. "Really?" he drawled. "And what
would that be?"

Rom put on a coy face. "Oh, but I don't really know you. I

don't think I should say. Malvern here finds it a bit shocking."

"Oh, please? I'll tell you about my naughtiness if you tell

me about yours."

It looked as if Rom was about to give in when suddenly the

table was flooded with Jeffords' friends, all of whom dragged
chairs over and sat down as if they'd been invited. Romney,
who would normally have gotten up and left without as much
as a by your leave, leaned back in his chair and acted as if he
was the belle of the ball, which of course he was, being the
new boy and all, and madly attractive in spite of the haircut
I'd given him. He may have looked like a costermonger to his
brother, but that night, to that crowd, he looked like a good
time waiting to be had. He joked, and he flirted and drank a
lot—more than I liked—but the others were charmed by him,
and I knew at least a few of them were wondering how they
could prise him loose from me and take him home that night.

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That was, until he finally began to talk about what he

wanted. To their credit, many of the chaps withdrew. Mostly
they were the ones I'd always thought well of when we were
at school, though Jeffords startled me by being among them.
As soon as he realized that Romney was talking about
children, his face shuttered. He pushed his drink away and
mumbled something about remembering a previous
engagement. Strangely, though I did not like him, I found
myself feeling a kind of grudging respect, and more than a
little chagrin at the idea that he might go through the rest of
his life thinking I kept company with a pederast.

Of the ones who remained—Murphy and Jenkins—only

Murphy seemed to know much about the whereabouts of
houses that did the sort of business Romney was talking
about. Jenkins just seemed to be more drunk and lacking in
discernment than actually interested.

"I've heard rumors about a very nice, very discreet place

in Kensington, on Sloane Street, near the park or
thereabouts. Problem is, it's so discreet I can't even find out
exactly where it is, much less get an invitation." Romney
laughed, and it had a tinny sound.

Murphy nodded, though without much enthusiasm. "Oh, I

know the one you mean; been there for two or three years,
but I've never bothered. Expensive and a bit above
themselves, from all I've heard. Panderers can't be choosers
and all that."

"So you haven't been there at all?"
"No, though I do know a chap who has. Says it's worth the

extra trouble. I don't know; I get by without all the fuss."

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"Hmmm. I don't suppose you could introduce him to me? I

know I should just find some other place, but the idea
intrigues me so!" Romney licked his lips and I looked away. "I
hear they have a photographer. It might be a lark to
commemorate an event of that sort with a souvenir cabinet
card."

"I suppose I could arrange it. I'll tell you what. Why don't

you come along with me tonight, we'll have some fun, and
you can meet my friend another time?"

"Let me think about it." Romney waved the waiter over yet

again and ordered himself another absinthe. Finally, he said,
"It is good to have standards, Mr. Murphy, but when a man
has certain... needs, well, he must satisfy them as he can. I
confess that I feel I have a need tonight. Though perhaps it's
just the absinthe speaking." He giggled. "Damned green fairy.
Still, I'd be happy to go along with you; at least take a look at
what's on offer. Might find something attractive."

I felt sick. I knew why he was doing it, but it didn't help.
"Good man. We'll finish our drinks and be off then.

Malvern, you coming?"

"No. I told him I'd help him find what he wanted, but it

doesn't interest me."

"Pity. There are some tender little pieces of meat where

we're going."

It took all my self-control, and Nick's hand on my leg, to

keep me from striking the man. Jenkins pleaded an early call
in the morning and begged off.

As Rom downed his drink, he began slurring his words a

bit. Not really badly, but just enough that it would have been

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funny if the situation itself hadn't been so alarming. He wasn't
up to this, it was clear. He had to drink enough to render
himself numb to what he was about to do, and I wasn't sure I
was willing to let him go through with it. I thought seriously
about just dragging him out of the cafe and to hell with the
investigation. I didn't think it was worth it, even to keep his
worthless relatives from the rope.

He finished his drink, stood up, and then without warning

grabbed my glass of absinthe, which had barely been
touched, and downed it in one swallow. Then, as he set the
glass down, he sneered at me. "Poseur," he hissed. "You
pretend you're so wild and decadent when the truth is you're
just looking for a husband and chintz curtains."

Murphy sniggered. "Too much Dutch courage, eh? Well,

never mind, Malvern, I'll take him off your hands for tonight.
And his money's just as good drunk as sober. Come on, then,
Michaels, let's go find you a choice tidbit."

He pulled Romney out of the cafe. I ran after them and

reached the pavement just as Murphy bundled Romney into a
cab, and I saw Rom turn briefly and shake his head at me as
a warning. So he wasn't really drunk after all. I was relieved,
though I still hated seeing him go. "I'll make sure he gets
home," Murphy shouted as they drove off. "If you even think
you want him back." I could hear the sound of their laughter
as the cab pulled away.

Jeffords was standing outside smoking a cigarette. He

offered me one and I took it. I felt as if I'd let Romney down
somehow by allowing him to go into that situation alone.

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"I'm sorry, Malvern. If I'd known, I'd never have..." He

sighed. "That Murphy's a bad character. I didn't know how
bad until tonight, though."

"Not your fault," I told him, but he shrugged.
"Feels like it is. Anyway, the night's over, isn't it? Never

expected it to end like this. Will you be all right?"

"Me? Fine. I'm just not— I thought I could cope with it, but

I was wrong." I wanted badly to explain, to tell him that there
was nothing at all wrong with Romney, that we were doing
this to save lives and bring a murderer to justice, but I knew I
couldn't. I had to live with the knowledge that Jeffords would
forever remember me as the man who had been jilted for a
child.

Jeffords dropped the cigarette butt on the pavement and

crushed it with his heel. "If you don't mind a chap offering a
bit of advice?" I shook my head. "Your friend's a bad lot, too.
I'd go carefully there if I were you."

"Thank you."
"It's nothing." He tilted his hat at a rakish angle. "Now I'm

for bed. Sadly I'll go alone, but tonight I don't much care." He
walked off down the street and into the darkness beyond the
lamp.

I went home, too. There was nothing else for it. Romney

would come back when he could, and I had the sense that he
would need some comfort. I stretched out on the divan to
wait for him and dropped off around midnight.

He made a lot of noise coming in, and from the look on his

face I knew he was feeling restless and quarrelsome. I
watched him move around the parlor, talking to himself in a

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voice so low I could barely make out what he was saying. I
caught "police" a few times and what I thought was "rescue,"
but couldn't be sure. Finally, he looked right at me and said
"Davy, I need to hit someone."

I'd seen it before, moods like this with him barely

controlling his anger. "Let's go to the gym. We can spar."

"No, really hit someone. Hard. And I need to feel it."
It's not difficult to find what you need in London. Even at

that early hour, there were places we could go where he
could engage in a much-needed, no-holds-barred brawl. We
took a cab down to the docks, to a tavern known for all
manner of organized violence and vice. It didn't take long for
Romney to find a willing opponent, who must have assumed
that the tired-looking little toff would be easy pickings. As
Romney stripped down to his trousers, he whispered to me,
"You might want to make a bet. I am not going to lose this
morning."

True to his word, Rom was the aggressor right from the

start. He was faster than his opponent, who was a big, beefy
man. He was also as graceful as a dancer, keeping just out of
reach until he saw an opportunity to strike. At first he did so
lightly, teasing the man, angering him, and provoking roars of
laughter from the assembled audience. He took a punch or
two and went down at one point. I tried not to think about it,
understanding that for Romney to chase his demons, taking
some hits was as necessary as delivering them. He had told
me once that physical pain helped him push past the
heartsickness from which he sometimes suffered. It was

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something I could not give him, so I could not begrudge this,
even though I feared it.

The betting grew furious, most of it going against Romney.

Though he was fast, few of the assembly thought he had any
sort of power, and they said so quite openly.

"You sure you want to bet on the little bloke?" someone

asked as I placed a bet. "He'll wear himself out soon, you
know, and then Bill will break him in half."

Because that was the prevailing opinion, I got very good

odds on Rom, and they improved every time Bill landed a
blow. Of course, what I knew and most of the others didn't
was that Romney had learned Savate de Rue from a French
sailor, who said it was one of the best ways for a small man
to survive against a larger opponent. It was fierce and could
be deadly. There were a few regulars who had seen him fight
before and were taking advantage of those same good odds,
but they kept quiet about what they knew. They all believed
that Rom would prevail, and were willing to put down money
on him.

The fight wore on with very little ground given or taken on

either side. The crowd began to grow restive, and I saw some
of the regulars move forward toward the ring. They knew that
Romney wasn't going to let the fight go on much longer, and
they wanted to enjoy the sudden and almost inexplicable
defeat of the favorite by the underdog.

Romney backed up against the wall on the far side of the

ring and waited for his opponent to rush him, then suddenly
exploded with a high kick that caught the man on the side of
the face and knocked him to the ground.

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There was a moment of stunned silence, and then the

crowd began to howl. They weren't so easily won over in spite
of their enthusiasm for a good match; they were still calling
for Bill to demolish "the little bugger." As the bigger man
began to rise, Romney brought a heel down on Bill's knee,
knocking him back to the ground. Bill, who had clearly not
liked fighting a little gadfly, went purple with rage.

He came up off the ground with a roar and charged

Romney, who found himself pinned up against the partition by
an opponent who was landing jab after sharp jab to his chest
and hip. Instead of trying to push Bill off, though, he wrapped
his legs around the man's waist, jerked himself right up
against Bill's sweaty torso and slammed his forehead hard
against Bill's, knocking him backward onto the floor of the
ring and landing on top of him. From that vantage point, he
pummeled his opponent mercilessly until Bill finally managed
to throw him off.

Romney was up in a moment, but Bill was hurt and tired,

and far slower. Before he could rise, Romney landed a kick to
Bill's shoulder that spun him ninety degrees, and then fetched
him another kick to the kidneys and a third, brutal kick to the
belly that had the poor man on his hands and knees gagging
with pain. I actually felt sorry for the brute, but not sorry
enough to prevent me from feeling proud of my Rom.

Bill vomited, surrendered, then vomited again. I collected

our winnings and handed Romney his clothes as he left the
ring. One or two of the other big winners came over to
congratulate him on a great fight. One even tried to hire him
as a professional fighter, which made Romney laugh. He was

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bruised and cut, and there was a crust of blood on his nose
and upper lip, but he looked easier afterward, as if he'd
worked through something that had been preying on his
mind. I gave him a handkerchief and said, "Let's go get some
coffee."

"Better?" I asked.
Rom sniffed and nodded. "Yes. Poor man. One day I'll

learn to take out my anger on people who deserve it."

"One day you'll be able to," I told him. "You can't right

now."

"True." He sipped his coffee and sighed. "It was awful,

Davy. I told them I wanted a girl about ten, preferably a
virgin. Can you imagine how it felt to have those words
spilling out, knowing what it could mean to a child? Even with
as much alcohol in me as I had, even knowing I was playing a
role, playing the drunken idiot who wanted to try something
'special.' I nearly vomited myself. I was very specific, though,
and said I wanted red hair and green eyes. As I had hoped,
they didn't have any girls like that, so I said to forget the girls
and show me some boys of about sixteen. I was free with the
money, though. Bought watered-down champagne and tipped
generously, the way a drunkard might. As far as anyone
knew, I was just a toff out looking for a good time."

"So you think Murphy will introduce you to his friend?"
"I don't believe there is a friend. Murphy wanted to find

out if I was the law. I had to convince him, so I chose one of
the older boys, put on a bit of a show downstairs, and let him
take me up to a room. Then I explained that I was there
looking for my niece who had disappeared six months earlier.

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I asked him if he'd seen a little girl about ten named Clarice
with red hair and green eyes. Of course he hadn't, though if
he asked anyone, they'd have told him that I'd asked for just
such a child. I thanked him and gave him money not to say
anything because I needed the man who'd brought me there
to take me around to other houses. I know I played
shamelessly on his sympathies, but I think he was glad not to
have to service another client for a while. We talked for a
couple of hours and then I left. Now I wait to see what will
happen. I told Murphy I'd be back at Pandora's Box on
Thursday night, to meet his friend."

"You're really going to do this?" I asked. "I must say I

don't like this one little bit."

He nodded. "Look, Fitz. This may have nothing at all to do

with the bishop's murder, but all the same, I'm going to
arrange something with Hopson so we can shut down those
houses. If nothing else, I'm doing it to save those children."

There was no argument for that. None. I had to accept

that this was going to happen, and there was nothing I could
do beyond helping him where I could. "What can I do?" I
asked.

"Take me home," he said. "Make me feel human again."
I did. I brought him home and undressed him. I bathed

him and washed the dirt and blood out of his hair. I dabbed
carbolic acid on the worst of the cuts and dressed them. Then
I took him to bed.

When he was like that, I never quite knew what to expect.

Sometimes he'd be aggressive with me, almost as aggressive
as he had been in whatever fight he'd been in, and then it

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was best just to let him do as he pleased. He never hurt me;
that was not in his nature. Sometimes he wanted to establish
something like ownership, and I was willing, for there was no
one else I would rather have belonged to than my dearest
Nicholas.

Sometimes, as he was that afternoon, he was so calm he

seemed almost passive, letting me take the lead, and even
urging me to. I bent to kiss him and heard him whispering
things: strange, arousing things, or sometimes things that
disturbed me and made little sense. I would tell a lie if I said
that Nick ever stopped being a mystery to me. With each new
revelation, I knew more and perhaps understood less, but I
would also tell a lie if I said that I loved him less for it. He
was an everlastingly sweet mystery, and that afternoon, he
was mine.

I laid kisses on his hurts, on the cuts and bruises Bill had

left on his beautiful skin. I had learned not just to accept his
scars, but to love them, for they were marks of survival. I
held him close and told him what he meant to me, how I
loved him and how I desired him. I knelt between his legs and
entered him. I owned him, body and soul, moving deep inside
him, all the while looking even more deeply into his eyes,
watching them grow glassy and unfocused as he abandoned
himself to the sensations. I hovered above him as he spent,
crying out softly, and only then allowed myself the release for
which I ached.

"Don't you know," he asked softly as I lay in his arms,

recovering myself, "that the only reason I am whole is you?"

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It was a fearful thing he said to me, and the greatest gift I
had ever been given, for it was the gift of his life.

That evening, Father sent a messenger around with some

news. I'd asked Bessie to bring up some tea, and we were
stuffing ourselves on cheese and toast. Romney was busy
browning another brace of slices when the note arrived.

"Rom, listen to this: Father says that a minute

investigation of Bishop Oliver's financial papers showed only
one inexplicable item. Three years ago, he withdrew five
hundred pounds in cash from his account. Within fifteen
months, it had been replaced. There is no record of any
purchase or payment of any sort that could account for the
withdrawal of the funds, and the repayment was made in
cash, quite apart from the ordinary deposit of funds from his
salary."

"They're sure of that?"
"Apparently. He says he's had a crack team of accountants

on it."

Romney chuckled and dropped the toast onto the plate

"Butter that, old man."

I set to work with the knife and Rom put two more slices

on the toasting fork. "More?"

"Knotty problems want tea and toast."
"And cheese," I added.
"Precisely. So, what do we know? The bishop kept close to

a thousand pounds in cash hidden in his office in the church."

"Which makes no sense, because he'd have done better

investing it or even just banking it. Thus, he must have
feared having to account for it."

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"Right, and we know that three years earlier, he made a

large cash withdrawal from the bank for which there is also
no accounting. No record of purchase or payment."

"That's what Father said, anyway. In just over a year the

sum was repaid in cash, which suggests that the withdrawal
was for some kind of loan that was quickly repaid. What sort
of loan would require that large an outlay of cash, and yet be
repaid so quickly? All without a paper..." We both looked up
at the same time and grinned at each other.

"Where is it?"
"Desk," I told him
He jumped up, fetched our translation of the paper we'd

found in the bishop's office, and brought it back to the table.
"I knew that sum sounded familiar. Look here, beside his
name, the sum of five hundred pounds sterling. This cipher
was about a loan."

"A loan requiring some sort of secrecy."
"You don't suppose..."
"What?"
"Remember when Murphy was talking about the house on

Sloane Street? He said they'd been there for two or three
years."

"Oh God, Nick. Do you really imagine these men are all

involved in a child brothel? Could it be possible?"

Romney went back to toasting the bread, and after a

moment or two I reapplied myself to the buttering of the
toast. We sat in silence for a good five minutes, but when
Romney deposited the hot slices of toast on the plate, he
said, "People are capable of anything, Davy. Anything at all."

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* * * *

On Monday morning, Romney and I went to the Yard to

meet with my father and Inspector Hopson and present our
case so far.

"I think that even had he not recanted, we all can agree

William did not murder our stepfather. Am I correct?" Romney
asked. Everyone nodded, and he forged ahead. "We then are
presuming that Bishop Oliver was murdered by a woman of
means and relative freedom, a woman who was possibly
widowed within the last eighteen months. Moreover, she was
a woman he would have expected to meet in social situations
and who, in fact, he must have known, for he had no
hesitation about receiving her in his office late at night. I am
not unaware that this could easily describe my mother, who,
though she had not been widowed, had chosen to live apart
from her husband as a widow. If my own belief that she is
incapable of such an act holds no water in legal terms, I must
stress that the murderess was almost certainly a slightly
larger woman based on the estimation of height."

"What about boot size?" my father asked.
"I have not measured her boot size, but the print is likely

close enough in size to my mother's to be a problem in
convincing the non-legal or scientific mind. The bloody finger-
and handprints may work in our favor, but as the science of
fingerprinting lacks much legal weight, I would not put too
much hope in it."

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Father nodded. "So we cannot rely on physical

characteristics to win this case for us, though they may be of
help."

"No. So we move on to the next set of facts. Thanks to

personal testimony and the supporting evidence of the cache
of pornographic photos of children, we know that the bishop
was a pederast. That he also had a hidden cache of banknotes
and a coded paper which links him to a mysterious 'company'
cannot be obviously connected with his pederasty, but it
cannot be ruled out."

"You think it is connected," Hopson said.
"What I think and what I know are quite different, at least

at this juncture. For the purposes of legal proceedings, we
shall have to stick to what I know, which is why I ask you
now to turn your attention to the information in front of you.
Fitz, if you will..."

I took over the explanation, for I had drawn up the chart

they now viewed. "What you see is a chart I have created
based on information from a number of sources. As you see,
the bishop was a man with very regular habits. His schedule
rarely changed. Interviews with the Oliver servants and the
night staff at his club, as well as the staff of the church—for
which, thank you, Inspector—all agree on the particulars of
that schedule."

"When will you interview Mrs. Oliver, Inspector?" Father

asked.

"We have an appointment this afternoon."
Father looked at Romney, who sighed. "Sir, I told Geoff to

contact you. I fear he's being an ass and has decided that

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they have no need of legal representation if no one has
committed a crime."

Father nodded. He'd seen that mentality before.

"Inspector, I would like to attend that meeting if it's all right
with you."

"Of course, Sir Charles. I should tell you that on Romney's

advice, we will be photographing and fingerprinting Mrs.
Oliver, and measuring her feet to see if there would be any
connection to the print we found."

Father agreed. "He's right, of course. That does need to be

established in case we have to try to prove this case by
refuting the evidence. Let us move along now. David, I'm
sorry to have interrupted. Please continue."

I went over the bishop's schedule point by point. "I would

like you to be particularly aware of the evenings he spent at
his club: Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. They were the
only times when he was in a situation where his comings and
goings would not be remarked upon. Please note that on
Saturday nights he was at his club from eight until eight
thirty, when he left for what he referred to as his
constitutional. He returned at ten thirty and remained at the
club for half an hour, and then returned home. According to
the doorman, he always walked in exactly the same direction
and at a brisk pace. He returned at a more leisurely one." I
looked up, half expecting to see my audience sound asleep or
counting matchsticks, but they were paying close attention.
But then, I was dealing with men who understood that
attention to minutiae was sometimes the difference between
life and death.

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"To my way of thinking, it's curious that a man who feels

in need of a long, athletic walk would not simply forego the
carriage ride to his club in favor of a brisk stroll to and from,
three nights a week," Hopson commented.

Rom replied, "You could mark it down to the fact that he

took his carriage because he had a carriage to take, which is
a common enough attitude, Inspector. What better way to
firmly establish your whereabouts than by making a great
show of taking your carriage to and from your destination?"

Before we got too far off the subject, I continued. "You

may note that this had been his habit for the last thirty to
thirty-six months. Just prior to that time, time spent at his
club had been more erratic. He still arrived there three nights
a week at exactly eight, and left at precisely eleven, but
according to the doorman, he was apt to leave on any of
those three nights at various times, and walk in any direction.
This would suggest that at some point, not more than thirty-
six months ago, he settled upon a single destination, and
never again varied his routine." I paused for a drink of water,
and Romney smiled at me.

"Now if you'll look at the lower chart, you'll see that this

change in habit occurred at approximately the same time as
the single large and unexplained withdrawal from his bank
account. I would also like you to note that these events seem
to coincide with an event for which we have no firm date, but
which at least two separate sources agree upon: the
establishment of a house of ill-fame especially for pederasts.
One said to be both within walking distance of The Cadogan,

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and so exclusive that a potential patron needs an introduction
from an established one."

"You're trying to connect the bishop to the opening of this

brothel?" my father asked.

"Not to establish criminal behavior on his part; I think that

became moot with his death," Romney said. "Rather, to
connect him to this establishment in a way that could begin to
suggest a motive for murder."

I could see that my father and Hopson were far from

convinced. "Explain, please."

"Bishop Oliver was not murdered by a mistress in a fit of

passion, that much seems clear."

"I'd agree to that," Hopson said. "But saying we don't

believe the motive was passion doesn't mean that we are
saying that we know it was money."

"You've just made a good point, Hopson," Romney told

him, "though perhaps not the one you intended. What are the
two primary motives for murder?"

"Passion and money," Father said. "There are others."
"Not many. Fear, anger, madness. Madness has no real

explanation, and in this case I doubt it's a factor. Fear and
anger do not arise independently; there must always be some
sort of trigger for them. Nor do they reach the point of
murder very easily."

"Point taken, Romney. They have their source in some

other interaction."

"Likely to involve passion or money," Hopson finished.
"Exactly. So if you eliminate passion in this case, what is

left but money? Unexplained money in the bishop's office,

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unexplained withdrawal and repayment of monies in his
accounts, and the cipher in which the amount attributed to
Bishop Oliver agrees with the amount of the withdrawal."

"I think it's worth investigating further, but there is by no

means a certain connection."

"I know, sir, and that's why tonight I'll be going to this

brothel myself."

"What?" My father and Hopson were both visibly horrified.

"How do you intend to get in?" Hopson demanded.

"I have made a contact."
"I don't like it one little bit," I said, earning a scowl from

Rom, but my father agreed.

"I don't like this either, Nicholas. This is something you

should leave to the police."

"I'm already in it, Sir Charles. Even if I didn't believe there

was a connection to the murder, I want to see these places
shut down."

"More than one?"
"He went to one the other night."
"What? Are you mad, Romney?" Hopson exclaimed.
"I had to establish my bona fides. I'd never have arranged

an introduction to this new place if I hadn't."

"What is your plan?" Father asked.
"To close it down. To close them both down. They are

clearly in violation of the law. Once we close them, to do a
thorough search of the second and see if we cannot find
something that might connect it to the bishop's murder."

Even I had to admit that, laid out like that, it seemed not

only flimsy, but dangerous. "The one he proposes to visit

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tonight is on Sloane Street and Pont, opposite the park. I
propose that we have the police waiting outside that
establishment and the other, and as soon as Romney comes
out..."

"Wait, why can't we just raid the places right now and sort

it out at the station?" Hopson asked.

"We could, but do you seriously think they'd tell us

anything? We could get them for child prostitution, but never
get a bit of information out of them."

"You said yourself there might not be a connection,

Romney," Father reminded him. "Do you really think it's
worth the trouble?"

"Yes, sir, I do, and we have no other real leads."
My father leaned forward in his chair. "Nick, let me ask you

something in all seriousness, and I hope that you will
understand why: is there any possibility that your mother did
kill Bishop Oliver?"

Nick thought about it for a few moments, and then framed

a careful answer. "Until we discover the identity of the
murderer, the possibility is always in play. The probability is
what concerns me. It is very low, in my opinion."

Father nodded. "All right, we shall proceed from that

position. Hopson, I think we need to allow Nicholas to
continue his investigation unhampered, under one condition:
if you feel, at any time, that you are in danger, Nick, you
must call for help. Promise me, now."

"I will. I give you my word."
Hopson shrugged. "I've never known his instincts to be

wrong," was all he said on the subject.

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"I'm glad you say that, Inspector, because I have a favor

to ask you. Will you let me have some of those photos we
found in the bishop's office? I think they'll cement my
reputation with Mr. Murphy and ensure that I will be received
at the house tonight."

Hopson sighed. "I wouldn't for anyone but you, Romney."
After we left the Yard, Rom having chosen several

perfectly vile photographs with which to bribe Murphy, I
forced him to go with me to a barber to have his hair trimmed
professionally. He laughed at me, saying that he had not
minded the haircut I had given him, but I was bothered by it.
I think I was more concerned about the face Romney
presented to the world than he was.

On the way home, he seemed more quiet than usual. I had

seen these moods come on him before, and understood that
when he grew so thoughtful, it was because he was turning a
problem or question over in his mind. At length, I said to him,
"Can you share what it is which makes you so silent and
distant, Nick?"

Though we were close to home, he said, "Let us walk a bit

in the garden," meaning the park that lay close to our lodging
house. "For I am in need of something fresh and wholesome."

As we walked down the path, he looked up into the trees,

now nearly denuded, and said, "Though I was not prepared to
say as much to Sir Charles and the inspector, I have been
wondering if I am making a mistake, Fitz. I fear that there
may be no going back from this night's work."

"What do you mean?"

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"What I find out there will either condemn or exonerate my

mother, more likely the latter, and for that alone I am
committed to this course of action. It could open a terrible,
vicious case in which many people will be exposed to the
scrutiny of the public."

This surprised me, for I would have thought that Rom

would want them to pay for what they had done. I said as
much.

"You misunderstand me; I could not care less if those

responsible for the existence of those houses burned in hell
for their crimes. I would willingly consign them to the flames.
In the end, they, and the people who carried out the scheme
to enslave these children, will not suffer greatly. Yes, some
will be disgraced, but only if the news comes out, and I don't
know that it will. Money buys a good deal of silence after all.
More likely the richest will be untouched, having the ability to
pay to stay out of trouble. Others will flee and be free to
continue with their disgusting habits somewhere else. Those
who cannot do either will be sentenced lightly and return to
the world within months, again to continue with their filthy
doings. Consider, if you will, your own observations about the
local clergy and their ostracism of the bishop and my mother.
Why do you suppose the community was reduced to sending
them to Coventry? Why do you suppose there was a great
deal of pressure on my family to bury Oliver quickly?"

"I assumed that there was suspicion of what he was," I

told him.

"More than suspicion, Davy. For the entire community to

withdraw as far as it had, they had to have known something,

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and knowing it, also knew that he was untouchable for some
reason. He had a protector."

My thinking hadn't gone that far, and the idea as Rom

presented it was so far beyond anything I could have
imagined that I was unable to take it in. "A protector?" I
asked stupidly.

"Someone within the church who had control over any

review of his behavior."

"You surely can't be implying..."
"I imply nothing, Fitz. I merely state the most probable

interpretation of the facts we possess. There may be other
explanations, but at this time I am unaware of any." His
expression was neutral, but I knew him well enough to sense
the frustration beneath it.

"Now consider the children. They will have nowhere to go,"

he continued, "for they have most likely been sold or
otherwise abandoned by their parents. The youngest may be
taken in by some agency, though that is only slightly more
tolerable than prostitution. The older boys and girls, even
those who are still younger than sixteen, will simply be turned
out onto the streets and will end up in another brothel, or
even worse, plying their trade in alleys." He sat down on a
bench and looked up at me, his eyes bleaker than I think I
had ever seen them. "I wish I knew if I was doing them any
real favor, Davy. Those who have food and shelter and are
well cared for might count themselves fortunate as they are."

"Did you?" I asked, sitting down beside him. "With your

fine home and regular meals, did you count yourself fortunate

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not to be on the street? Or did you determine that even a life
on the street is preferable to slavery?"

"You know what my choice was. How can I decide that for

someone else?"

"Because you know it's the right thing. I, too, would love

to see those responsible burn in hell, and I swear to you that
if my father and I can force the Crown to prosecute these
men to the fullest extent of the law, we will. Let us consider
the children first. Let us remove them from these places and
find homes for them that will not be worse than what they
endure now."

He looked unconvinced, and bent forward, his head bowed,

almost as if in prayer. Fallen leaves swirled around our feet,
and I noted that the breeze was more chill than it had been
the previous week. We sat quietly for several minutes, and
then Rom sat bolt upright. "Davy, what's the date?"

"October the nineteenth."
"But the year. It is eighteen-ninety, is it not?"
I could not help but smile. Only my Romney could be

uncertain of the year, in spite of having lived in it for nearly
ten months. "Yes, eighteen-ninety. Why?"

He smiled, and it seemed that the sun had come out. "It

lacks less than a month to my birthday, my Davy. I shall be
thirty in November."

"I did know that," I told him. I had no idea what he was

talking about, but he was happy again, which meant that I
was, too.

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" I had quite forgotten." He leapt up and caught me by my

arm. "Let's go home now. We have a night's work ahead of
us."

Nick dressed carefully for that night's work, too. With his

hair freshly cut and wearing a tailcoat, crisp white shirt, collar
and cuffs, and a rose in his buttonhole, he looked the
gentleman that he was, for a change. The rose was
important. He had explained that if, for some reason, he
came out of the house still wearing it, the police were not to
raid.

"I doubt it will happen, but it's best to be safe. Should I

discover something in there which might further the
investigation, we might need to hold off."

"This isn't more misgivings, is it?" I asked as I

straightened his tie.

"No, Davy. I am quite resolved to take action against those

establishments, but not at the expense of our investigation.
Everything in its own good time." He tucked the photographs
into his pocket beside a well-filled wallet.

"All right, then." I stepped back and looked him over.

"You're gorgeous. I could eat you with a spoon."

"Later," he said, and kissed my cheek.
He went alone to Pandora's Box; I joined Hopson in the

park across from the house of accommodation to which
Romney would be going that night—a house which we now
knew to be named 'La Diamant,' The Diamond—and waited
with him. It was not very long before Rom and Murphy were
seen entering. From that time on, the waiting was almost
painful for me. I hated that he was in that place, hated that

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he had to see what he was seeing and do what he must be
doing to close the investigation.

Hopson took note of my disquiet and patted my shoulder.

"Don't worry, he'll be fine. He's a smart lad and a determined
one. He'll do us all proud tonight."

Not very long thereafter, Romney left the house. The rose

was gone from his lapel, and accordingly, the police rushed
the building.

"Are you all right?" I asked, noting Romney's strained

expression.

"Quite well, Davy. Just a bit exercised over the situation.

Hopson, the madam is wearing a black, Chantilly lace veil
which has probably been cut down from a bertha that you will
find somewhere else in the house, possibly still partially
attached to a fine, black silk mourning dress; stained with
blood if I am not too far mistaken. I believe you might also
benefit from measuring her feet and hands and fingerprinting
her."

"You think she was the murderess?"
"I think it possible."
"Well done, Romney." He rushed off to oversee the raid.
"Possible?" I asked. "That doesn't sound as certain as it

ought. What's that you have?" I asked, noting that he held a
frame in his hands.

"That's because I am not as certain as I ought to be.

Virtually everything is right about Madame Minette physically,
but she is not a woman the bishop would have received as an
equal." He frowned a little. "Nor do I think she goes out very

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often. And this," he said, holding the frame up for me to see,
"is why I need more proof."

I looked at the picture in the frame, but it made no sense

to me. "I don't understand."

"You will." He managed a smile. "Now we need to find out

who owns that building. My instinct tells me that once we
know that, we shall know a great deal."

"By all means," I said, "we will trust your instinct."
Once the house had been cleared, Hopson called Rom back

inside. We found him in the madam's office.

"My men found the remains of the dress in the sewing

room, and it's gone into evidence. We also found the
photography studio as you said we would, and one of the men
on that list you two deciphered, so well done."

"It's not absolutely solved yet, inspector. Madame Minette

may be our murderess, but it is by no means certain. Have
you seen this?" he asked, handing over the frame he had
been holding, an old and somewhat faded ambrotype of two
women, nude to the waist and posed in a kind of parody of
the portrait of Gabrielle d'Estrees and her sister, with one of
the women holding the nipple of the other, and both looking
delighted with their lewdness.

"What's this printed on the frame? Mlle Minette and Mlle

Marette, Queen of Diamonds and Queen of Hearts. . Who are
these women?"

"One is Madame Minette Laroche, whom you have just

arrested. The other is her sister, and possibly her twin,
Marette, though it's hard to tell from such an old image.
Apparently they were infamous in France in their youth three

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decades ago. I saw that picture in the hallway when I
entered, and as I left, I stole it. I think you will need to make
an effort to find out if Madame Marette is still alive, and if so,
if there is a chance that she is in some way involved in this
before we can finally establish the identity of the murderess."

"So there's two of them?" Hopson asked and shook his

head. "This case just keeps getting better and better. We're
packing up all the papers now so we can go through them at
the Yard, see if there's anything in them that will make this
easier."

I looked at the ambrotype again. "I've seen them before, I

think. I must've seen something in a newspaper or magazine
fairly recently, but for the life of me, I can't recall where. I
wish I could; it might help."

"Perhaps so, but don't wrack your brain over it, Fitz.

Hopson, anything important will be well hidden. She wouldn't
have left anything incriminating out where it could be seized.
Remember, this line of business is one in which it is
commonplace to deal with police raids. If there is anything
that would link those men to this house financially, it will be
somewhere your men might never think to look. Perhaps in
one of the children's rooms. No, that wouldn't be the case.
Children are too curious; they'd find anything hidden. Perhaps
the photo studio."

Hopson sighed. "I suppose we have to tear the place

apart," he said.

"Or ask an inquisitive child," Rom suggested.
We found Father at the Yard. "What are you doing here?" I

asked.

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"I thought that I might be of some help, possibly to the

children who will doubtless be arriving soon."

"Thank you, sir, I think you shall be, and to that end, I

have something I wish to discuss with you, but first we need
to find out who owns the property where the house is
located."

"You think there's more of a connection than just being

careless about tenants?"

"Yes, I do. I can't say why; I just do."
"Very well, I'll look into it. Now I feel the need for a cup of

tea."

Romney asked if we could interview some of the younger

children from the house run by Madame Minette. "No more
than about eight years old," he told the sergeant who was
getting all the children processed and finding them places to
sleep. Then Rom filled his pockets and mine with sweets from
the Yard's common room. "It will take a bit of coaxing," he
told me, "but they'll start talking once they realize we're not
going to hurt them. The older ones wouldn't, but when they're
this age, they want to talk, just so long as it's not about
house business. Whatever you do, don't touch any of them. If
one of them touches you in an inappropriate way, just
disengage gently. They don't know any better and think that's
what we expect, particularly if we're offering them candy. It's
best to offer it and then put it down so they can take it
without having to come to us. They need to feel safe with us,
Davy."

I hated thinking about what that meant

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Rom mussed his hair and stripped off his jacket, tie, collar,

and cuffs, and advised me to do the same. "It's better if we
don't look like gentlemen or police." We went to the interview
room in shirtsleeves.

"Hullo!" he said as he entered the room filled with solemn-

looking youngsters. "We have some sweeties; who wants
one?"

There was some uneasy shuffling. "What do we 'ave to do

for 'em?" one of the older boys asked.

"Nothing. Only I nicked 'em from the peelers, and thought

you might fancy some." He nodded in my direction. "Davy
never does anything for a sweet, do you, Davy?"

"No." I popped a candy into my mouth and laid the rest on

the table. "Go on, then, they're free for the taking."

The littler ones snatched up candies first, and then finally

the older ones each took a piece.

"So, I'm Nick and that's Davy, and we wanted to ask you

some questions because if anyone knows what goes on in
that house, it's you lot, right?"

"Nick? Like in stealin' somethin'?" They all laughed, Nick

included.

"Yeh," he said. "My old man was a toff. He didn't know

what it meant. Anyway, he called me 'Nicholas.' That's a
mouthful, innit?"

They laughed again. It looked as if they were relaxing.
"What games d'you like to play? You know, when there's

no gentlemen about and you're just enjoying yourselves?
Hide and go seek?"

There was a chorus of agreement.

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"You all have good hiding places, don't you? Any of you

ever hide in Madame's office?"

There was a short silence and then a few giggles.
"She dun like it," said a flaxen-haired girl, who was

probably the eldest in the room at about eight. "That dun
mean we don't do it, though. Jennie's 'id there a lot."

"Jennie? Which one of you is Jennie?" An owl-eyed little

girl of about five raised her hand. "I bet you've seen things in
there," Romney said to her.

"Yus."
"Ever see her hiding treasure?"
The huge eyes got even wider, and brightened

considerably. "Oh, yus," she breathed. "Lots of times."

"Jennie, you're a spy!" Rom told her, and she smiled a

gap-toothed smile.

"Yus."
"Now..." He pulled more candy out of his pocket and laid it

on the table, giving one piece directly to Jennie. "When
Madame hides her treasure, where would she be hiding it?"

Several of the children shouted guesses including "her

desk," "her treasure chest," and, my favorite, "up her quim."
Jennie said: "Floor."

"Floor?"
"Yus."
"Under the floor?"
"Yus."
"I'll bet, it was... by the window."
"Nah."

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I could see that it amused them all. They were really

warming to Nick, who was having a grand time.

"All right, then, I'll bet it was... in the floor by the door!"
"Nah!" she crowed, and everyone giggled.
"I can't guess," he said. "I'm a terrible spy."
"By 'er desk!" Jennie told him, as if he was the biggest

dullard she'd ever met. Then he slapped his forehead and the
children screamed with laughter.

"Her desk! I'd never have guessed that. Jennie you're the

best spy ever! Isn't she?" he asked the others, and they all
shouted that she was, that she was the queen of the spies,
though one of the smaller boys shouted that he was the
pirate king and our heads were coming right off. "That's
Ralph" said the blonde girl. "'E's barmy."

"I think you're right... what's your name?"
"Julie, sir."
"Julie. All right, maybe you can tell me something else. Is

there another Madame?"

"No," she said, and the other children shook their heads.
"You're sure? No one named Marette who worked at the

house with Madame Minette?"

Again, the response was negative.
"What about another woman who came to the house

sometimes to talk to Madame? Someone well-dressed?
Perhaps in black?"

"Oh maybe you mean Ma Sewer," Julie suggested, and

they all giggled.

"Sewer? Like a drain?" Nick asked. "Pull the other one,

Julie, there's no one named for a drain!"

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"Yes, there is. She's an old lady like Madame, and she's

called 'Ma Sewer.' She allus wears black."

"Full of poo!" Ralph shouted, making everyone laugh.

Unfortunately, Ralph didn't know when to stop, and he began
to sing-song 'full of poo, full of poo' while the others were
describing this woman.

"She allus wore black," Julie said more loudly, and glared

at Ralph. "She was really old like Madame, but pretty. Shut
up, Ralph!"

Rom unloaded the other pocket and laid the candies on the

table, again making sure that Jennie and Julie got an extra
one each, and then he said, "All right, it's getting late. I've
been told that the matron's got you all a cup of cocoa and a
nice, safe, warm place to sleep tonight, so it's time to be off."
He signaled to the matron who had particular charge of the
part of the jail where women were kept, and she and some
helpers came in to lead the children off to their temporary
beds.

Jennie hung back and tugged at Nick's trouser leg. "Nick?"
He squatted down beside her. "Jennie. What can I do for

you, love?"

"My dolly."
"Your dolly? Oh, you left your dolly at Madame's, did you?"

She nodded gravely. "What's her name?"

"Sarah Jane. She's got a blue dress."
"Tell you what, you go off to bed now, and I'll bring her to

you tomorrow. All right?" At that, Jennie smiled broadly once
more and went off with the matron without an argument.

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He watched them go and then stood up slowly, the

animation gone from his face. "We have to fix it for them," he
said.

On the way out, we ran into the children from The Little

Flower, the first child brothel Rom had gone to. Their raid had
happened an hour after the initial one, and they were just
now being brought in and processed.

"You!" one of them shouted at Nick, who stopped short. A

red-haired boy with a pocked face strode toward us. "You did
this, didn't you? You weren't looking for your niece at all,
you're a copper." Before Nick could explain, the boy spat in
his face. Instinctively, I moved to get between them, but Nick
thrust out his arm and held me back.

"I'm not with the police, but yes, you're right. It was my

information that's brought you all here. We're trying to help."

"Really? Where do you think the older boys and girls will

end up, you bastard?"

"You will have a safe place," Nick began, but the boy gave

a mirthless laugh and turned away. Nick watched him go off
with the rest of the children from his house. "It's easier for
the young ones," he said, and sighed.

He was looking terribly tired by that point, and I told him

that it was time to go home. That all this would still be
waiting in the morning, but he shook his head.

"Time is not on our side, Davy. I need to speak to Hopson

and your father."

Once we'd assembled in the common room, where a good

deal of bad coffee was being drunk that night, Romney told
Hopson what he'd discovered from speaking with the children.

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"First, Minette has something hidden under the floor near her
desk. I'm guessing it would be some sort of deed box. You
need to find it."

"Right."
"Next, Marette is still alive and still in contact with Minette.

I'm guessing that she is our murderess, though I cannot
prove it."

"How on earth do you reckon that?" I asked. "I didn't hear

anything like that."

"Ma Sewer. Ma soeur. My sister. The woman who always

wore black. Marette is alive and a widow, or posing as a
widow."

I felt like a complete idiot. Father patted my shoulder

sympathetically.

"Also, my informant is missing her dolly, one Sarah Jane in

a blue dress."

At that, Hopson gave one of his rare smiles. "We'll get

right on that. Maybe we can pick up all the toys and bring 'em
on down here. Can't see that Madame will have much use for
them after this."

"Thanks. Now, Sir Charles, are you up to a spot of work

tonight?"

"I would love to be able to help. What can I do?"
After a short conference, Father, Nick, and I were allowed

to speak to Madame Minette. On the way in, my father
repeated a valuable piece of advice he had given me in the
past: "Remember, Davy, treat every woman you meet as if
she was a lady, and you will never be disappointed by the
outcome."

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She walked into the room with her hair hanging loosely

about her face, which she kept turned away or otherwise
obscured by her hand or the fall of her hair. Father handed
her a scrap of lace. "Madame, I have asked that this be
returned to you," he said in French.

As she reached for the veiling, I caught sight of terribly

scarred flesh and one dead white eye. I averted my eyes as
she veiled herself and arranged her hair. "Merci," was all she
said. Rom wrote something on a piece of paper but said
nothing, and I believe she took note of him, but it was
impossible to tell once the veil was in place.

"Madame Laroche, Je m'appelle Sir Charles Malvern. Je

suis un avocat."

"I understand your language, m'sieu."
"Thank you. My French isn't up to legal standards, I fear.

This is Nicholas Romney, who is working with the Yard, and
my son and assistant, David Malvern. He will be making notes
for me tonight. We are here to discuss the murder of Bishop
Hugo Oliver."

"What has that to do with me?" she asked quickly.
Rom finally spoke. "The situation has become rather

complicated. The police feel that they have sufficient evidence
to link you to the bishop's murder. As a result, bail has not
been set for you, nor will it be until the evidence has been
taken into account."

"That is ludicrous. I don't even know the man, this bishop.

How could I have murdered him?"

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"I did not say you murdered him, Madame. I said simply

that there may be reason to suspect that you are connected
in some way with his death."

"This situation is very serious, Madame," Father assured

her. "I am not here to represent you in any way, but I felt
that there should be someone here to advise you of the legal
issues, and what you stand to lose should you be charged."

"It is nothing to me." It was impossible to read her

expression behind that Chantilly lace veil, but she seemed
tense. "What evidence do they think they have?"

"A scrap of black silk and lace was found at the murder

scene. A lace trimmed black silk mourning dress was found at
your establishment. It is stained with blood. The veil you wear
now was tested and found to be stained with blood..."

"An unfortunate accident."
"And matches the lace on the dress," Rom continued.

"Bloody foot and hand prints were found in the church, and
Madame, I am advised that their relative size matches the
size of your foot and hand."

She raised her hand to the veil briefly, then returned it to

her lap. "I bought the dress from a woman on the street, but
it was too stained to wear, and so had my seamstress begin
to cut it down for various pieces of clothing for myself and the
children. As for the prints, m'sieu, I feel certain that there are
any number of women who have the same size feet and
hands as I do. I see no significance in that."

"Then the boots that were similarly stained, did you also

buy them on the street?"

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She looked quite annoyed. "I bought the boots at the same

time, and anything else they may have found. You cannot
prove otherwise."

Nick pressed her. "The problem, Madame, the thing to

remember, is that in court it will be your word against that of
the police. Forgive me, but as the owner of a brothel filled
with children, your word holds less than no legal weight."

"I am not the owner! M'sieu avocat, help me here."
"I repeat, Madame, I am not here as a legal

representative, but I can tell you that everything he is saying
is the truth. Now," Father said, holding up his hand to stop
the outburst we could see coming, "let me tell you that the
police have reason to believe that your sister, Marette, is also
involved this case, but as yet, they are not sure how.
Madame, if this is so, if your sister has some connection
either to the brothel, or to the murder, or both, it is in your
best interest to say as much here and now. If you will not, or
if there is nothing to tell, then the weight of charges that will
be made as a result of tonight's raid will fall on you. They will
almost certainly, charge you with the murder of the bishop."

She stared at Father for a full minute before she sighed

and said, "I am merely an employee of my sister and her
partners. It is they who should suffer any consequences
connected to the ownership, not I."

"Nevertheless, you are going to go to prison for your role

at La Diamant, and because of that, and because the weight
of evidence is against you, Madame Laroche," Rom pointed
out, "I fear you will also be charged with murder."

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She was very still, and there was something like a chill

coming off of her. My father cleared his throat. "Madame
Laroche, I have been authorized to tell you that if you
cooperate with the police and help them discover the true
identity of Bishop Oliver's murderer, there will be a
recommendation that your sentence for pandering be
suspended. It is possible that you will serve no prison time at
all."

Still she did not speak. It seemed minutes before she even

moved again, though I knew it was only seconds. Finally, she
said, "I will not go to prison for my sister, and if it is a choice
between sending her to the gallows or going myself, then my
sister will hang. I will happily tell you all you need to know
once I have legal representation. Sir Charles will you take my
case?"

Father shook his head. "I am a barrister, Madame Laroche,

and as such cannot make that determination. You must first
be represented by a solicitor under British law. I will,
however, find you a solicitor who will take your case. Nick, I
think it's time that we let Madame Laroche retire. Thank you
for your time, Madame."

She rose and said, "You will have the whole story once I

have representation." Then she turned and left the room with
the matron.

"That was well done," Nick observed. "Though I was

hoping she'd actually implicate her sister during the interview.
Well, never mind. By tomorrow, we'll know the truth."

"Simple honesty, Nick, and a modicum of respect was all

that was needed. Now I'm going home," Father said, as we

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left the room and he retrieved his coat and hat. "It's been a
long night's work, and I'm very tired. You boys will have
another long day tomorrow if I'm not much mistaken, so why
not go home and get some sleep? Nick, I'll be taking care of
that matter we discussed first thing tomorrow."

"Thank you, sir, and you were right. What you said was

right. I'll take care of that bit on my end."

"Glad to hear it. Good night, boys."
"Good night, sir," we chorused.
Rom sighed. "Fitz, I'm for a glass of brandy and a warm

bed. What say you?"

"I'm with you," I told him. "Lead on."
Once home, Rom's clothes flew everywhere, and he was in

his nightshirt and between the covers before I could finish
putting my things away.

"This is why you look like a street Arab," I grumbled as I

picked up his jacket and draped it over a chair. "You're so
careful with your good clothes and so careless with everything
else. Why is that?"

Instead of answering, he said, "I've got the brandy, all I

need now is you."

I put out the lights and crawled in beside him. The bed was

already warm from the ferocious heat Romney put out. "To a
job well done," I said, clinking my glass against his.

"Partly, anyway. You did very well tonight. Tomorrow we

should be able to make an arrest." He lay back against his
pillow. "I had a thought about the bishop's cash. No one in
my family needs it or would want it if its source was the
prostitution of children, so I spoke to Hopson and your father

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and asked if it would be possible to apply the money to the
children's keep for a time. It would be enough to find lodging
and send them to school for at least a year."

"That's brilliant!"
"Really? You think so?"
"Of course I do."
"Then perhaps you won't mind when I tell you the second

part of it. Do you remember earlier when I told Sir Charles
that something he'd said to me was right, and that I would
take care of it?"

"Yes."
"Well, after we discussed the bishop's money, I took my

plan further. My thirtieth birthday is coming up, Davy, and
though I've never mentioned it to you, the fact is that I am
due to inherit money on that day. For whatever reason, my
father's bequests to each of his children were made on their
thirtieth birthdays. I want to put that money toward a home
for abandoned children like the ones we rescued tonight.
Because it's not a real rescue, is it? Not unless we can
guarantee that they won't have to go back to that life."

"I think that's wonderful. Did you think I wouldn't?"
"No, I believed you would. When I told Sir Charles about it,

I said that I hadn't spoken about it with you, and he told me
that while I had every right to do as I chose with my money,
he knew that if he had done the same without telling Lady
Sarah, he would be in the proverbial doghouse for months."

I laughed. "Yes, she'd be very put out." Then, upon

considering it, I said, "I wouldn't have minded, but I'm glad
you had that conversation with him because... well, you do

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realize that he was drawing a parallel between their marriage
and..."

"And ours." His eyes were shining in the darkness.
"Yes."
Without another word, he took my glass and set it on the

night table and rolled over on top of me. "If you ask me to
keep it, I will. I would do anything to make you happy, Davy,"
he said, bending to kiss my lips. I drew his nightshirt upward
until my fingers found bare flesh: satiny, smooth bare flesh
that invited a caress. After a perfect storm of kisses and
whispers, the nightshirts both were discarded, and we lay
together, belly to belly, breast to breast, cock to swelling
cock.

I rolled him onto his back and thrust against him slowly.

His hands grasped my backside and pulled me hard against
himself so that our members rubbed together voluptuously,
heat rising uncontrollably. I reached between us and grasped
the velvety flesh of his penis, pushing his foreskin down so
that I could stroke the bare head and shaft. Then I did the
same to my own cock, and wrapped my hand around them
both so that they were cradled together, swollen heads
chafing each against the other.

Nick reached up and grasped the headboard, and I bent to

rub my face against the soft flesh and silken hair of his
armpit. I loved the smell of him—it was an aphrodisiac to
me—and my movements grew harder and more desperate.
Nick began to moan softly. I could feel his cock twitching in
my hand, moving against my own cock. He groaned, "Davy,
yes..." and I felt the wet heat of his spunk against my belly

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and cock. It was the final, unbearable sensation that sent me
into my own spasms of pleasure, showering him as he had
done me. I shuddered one last time and sank down upon his
breast, utterly spent.

Some little time later, I felt him pulling the duvet up over

us both, and I made as if to roll off of him, but he said, "No,
love, stay. I love the weight of your body on mine." So
saying, he wrapped his arms about me and stroked my head
and back until I dropped off to sleep like that, still atop him,
the evidence of our passion still warm between our bodies.

I slept like the dead for hours until Nick woke me with a

cup of coffee and a kiss. "You were wonderful yesterday,
Davy," he whispered. "Last night especially."

"I had a lot of inspiration. Thank you, love. What do we do

today?' As my mind flitted back along the events of the
previous day, I had one of those breathtaking moments of
epiphany as I realized why the photo of the two sisters looked
familiar. "Lady Starkley," I breathed.

"What?"
"Nick, Madame Marette is Lady Starkley." There was no

question. My memory had finally linked the face of the very
young woman in the photo with the elegant older woman who
was, to my horror, part of my parents' social circle. "She calls
herself Marianne Starkley, but there's no question it's
Marette."

He gaped at me for a moment and then nodded slowly.

"You're right. Dear lord, Fitz, you're right. I didn't see it at
all."

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I got up and began to dress. "I expected this woman we've

been looking for to be wealthy but already outside the pale in
some way. Lady Starkley is the widow of Baron Starkley and
a wealthy woman. She's a supporter of dozens of charities;
she's known for..." I felt my gorge rise as my brain caught up
to my voice. "Working with the children of the poor. How
could she?"

"I guess there is no such thing as too much money, but

Davy, you know it probably means she'll never stand trial."

I was no longer hungry, so I finished my coffee while Rom

dressed. Then we went back to the Yard, where we told
Hopson about my realization.

"Doesn't surprise me," he admitted. "We found out first

thing this morning that the building was part of the estate of
the late baron. She used a property that was in her husband's
name. That's marital devotion, that is."

"What a cynic you are, Hopson."
"Live as long as I have, laddie, and you'll be one, too.

You'll be happy to know, though, that Sara Jane has been
reunited with Jennie, and most of the younger children are all
smiles today. They have clothing and toys and people who
don't want to do anything awful to them who are willing to
play games with them. Apparently the constables are having
a wonderful time playing dolly tea party and pirates versus
red Indians."

Rom and I looked at each other and said "Ralph"

simultaneously.

Father had telephoned first thing, according to Sergeant

Neville, and had left word that there would be a solicitor

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arriving to represent Minette. He said he had also found a
suitable building for rent that could be turned into a kind of
orphanage. He had spoken to Mother, who, he said, was filled
with ideas on how to care for several dozen "poor mites."
That made me laugh.

"Your parents are gems. I hope you appreciate them,"

Romney told me.

"Every year that goes by, I find more to appreciate in

them. Though I fear my father is going to be quite thrown
over when Mother meets Jennie and Ralph and the others.
Oh, lord, I don't look forward to her finding out about Lady
Starkley. She's likely to march over to that woman's home
and strike her."

"Surely not; not Lady Sarah."
"You haven't seen my mother in high dudgeon, Inspector,"

I assured him.

"There were two boxes," Hopson said as we entered the

evidence room. "One contained contracts as we had
suspected, signed by each of the men named in that page
you deciphered. They were for loans that allowed them an
interest in the house until such time as they'd been paid off.
The interest was usurious. As we know now, the owner of the
house is Lady Starkley, whom you have identified as the
mysterious Marette."

"That creates the connection between Lady Starkley and

the bishop. Is that enough to convict her?"

Romney shook his head. "Before The Lord High Steward? I

doubt it. Peers aren't tried very often, wives or widows of
peers almost never. I can only think of two, the Duchess of

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Kingston in the last century, and Anne Boleyn. Both were
found guilty, of course, but the Duchess left England and I
believe led a very comfortable life afterward. Anyway, this is
too big," he said. "She's a foreigner. If it even comes to trial,
I expect she'll be told to leave the country and never return.
Her estates will probably be forfeit, but she'll have all of her
personal assets."

"Her sister will go to prison," Hopson told us. "For a while."
"What about her testimony?" I asked. "She was told that

any help she gave us would be taken into account."

"That was before we discovered that her sister is the

widow of a peer. Do you think the other peers would listen to
Minette?" Rom asked. "I haven't had time to do any digging
for specifics, but in addition to being a procuress, she and
Marette were courtesans before Marette's marriage to
Starkley. Marriage washes a good deal of sin down the drain,
but Minette's past will almost certainly make her word
worthless."

"To say nothing of the fact that Lady Starkley could easily

testify that she gave that building to her beloved sister, but
had no notion of what she was doing with it. It's what I'd do,"
I admitted.

"No, you wouldn't. You wouldn't have exploited children,

either. But you're right," Rom admitted. "It's almost certainly
the tactic she'd use in court if it went that far. Again it would
be the word of a baroness against that of a whore and
procuress."

"All of which means that Minette has no reason to help us

now, and that puts us back to square one." It seemed a

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terrible shame to me to be so close to bringing this woman to
justice, and to find that she would almost certainly never
suffer for her sins.

"Not quite the beginning. Your father is going to the Lord

Chancellor," Hopson told us. "It'll be difficult convincing him
that justice is more important than keeping the scandal quiet,
but Sir Charles is a convincing man. Oh, Romney, the
contents of the second box may interest you."

Romney opened the box and began to sort through the

items in it: photographs, letters, and keepsakes of all sorts.
"Look at this," he said, holding up a carte professionnelle
featuring two stunning young women. "Minette and Marette,
the Queen of Hearts and the Queen of Diamonds," he
translated. "Hello, they were a double act!"

"What?"
"They came as a pair. For menages," he explained.
"Good Lord..."
"Though apparently they later set up shop individually.

This newspaper article talks about the sisterly rivalry for the
attentions of one Comte de Bras. Hmm, handsome man if the
illustration is to be trusted. Oh, and wealthy, too. That would
explain much. He seems to have settled on Marette after a
dalliance with Minette."

"You have the makings of a terrible old gossip," I told him,

leafing through some of the papers. "Oh... this is about
Minette. 'Queen of Diamonds, Minette Laroche... a ete
gravement blesses aujourd'hui ... was gravely injured,
lorsque l'epouse du comte son recherche et jete de l'acide au
visage...' Oh, lord, the Comte's wife threw acid in her face."

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"The French," Hopson muttered.
"It's worse than that. Apparently it was Marette who was

the target of Madame le Comte's rage, but as she had no idea
that Marette had a twin, she disfigured the wrong woman. So
Marette took her sister's lover, her looks, and her livelihood."

"And gave her back a job prostituting children. What a

good sister. She makes my family look like a gaggle of saints,
doesn't she?"

I found a small porcelain portrait of Minette and considered

it for a while. "She was beautiful once. I can't imagine what it
was like for her to lose that."

"Nothing beautiful on the inside," Rom observed.
"Or perhaps the acid worked its way into her over the

years and disfigured her heart, too."

"You're such a romantic, Fitz, but that's a good point. Her

sister got the man, the money, the good marriage, and the
respectability. Minette got a face full of mutilated flesh and a
job as a procuress in a child brothel. She has no reason to be
anything but bitter."

One of the constables rapped on the door. "Excuse me,

Inspector, but you said you wanted to know when the solicitor
for Madame Laroche arrived."

"All right, tell him we'll be right out."
The constable went very pale. "He's already gone, sir."
"Gone?"
"Yes. He bailed out his client and they left together."
"WHAT?" Hopson roared. "There was no bail set for that

woman! What in the name of God is going on here?" He
stormed out of the evidence room with Rom and I running

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behind. We thought he would throttle the desk sergeant when
he reached him.

"What have you lot done?" he shouted. "There was to be

no bail for Minette Laroche. None was set. Why..."

"Begging your pardon, Inspector, but bail was set an hour

ago. The solicitor brought the papers to us himself, and they
were all in order." He handed the papers in question to
Hopson, who looked them over with an expression of
disbelief. He looked up. "Someone's fixed it. Damn them to
hell," he said quietly and, throwing the papers onto the desk,
stalked out of the room.

Father returned about noon and countered the news of

Minette's release with news of his own. "Lord Halsbury does
not want to take this to trial. He did not come directly out and
say as much, but he did imply that he's already had pressure
brought to bear by the Lords Spiritual not to allow any
whisper of scandal about Oliver. I expect that would also
explain the last-minute bail. The only concession I was able to
wrest from him was that no member of Romney's family
would be implicated in the murder. Beyond that, we are
bootless."

We were sitting in the common room, and there were a

few children eating or reading. Most of them were staying in
their new quarters, not quite able to bring themselves to deal
with any more change. "I didn't think he would." Rom was
letting Jennie put bows in his hair, and tufts were standing up
all over his head, decorated by pink ribbons. "If it weren't for
my family, I would cheerfully give the story to the
newspapers and let the bishops and peers lump it."

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"Lump it," Jennie echoed. "Lumpy, lumpy, lumpy..."
"See? Jennie agrees with me, don't you, Jennie-monkey?"

She nodded and kept on working, tongue stuck firmly
between her teeth.

"It's a shame the Lord Chancellor doesn't agree with her."
"Lumpy, lumpy, lumpy, lordy," she repeated.
" I think that is all that needs to be said about that,"

Father observed. He stared at Jennie for a few moments and
then shook his head. "I will never understand."

"What do we do now?" I asked.
"We go home and try not to think of what has been left

undone. The rest is up to the police, after all. We are simply
investigators."

"Finishded! You look beyoutyfuls," Jennie told Rom, and

waved her arms like a magician.

"Miss Jennie-monkey, you are amazing!"
"Yus," she agreed.
"I think Sir Charles' hair needs some attention, wouldn't

you say?"

"Yus!"
"Oh, Nicholas," Father began, but Rom was on his feet and

ushering him into the chair before Father could frame a
sufficiently gentle rejection of Jennie's talents.

"Jus hod still like," Jennie ordered, taking off his hat and

setting it on the table. In spite of his initial reluctance, I could
see that Father was charmed by the little character, at least
until she informed him that she would be "warshing" his hair
and "picking bugs," at which point Romney exploded into
gales of laughter.

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"Don't worry, Sir Charles, she said the same thing to me.

She'll take good care of you."

"I have faith," my father replied with surprising serenity.

"You boys go on. As soon as Miss Jennie has finished her
magic, I shall be going back to the office."

Romney and I strolled along rather aimlessly for almost a

quarter of an hour. "I feel as if there is something I have
forgotten, something important left undone," I observed.

"That's because you have been raised to believe in justice.

With due respect to your father, I have long known that it
exists only for some. I expect the outcome is harder for the
two of you than it is for me."

"Please don't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because it makes me feel more hopeless." I took a deep,

refreshing breath. "What shall we do? We must do
something," I told him. "Do you need to speak with your
family again?"

"No, nor do I wish to. I'm sure they've been duly informed

that they're off the hook, which is all they care about."

"What about William?"
"What about him?" Rom had stopped to look out over the

Thames and its furious traffic, but his eyes had grown
faraway.

"It seems to me that he may do himself some harm."
"He may."
"Can we not do something for him?"
"What do you suggest?"
"Well, I don't know!"

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"Well, I don't, either. Fitz, I would be telling a lie if I said

that I cared much. I'm sorry he's unhappy, but there's
nothing I can do to help him."

"Nor would if you could, I imagine."
He gave me the oddest look, one which I could not begin

to read, then shrugged and said, "Perhaps not. Perhaps I
have never truly forgiven him. Let's go home and see what
Mrs. MacMurdo has fixed for dinner."

We spent a quiet afternoon. Romney dozed by the fire and

I finished my notes on the case. It was with a sense of relief,
if not completion, that I set them aside and picked up my pen
to work on my revenant novel.

It was almost time for tea when I heard the doorbell ring.

There were voices in the hallway, and the sound of someone
running up the stairwell. When the knock came, it was
Romney who called out, "Come in," for the doorbell had
pulled him out of his doze. He sat forward in his chair.

Our caller was a young constable, out of breath and

looking over-excited. "Please, gentlemen, could you come?
There's been a murder."

We were taken to a fine house in Belgravia. As we

approached, Romney murmured, "Starkley."

"What?"
"This is the Starkley home. Constable McNamara, is it Lady

Starkley who has been murdered?"

Clarke looked surprised. "I don't really know, sir. Only

Inspector Hopson told me to run right along and bring the two
of you here."

"Oh, Rom, you don't suppose..."

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"She left the Yard and went right to her sister."
We alighted from the cab and entered the house. Hopson

was upstairs, in a bedroom vivid with blood. A mangled body
lay on the bed.

"Allow me to introduce you to Lady Starkley, Fitz; also

known as Marette Laroche, the Queen of Diamonds."

I could not look.
"Her servants have been very cooperative. Madame had

had a visit from a very distinguished man this morning, and
as soon as he left, she began to pack her things."

"Did they have any idea who it was?"
"If they do, they're not saying, but I think we can guess

why he was here."

"Yes. He was warning her off."
"Her maid says that she had her clothing mostly packed,

jewels and a good deal of cash in her purse. The maid had
just finished laying out Lady Starkley's travel clothing when
the doorbell rang, and a veiled woman came upstairs and told
her to get out."

"Did she listen at the door?" I asked.
"Yes, briefly. Unfortunately the argument was in French,

which she doesn't speak, so she went back downstairs to
finish some chores. Next thing anyone knows, this strange
woman is leaving, dressed in the baroness' clothes and
carrying a suitcase. Naturally the maid ran upstairs to see to
her mistress, and she found this... carnage." Hopson gestured
broadly. "Poor girl's been hysterical on and off since we got
here. I expect that's natural under the circumstances, but it
has made it difficult to question her."

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"Minette will almost certainly be headed for the boat train,

Hopson."

"We have men at Victoria Station, and I've alerted the

constabulary in Dover, too, just in case we miss her. I want
to stop her before she leaves the country."

"Rom, I'll wait for you downstairs," I told him, unable to

remain in the room for much longer. I was beginning to feel ill
thinking about what had happened in that room, about the
degree of rage Minette must have been feeling to leave her
own twin looking like a side of badly butchered beef.

I waited outside, preferring the cold night air to another

moment in the house. What I had felt in there had changed
me. I thought about how blithely I had written about death in
the past, how even having shot someone—though more by
accident than through actual intent—had not changed the way
I thought of death as something far away, something that
only happened to other people, to the old or the very sick, or
to those who might have deserved to be removed from the
world of the living. In that room, I had had a sense of death
as a presence, a sense that went past the blood and viscera
and smell of butchery. I had sensed Death standing near me,
and it had shaken me to my very core.

I walked through the garden, breathing deeply to calm

myself, and I looked up into the sky to see the enormous full
moon hanging above London. It should have made me smile,
should have comforted me, but it did not.

"You," I said. "I know you're here tonight. I know one day

we will meet face to face, but not for a while longer, if you
please." Then I spoke the thing that was really weighing on

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me. "He means the world to me. I won't beg you for his life,
but I will ask you to come for me at the same moment, for I
could not bear to live without him. Tomorrow or next year or
a century in the future, I will only ask that you take us both."
So saying, I felt lighter in my heart somehow. I lifted my chin
and walked quickly back to the front of the house, where Rom
was waiting for me.

"I was starting to wonder if you'd gone off with some

homme fatal," he said with a grin. "I thought that as long as
we're out, we could pay a call on your parents. Sir Charles
will want to know about this event, and your mother is back
from Scotland, I believe. It will be nice to see her. They might
even feed us."

"You can always make me laugh," I told him.
We arrived at the house to find my parents in the parlor,

playing dollies with Jennie. Apparently my mother had dug
out Caroline's old dolls and they were arranged all over the
parlor, staring down vapidly, or in some cases disapprovingly,
from their perches. Jennie was chattering away and my
parents were looking on and smiling.

As we entered, Jennie sprang up and ran to Rom,

wrapping herself around his leg. "I has you!" she cried
delightedly. "I has you Rominnie!"

"What are you boys doing here?" Father asked.
"There's news you should hear. Mother, would you mind

detaching your protegee from Rom's leg?"

"Jennie, darling, come over here and talk to Sara Jane.

She is missing you."

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Jennie turned her face upward, and Rom bent to kiss her

forehead. "Go on to Sara Jane, Jennie-monkey. We need to
talk to Sir Charles for a bit." With that, she released him and
ran back to Mother.

"What's going on?" Father asked as we adjourned to his

study.

"I could ask the same thing. What's Jennie doing here?"
"Well, your mother thought, and I do agree, that the child

might benefit from a more family-like setting. More so than
some of the older children," he added. "Who need more...
well, discipline. And regularity."

"Quite right, Sir Charles, and Fitz here needs a baby

sister."

"What?"
They both laughed at my surprise, and, if truth be told, my

slight expression of horror at the thought that my parents
were actually thinking of raising another child. "They're too
old!" I blurted. Father gave me A Look.

"Sir Charles, we're here because we felt you'd like to know

that Madame Minette Laroche has murdered her sister and
fled."

"What? When?"
"Less than two hours ago. There is no question that it was

Madame Laroche, and Hopson has sent men to try to keep
her from getting aboard the boat train or the ship to Calais."

"That foolish woman. Now she will surely hang." He offered

us both cigars and took one himself.

"I don't think she cared," I told him. "Her sister had taken

everything from her and was planning to leave the country

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without her, leaving her to face all the charges related to
running the brothel. Marette must have told her that
furnishing her with bail money and a solicitor was all she was
going to do."

The study door opened and Mother said "I hope you aren't

planning on lighting those. We're about to go in to dinner.
Nick, David, I've had places laid for the two of you."

Father sighed. "Confounded woman," he muttered under

his breath.

"I heard that. Nick, come and walk in to dinner with me. I

need to ask you a question." They stepped out of the study,
heads together. Father and I followed them.

"You're seriously considering taking Jennie in?" I asked

quietly. "Why?"

"Oh, a great many reasons, Davy. In part because she's

such a winning child, and we're both already quite attached to
her. In part because I think she needs a family. We can't take
them all, but perhaps we can make a difference to one child.
Mostly for your mother's sake, though. I haven't spoken to
you children about this, but since you left home, her mood
has been less..." He made a helpless gesture. "She seems
troubled and restless. She speaks often of how happy we all
were when you were children, and I see a longing in her eyes
when she sees children in the street."

"She is unhappy?" I was shocked.
"Not so much unhappy as unsettled. Family is everything

to your mother, David, and now there are no children at
home, and I am gone so often." He shrugged. "Jennie has
touched something in your mother. I just don't know if we

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have it in us to cope with a child who must be terribly
damaged, though I confess I have not seen much evidence of
any of the problems Nicholas and I spoke of."

"You've spoken to Nick about all this?"
"Not about Jennie. We spoke in a general way about what

the children would need."

He gave me a sidelong look as if he was wondering how

much to say, so I told him, "Nick told me he was turning his
inheritance over to whatever organization will be caring for
those children."

"We're starting our own. Nick's contribution will carry us

through the early stages, and I feel certain that your mother
and I can twist enough arms in our circles that we shall not
want for money. At this time, we are planning only to care for
the children who were removed from the two brothels, but
perhaps we shall expand in the future. There is a need for a
place where children can go and be safe."

We sat down at the table. Mother and Jennie had their first

confrontation when Jennie refused to say grace or stay in her
chair. (She wanted to sit on Nick's lap.) With Nick's help,
Mother prevailed.

"It won't be easy," Nick told her, and she nodded.
"If it were easy, it wouldn't matter as much, would it?" she

asked him.

"No."
Later, I asked him what Mother had wanted to discuss.
"She wanted to know if I thought she and Sir Charles could

manage Jennie. She worried that they were too old, too easy-
going, too this or that or the next thing. I told her that even if

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they were all those things, which I felt was debatable, they
were also good, loving, caring people, and had raised three of
the best children I'd ever met. Then I asked her who would
raise Jennie if they didn't, which seemed to settle her mind."
He tilted his head and looked at me with a gentle smile. "Are
you thinking I ought to have told her not to do it?"

"No. I'm thinking that I'm the luckiest man in the world."
"You can't be," he said. "Since I am."

[Back to Table of Contents]

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Five

At last the case came to an end when Minette Laroche was

apprehended in Dover and returned to London. She startled
everyone by asking to see my father, and of course, being a
gentleman, he agreed. I asked him to take me along.

"I don't know if I will ever publicly document this case," I

told him. "I want to see it through."

He nodded. "Yes, of course; that's understandable. Come

along as my assistant."

So I found myself facing Minette Laroche once more. The

police had taken her veil, but she had managed to hide the
worst of her scarring with her hair and kept her head turned
slightly during the interview.

"Madame," Father began, "I have asked that you be given

a veil and have been assured that the request will be
honored. I am very sorry that it was taken from you. Is there
anything else I can do for you? Have you engaged a
solicitor?"

"Sir Charles, you have been kind to me; the only person in

a very long time who has treated me with respect. That is
why I asked you to come here. I wish you to hear my story."

"Madame, I am not a solicitor," he reminded her, but she

held her hand up to silence him.

"I do not wish a solicitor, Sir Charles. There is no question

but that they will hang me, and perhaps that is as it should
be, for I murdered my sister in a rage, and now I know what
it is to be truly alone in the world. I feel her absence, and it is

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surprisingly bitter. We were twins, you know. Did you know
her?"

"Yes, I did."
"Then recall her face, and you will see the one I should

have had. Think of mine as it is now and know that it is the
one that was meant for her."

She recounted the story of the Comte de Bras with studied

coolness, though I saw that her hands trembled as she told of
her love for him, his desertion of her in favor of Marette, and
the attack by the Comte's wife. Father listened attentively,
giving no indication of ever having heard the story before.

"I felt that my life was over, but my sister saved me. She

took me away from Paris and nursed me back to health. We
made plans to come to London, and together we created a
new identity for her as Marianne Laroche, a well-to-do French
widow. 'I shall find a wealthy milord,' she said. And so she
did. Baron Starkley was enchanted by her wit, her charm, and
her beauty. He also needed a wife because an unmarried man
of his years was a subject for gossip. You see, M'sieu le Baron
had certain unusual tastes."

She sighed. "Understand, I have no prejudices in matters

sexual. My sister and I lost our virginities on the same night
to the same man. We were eleven, and it was better than
starving to death in the streets of Paris. I have been with men
and women, even the occasional animal. My sister and I
would sometimes perform together for clients. There is very
little I have not done or had done to me. I tell you this so you
understand that I am not sentimental about children, Sir
Charles. I understand what it is to be a child with nowhere to

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shelter, no food in my belly, and no one to protect me. I gave
the children under my care what they needed, and in return
they gave me only what I had, myself, given."

I bit my lip and continued to make notes.
"Marette found children for her husband. That's how all

this began. She brought children to him, and later he told
those in his circle, and they asked her to do the same for
them. Marette was always a good businesswoman and saw
that there were advantages to be had in creating a place
where her husband and his friends could safely indulge in
their vice. She presented him with the plan, and he approved
with the understanding that his name would never be linked
to the project. That is why you did not find it on the contract.
Each of the founders contributed a sum of money which was
to be repaid with a modest interest. They were assured they
would remain anonyme, and they were satisfied.

"Bishop Oliver was not like the others. Their only interest

in the house was sexual, but he saw the potential in such an
establishment and proposed to Marette that, in light of the
fact that he brought her a great deal of business, she should
continue to pay him a profit. It was his intention to use the
money to fund his rise in the church. Marette, recently une
veuve... a widow, chose to go along with the plan for a time.
She had a genuine fondness for her husband, m'sieu," she
explained. "Her grief made her unprepared to fight with the
bishop over money."

I found that hard to believe of a woman who would

prostitute children.

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"The night the bishop died, she had gone to the church to

tell him that their partnership was ended. He had, she told
him, a great deal to lose. He thought she was threatening him
and he struck her. Sir Charles, I beg you to believe my sister
fought for her life that night."

Father reached out and laid his big hand over her smaller

one. "The police know that he struck his murderer."

"You know the result. She stabbed him in self-defense and

fled."

Father nodded, though we both knew that stabbing

someone ten times is more than self-defense.

"And you, Madame? What provoked you to kill your own

sister?"

Minette bowed her head. "She told me that I could not go

away with her, that we must never see one another again."
There was a strange little smile on her lip when she raised her
head again. "You see, she was right. I shall never see her
again."

My father spoke some words of comfort to her and

promised that he would find a solicitor to take her case. She
thanked him for listening to her story and left the room with
her back straight and her head high.

Once we had left the interview room and were on our way

back home, I finally spoke. "What did you make of all that?"

Father was silent for a time, and then he said, "I think we

shall never know the whole truth of those sisters."

Before Father could engage a solicitor on her behalf,

Madame Minette Laroche hanged herself in her cell.

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The story of the brothel, its investors, and the truth about

Bishop Oliver's death never became matters of public record,
though several of the men listed as investors left the country
to live the rest of their lives as expatriates. One shot himself.
I suspect it was an ungenerous impulse, but when I heard
that news, all I could think to say was good riddance.

We also never found out who had been Bishop Oliver's

protector, or why, but that didn't surprise any of us. The next
Bishop of Kensington was an elderly archdeacon and a distant
relative of my mother's, a man of impeccable character even
if he occasionally drank a bit too much Madeira.

The foundation begun by my parents and funded with

Romney's money did a great deal of good for children who
had been exploited, but my father admitted to me privately
that he found it increasingly difficult to involve himself in its
workings because he could not control his anger at hearing
their stories and seeing the damage done to them. I expect
that was at least in part because their adoption of Jennie did
not go well. As she grew older, she began to be disobedient
and even violent on occasion. Eventually she ran away and
was found living with a coffin-maker as his wife. She was not
yet ten years old. They removed her from his home, only to
have her run away again a few months later.

William Romney has traveled to Vienna to consult a doctor

by the name of Freud, who has had quite good results in
dealing with emotional illnesses. Beyond that piece of news,
Rom has had no contact with his family since the events in
this account.

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I have thoroughly documented this case with the

knowledge that there would be no question of ever publishing
it in our lifetime. It will remain in a safety deposit box with
instructions that it should not be opened for one hundred
years. There is a part of me that delights in the notion that
the world will one day know what sort of a man Bishop Oliver
was.

I continue to document Romney's work and am earning

decent money selling not only the stories about Romney's
cases, but other stories as well. My novel about revenants
was very well received and is causing something of a
revenant craze in London.

Nick and I remain together. It has not been an easy time

of it with him, for his darkness has been with him his whole
life. The great love I feel for him, and that which I know he
feels for me, has carried us through intact. He trusts me with
his secrets; I trust him with my life. There has never been a
moment when I have regretted kissing him that day at the
hospital, never a moment when the memory of him saying to
me "I want to go to bed with you" doesn't give me a thrill of
excitement and delight. Sometimes I will watch him sleep and
think that our meeting that day had to happen, that we were
destined to meet, to fall in love, and—insofar as it is possible
for us to do so—to marry. For we have a true marriage,
though it remains unsanctioned by either church or state. It is
carried in our hearts, our minds, and our very souls. Nothing
can ever change that.

When Death comes for one of us, we will be standing

together, inseparable.

Suffer the Little Children

by Tracy Rowan

199

* * * *

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