Paula Marshall - Prince Of Secrets

A fortnight ago the word had come down from on high to lay off Mr Jacobus Grant, alias Mr Dilley, amateur magician and former outlaw. What a thing it was to have friends in high places, being his cynical reaction to that. On the other hand, he had to allow that, so far, he had uncovered nothing to support his belief that Grant was responsible either for the fire by the river or Hoskyns’s death.

But if Grant had thought that Hoskyns had murdered the girl, as well as procured her, what was he thinking now? Hoskyns dead, Madame Louise and the rest of her cohorts in prison—and a killer of girl children was still on the loose.

What magic trick could Mr Dilley answer that with?

Dinah sat at breakfast with Cobie. Their Sandringham excursion was safely over without any further trouble from Sir Ratcliffe or anyone else. Not that she was aware of Cobie’s session with Hervey Beauchamp.

Sir Ratcliffe had behaved himself after that first disastrous evening. The Prince had made it plain to him that he was no longer one of the favoured few around him, and he did not like that upstart Grant the more for that.

Part of him regretted the behaviour which had drawn the Royal wrath down on him because it meant that his rocky social position had become even rockier. He could only console himself with the thought that, as long as he possessed Tum Tum’s letters, the Prince could not banish him from high society by withdrawing his patronage completely.

On their last day in Norfolk the Prince had genially roared at the Grants, ‘I am looking forward to our rendezvous with you in the North, Lady Dinah. Make sure that husband of yours brings along all his musical instruments to entertain us. Lady K. tells me that he’s a devil on the banjo, too.’

Cobie had bowed agreement and Dinah had made what she thought were the kind of suitable noises which the Marquise de Cheverney, who had been her social tutor, would have approved of. She did not say, although she thought it, that she would be relieved to be in her own home again, and was not very eager to spend yet another week or so in her sister’s grand mansion with people whose interests she did not share.

Besides that, not only would she and Cobie be off to Markendale, but nothing was yet resolved between them. She had begun her campaign to win his love, but it seemed mired in the pleasant stalemate which her life had become.

Not that Cobie knew that there was anything to be resolved. He remained his own equable, charming and kind self. There were times when she almost wished that he would say or do something for which she could reproach him! She sometimes wished that his manners, like the rest of him, were less than perfect. It was hard to have nothing to criticise.

Take this morning, for example. He had eaten, sparely for him, and was now drinking coffee while he read the The Times, having excused himself for doing so, saying that he needed to be au fait with the world’s news before he went off into the City.

Finally he put the paper down, and said in what she thought of as his deceiving voice, ‘I had hoped that I might spend the day with you today, but I find that I need to go into the City. You will forgive me, my love, I will make it up to you tomorrow.’

‘Of course,’ she said. If he were the perfect husband, then she could be no less than the perfect wife. Something had disturbed him, she knew that, but had no idea how she knew it. Something in the paper. Other people might not be able to see behind the mask he wore, but she was beginning to. She wondered what it could be.

After he had gone Dinah picked up the newspaper. He had carefully refolded it. She had no idea what she was looking for. She doggedly skimmed through its pages after the fashion which her father had taught her to read documents. It was full of the usual kind of thing. Towards the end there were some discreet headlines about what the popular press were calling ‘The Dockland Vampire Murders’. The Times referred to them so delicately that Dinah could hardly make out what had occurred, other than that this was the second poor child who had been found killed and mutilated either in, or near, the Thames. The police were adjured in no uncertain terms to do their duty and find the murderer. Crime must be seen to be punished.

It was, she concluded, putting the paper down again, probably something in the financial news, which she was unable to make sense of, that had troubled him. He never talked of his money-making activities, either to her or to anyone else. She was quite certain that he had whole areas of life to which no one, including his wife, was privy—other than Mr Van Deusen, that was. And what did that tell her?

Cobie had read the short account of the child’s murder in The Times with mounting pity and horror. He had no doubt as to who was responsible. Sir Ratcliffe had, like the Grants, been back in London for a week, and doubtless had grown bored with the milk and water life of his social equals.

He contemplated going to Scotland Yard immediately with what he knew, and the devil take the Prince’s reputation—to say nothing of his own. But what hard evidence could he offer against Heneage? Simply that he had once seen him with Lizzie Steele in a house of ill fame, and that he had helped her to escape from him. His one possible witness, Hoskyns, was dead—and even if he had lived, what would his sole evidence have been worth against Sir Ratcliffe in his power and might?

Besides that, would the faceless men behind Beauchamp ever allow Sir Ratcliffe to be caught and tried, either for Lizzie’s death or that of his latest victim, while he could still hold the Prince to ransom with the stolen letters? All he could do was go to his City office and hope that Walker would visit him there, and not at Park Lane, to disturb Dinah again.

Sure enough when he arrived there, Walker, with one of his constant shadows in attendance, was waiting for him, Bates standing stolidly in his rear.

‘So, Mr Dilley,’ Walker began without preamble, ‘what do you say to that?’ He flung an assortment of newspapers, all crying out against the murderer of girl children. ‘You killed Hoskyns for nothing, didn’t you? The real murderer of Lizzie Steele is still running round among us. How do you feel about that?’

There was nothing for it but to put on his most baffled face, and lie—as usual.

‘Really, Inspector, I had thought I had done with these baseless accusations. Why should you think that Hoskyns was killed because of Lizzie Steele’s death—or that it was Hoskyns who murdered her? My own belief, for what it’s worth, is that these children are being killed by someone from a different walk of life altogether.’

‘Oh, aye,’ jeered Will Walker, turning to grin at Bates, before going on. ‘Some toff, I suppose. Well, now, Mr Dilley, the only toff I know of on the loose is your good self, and I don’t think that the Vampire killer is you—even though I might like to.’

Cobie said slowly, ‘What sort of evidence would convince you that I may be right, Inspector?’ More than ever he regretted having made an enemy of the man.

‘Hard evidence, Mr Dilley. Hard evidence. No whim-whams, no putting it on to someone of your own kind whom you happen to dislike. No confessions made by a dead man, either.’

This was a shrewd hit, if only the Inspector had known it!

Cobie said slowly, ‘Suppose I found evidence, Inspector, and passed it on to you? Would you respect it?’

Walker thrust his face forward. ‘I’ll tell you what I would respect, Mr Dilley, and that’s that you won’t go round killing anyone else because you might think they’ve done in Lizzie Steele and this latest child. We don’t know the poor creature’s name yet. I’ll have you if you do—and that’s my last word. That’s why I came. You go home to your pretty young wife, make her happy, and leave us to do our job, and you do yours, which I understand is making money. You aren’t in the U.S. of A. now, Mr Dilley.’