Paula Marshall - Prince Of Secrets

No, he couldn’t mention Sir Ratcliffe’s name to the disbelieving man before him. A crony of the Prince of Wales, a Cabinet minister, if a minor one, with a family name which went back fifteen generations! He could imagine Walker’s scornful laughter. As well accuse the Prince himself.

No, somehow he must find hard evidence against Sir Ratcliffe—and then decide what to do with it. A task which would be difficult for him, knowing that the wretch was being protected in order to avoid a dreadful scandal which might shake the throne and strengthen the powerful Republican movement.

In the meantime, he smiled and bowed Walker and Bates out, commiserating with them, until Walker turned at the door, leaned forward and seized Cobie by the lapels of his splendid coat. He thrust his face into his and hissed, between his teeth, ‘Mind what I say, Mr Dilley, one false step and this time I’ll see you swing, I swear I will.’

‘By God, he’s a cool one, guv,’ Bates said respectfully, when they got into a cab to take them back to Scotland Yard. ‘He never turned a hair when you warned him at the end, just laughed in your face, as usual.’

‘Well, as long as that’s all he does, Bates. But he’s a slippery devil—and we’ve not seen the last of him.’

Once the officers had gone, Cobie rang for Rogers, his secretary.

‘I want to hire an enquiry agent,’ he said abruptly, ‘an honest one. I need to find out about one of our business rivals, so I want a discreet man I can trust—and soon. Not next week, not next month, but yesterday. You understand me? Use your connections.’

Rogers used them to good effect.

Twenty-four hours later, a dour ex-police officer, as sardonic in his way as Walker was in his, sat before him.

‘I want you,’ Cobie said, ‘to investigate a man named Sir Ratcliffe Heneage. These papers—’ and he indicated a report he had written ‘—will tell you who and what he is—and what I also believe him to be.’

Jem Porter took the folder over, and asked, ‘What’s he done, then, that you want to have him investigated?’

‘He likes girl children,’ Cobie told him, eyes hooded. ‘Too much. I want evidence of where he goes for them, who finds them for him, what he does. Anything. And, besides that, anything else which you can find of his doings, good and bad.’

‘I can’t say I’ve come across him,’ mused Porter. ‘I’ve heard whispers, nothing more. He’s not the only one with strange tastes, you know.’

‘I want more evidence than whispers,’ said Cobie, curtly, ‘and the less you tell anyone else of this, the better. Be discreet, be careful, and I’ll pay you well. Report back here to me while I’m in town. When I go to Markendale next week, you may send me a written report there. Our man will be staying at Markendale, too. While he’s out of town, pursue discreet enquiries among the staff of his London home, and among the underworld in the East End.’

‘Understood,’ said Porter. The man before him was paying him enough to inspire loyalty as well as discretion. He said, drawing a bow at venture, ‘These child murders. Will Walker’s in charge of the investigation. I used to work with him. Ever come across him?’

‘Yes.’ Cobie was his laconic business self, offering nothing. ‘By chance.’

‘Good man, Walker. You can trust him. Stood by me when things went wrong. I still see him occasionally.’

‘Ah,’ Cobie said, ‘I’m glad you told me. If you do come across him while you’re working for me, don’t let him know that you are. That’s an unbreakable order. Break it, and I’ll fire you on the spot.’

‘Right.’ Porter nodded. ‘I know which side my bread’s buttered on. Trust me. Mum’s the word, sir.’

That was that. Everything was now in train, and he and Dinah could go to Markendale with that out of the way, and hope that Porter might find anything—or something—which he could use.

Dinah’s understanding of her husband had become so subtle that she knew that something was troubling him, even though to all outward appearances he was still as charmingly in control of himself as usual. She wished that he would confide in her, but was bitterly aware that he would not—because of her youth, she supposed.

It was while this was worrying her that a few days before they left for Markendale Violet arrived one afternoon, everything about her proclaiming that she was ripe for mischief. The way she eyed her sister, the dramatic fashion in which she sat down and ate her tea, almost as though she were playing a society lady on the stage, warned Dinah that something was afoot.

Violet began innocently enough. ‘Do you see much of Susanna Winthrop these days?’ she enquired casually.

Dinah shook her head. ‘No, she doesn’t visit us often, and we have only visited her on a few occasions. Recently, on her birthday, of course.’

‘Of course.’

Violet bit into a cucumber sandwich, and said carelessly, ‘I never really supposed that Apollo would be faithful to you after the first flush of marriage was over, but I didn’t think that he would go a-roving so soon, and quite so near home.’

Dinah’s hands, hovering over the silver teapot—she had been about to pour them both a second cup—stilled. She dropped them into her lap and said tonelessly, ‘I really don’t know what you are trying to tell me, Violet. It might be better if you spoke plainly, then I would not be able to misunderstand you.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t want you to misunderstand me,’ drawled Violet poisonously, ‘I thought to spare you a little, but since you wish to bite the bullet, do so by all means. The gossip—and I am astonished that you have not heard it—is that Susanna Winthrop is pregnant, that the father of the child cannot be her husband, and to put it plainly—as you wished—the father happens to be your husband.’

All that Dinah could hear was the relentless ticking of the clock, and something inside her which said, Is that what has been exercising him all this time? An affair with Susanna?

Aloud she said, pleased that the Marquise’s training appeared to be able to allow her to withstand this appalling news—supposing that it was the truth—‘Now that I do not believe, Violet. It is my understanding that she has been having an affaire with Sir Ratcliffe Heneage, and that Cobie has been troubled over it. He hinted as much to me.’

‘Oh, you poor dear innocent!’ Violet put down her cup and leaned forward commiseratingly. ‘It’s all a blind, can’t you see? I have every reason to know that Sir Ratcliffe’s interest in Susanna Winthrop has been quite innocent, and that she and Apollo have been using it to disguise their own activities. Besides, I am reliably informed that they have been lovers for years, despite the difference in their ages.’

Could this possibly be true? thought Dinah numbly. Or was it merely Violet being spiteful? Surely Cobie wouldn’t betray her with his foster-sister—and so soon? She thought of their happy days and nights together, but she also thought of what he had said to her more than once, ‘You are not to love me, Dinah.’

Was he saying that in order to allow himself to be unfaithful? She felt her throat close. She wanted to scream at Violet, to shriek at her, to…

Instead she said calmly, ‘What nonsense, Violet. I am not foolish enough to expect my husband to be permanently faithful to me. That, I have come to understand, is the way of the world. It puts a different complexion on Mother’s behaviour, doesn’t it? Besides, I don’t believe he would do this to me so soon after our marriage.’

‘But what did he marry you for?’ asked Violet triumphantly. ‘Not for love, of that I am sure. And having got you, and turned you from a timid little mouse into someone half-way presentable, what on earth is there to keep him faithful, tell me that?’