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“She was thought so when I was a girl,” Lydia said. “She was a river-finder, I believe. Or her spouse was. She often had violent arguments with people who weren’t there. The children believed she was screaming at the ghosts of the drowned persons. I heard her myself once. An argument about money, I believe.”
“Perhaps the ghost was chiding her for emptying his pockets.”
Lydia shrugged. “All the dredgers do that. One of the perquisites of the trade.”
“I wonder you can recognize her. Though she wasn’t in the river very long, the knife or broken glass did its work well enough.”
“I saw her some months ago when I was in Ratcliffe, interviewing prostitutes,” Lydia explained. “I was surprised she was still alive. So I took more note of her than I might have done otherwise. I recognized the garish red-dyed hair and the odd tangle of braids. And the dark splotch on her wrist. A birthmark. The only name I have for her is ‘Mad Dorrie.’ But whether Dorrie is her name or a reference to her work in a boat, I cannot say.”
“Still, that helps,” Bell said. “We’re more likely to get information about ‘Mad Dorrie’ than about ‘Unidentified Female.’ Not that this assists you in your task,” he added as he drew the blanket up over the corpse again. “This woman was dead well before Coralie met up with the duke’s wards. Unless you think there is some significance in this victim’s being different from the others.” He looked up then and discovered he was talking to himself.
The duchess was gone.
“Your Grace?” He hurried from the chamber into the yard. Though the sun hadn’t yet set, a fog had rolled in, plunging the area into gloom. He called, but received no answer. He heard footsteps, faint, upon the stones, and hastened in that direction.
A short time later, the very recently returned Duke of Ainswood was trying to digest exceedingly unwelcome news.
“Shadwell?” Vere shouted. “She’s gone to the East End alone? Has everyone lost their wits? Can’t you see what Grenville’s up to? The same as she did in Vinegar Yard. She thinks she can handle a pack of cutthroats with nothing but her accursed pocket watch. And without even Susan for company.”
“Woof!” Susan said.
Vere glared at her. “How could you let her go alone, you fool dog?”
“Lydia went out hours ago,” Tamsin said. “Susan was with Bertie then. Lydia has only gone from one magistrate’s office to the next. She had the coachman as well as a footman with her. I’m sure she wouldn’t do anything rash.”
“Then you’re one sadly deluded female,” Vere said. He stormed out of the library and down the hall to the front door. He jerked it open before the servant could do it for him, and very nearly trod down the constable standing on the doorstep.
“You’d better have a message from my wife,” Vere told the law officer. “And it had better say that she’s sitting peaceably in the magistrate’s office at Shadwell.”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” said the constable. “I do wish I had that message for you, and it’s my fault I don’t. I was with her. I took my eyes off her for a moment, and she was gone. On foot, I’m afraid. I found her carriage, but she wasn’t in it. I’m hoping someone here can help me put the pieces together, as she evidently has.”
If Lydia was no longer at the Shadwell magistrate’s office, Vere had no idea where to look for her. He made himself calm down—at least outwardly—and invited the constable inside.
The man’s name was Joseph Bell. He was new to the service, a temporary replacement for an officer injured in the line of duty. He was young, good-looking, and clearly better educated than the usual run of constables.
He told his story concisely. He was sure that Her Grace knew more about Mad Dorrie than she let on. “She made sure to slip out before I could ask any more questions,” he said. “If Coralie did kill the old woman—and the signs do point to it—we both wondered why. I can’t help thinking the duchess knew the answer. I assumed the old woman was a threat to the bawd. Knew where she was hiding, perhaps, and made the mistake of opening her mouth about it. Or threatening to do so.”
“Or else she had a fine hiding place that Coralie wanted,” Tamsin said. “Lydia must have had a definite destination in mind. She wouldn’t have run off in such a hurry otherwise.” She frowned. “Yet I don’t understand why she hasn’t sent word of her whereabouts, as she promised.”
Vere did not want to think about the reason his wife wouldn’t—or couldn’t—send word. This whole day had been a nightmare, ever since he’d received her last message. Mars, exhausted, had stumbled from the carriage during the first stop to change horses. He’d sprained his ankle and had to be left at the inn. Then one of the horses had gone lame. Ten miles from London, a drunkard driving a dormeuse had passed too close and damaged one of their wheels. An exasperated Vere had walked to the next change, hired a horse, and ridden at breakneck speed the remaining distance. Then, when he finally reached home, Vere found his wife wasn’t there.
The waking nightmares that had plagued his mind all the frustrating way to London now carried his wife’s image as well as his wards’. She’d sent for him. She needed him. He’d come, as fast as he could, as he’d done for Robin.
Too late, the refrain played in his mind. Too late.
“Your Grace?”
Vere came out of the nightmare, made himself focus on Constable Bell.
“The name ‘Mad Dorrie’ appears to strike no sparks of recognition in present company,” Bell said.
“A river-finder, according to Grenville,” Vere said. “Last seen in the vicinity of the Ratcliffe Highway.” He wracked his brains, to no avail. “If I ever did see her there, I was too drunk or too busy brawling to notice.”
“If Jaynes were with you, mebbe he noticed,” said Bertie Trent.
Vere turned a blank look upon him.
“Also, he’s London born and bred, didn’t you tell me?” Bertie went on. “If Miss G—meanin’ Her Grace—heard of Mad Dorrie, I’d think Jaynes would’ve, too. Sounds like the old woman were kind of famous once.”
Vere’s astonished gaze shifted to Tamsin, who was beaming at her intended.
“How clever of you, Bertie,” she said. “We should have thought of Jaynes immediately.” She rose from her chair and went to the library table. She drew a paper from one of the neat piles there. “He will be starting his evening route in half an hour. You should be able to find him at Pearkes’s oyste
r house, if you set out right away.”
The three men and the dog were on their way out of the house a moment later.
Lydia had managed to elude Constable Bell, but she did not elude Tom. When she turned back into High Street, the ragamuffin popped out of a side street.
“Where you goin’?” he demanded. “Yer fancy coach is back that way.” He gestured with his thumb.
“Where I’m going, I can’t take a fancy coach,” she said. Or constables, she added silently. The denizens of London’s underworld could detect a “trapp” or “horney”—a thieftaker or constable—from miles away. Upon which discovery, criminals vanished and their acquaintances inevitably had “never heard of ’em.”
At present, Coralie might be aware she was being sought, but she would think herself safe. Lydia preferred not to dispel that illusion. In the ordinary way, Coralie was dangerous enough. Cornered, she would turn rabid.
Lydia frowned at Tom. “Did Miss Price tell you to follow me?”
The boy shook his head. “No, Miss G, I tole myself. On account if you got into trouble, it’d be my fault, on account how I lost ’em.”
“If you hadn’t spotted them in the first place, I shouldn’t have a single idea where to look,” Lydia said. “But I shan’t argue with you. I’m going to need help, and I reckon you’ll do.”
A hackney was approaching. She summoned it, directed the driver to Ratcliffe, and climbed inside with Tom.
Then she explained the situation. She told him about Mad Dorrie, and her suspicions that Coralie had wanted the old woman’s abode as a hideout. Mad Dorrie being a troublesome creature to have about, Coralie had doubtless murdered her and thrown her into the river.
“The house is important. It’s isolated, on a stretch of riverside only the rats seem to like,” Lydia explained. “But Dorrie had a boat, which is also important. I think what Coralie means to do is send a ransom note, summoning me there. It’s bound to be a trap. I’ve had no word so far from Miss Price about a ransom note, which tells me Corrie means to wait until dark. It’s easier to lay an ambush then, and she’d have no trouble getting away right after, on the boat. My best chance of foiling her plans is to arrive before she expects me.”
