Break of Dawn (31 page)

His fingers caressed the wad of notes in his pocket contentedly. Tonight, he could go and see Chan. Chan’s place was a cut above some of the other opium dens and he provided a degree of privacy if you could pay for it. And he could. But first he needed a drink, a proper drink. Whisky. Or brandy perhaps. He could afford a good malt.

He stood to his feet, holding on to the back of his chair to steady himself once he was upright and then tottered off in the direction of a public house he frequented, swaying slightly as he walked.

The proprietor of the café watched him go, shaking his head slightly. How could someone who was married to one of the most successful and beautiful actresses in the theatre end up like that? But that was the demon drink for you. So thinking, he gathered up the plethora of empty wine bottles and glasses and, humming a merry tune to himself, walked back into the cafe.

Sophy left the theatre immediately after the last curtain call without bothering to change or remove her stage make-up. She wanted to get home and lie in the hot bath Sadie always had waiting for her when she walked in. It was times like tonight when she realised she still wasn’t completely well, even though all visible signs of the attack which had left her dangerously ill for some time were gone. But it wasn’t just that, or even the tiring day and the confrontation with those awful men when they were leaving the park earlier that had her feeling tired and depressed. She had had a letter from Patience yesterday in which her cousin informed her she was expecting a baby. And she was glad for Patience, genuinely glad – but it had brought home that such an avenue was now closed to her.

She had read the letter twice and then put it away and refused to think about it, but tonight every word Patience had written was printed on her mind.

In spite of how she was feeling, a small smile touched Sophy’s lips. Dear Patience. No one could doubt that her cousin’s marriage was a love-match. Lucky baby, to be born into such a happy home.

She had been so lost in her thoughts she hadn’t realised they’d reached the house until the driver of the cab jumped down from behind the horse and opened the carriage door.

‘Here we are then, Mrs Shawe,’ he said cheerfully, helping her down onto the cobbled pavement. Sophy was one of his regulars and he liked her, not least because she always tipped well. ‘Another minute or two and you’ll be able to put your feet up.’

‘Thank you, George.’ Over the months and years he’d been collecting her from the evening performances at whichever theatre she was playing at, she’d found out he had ten children, thirty-nine grandchildren and two great-grandchildren, and knew most of the goings-on in their lives. She always sent George and his long-suffering wife a large hamper at Christmas, knowing most of their brood descended on them Christmas Day and that money was tight.

After paying him, she said goodnight and let herself into the house, wondering why the hall was in darkness. Calling Sadie’s name, she opened the door of the drawing room and stepped into the room. Several things happened in quick succession. As she took in Sadie sitting between two young men, one of whom had his hand across her mouth, someone grabbed her from behind. She uttered a piercing scream which brought another man out of the shadows on the far side of the room, saying, ‘Shut her up, for crying out loud.’

As the two men who had been waiting behind the door tried to hold on to her, she screamed again, twisting and turning in their hands and kicking out with all her strength. She managed one more scream before the hand came across her mouth and nose in an iron grip, a voice in her ear saying laughingly, ‘She’s a real little wild cat, this one. She’ll take some taming.’

She recognised Rupert Forester-Smythe as he came towards her and her terror increased. She knew why these men were here and what they were about to do. Her frantic eyes met Sadie’s for a moment. This couldn’t be happening. Not here, in her own home.

When the front door burst open and George charged into the room wielding the heavy wooden cudgel he kept tucked behind his seat, Sophy was on the verge of fainting. The hand across her face was cutting off her air supply.

George didn’t wait to ask any questions. He brought the lethal-looking weapon straight down on the head of one of the men holding Sophy and he went down like a stone, and as Sophy jerked herself free of the second man George struck him too, causing him to stagger backwards with blood pouring from his smashed nose and teeth. George wasn’t a small man and he was built like a wrestler and as tough as old boots, neither did he hold to fighting within the constriction of the Queensberry Rules.

The two men who had been holding Sadie had jumped to their feet but seemed uncertain as to what to do, and as Rupert shouted, ‘Get him! Get him!’ they still hesitated, clearly intimidated by the fury and prowess of the man in front of them. Rupert had grabbed his walking-stick, which he brought with a thwack round the side of George’s shoulders, and as the other two men made to join him, one was hit from behind with a heavy vase which Sadie had picked up and used with unerring accuracy.

George was bellowing like an enraged bull and as he swiped wildly with the thick club and caught Rupert on the arm, the crack of bone and Rupert’s shriek of pain added to the mayhem.

Leaving their two cronies who were out cold on the floor, Rupert and the other two who could still walk fled the scene, with George following them and still aiming blows halfway up the street, before he turned and ran back to the house. By now the neighbours either side of the house had been alerted and were on the doorstep, and lights had gone on in several other residences.

It was ten minutes before someone returned with two burly constables. By then, Sophy and Sadie were sitting swathed in blankets on one of the sofas drinking a cup of tea that Mrs Webb, from next door, had made. George was standing guard over the two unconscious men who were still stretched out on the carpet amidst blood and splintered pieces of fine Meissen porcelain, a couple of the neighbours at his elbow.

The two constables surveyed the scene in front of them as Sophy explained what had happened, and then looked at George who was still holding the cudgel in case one of his victims came to and attempted to make a run for it. ‘We could do with you on the force, mate,’ one said dryly.

George didn’t smile. ‘Thank God I was checking one of Maggie’s hooves and hadn’t driven straight off, else I might not have known anything was amiss.’

Sophy echoed the sentiment. But for George this night might have ended very differently. Now the danger was over, she found she couldn’t stop shaking.

Over the next hour or two the assailants were taken away in the police wagon to hospital, statements were taken and descriptions given of the three men who had escaped. The fact that Sophy knew the name of one of them caused the constables to smile in satisfaction. They were solid, working-class men and had little time for the idle Hooray Henrys of the world, especially those who abused their position and wealth.

It was four o’clock in the morning before everyone left, and Sophy and Sadie sat looking at each other in the kitchen where Sadie had made the umpteenth pot of tea of the night. ‘And you say they came in using a key?’ Sophy asked for the third time in as many minutes. ‘But how? Where would they have got it and how did they know it was the key to this house?’

Sadie bit her lip. Sophy wasn’t a stupid woman, far from it, and it had been clear the way the constables’ minds had been working when she’d told them about the key and they had asked all those questions about Mr Shawe, but Sophy was shutting her eyes to it. Deciding plain speaking was in order, she said gently, ‘As far as I know there’s only you, me and Mr Shawe who’s got a key to the house, ma’am. I’ve got mine and you’ve got yours, so . . .’

‘No.’

‘I think it’s a possibility we have to consider.’

‘No.’
Sophy was working the fingers of her left hand into the skin of her throat, and becoming aware of this, she made herself stop. Toby was weak and foolish and had become increasingly
unpredictable and violent over the latter days of their marriage, but he would never do anything like this to her. He wouldn’t. It was unthinkable. There was a different explanation, there had to be.

‘No,’ she said for the third time. ‘I know him, Sadie, and all his faults, but this? He wouldn’t.’

Sadie made no reply. She felt in her water that Mr Shawe was behind this and her water was never wrong. She was going to send for Mr Gregory in the morning and ask him to arrange for the front door to be mended and the locks changed, and see what he said. Herself, she wouldn’t put anything past Toby Shawe. If ever a man was going to hell riding on a handcart, it was him. But Sophy wouldn’t see it, she’d never see it.

Toby was woken by something furry running over his face. He opened his eyes and stared into the inquisitive ones of the rat for a moment before it scampered off. And then the pain hit. In every part of his body. Whimpering in his throat and in agony he tried to move but it was beyond him. And then he remembered. The men he’d been chatting with in the Horseman’s Hounds, they’d followed him when he’d left to go to Chan’s. They had knocked him to the ground and gone through his pockets, and when he’d tried to get up they’d used their feet on him, kicking and stamping and jumping. The pain brought a red mist in front of his eyes as he tried to take a breath and the metallic smell of blood was in his nostrils.

He must have lost consciousness again because when he next became aware of anything beyond the excruciating pain, it was the rat just inches from his face. His eyes, which seemed to be the only thing he could move without passing out, took in several more browny-grey shapes behind the leader.

The shout he tried to muster was merely a soft gurgle in his tortured throat, and when the big male, bolder than the rest, took a tentative bite from the piece of flesh nearest to it – Toby’s bloody arm – he could see the yellow teeth as they fastened on his body.

Kane stared at the policeman. ‘You want
me
to tell her that? Why me? Can’t you or one of the others do it?’

The Inspector shuffled his feet. ‘We thought it might be kinder coming from you, sir. That’s all.’

Kinder? Kane ran a hand through his hair. How did you break the news to a wife – and Sophy was still Toby’s wife, or his widow, to be exact – that her husband had been found beaten to death in a squalid, filthy alley and half-eaten by rats? Moreover, this was the same husband who had virtually sold her to be raped and goodness knows what just days ago.
He
had been barely able to believe the statements made by the two men George had apprehended; how it had affected Sophy he didn’t dare to imagine. And now all five men involved were in custody.

Kane looked into the Inspector’s eyes. They were world-weary but kind. ‘I suppose you see this sort of thing every day of the week?’

‘Not quite like this, no, sir.’ The Inspector didn’t go on to say that this case had shocked even the most seasoned policeman among them. ‘If you would prefer me to speak to Mrs Shawe . . .’

‘No, I’ll tell her. Does Sadie, the housekeeper, know?’

‘Not yet, sir.’

‘Then I’ll see her first and have her with me when I speak to Mrs Shawe.’

‘As you think best, sir.’

Think best? How could there be any best in this hornet’s nest? It seemed he was forever destined to bring the woman he loved the worst kind of news. When Sadie had sent the note explaining that Sophy had been attacked in her own home four days ago, he had been on the doorstep within the hour. He had still been there when the Inspector and a police constable had arrived bearing the news that the men in custody had confessed to the crime and implicated Toby in the matter of the key. Sophy had listened to what they had to say without uttering a word, and had spoken only in monosyllables after they had left. And that had set the pattern thereafter. As far as Sadie was aware, Sophy hadn’t wept or broken down since the incident, nor mentioned Toby’s name. In fact, she’d barely spoken at all and would see no one besides himself, and George, when the latter had called to see how she was, the day after the attack. It was worrying. In truth, he was worried to death and didn’t know what to do about it, nor how to reach her.

The Inspector cleared his throat and Kane came out of his thoughts, saying quickly, ‘I’ll go and see Sadie now before Mrs Shawe comes down. Thank you, Inspector. Are you going to stay around for a while?’

‘I don’t think so, sir. There’s nothing more we can do at the moment.’

Kane nodded, and once he had shown the policeman out he walked through to the kitchen where Sadie was preparing a breakfast-cum-lunch for Sophy. It was eleven o’clock in the morning. Sadie had confided in him the day before that Sophy stayed up until three or four in the morning since the attack, only going to bed when she was so exhausted she couldn’t keep her eyes open. ‘It’s awful, Mr Gregory,’ Sadie had whispered. ‘She paces.’

‘She does what?’ he’d asked.

‘Paces. You know – walks backwards and forwards, but not just once or twice. It goes on for hours. She sends me to bed, but how can I sleep when I know the state she’s in? I sit on the stairs until
I see the drawing-room light go off and then I nip to my room. This can’t go on. Not without her losing her mind. You have to do something.’

He had stared at Sadie, utterly at a loss. He was still at a loss.

Sadie had stopped what she was doing as he walked into the kitchen and was now looking at him with fearful eyes. ‘What did the Inspector say?’

‘They’ve found Mr Shawe’s body.’