Death at Whitechapel (24 page)

It was too damn bad she couldn't have saved the news until he'd delivered his address at Bath, Winston thought, resentment mixing with his fear and sadness. As it was, it would be bloody hard to keep his mind on his speech. And so much was riding on this showing of his! Oliver Borthwick at the
Morning Post
was sending a reporter, which meant that the small and relatively unimportant local event would receive full coverage. This news—which had thankfully come before his mother told him about the fraudulent accusations against his father, or he could not have properly concentrated on writing his speech—had raised both Winston's sense of anticipation and his level of anxiety, and he had spent a great many hours working out his thoughts. He was especially proud of the combative tone of the piece and sure that one sentence, in particular, would catch the Post's attention: “England will gain far more from the rising tide of Tory Democracy than from the dried-up drain-pipe of Radicalism.” He repeated this splendid sentence to himself as he strode up Baker Street, thinking how much his father would have appreciated the sound and the sense of this pungent assessment of the Radicals. But the thought of his father brought back the ugly memory of his mother's revelation, and he fell into an even darker despair that still held him in its clutches as he turned off Praed Street into the station.

Paddington was crowded, as usual. It was the terminus from which Society embarked on special trains for royal functions at Windsor and holiday-seekers took second- and third-class carriages for the Cornish coast. It was also an Underground station, having initiated the first service of the Metropolitan Railway, so there was a great deal of City traffic. But for all the crowds and hurly-burly, Winston had no difficulty identifying the top-hatted, frock-coated reporter, a Mr. Reginald Carlson, who had stationed himself under the three-sided clock above Platform One. They were to travel down together, so they consulted the departure board and purchased tickets for Reading, where they would change for Swindon and Bath.

Winston had never been very good at dissembling, but knowing that he had better do his best to impress Carlson, he put on a cheerful face. He had expected that there might be a bit of introductory chitchat with the reporter, but that he should soon be left alone to read through his speech. When they were settled in the cream-and-chocolate railway carriage, however, he discovered that the journalist—who appeared to be a cross between a political reporter and a Society columnist—wanted to talk, and that he had already selected a topic of conversation. They were scarcely out of the station when he broached it.

“I understand,” he said, “that your mother means to marry young Comwailis-West.” He leaned forward and tweaked Winston's sleeve. “What d'you think of the match, eh, Churchill? No older than you, is he?”

The question caught Winston completely off his guard. Stammering his surprise, he managed, “Means to marry! Well, sir, you know more than I do, I must say! I saw Lady Randolph just last night, and she never mentioned it. In fact,” he went on, rapidly inventing, “I understand that she has a much different romantic interest these days, although of course I am not at liberty to speak of it.”

“Not at liberty, eh?” Reginald Carlson said indignantly. “Well, I like that! Lady Randy is the most-talked about lady in this kingdom. Everybody is demanding to know who she means to marry, and when. It'll be quite a story when it breaks.” He folded his arms with a hard look. “Here I am, going to all the trouble of covering this little political rally in Bath, giving you a good angle in the news and all that—and you won't even let me in on your mother's marriage plans?”

“Perhaps she doesn't plan to marry at all,” Winston said sharply, incensed by this irritating bit of blackmail. “She is fully occupied with her launch of
The Anglo-Saxon Review.
If you want to write of anything concerning my mother, write of that.”

“The way I hear it, she is occupied with her launch of yet another Churchill into politics,” Carlson replied. “It must be a nerve-wearing bit of business, all those dinner parties and string-pullings and bread-butterings.” He broke into a horsy laugh. “But she's done a commendable job, by all accounts, to get you ready for politics. ‘Young Randy' is what they're calling you.” He gave Winston an arch look. “A chip off the old block, is that what you fancy yourself? Think you can measure up, do you?”

This incredible cheek was enough for Winston, whose temper was beginning to rise. “I believe, sir,” he said haughtily, “that I should prefer to go over my speech. Perhaps you shall give me leave to attend to it.”

Carlson laughed again, more offensively. “Well, then,” he said, “I s'pose I'll just have to read the newspaper.” He unfolded a copy of the
Post.
“Did you see this morning's story about the racing scandal at Aldershot?”

Winston had already taken out his speech, but the question caught him short. “The ... racing scandal?” he asked. A chill went through him.

“Right. The Fourth Hussars Challenge Cup.” Carlson looked over the top of the paper, his eyes glinting. “Wasn't there a similar problem with one of these Challenges when you were with the Fourth at Aldershot? Seems to me I remember reading something about it in Labouchère's rag. Wasn't it a rigged race?” He paused. “And wasn't there something else, too? Something about harassment or bullying or some such? Bruce-Pryce, I believe the man's name was.”

Carlson's questions now seemed not just irritating and offensive, but sinister, for he had, intentionally or unintentionally, happened upon one of Winston's guilty secrets. Three years before, he had been implicated in a regimental racing scandal—and then, scarcely a month later, in a much more disgraceful episode involving the bullying of another Aldershot subaltern named Bruce-Pryce, who was in consequence drummed out of the regiment. The elder Bruce-Pryce, blaming Winston for this reprehensible treatment of his son, wrote an angry letter accusing him of acts of gross immorality of the Oscar Wilde type. The War Office had not acted in either the racing or the harassment matters and had thankfully turned a blind eye to the accusations of immorality. Winston had immediately engaged George Lewis, a solicitor who was particularly sought after because of his ability to settle seamy matters out of court, and for often quite astounding sums. Lewis had sued the elder Bruce-Pryce for libel and forced him to pay damages. But it had been a near thing—a
very
near thing—and Winston trembled still to think of it.

Pretending that he hadn't heard Carlson's questions, Winston rattled his papers, settled himself into the window corner,and affected a deep preoccupation with his work. But he could no more keep his mind on it than he could fly to the moon. It wasn't just Carlson's outrageous and disrespectful allegations about his mother that distracted him, or even last night's shocking story about a forged photograph of his father with one of the Ripper victims and his mother's payments to some person named Byrd or Finch or some such, who had got himself murdered—a murder of which she might yet be accused.

No, no. Far worse than these were Carlson's other questions about that desperate business at Aldershot. Oh, God, why had this happened now, when his political prospects seemed so perfectly ripe, so ready for the plucking? If Carlson resurrected any of that shameful conduct of which he'd been charged—rigging a Cup race, harassment, immorality—it would be enough to sink him, on the spot and without a trace. Worse still, it would invite the attention of that other man, who by his testimony could destroy Winston's entire life simply by revealing what he alone knew, which was much blacker than any of the black marks yet struck against his record. And now that this man was so intimately involved with his mother's affairs, it seemed to Winston that the risk of betrayal was growing daily. He had to do
something
to silence this possible Judas. But what could he do?

What
could
he do?

 

C
harles sat back in his coffee-house chair and regarded his wife, thinking how beautiful she looked, her russet hair curled into ringlets by the damp, her eyes and mouth fiercely intent, hands gesturing. As always, he was amazed at Kate's resourcefulness and her powers of concentration. Once she had got onto something, whether it was one of Beryl Bardwell's stories or a problem in the kitchen or one of the criminal matters she occasionally helped him with, she stayed with it to the end. Her tenacity was a extraordinary virtue, although it certainly made her a demanding and difficult companion. Still, he would not trade that strength and intensity for all the delicate pink-and-white loveliness in the world.

Kate paused to take a sip of coffee and he spoke. “So you were able to verify the fact of the marriage, then?”

“Yes,” Kate said, putting down her cup. “Sister Ursula showed me the entry in the register, dated March fifteenth. Mary Kelly and Walter Sickert—the same man who paid her wages when she worked as the little girl's nursemaid—witnessed the ceremony. The bride's full name was there too—Annie Elizabeth Crook.” She made a wry face. “But the groom's name is still a mystery. He signed himself A.V. Sickert. And while Mrs. O'Reilly says she knows who he is, she is clearly afraid to tell. I'm certain that we shall get no more out of her.”

Charles leaned forward, his attention caught. “A.V. Sickert? You're certain about those initials, Kate?”

“Certain? Of course I'm certain! Why?” She gave him a narrow look. “You're not telling me that Walter Sickert actually has a brother with those initials?”

“No,” Charles said. “I mean, yes. Walter has two brothers, but neither of them has those initials.”

Kate's eyes widened in surprise. “You know Walter Sickert, then?”

“I do,” Charles said. “We met at one of his showings at the Royal Society of British Artists some years ago, and since, several times. We have some mutual acquaintances—including the Princess of Wales.” He paused, then added, slowly, “Prince Eddy was a close friend of Walter's, back in the early eighties.”

“Mr. Sickert is an artist, then—and a popular one, I take it, if he is a friend of the royal family.”

“He's one of the London Impressionists,” Charles said, “and quite a man about town. He has an eye for city life, and his work shows a sharp sense of character. He's done a fine series of music hall pictures and some striking portraits, in an
avant-garde
style.” He paused, then said slowly, “A few years ago, the Princess asked me to take one of my photographs of Prince Eddy to Walter, so that he could make a portrait for her.” He fell silent, recalling Abberline's enigmatic suggestion, at the end of their conversation, that he talk to Walter Sickert. Yes, it was time he saw Sickert.

Kate ate the last of her pastry and blotted her lips with a napkin. “Doesn't it seem a bit odd,” she said, “that a man who was friendly with a prince was also a friend to shopgirls like Annie Crook? Walter Sickert paid Mary Kelly's wages when she was Annie Crook's nursemaid.” She paused. “And when I asked Mrs. O'Reilly where I might find the child, she said I should ask Mr. Sickert. What is a well-known painter doing in this kind of milieu?”

Lost in thought, Charles didn't answer until Kate put her hand on his arm. “Charles?”

Charles roused himself. “A friend to shopgirls?” he said. “You wouldn't ask that, if you knew the man. Sickert doesn't paint studio subjects, you see, although his talents certainly give him an entrée to Society. He prefers the vitality and variety of streets and pubs and music halls—the low life, one might say.” He smiled a little. “Life among the rough and tumble, the real people. I've heard him say how much he loves the world of sawdust and spittoons, for that's where he finds the real energy of life.”

“The kind of world he might find in Cleveland Street,” Kate said thoughtfully, “or in the East End.”

“He certainly frequents the East End,” Charles replied. “I saw a painting of his several years ago, at the Dutch Gallery in Brook Street—‘The Marylebone Music Hall,' it was called. Quite a remarkable piece of work, humorous and melancholy at the same time. And he had a studio in Cleveland Street at one point, for I visited him there, on Alexandra's errand.” He thought for a moment about the way Walter had received the photograph of Eddy, with a sadly reminiscent smile, as if he were remembering gay times he and the young prince had shared. “I was with him once at a tea given by Lady Eden. The tea table was filled with the most exquisite pastries, all beautifully contrived and artful. But Walter went down to the kitchen and brought back a bun. Everyone laughed, but I thought how much like him it was.”

Kate was watching him with that determined look in her eye that he knew very well, but when she spoke, her voice was almost gentle. “And where is Mr. Sickert to be found these days, do you suppose?”

“He has a studio quite nearby, actually.” Charles pushed back his chair. “In Robert Street, across from Regent's Park.”

Kate put down her cup and blotted her lips with a napkin. “If you mean to see him, Charles, I think you should go alone. The two of you are already acquaintances. He might tell you things he would not if I were present.”

Charles was grateful for her tact. Curious as she was to get at the truth and determined to uncover it, she was still willing to let him do it in the most effective way.

“Agreed,” he said, and stood. “Shall I summon you a cab?”