Nine Buck's Row (17 page)

The room held a fascination for me, for it revealed yet another aspect of the man who occupied it. I could visualize him pacing up and down like a caged tiger as he tried to work out some problem in his mind, and I could see him sitting at the desk in his shirt sleeves, writing in the light of the tall lamp with its green glass shade, deep in concentration and lost to the world outside these walls. I had an overwhelming urge to look through the papers on his desk, but I restrained myself, far too nervous to attempt anything so bold.

I began to look through the bookshelves, so intent in my search that I failed to hear the footsteps in the hall.

“May I inquire what you're doing here?” he said coldly.

I whirled around, my heart pounding.

Nicholas Craig was standing just inside the room, wearing his green and gray checked suit, the emerald tie loosely knotted. His face was lined with fatigue, deep violet gray smudges beneath his eyes. I hadn't heard him come in the night before, nor had I heard him leave this morning. Was he just now coming in? Had he been out all night, gathering material for his new report? He looked like someone who hadn't had any sleep in over twenty-four hours. His shoulders seemed to sag, and although he was as icy and remote as ever, he seemed strangely vulnerable.

“Well?”

“I was—looking for something to read,” I managed to say, my voice barely audible.

“In here? You'll find nothing of interest on these shelves, Susannah. Are you out of books? I'll bring a package home for you.”

“I wanted to read your report,” I said bravely. “Maggie said there might be a copy here in the study.”

“My report on the sweatshops? I'm flattered by your interest, but I'm sure you'd find it hard going. It's quite dry and full of statistics that would mean nothing whatsoever to a layman. I'll buy you some novels tomorrow.”

He pulled off his jacket and tossed it over the back of the chair. His white shirt was rumpled. He undid his tie and rolled up his sleeves, seemingly oblivious of my presence. Moving over to the desk, he began to shuffle through the papers.

“Are you going to work?” I asked.

“I need to jot down some notes while the details are still fresh in my mind.”

“You look—so tired. Couldn't they wait?”

He turned around to face me. I expected him to look angry. He didn't. He gave a weary sigh and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead.

“This is very hard on you, isn't it?” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Living here, closed in, confined, surrounded by slums. You're young. You need fresh air and exercise. You need amusing companions. It will be different once we're at Surrey, Susannah. There'll be gardens you can walk in. I have several horses. My groom will give you riding lessons. There'll be girls your own age to chat with, the daughters of neighbors. This will all be over soon. We'll leave the East End, leave London, and you can have a normal existence.”

“When are you taking me to Surrey?”

“Before long. You'll like it there. The house is lovely. The village has a quaint charm. There'll be servants to look after you.”

“You'll be through with your report?”

“Far from it. It will take me months to compile my notes and actually write it, but the hard part will be over. I'll have more time to—see to your welfare.”

He frowned, pressing his lips in a tight line. The vulnerable, human Nicholas Craig disappeared, and the cold stranger took his place.

“I've got work to do,” he said sharply. “Get out of here. Inform my aunt I won't be joining her for dinner tonight.” He ushered me out and closed the doors firmly behind me.

It rained during the next three days, the sky low and gray, dripping constantly when it wasn't pouring down great sheets of swirling gray-brown water. Raindrops slid down the window panes, making glittering nets on the glass. Dampness pervaded everything. The house smelled of moisture and mud, and it was so dark we had to keep the lamps burning all the time. Depressing weather, even more so when one had to stay inside and watch the bleak rain splashing in the courtyard and smearing the flagstones with ugly brown mud.

On the second afternoon Colleen came into my bedroom with a large parcel wrapped in heavy white paper.

“Mister Nicky said I should give you this,” she said.

“Oh?”

“He just left, wearin' 'is raincoat, 'e was, and lookin' fierce. 'E hurled the package at me and said bring it up. 'E was in a frightful mood. I 'spect it's this rain—”

“Thank you, Colleen,” I said, taking the package from her.

I undid the paper to find several books, all glossy and stiff, smelling of newness. Two novels by Mrs. Humphry Ward, George Meredith's latest work, a lengthy historical romance set in Scotland, and two others. I was thoroughly bewildered. He had taken time out to go to the bookstore in all this rain, had evidently given some thought to the selections, had spent quite a lot of money. But why couldn't he have given me the books himself?

I would never understand him. He was a complete enigma.

I was pleased with the books. They helped make the wet, miserable days endurable. I stayed in my room most of the time, reading voraciously, the sound of pattering rain a constant background. The print was like a drug, keeping my mind off Nicholas Craig, and Millie, and the murderer who still roamed the streets, defying the police to catch him. I managed to escape reality for a while, but frequently my mind would wander from the page and I would be aware of the vague uneasiness I had been prey to ever since I came to Nine Buck's Row.

Although there was nothing definite I could point to, I had the feeling that something was amiss, something was steadily mounting to a climax. Everything was normal on the surface, but that curious sensation remained. It might have all been in my imagination, probably was, yet the house itself seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for something to happen that would cleanse the atmosphere. I found myself listening for noises that never came, and I could never pass the door of the storage room without giving an involuntary shudder.

Nerves, no doubt. The rain didn't help at all.

Friday dawned bright and clear. There was an invigorating tang in the air, and everything had been washed clean by the rain. The sky was a pale blue, and dazzling sunlight spilled down in rich profusion. Scrappy was ecstatic when I turned him loose in the courtyard. He capered about lustily, splashing in the drying puddles, protesting loudly when I brought him back in. Maggie was extraordinarily cheerful at breakfast, passing the fresh baked scones, opening a jar of guava jelly, pleased, for once, with the way Mrs. Henderson served the bacon and eggs. We were both surprised when Nicholas strolled in to join us, newspaper in hand.

“This is quite an honor, Nicky,” Maggie said. “I was beginning to think you'd given up eating with us. You look rested this morning.”

“I got in early last night. Slept for ten hours.”

“That's wonderful, dear. Now if you'll just eat a large breakfast—”

“Don't nag, pet,” he said in a remarkably amiable voice, opening his newspaper.

“I want to thank you for the books,” I said.

“Did you get them?” he inquired lazily, not looking up from the paper. “I thought you might be pleased.”

“It was very thoughtful of you—”

“Don't chatter, Susannah. I'm trying to read.”

I buttered a scone, determined not to speak to him again. There were pools of sunshine on the faded carpet, and a bird was twittering merrily. I could hear Mrs. Henderson banging pans down in the kitchen, and Colleen was humming to herself as she polished furniture in the hall. Maggie filled her nephew's plate with food. He ignored it, sitting back in his chair, right ankle crossed over his left knee, his face hidden by the newspaper.

“Mr. Lord is back,” Maggie said conversationally, hoping to lure him away from the newsprint. “I saw him coming in yesterday with his suitcase. I wonder where he goes.”

“Didn't know he'd been gone,” Nicholas replied, uninterested.

“For the past four days,” Maggie continued. “I rather think he visits his parents. He quite obviously comes from a good family, speaks in such a refined, cultured voice. I know they don't
approve
of him. I've gathered that from the few conversations I've had with him. Shame, really. He does such nice pictures. I've always believed artists should be encouraged.”

“Maggie, luv, I'm not the least interested in your boarders.”

“Mr. Lord is such a
polite
young man. I've always thought it peculiar that he should be staying here in the East End.
Must
you read your newspaper at the table? Suzy and I see little enough of you as it is.”

“You know how I hate small talk,” he said, rattling a page.

“Exasperating man!” she said peevishly. “No woman would ever be able to live with you. Oh dear—I'm sorry. I didn't mean—”

“Of course not,” he said harshly, folding up his newspaper.

He ate his food in moody silence. Maggie looked flustered after her inadvertent faux pas. Was his marriage such a sore subject that he turned sullen at even such an accidental reference to it? I wondered if the beautiful Valerie had found him as indifferent and inattentive at the breakfast table. He finished his food, said he was spending the day at the library and left the room.

“Was he always so surly?” I asked, irritated by his rude manner.

“What? Oh, Nicky. My mind was wandering. No, dear. He used to be perfectly charming. What that woman did to him—well, it changed him. I often wonder if the old Nicky will ever return. Foolish of me to make that slip. I hope he didn't think I did it in
ten
tionally.”

She sighed deeply, shaking her bouncy red ringlets.

“He'll be different once he leaves London,” she continued. “He hates the city. He's far more relaxed at Surrey. He's at ease there. I imagine he'll be taking you there soon. It's so green and lovely, the gardens full of flowers, the house so large and roomy. If it weren't for the shop I'd move there myself.”

Maggie went down to the shop, and I picked up the newspaper Nicholas had left behind. There was a long editorial lambasting Sir Charles Warren. Ever since the inept Leather Apron affair he had been fairly roasted by the press, along with the Home Secretary, Henry Matthews, who was considered by many even more inefficient than the Police Commissioner. According to the papers, both men were bumbling nonentities standing in the way of progress and should be promptly replaced. Matthews was like the famous monkeys, one with hands over ears, one with hands over mouth, the third with hands over eyes, and it was suggested that Sir Charles might best serve his country if he were transferred to Upper Zambesi.

His latest exploit caused even more ridicule than usual. Believing in an old superstition, he had had one of his police officials photograph the eyes of Annie Chapman in hopes that the image of her killer might be indelibly imprinted on her retinas. Medical men shook their heads in dismay that a grown man could believe in such an old wives' tale, and the press hooted in derision, claiming that Sir Charles' next move would undoubtedly be to hold a seance and interrogate the dead woman herself, if, indeed, he hadn't done so already.

When would the fiend strike next, I wondered, pushing the newspaper aside. Tonight? Next week? He struck swiftly, silently, stepping out of the fog and doing his bloody deeds without a sound being uttered, clamping his hand over his victim's mouth to muffle her screams. Four women had been murdered already. The city was in a state of panic. Why couldn't they capture him? There were over six hundred policemen working full time on the Ripper crimes, not counting the hundreds of vigilantes making nightly patrols, yet they still hadn't a clue as to his identity.

“You look down, Miss Suzy,” Colleen said, coming in to clear the table. Ragged black locks framed her thin face, and her enormous blue eyes were filled with concern.

“Do I? I was just reading the newspaper.”

“Filled with 'orrible things, it is. If you don't mind my sayin' so, Miss Suzy, a pretty-lookin' girl like you should be thinkin' about 'er boyfriend instead of dwellin' on 'orrors.”

“I don't have a boyfriend,” I said.

“That's a cryin' shame, Miss Suzy,” she said pertly. “Every girl needs a man to think about.”

“Do you have one, Colleen?”

“'Course I do. Alfie. 'E's a chimney sweep and a regular scamp, ugly as sin. I don't see much of 'im and when I do we fight all the time, but I like to think about 'im when I'm doin' my chores. Thinkin' about 'im is the nicest part of all.”

She began to gather up the plates, a thoughtful smile on her wide pink mouth. One lone man was causing a reign of terror, but life went on. Colleen thought about her Alfie, Maggie worked busily in her shop, Nicholas Craig gathered material for his report, everyone went about their business in a normal fashion. It was much too glorious a day to sit and brood. I rushed downstairs to help Maggie in the shop, hoping there would be enough work to keep my mind occupied.

“Why don't you go visit your little friend?” Maggie said after lunch. “You did a lovely job of straightening up the storeroom this morning, but there's really not much else you can help me do now, dear.”

“Millie hasn't been in the last two times I went to visit her. I think I'll wait for her to come see me.”

“You seem so restless and distracted,” Maggie said. “If it weren't the middle of September I'd say you had a severe case of spring fever. Or maybe you're in love.”

“I haven't
met
anyone to fall in love with.”

“No? Well—one never knows, dear.”

“I guess I'll take Scrappy out in the courtyard,” I said. “You're sure there's nothing else I can help you with?”