Secret Night (45 page)

Gingerly, almost as though he expected to recoil, he opened Rand's box and looked inside. On top was a journal, rolled to make it fit. As he lifted it out, he could see an odd assortment of seemingly useless items. He closed the box and set it aside, then he opened the old man's diary, and leaning forward on his elbows, he started thumbing through the yellowed pages.

Surprisingly, it went back several years, beginning with sparse entries, mostly notations about prices and services available in various brothels, with an occasional marginal remark about a particular girl he'd found. "Betty—Pretty enough, but greedy. Paid 20s.5d. for the favor."

He kept going, looking for later dates, trying to remember when Peg Parker was murdered. The candlelight flickered over the pages, making it look as though Rand's scrawl moved. Reaching to adjust the candle's position, he looked down, catching Ben Rose's name.

"Told her she could have the Jew, but won't let it happen. Already taking care of the matter. Costing fifty pounds and good opium, but worth everything when done."

He turned the page. "Boy's a fool. Thinks I mean to give my flesh and blood to him. Wants to talk settlements, but I got better in mind." The old man had skipped a space, then made a chilling entry. "Done, but botched. All I could do to say the right words to Sam Rose. Ellie in a taking, but she'll recover, no matter what Em says. Duncan wants more for it—got that business to tend also." Then two days later, he
'
d
written more. "Duncan was a fool also. Went easy and none the wiser, poisoned by his opium. Must remember that."

As the import of Rand's words sank in, Patrick's skin crawled. The old man had paid for Benjamin Rose's death, then had killed his murderer, apparently without regret. He closed his eyes, remembering the pain Ellie still felt for her good, gentle Ben, and he was nearly overwhelmed by his own anger.

The entries continued, betraying Rand's growing tendency to violence as he distanced himself more and more from what he did. By the time he'd begun murdering prostitutes, he'd already convinced himself that they weren't really human, that by virtue of their acts, they'd somehow relinquished the right to live.

They were all there, every one of them, and unlike Ben Rose, their final moments were recounted in detail, as though Rand wished to remember, to relive their pathetic pleas, to enjoy the brief power he'd had over them. Peg Parker was the worst, for he'd been obsessed with her from the first notation where he'd noted the "snugness of her pudding pot." And when she finally had denied his custom, he'd stalked her, caught her, and tortured her. He'd even recorded how she begged first for her life, then to die. And how when it was done, he'd ripped her earring from her ear, a grim keepsake.

That was what he'd kept in the box—something to remember each victim by. A hank of hair. A piece of cloth. Anything that had struck the old man's fancy.

Patrick had always considered himself a strong man, but he was utterly, thoroughly repulsed by what he'd read. It was too awful, too much to absorb, and yet there it was. Concrete, dispassionate proof that bluff, genial Bat Rand was a man without conscience, a vicious murderer who richly deserved to die.

Patrick sat back, trying in his mind to reconcile the doting father with the calculating man who'd plotted to kill Ben Rose. Why had he done it? To destroy a rival for his daughter's affection? To control her life?

Only Rand could answer that, and maybe the old man didn't know himself. But he'd managed to lead two very different lives at the same time, and he'd very nearly gotten away with everything. He'd very nearly thwarted justice.

Patrick poured himself another glass of the potent wine, then sipped it pensively, thinking that Ben Rose and Rand's other victims cried out for that justice. But there was Elise to consider. There was no way to spare her the pain of learning at least part of what her father had done. It would come out in court, one way or another. It had to—whether Rand hanged or whether he rotted in an asylum, the world would know him for a murderer.

Elise was going to take it hard, he knew that. She might even feel he betrayed her when she heard his defense. But it was the only thing he could think to do short of giving the old man up to the gallows.

It was no use. He'd already agonized over it a thousand times and more, and there was nothing else. Just thinking of the horror she faced filled him with a hot, impotent anger at the old man. And at her mother. Where the hell was her mother? It was one thing for the woman to desert the old man, but quite another to leave her daughter.

Unable to think further, he gave it up. Tomorrow he would lay out the precedents. Tomorrow he would read the opinion that had saved George Gordon after the Gordon riots. Tomorrow he would call upon Dr. Whiteside, the physician who'd given testimony in a less successful case. And tomorrow he would try to bargain with Peale in the slight hope that between him and Peale and Russell perhaps they might discover the means to avoid a public trial. But tonight, he was going to drink the whole damned bottle, and he was going to feel sorry for himself, for Elise, and for damned near everybody but Rand.

As the carriage barreled through the heavy mists, Elise unfolded and reread her father's short message, perplexed by the urgency of it. "I pray you will come in all haste, and I beg you will not tell Hamilton I have asked to see you."

At first, she'd been inclined to think it but another of his queer starts, but the more she read it, the more it worried her. Had he and Patrick quarreled? If so, Patrick had written none of it to her.

Well, it didn't make any difference. She'd known all along that she couldn't sit idly by at Barfreston with naught to do but wait for Hamilton to return to her. She needed to be in London, to know what was happening, she told herself. But that was only part of the truth, and she knew it. She also wanted to be with Patrick.

Tucking the note back into her reticule, she picked up the
Gazette
to read the small boxed item yet again. "The Earl of Dunster wishes to announce that the engagement between his daughter, Lady Jane Barclay, and Mr. Patrick Hamilton is at an end, as both parties have discovered they shall not suit." Every time she repeated the words to herself, she could not help the hope she felt.

The carriage slowed as it passed through outer London, and she stared at the rows of chimneys barely discernible through the fog. She'd asked her driver to go through Marylebone first that she might have a glimpse of the house that had sheltered her since birth, and then she would see Patrick and surprise him. She leaned back against the squabs, wondering

if he'd be displeased when he learned she'd not stayed at Barfreston. Or if he'd understand that she could not, not when Rand needed her.

Water condensed on the windows, forming rivulets that coursed at an angle toward the corners of the panes. Now the carriage wended through city streets, past fine houses. She straightened up, recognizing the landmarks as traffic about her increased.

Finally, the carriage turned the corner, and she had to force herself to look at what had been her lifelong home. Ugly black streaks of soot shot upward from every broken window, tracing the paths of flames. And in the carriageway at the side, the charred remains of tables and chairs were still piled for disposal. Had she had any tears left, she would have cried.

As the coach halted there, she could still smell the smoke, and for a moment she closed her eyes, fighting the nausea. Then she was all right. Possessions were not important, she told herself sternly. They were but hits and things collected, nothing more.

A coachey swung down from the box above and pulled open the door. "Was ye wantin' ter tarry a hit?" he asked doubtfully. " 'Tis wet out, it is."

"I'll go in with ye," Molly offered.

"No. There's nothing left that I wish to see."

"Where was ye wantin' ter go next?" the coachey inquired.

“I shall register at Fenton's, then proceed to Newgate to visit Papa."

"Well, I think ye ought ter tell Mr. Hamilton first," Molly said. "A prison ain't a fittin' place fer a decent female."

"Nonsense. I have been there before."

"But ye got Mr. Hamilton ter do it for ye now."

"I am following Papa's expressed wishes," Elise declared with a finality that brooked no further argument.

"Well, if it was me, I'd tell him," Molly countered, uncowed. Seeing that her mistress stared again at what was left of Rand House, she relented. "Aye, but ye got ter
do what ye think best, don't ye?"

"Yes. Ten to one, it is but that Papa wants to bullock me, but in the event it is not, I have to see him. Besides, he must be feeling as though I've deserted him.,,

"Still, it wouldn't hurt none to leave a card at Mr. Hamilton's—just so's he'd know ye was in town," the maid suggested slyly. "He don't have to know as ye're going to the jail, does he?"

For a moment Elise closed her eyes, seeing Patrick in her mind, and the now familiar longing washed over her. "Most gentlemen are not at home in the afternoon," she said finally.

"But if ye was ter do it, he could be over at Fenton's fer supper, don't ye know? Otherwise, he'll be going ter one of the clubs," Molly pointed out reasonably.

She wanted to see him, there was no denying that. "I don't supposed a card would hurt anything," Elise conceded, her hands smoothing the skirt of her new gown.

"Ye look fine as fivepence, ye do," the girl reassured her. "And as soon as we get ter Fenton's, I'll have the blue dress pressed in case he should come ter dinner. Though," she recalled reluctantly, "I oughter be going ter Newgate with ye."

When they arrived at Patrick's house, it was as expected—he wasn't home. But Hayes informed Elise that "While Mr. Hamilton is out just now, I expect him back shortly. If you would care to wait—"

"No, that will not be necessary, but I should like to leave him a note, if you do not mind it."

"Not at all, miss," he assured her. "There is paper and pen upon his desk in the bookroom, and if you are wishful of warming yourself for a bit, I can have hot punch out in a trice."

"Thank you, but I am in rather a hurry," she murmured.

He opened the door for her, then disappeared, leaving her alone in Patrick's cluttered study. As she looked around, the memory of how it had all begun nearly overwhelmed her. She could almost hear her voice offering herself again. And she could feel the

touch of his hands, the warmth of his breath that night. Reluctantly, she forced herself back to the matter at hand.

His desk was still a mess. A guttered candle, its black, nubby wick reduced to a speck within a pool of congealed wax, indicated he'd worked long into the night. Moving behind the desk, she looked for a clean sheet of paper, and her eyes caught sight of the metal box. A small plate on it had been engraved "Property of Bartholomew Rand."

Curious, she pried it open and found an odd assortment of what appeared to be refuse. Her fingers sifted i h rough a cracked brooch, a broken earring, beads, a scented handkerchief, a bit of lace, a small velvet bow, a
stained bit of blue satin. They looked like the treasures a child might keep—broken and useless.

"Did you find what you need, miss?" Hayes asked from
the door.

“Uh—no," she said quickly. "But I see where he his had one of Papa's boxes out. I cannot think why my father would keep such things."

“As to that, I am sure I do not know. Apparently Mr. Hamilton found something to like in it, for it's been there half the week."

“How odd. Yes, well, I'm afraid I shall have to rely on you to tell Mr. Hamilton that I've returned to town and shall be staying at Fenton's Hotel for a few days." Trying to sound casual, she added, "I shall be in later today, should he wish to speak with me."

For a moment Hayes forgot his place, and he smiled widely. "If I were a gaming man, I should wager he will, miss."

"I
hope so—I sincerely hope so," she said. "You see
,
he did not know I was coming, and he may be rather vexed that I did not apprise him."

By
three o'clock, she had registered at the hotel, tended
her toilette, and changed her travel-creased gown. And now she was ready to see her father.

The guard unlocked the keeper's apartment and led her back to Rand's room. "Papa?" she said from the doorway.

He looked up. "Well, damme if it ain't m'gel! Here now—no Friday-face, for I ain't having it!" he said bluffly. "Aye, don't stand there, Puss—come give an old man a kiss!"

"I came as soon as I got your note," she murmured, bending over him.

His arm came up, embracing her awkwardly, and she could smell the rum on his breath. He held her for a moment, then let her go.

"Aye, I was missing you, Puss—no denying it. Just wanted to see you, that's all there was to it. Here—" He gestured to a chair across from him. As she sat down, his welcoming smile faded, and he appeared pensive.

"Is something the matter, Papa?" she prompted.

"Eh? No, no—of course not. Hamilton don't know you are here, does he?"

"I left a card that I was in town. He was not at home when I called."

"Guess the Barclay family threw him over, eh?"

"Yes." She glanced down at her folded hands, then sighed. "We have cost him rather dearly, I'm afraid."

"Ain't no way to look at it, Ellie—no way at all."

She shook her head. "No, we have cut up his ambition, Papa. Between us, we have seen that he is denied a career in Parliament."

"Stuff and nonsense!" He regarded her slyly. "Man's got you, ain't he? Head over heels for you, Puss, and unless I miss the mark badly, m'grandsons is going to be Hamiltons."

"Papa—"

"I ain't repining over it—picked him out for you, didn't I? Had m'eye on him for an age."

"Actually, you threw me at him rather shamelessly."

"But it worked out for you, didn't it?" he persisted.

"What a wretch you are, Papa," she murmured wryly.

"I always wanted the best for you, Puss—you got to know that, eh?"

"Yes."

"You going to take him?"

"If he offers."