The Copper and the Madam (3 page)

***

As a titled member of the aristocracy there
were many places he would rather be than sitting in his coach
across from a brothel. This meeting was necessary, however, if he
were to go forward with his plans. The sun had all but set behind
the buildings causing shadows to dance across the cobbles when a
man in a black wool suit appeared from the back alley of The Blind
Cupid. He looked very tall and intimidating. The observing
aristocrat took note of his long-legged, confident stride as he
walked down the street.

A man called Taggart, known for the gift of
shadow and clandestine investigation leaned against the carriage,
his gaze fixed on the tall man. Hiring him to watch The Blind Cupid
and those who frequented it had provided the aristocrat much useful
information. “Who is that in black?”

“Sergeant Kerrigan, a copper from the
Kennington Lane station,” Taggart answered.

“Does he frequent this establishment?”

“Once a month, I hear.”

The detective disappeared into the corner
pub. Would he be a problem? Perhaps not. He’d stayed away from
London for five years. With his plan for revenge on the corpulent
madam at last to be put into play, he did not want a copper
interfering in his plans. A sharp stab of pain shot through his
ruined leg. Madam Rea would pay for the state of his limb. He
pulled back the curtain and glanced at the nondescript brick den of
sin.

“Continue your vigilance on this place, and
keep me apprised of the madam’s comings and goings for the time
being.”

“If you want twenty-four hour surveillance,
I’ll need more coin and men.”

He weighed his options. “Not necessary at
this moment. Continue as you have been. I will be in touch.”

“Right, guv’ner.”

He banged his cane on the roof and the
carriage rumbled down the street. He winced as a dull ache throbbed
his twisted fingers. The whore would pay for that, too. He could
wait to exact his revenge. He had waited this long. Being run out
of London by the whore and her bullies had given him the time to
plan and plot. Now back in town, he would indulge in a little
entertainment. His cock grew hard at the prospect. If his
amusements affected the madam, all the better.

Rory entered the John Bull Pub and nodded to
the man behind the bar.

“The usual, Sergeant?”

“Aye, but make it double. Hell, bring the
bloody bottle.”

He slid into a small booth that faced the
front entrance. The large window gave him a clear view of the
street and the people walking by. The constant rattle of carts over
the cobbles helped to deaden the raucous laughter and drunken
singing in the pub. He didn’t drink often, but he needed more than
a mere libation. He’d have a couple of snorts and take the rest of
the whiskey back to his rooms.

The air hung thick with tobacco smoke. Rory
crinkled his nose in distaste. He had never developed the habit. A
curvy barmaid sashayed over to him and bent down, giving him a
display of tit. Sated after his monthly tup, he paid for the bottle
and waved her away.

His insides were still raw and aflame.
Finding out Rhiannon did indeed watch him fuck every month angered
and aroused him. Three feckin’ years? He’d never made any advance
toward her. Their suppers were full of polite conversation and not
much else. It had been the first time they’d spoken of anything
personal and substantial. Neither in word nor deed had she given
the least hint of her interest in him. Did the heart of a
passionate woman beat behind her cool façade? Maybe she just had a
predilection for voyeurism. What if she did? The revelation made
her infinitely more fascinating.

Rory poured another whiskey and took a swig.
He did find Rhiannon’s lush, ample curves appealing. He’d always
preferred a woman with meat on her bones.

Something to hold onto and bury yourself
in
.

Granted, she was no raving beauty, but he
sensed an inner strength tempered with a vulnerability she kept
well hidden from everyone. Why he had sensed it, he had no idea.
Part of being a copper, he supposed. A smirk pulled at the corner
of his lips. Rhiannon did not show any susceptibility to the
passion that he believed resided within her. After eight years of
monthly suppers he had learned to read her shuttered expressions.
Or at least he’d thought he had. Always wearing red or burgundy to
match that fiery copper hair, her face heavily made up to match her
“madam” persona…. Sometimes he dreamed of seeing her naked,
stripped of all the coverings she hid behind. Could there be
something between them? As if a madam and a copper could find any
sort of contentment. Romantic rubbish.

“Sergeant!”

Bloody hell, how much time had passed? He
pulled his watch from his pocket and opened it. He’d been there an
hour, the time well past nine. As he stuffed it away, one of his
detectives sauntered up.

“You tracked me down. I swear you have
bloodhound in your veins.”

Cian O’Connor sat. “Not that bloody hard to
figure out. You were at The Blind Cupid tonight, so I assumed you
were still in the general vicinity. We’ve got a dead one over at
the gas works. Body’s still warm.”

Rory stood, slammed the stopper back in his
whiskey bottle, and left it on the bar. “I will be back for this,
and mind you, I know how much is gone.”

The bartender sniffed in indignation and
placed the bottle under the bar. “I am insulted, Sergeant.”

The detective followed him out the door into
the busy street.

***

Rory squatted and examined the young man
sprawled on cobbles in a secluded alleyway of the Lambeth Gas Works
often used for shilling tups by the prossies of both sexes. Two
constables held lanterns above the corpse, but it remained hard to
observe. The overcast sky provided no illumination over the crime
scene. Thick, heavy, gray fog rolled past their legs, making
visibility even more difficult.

Cian squatted on his haunches opposite
him.

“Pretty lad. What is that white substance on
his lips?”

“Semen.” Rory answered.

“Oh, Jaysus. I had to ask. So he’s a
Mary-Ann, then.”

“I believe so.” Rory pointed to the neck.
“Sliced clean through the subcutaneous tissue to the carotid
artery. Where’s all the blood?”

“It’s a dump job.”

Rory took one of the lanterns from a
constable and moved it across the young man’s body.

“Blood stains between his legs. Mutilation,
perhaps?”

Cian groaned. “Not another bloody ripper.
Just what we feckin’ need. Career killers those cases are, sure as
shite.”

Rory handed the lantern back. “See the body
is taken to the morgue at St. Thomas’s. Tell Doctor Williams I’ll
be along sharpish.” They moved a distance away.

“Fetch a couple more men and have a look
hereabouts. There should be arterial spray from the cut throat. Try
to find any other evidence if you can. I know, impossible this time
of night and the bleedin’ fog is no help. I’ll see you back at the
station.” Rory said in a low voice.

Cian barked orders to the constables spread
out with lights in hand. Waste of bloody time. The absence of blood
proved it a dump job to be sure. Rory returned to the lad. His
glassy, dead eyes were wide and disbelieving. With his throat cut
like that, the boyo no doubt bled out in seconds. Rory crouched. He
seemed familiar somehow. Though in the streets, fair-haired, pretty
boy prossies were as common as muck. Damned pitiable to snuff it in
a dank, dark alley dabbing it up with a man. And to get your throat
cut and God knows what else for good measure. Sometimes, his job
churned his guts.

***

The basement walls at St. Thomas Hospital
were stone cut centuries before, the floors cobbled and broken. Gas
lights hissed and popped overhead, casting an eerie, haunting glow
over the three dead bodies in various stages of autopsy. The smell
of mold, blood, and rotting flesh filled the air. Rory never got
used to this. He couldn’t imagine toiling down here for hours on
end, sawing away at corpses.

Rory liked Doctor John Williams, the police
surgeon; the man in his early fifties knew his business. He
approached, wiping his hands on a dirty cloth. The doctor wore a
leather apron splattered with blood from his mid-chest to his upper
thighs.

“Here about the young man from the gas
works?”

“Aye, had a chance to examine him?”

“I just finished. Come, Sergeant.”

He followed the doctor to the table. The lad
lay covered to his neck in a canvas sheet. Under the lights, such
as they were, he looked even more familiar.

“I found semen in the anal cavity and the
rectum opening well stretched, as is the case with sodomites,” the
doctor intoned. “The slash across the neck from right to left
indicates the attacker was left-handed, and the absence of blood on
the body has me thinking the murderer stood behind him and cut. The
throat was not all he sliced.”

Williams tossed back the covering, revealing
shredded genitals. Rory gagged.

“A frenzied, angry attack. The murderer also
carved letters in the abdomen...here, on his left side.”

Rory bent to get a closer look. “R-E-A....”
He snapped upright.
Rea
. Jaysus, this must be one of her
boyos, and the killer knew it.

“I might know who this lad is. Can you clean
him up? I’ll be bringing someone along to do an identification
within the hour.”

Williams covered the young man. “I can. A
little late, is it not?”

“This lady in question will still be
awake.”

***

Rea sat alone in her study, a glass of wine
on her desk. Since Rory’d left hours before, she had done a good
deal of thinking. He had every right to be angry. She
had
invaded his privacy. Shame and guilt covered her, and a dull,
nagging pain stabbed at her heart. What must he think of her? To
her profound astonishment, Rea cared very much what Rory Kerrigan
thought.

Lord, when he laid his hands on her…. A man
had not touched her body intimately in ten years. The loss had not
been one she mourned. But then, “other men” were not—Rory. Rea
committed to memory his strong, large, capable hands roving over
her hips, up her waist, his warm breath feathering her neck, his
sensual lips brushing her cheek. She had become aroused, her
nipples had hardened, and a roll of heat had bloomed and traveled
through her whole body, something she’d believed she would never
experience. Confusion battled with her passionate reflections. What
were her feelings toward the copper?

A knock roused her from her heated
thoughts.

“Sergeant Kerrigan to see you. Says it is
urgent business,” Jacob announced.

Past eleven thirty, what could he want?

“Show him in, Jacob. Then you may do your
rounds.”

Rory slammed the door behind him.

“You have a young man, pale, golden-haired,
delicate features, with an angelic-type of beauty?”

“Yes, that sounds like Gordon.”

Rory huffed out a breath. “I thought as much.
Rhiannon, I have terrible news. We found a lad murdered at the gas
works. I require you to accompany me to St. Thomas’s to identify
the body. Perhaps it is not him, but we need to be sure.”

Rea gasped.
Oh, no
. She tried to
stand, but her shaky legs would not allow it. He moved to her side
and grasped her elbow.

“Steady on, lass. You can do this. I will be
with you every step of the way.”

His words steeled her spine and squeezed her
heart. The fleeting reflection of having Rory Kerrigan by her side
for always remained an impossible dream. If she could only have his
strength for the next couple of hours, she would take it.

By thirty minutes past midnight, they had
gone to the morgue and returned to her study. Rory poured them each
a whiskey.

Rea’s hands shook. In her ten years of owning
and operating The Blind Cupid, none of her people had been
murdered—until that night. She’d prided herself on believing their
private little world protected and insular. Carefully cultivated
friendships, flattery, and pay-offs to various police, judicial,
and governmental figures saw to that. How naive of her.

Rory passed her the whiskey. “Take it,
Rhiannon. Drink it down. Then I want you to retire. No questions
tonight. I’ll come back at nine tomorrow morning. Arrangements will
be made then.”

Yes. Arrangements. She would see Gordon
properly buried. She had become angry at the morgue when the doctor
asked if Gordon’s remains were to be sent to a pauper’s grave. Hot
tears gathered in her eyes for the dirty little urchin with the
angelic looks begging in the streets. He’d been fifteen and already
prostituting himself when she took him in. Gordon had no
compunctions about being with either gender, though Rea suspected,
given the choice, he preferred men. She took a deep swig of the
whiskey; the burn made her eyes water further. Another child thrown
to the streets, another lost soul. Another lonely boy used and
abused then, like a candle, snuffed out forever.

Rea set the glass on the desk and let the
tears come. No holding the emotion back, not this time. She covered
her face and sobbed. She tried to help these troubled people, but
did she really?

Rory grasped her arms, brought her to her
feet, and enclosed her in a comforting embrace.

She must have spoken her last thoughts aloud,
as he said, “Aye, Rhiannon. You do help. As you said to me many
times, you give then a home, an education, a safe haven. You don’t
force them. You give them a choice, correct?”

She did. If they didn’t want to stay at the
brothel, she helped train them for other occupations. Many went on
to lead happy, contented lives. A great number of the people she’d
helped in the past ten years still wrote on occasion to let her
know how they were doing.