The Madness Of Lord Ian Mackenzie (26 page)

Beth smoothed her skirt. “You speak of them familiarly, Inspector. You say Ian and Hart, instead of ‘his lordship’ and ‘His Grace.’”

Fellows gave her a deprecating look. “I think about the Mackenzies more often than I do my own family.”

“Why, I wonder?”

His color rose. “Because they are blights on society, that’s why. Rich men who spend money on women, clothes, and horses and don’t do an honest day’s work. They’re useless. I’m surprised you take to them, you who know all about an honest day’s work. They’re nothing.”

Bitterness rang in his words. Beth stared at him, and Fellows flushed and tried to compose himself.

“Very well,” she said. “You interviewed all the gentlemen but Ian. Why don’t you suspect them?”

“They were respectable,” Fellows said.

“Visiting a brothel is respectable, the vicar’s widow asks with her brows raised?”

“They were all bachelors. No wives breaking their hearts at home. Mr. Stephenson and the two military officers were astonished by the news of the murder and were able to account satisfactorily for their movements. None of them had gone near Sally Tate, and they’d departed the house just after midnight. Sally Tate was killed near five in-the morning, according to the doctor. They left Hart and Ian Mackenzie behind. Ah, I mean, His Grace and his lordship.”

“And Ian’s servants swear Ian had returned home by two,” Beth said, remembering what Fellows had told her before.

“But they’re lying.” Fellows sat forward. “What I’ve pieced together from their stories is this: Hart Mackenzie brings his friend Stephenson and his brother Ian to enjoy an evening with high-class courtesans. At about ten, in the parlor, the four men—Hart, Stephenson, Thompkins, and Harrison—begin a game of whist. Ian declines the invitation to play cards and reads a newspaper. According to Major Thompkins, Sally Tate sat down near Ian and started talking to him. They had a good chin-wag for about a quarter of an hour, and then she convinced him to go upstairs with her.”

“Ian
talked for a quarter of an hour?”

Fellows smiled faintly. “I imagine Sally did most of the talking.”

Beth fell silent. She burned up inside, thinking of Ian leading a woman to bed, though she reminded herself that she hadn’t known Ian then. He’d had no obligation to her at the time. Jealousy wasn’t rational, however. She forced herself to think over what Fellows had told her. Sally had talked to Ian for a quarter of an hour, but she couldn’t have been trying to entice him upstairs all that time. Beth knew from experience that persuading Ian Mackenzie to do anything he didn’t want to was an impossible task. He would have made up his mind at the start whether he wanted to bed Sally, and either gone upstairs with the woman right away or never. So, if Sally hadn’t been trying to persuade him, what had they talked about?

Beth took a breath. “And then?”

“The other four gentlemen remained downstairs playing cards. None of them went upstairs, according to the ladies, the gentlemen, and the servants. Only Ian and Sally Tate.”

“And everyone departed after midnight?”

“Stephenson, Harrison, and Thompkins enjoyed talking together so much that they decided to adjourn to Harrison’s home. According to their statement, Hart went with them but turned back almost immediately, saying he wanted to wait for his brother.”

“And did he?”

“According to Mrs. Palmer, Hart returned at about one, waited for Ian, who came down at two, and the brothers departed together.” Fellows smiled. “But here we reach a snag. One of the maids declared that Hart
had
gone upstairs at some point, then rushed out later on his own. When pressed the maid got confused and couldn’t swear to anything. But later, after Mrs. Palmer managed to get the girl alone, the maid changed her story and said that Hart and Ian had definitely left together at two.”

Beth bit her lip. Fellows wasn’t stupid, and the maid’s waffling was suspicious. “What did Ian say?”

“I did not get the chance to interview your good husband until two weeks later. By that time, he couldn’t remember.” A small pain began in Beth’s heart. Ian remembered everything.

“Exactly,” Fellows said. “I thought I had enough to pursue him, but suddenly, my chief inspector pulled me off the case and took away my notes. My chief declared that a passing tramp killed Sally, and he faked the evidence to prove it. Case swept under the rug and closed.”

Beth pulled her thoughts together with effort. “What happened when Sally was found?”

Fellows sat back in the chair, his expression one of frustration. “What I was
told
happened was that a maid found her and screamed. The others came running, and Mrs. Palmer sent for the constable.” Fellows paused, giving Beth a keen stare. “What I believe happened is that Ian was found in the room with Sally, Sally dead. But the ladies of that house are all loyal to the bone to Hart Mackenzie, so they sent for Hart, who cleaned Ian up and got him out of there.
Then
they shouted for the police. By the time the constable arrived, Ian was on a train to Scotland, and his servants instructed to swear up and down that he’d slept at home.”

Bloody hell.
Beth knew it had happened just as Fellows said. Ian had to be taken away, because he wouldn’t know how to lie. He’d have told Fellows the literal truth and been arrested, perhaps hanged for a murder he didn’t commit. Then Beth might never have met Ian, never seen his golden eyes warm with his fleeting glance, never kissed his lips, never heard his voice whisper her name
in
the night. Her life would have been empty and shallow, and she wouldn’t have known why.

“You’re a pillock, Inspector,” she said vehemently.

He scowled. “Respectable ladies don’t use those words, Mrs. Ackerley.”

“Botheration about respectable ladies. You’ve rubbed my background in my face, so you will receive the brunt of it. You
are
a pillock. You have been so fixed on Ian that you’ve let the real murderer—probably one of the other three gentlemen or Mrs. Palmer—get clean away. Hart might have told Ian to lie, but Ian can’t. He doesn’t see the world like the rest of us, doesn’t know that people never tell the truth if they can help it. He thinks
we’re
all mad, and he’s right.”

Fellows snorted. “Ian Mackenzie will say anything His bloody Grace tells him to, and you know it. Lies or no lies.”

“You don’t know the Mackenzies very well at all if you believe that. Ian doesn’t obey Hart. He does as he pleases.” She understood that now. “Ian helps Hart because he’s grateful to Hart for releasing him from that horrible asylum.”

“And will lick Hart’s boots the rest of his life for it,” Fellows snapped. He stood. “You are the deluded one, my lady. They’re using you like they use everyone else. Why do you think the Mackenzie marriages fail? Because the wives in question finally realize they’re being chewed up and spat out by the uncaring machine that is Hart and his family.”

“You told me Hart’s wife died bearing his child,” Beth said, getting to her feet to face him. “She hardly did that on purpose.”

“The woman was terrified of him, and the two barely spoke to each other, according to all gossip. His Grace was most relieved when she died.”

“That’s cruel, Inspector.”

“But true. Hart needed a good wife for his political career. He didn’t care if he never had a conversation with her, as long as she hosted his social events and gave him an heir. Which she proved she couldn’t. She was better off dead.”

“That’s a monstrous thing to say.”

“Spare me the ‘oh, they are so misunderstood’ speech. The Mackenzies are coldblooded, heartless bastards, and the sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be.”

Beth quivered with rage. “I think you are finished here. Please leave.”

“I tell you this for your own good, Mrs. Ackerley.”

“No, you tell me this so I will help you hurt them.”

Fellows stopped. “You’re right They should be more than hurt. They should be destroyed.”

Beth met his furious gaze. After verbally fencing with Hart Mackenzie, Inspector Fellows didn’t frighten her anymore. “Why?”

Fellows opened his mouth to reply, then abruptly closed it. His face was red, the mustache quivering. “You’re not a lady who frightens easily,” he said. “And I can see you won’t take my word for it. But they’ll be the death of you. You mark my words.” He gazed at her a moment longer, then turned away. “Good day, Mrs. Ackerley.” He marched to the door and yanked it open, and then Beth heard the front door bang behind him. She sank into a chair by the front windows, watching through swirling London fog as the inspector strode away. She sat nuhibly, letting all he’d said sink in.

“M’lady?” Katie stuck her head around the parlor door.

“Is it safe to come in now?”

“He’s gone, if that’s what you mean.” Beth rose, feeling exhausted. “Fetch our wraps, Katie. We’re going out.” Katie sent a disparaging glance to the dark, foggy window.

“Now? To where?”

“The East End.”

Katie blinked. “What d’you want to go to that hellhole for? Old times’ sake?”

“No,” Beth answered. “To find some answers.”

“Gone?” Ian raised his dripping head and stared at Curry in disbelief. “Gone where?”

“To London, m’lord.” Curry backed a step from Ian at the washbasin, knowing from experience how far to put his body from Ian’s whenever he had to relate bad news. Ian straightened up, water trickling from his wet hair down his bare chest. He’d been scrubbing off the plaster dust from Geordie’s cottage and mud from the subsequent fishing expedition when he’d asked Curry where Beth was.

He’d expected Curry to tell him she was walking in the garden, exploring the house, or continuing riding lessons with Cameron. Not,
Well, here’s the thing, m’lord. She’s gone.

“London?” Ian demanded. “Why?”

Curry shrugged. “Dunno. Shopping?”

“Why the devil should she go all the way to London to go shopping? Why didn’t you stop her?”

“I couldn’t stop her, could I? She’s got a mind of ‘er own, ‘as ‘er ladyship.”

“Bloody idiot.”

“What’d ye expect me to do?” Curry shrilled as he slapped a dry towel to Ian’s chest. “Lock her in a dungeon?”

“Yes.”

“She said she’d be back, guv—“

Ian cut him off. “She’s not coming back, you fool. She’s
gone,
and you let her go.”

“Now, m’lord…”

Ian wasn’t listening. Hollowness spread from his chest until it filled his body. Beth was gone, and the emptiness of that hurt like nothing else ever had. Curry jumped away as Ian upended the entire dressing table, sending every knickknack and stupid toiletry to the floor. The pain in his chest was unbearable. It matched the pounding in his temple, the migraine that never went away. He struck the splintered table with his fists, the slivers of wood bloodying his hands. Beth had seen a glimpse of him at his worst—could he blame her for running away? Ian looked at the scarlet droplets on his fingers, remembering Sally Tate’s blood on them, remembering the horror of finding the ruin of her body. His mind swiftly inserted Beth in place of Sally, Beth’s beautiful eyes sightless, a blade buried in her chest.

It could happen. Ian dragged in a chill breath as panic replaced his rage. He’d dragged Beth into his life, had exposed her to Inspector Fellows, had made her as vulnerable as Lily Martin.

He threw off Curry’s well-meaning hands, stormed past Cameron, who’d come to see what was the matter, and raced out the door.

“Ian, where are you going?” Cameron demanded, catching up to him on the stairs.

“London. Don’t tell Hart or try to stop me, or I’ll thrash you.”

Cameron fell into step beside him. “I’ll come with you.”
Yes.
Ian knew that Cameron simply wanted to keep an eye on him, but Cameron would be handy. He knew how to fight and wasn’t afraid of anything. Ian gave him a curt nod. “Besides,” Cameron went on, “Curry says Daniel went with her. and I’m certain he’s making her life a misery.” Ian said nothing. He snatched the shirt Curry kept thrusting at him and banged out of the house for the stables, Cameron on his heels.

Proper ladies did not go to the East End. Proper ladies pulled the curtains closed in their carriages and did not look out when their route took them through Shoreditch and Bethnal Green. Mrs. Barrington would turn in her grave, but Thomas… Thomas would have approved. Beth’s heart squeezed as her hired coach rolled past the little parish church that had been Thomas Ackerley’s. The tiny building was squashed between dull brick edifices but managed to retain its dignity. Behind it, in the cramped churchyard, Thomas’s body lay. A tiny square stone, all the parish and Beth could afford, marked the place. Behind the church lay the vicarage where Beth had spent one hopeful year. Two doors past that was the hall Thomas had set up, where those forced to live on the streets could get a hot meal and a place out of the weather for a little while. The parish had not approved it, so Thomas had funded it out of his own pocket, and a philanthropic gentleman had taken it over on Thomas’s death.

Beth entered the rickety building that smelled of old meals and unwashed bodies, hoping to find her answers there. Daniel Mackenzie came behind her, towering over Katie and Beth, the lanky young man the most nervous of the three. “Should you be here?” Daniel hissed. “My dad would tan my hide if he knew I let you come near a game girl, and God knows what Uncle Ian will do.”

A tired-looking young woman sat on a hard chair with her legs stretched out, skirts hiked to her knees. As Beth rustled in, she looked up, blinked, and jumped to her feet.

“Blimey, it’s the missus.”

Beth went to the young woman and took her hands.

“Hello, Molly.”

Molly grinned in delight. She had brown hair, a snub nose, freckles, and a warm smile. She smelled like tobacco and alcohol, as usual, and the faint odor of a man’s cologne lingered in her clothes.

“What’cha doing ‘ere, Mrs. A? I ‘ear you married a right nob and live in a palace now.”

“News travels fast.”

“What d’you expect? An interesting bit of gab like that goes ‘round.” She winked at Daniel. “Did ye bring ‘im so I could make a man of ‘im?”