Nine Buck's Row (5 page)

“This man was the only one who knew my aunt would be in the alley—”

“If your aunt
did
have an engagement, the poor fellow was frightened by the uproar and decided to high-tail it before he got involved. Quite understandable. Wouldn't want his name dragged into it. No, The Ripper was lurking in the alley, waiting for the first female who chanced to pass by. You saw him, you say?”

“I—I thought I saw something—movement, part of a black cloak. It could have been my imagination.”

“Very likely was!” he retorted, giving the side of his boot a fierce slap. “Well, we'll find the fiend who did it. Don't you worry about that, Miss Hunt.”

I saw that it would be useless to pursue the matter any further. Sir Charles saw no connection between Marietta's murder and her secret rendezvous, and perhaps he was right. I didn't understand police procedures, as he had so quickly pointed out, yet I was still dissatisfied with the way he was handling the affair. He was narrow-minded and opinionated, and while his blustering mannerisms might have been most effective in the army, they were hardly reassuring in a police commissioner.

Sir Charles put down the riding crop and rubbed his hands briskly. The monocle glittered as he fixed his piercing eyes on me.

“Now, girl,” he said, “I suppose you want to know why I sent for you? Not to listen to you babble, I assure you. Dawson!”

The man in the brown suit jumped up, so startled that he dropped the briefcase. It tumbled open and papers scattered all over the maroon carpet. The poor man's face turned even paler, and he kneeled down to gather up the papers, mumbling an apology. Sir Charles glared at him as though contemplating having the man drawn and quartered. Dawson put the papers back in the briefcase and stood up, obviously terrified.

“This is Mr. Dawson,” Sir Charles said. “Dawson's a lawyer, one of the best, I hear. He was appointed by the courts to handle your affairs, and he has spent the past week working in your interests. He has made certain arrangements which I hope you will find satisfactory.”

I felt a sinking sensation inside. The shock of what had happened to Marietta had eclipsed everything else, and I had given no real thought to what was to become of me. I was staying with Millie, but I realized that was only a temporary arrangement. I wasn't yet twenty-one. I had no known relatives, no income. Would I be sent to an orphanage? Would I be “taken in” by some self-respecting, charitable family to be turned into a household drudge? The corners of my mouth trembled. Dawson noticed, and he gave me a timid, sympathetic smile.

“Speak up, man!” Sir Charles bellowed.

Dawson cleared his throat. He straightened his shoulders and gave Sir Charles a defiant look, his terror vanishing. He turned to me and spoke in a compassionate voice, ignoring the police commissioner.

“Your aunt left some money,” he said. “Not a great deal, true, but enough to give you a good start when you reach your majority. Properly invested, it could double in the next three years, perhaps triple. Have you ever heard of Nicholas Craig?”

I shook my head. Despite his timidity, Dawson had a warmth that made itself felt. He seemed to be genuinely concerned with my plight, and I believed I was in good hands.

“Mr. Craig is a man of some means,” Dawson said, his face grave. “He has a country estate some twenty miles outside of London, and he also owns a paper factory—the main support of the village where his estate is located. The factory is expertly run by carefully appointed foremen, and Mr. Craig has quite a lot of spare time—” He paused, large brown eyes studying my face. “He is a scholar, has written several important papers in the field of sociology. The government finds these reports extremely valuable. He had been commissioned to make an extensive study on living conditions in East London and is currently staying with his great-aunt at Nine Buck's Row in order to be near the source of his study. I believe she has a shop of some sort—” He paused again, brows creased in concentration, obviously trying to remember what sort of shop Mr. Craig's great-aunt maintained.

“What—what does all this have to do with me?” I inquired.

“Nicholas Craig is a cousin on your mother's side of the family. Her second cousin, your third. Your only living relative. He has agreed to be your legal guardian until you reach your twenty-first birthday. He'll handle your money, see that it's wisely invested. You'll stay with him, of course.”

“I—I see.”

“Perfect arrangement!” Sir Charles cried. “This is really not the affair of the police, but we took it upon ourselves to see that you were provided for. God knows what might have become of you otherwise!”

“Mr. Craig will be out of town for two or three days,” Dawson continued, ignoring Sir Charles' outburst. “I believe he's inspecting the paper factory. At any rate, he'll call for you at the apartment next Friday afternoon.”

“I—I don't know what to say,” I replied.

“No need for you to say anything,” Mr. Dawson said. “This has been a great ordeal for you, all of it, and you've borne up with remarkable spirit. You're most fortunate to have a gentleman like Nicholas Craig to take an interest in your welfare. I'm sure you'll find the arrangements satisfactory.”

“Certainly, certainly!” Sir Charles Warren snapped. He jerked a bell pull behind his desk. “Everything taken care of. All arrangements made. Now I must tend to
important
matters. The clerk will show you both out. Oh, my man Caine will continue to keep an eye on you till Friday, Miss Hunt. Don't want those damned journalists pestering you! Take care you don't speak to any of 'em!”

The clerk with the myopic eyes opened the door and led us out, and Mr. Dawson shook my hand and promised to visit me the next morning at Millie's apartment and give me further details. Then he shuffled off, looking timid and terrified again, and the clerk led me down a series of long corridors to where Sergeant Caine was waiting, stern and handsome in his uniform, a thick blond wave almost hiding his eyes. I was silent as we drove through the wet brown and gray streets to the apartment on Old Montague Street. My immediate future had been taken care of, everything neatly arranged. I knew I should feel grateful, but I couldn't. The sadness inside was so heavy that it left room for no other feeling whatsoever.

4

The apartment was empty, stripped of all its finery. The furniture had been sold and carted away, as had all Marietta's things with the exception of a few items I had given to Millie. Mr. Dawson had supervised everything, taking time off from his crowded schedule to see that I wasn't cheated. All of the accounts and documents and financial statements had been turned over to Nicholas Craig. It was Friday afternoon, and I stood in the empty living room beside the two large trunks that held my personal belongings, waiting for my new guardian to arrive.

I glanced around the room, remembering when it had been crowded with white tables and a purple velvet sofa, rich lilac drapes over the windows, when it smelled of Marietta's exotic perfume and rang with the sound of her silvery laughter and frivolous chatter as she entertained her male callers. I had never really been happy here, and I had never really loved Marietta, but I was crushed just the same. It was all over now, and I was entering a new phase of my life. I wished I could be brave and not have doubts and apprehensions, but they were there, tormenting me. All I could manage was a kind of stoic acceptance that enabled me to carry on. Perhaps if I could cry it would help, but my eyes were dry and my face was composed.

Sergeant Caine stepped into the room. He looked a little flushed, his blue eyes stern, his jaw thrust out. Millie sauntered into the room behind him, a pixie smile on her face. Caine cleared his throat and brushed back locks of blond hair, striving to look official. Millie had cast her spell over him and he was thoroughly bewildered.

“I guess that'll be all, Miss Hunt,” he said gruffly. “I'll report back to headquarters. Your guardian will be arriving any minute now. It was a privilege to be of service.”

“Thank you, Caine,” I said politely.

“Don't trip over your feet on the way downstairs,” Millie said sweetly, toying with one of her long copper curls.

Caine gave her a murderous look and marched briskly out the door. She burst into peals of delighted laughter.

“Guess I showed him!” she exclaimed. “Just because I asked him to come down and help me move an old chest he thought he could take liberties! He
could
have, actually, but he was so shy and nervous that by the time he got up enough courage I was bored with the whole idea.”

“Caine's such a nice young man—” I protested.

“He's a bore,” she retorted. “No spirit. He might be bold as brass when he's making an arrest, but when he's with a girl—” Millie smiled her pixie smile, quite pleased with herself.

“When are you going to get a beau?” she inquired. “It's such a
waste
, Suzy, a girl with your looks always mooning around, reading, painting with watercolors when you could be having such fun—”

“I'm not interested,” I replied primly. I'm afraid my answer wasn't totally honest.

“Bosh!” Millie exclaimed. “You don't fool me for a minute, Suzy Hunt. You may be proper and well bred and all that, but you'd still like to have a few beaux hanging about.”

“There's plenty of time for that.”

“Maybe you'll meet a lot of interesting men through your new guardian. Perhaps he'll have some fascinating friends—”

“Perhaps,” I said.

“How old is he?”

“Thirty-two, I believe.”

“That isn't very old,” Millie said. “Perhaps you'll be interested in him, Suzy.”

“You read far too many cheap novels.”

“Maybe I do, but it happens all the time! He's thirty-two and you're already eighteen, going on nineteen. He could be devilishly good-looking. The situation just
reeks
with possibilities!”

“You're incorrigible,” I scolded, smiling in spite of myself.

Millie ran a hand through her hair. A ray of sunlight touched it, and the long curls gleamed with deep coppery tones. Her brown eyes were snapping merrily, and she danced over to the window to peer out. Millie was a pretty little thing with her pert mouth and the scattering of golden freckles across the bridge of her nose. About my height, she had long legs, a tiny waist and an extremely well developed bosom. The men already flocked around her, and she led them a merry chase, playing the soldier against the bank clerk, the stevedore against the butcher's apprentice. She was a hoydenish sprite, full of life and no better than she should have been, but she had been like a sister to me these past two years. I loved her dearly, even though I couldn't approve of some of her escapades.

“What does he do?” she inquired, brushing the skirt of her vivid yellow dress. “Your guardian, I mean—what's his name again?”

“Nicholas Craig—”

“I
adore
that name. It sounds so masculine!”

“Mr. Dawson was rather vague about what he does. He owns a paper factory in the country, but it's run by others and doesn't take up much of his time. I think he makes some kind of studies for the government. He visits slums and doss houses and brothels and makes notes on what he finds there. I believe he's presently working on a report about living conditions in the East End, and that's why he's living on Buck's Row, even though he has a house in the country. His great-aunt owns number nine. She has a hat shop with living quarters above, and I believe she takes in boarders—”

“Oh, Suzy, it sounds so
fas
cinating. I can hardly wait to see him!”

She dashed over to the window again, her skirts billowing like yellow blossoms. She leaned far out and looked down, the wind blowing locks of hair across her face. There was the sound of a carriage pulling up outside. Millie whirled around, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

“It's him! He's getting out of the cab—”

“Come away from the window! He'll see you.”

I pulled her back, and we stood nervously listening for the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Millie was demure now, all her vivacity vanished as she realized what those footsteps would mean.

That is the way Nicholas Craig found us as he pushed open the door and stepped into the room. Millie and I were both silent, and he looked from one to the other, not certain which of us was to be his new ward.

“Miss Susannah Hunt?” he inquired.

“I'm Susannah,” I said in a tight voice. “This is my friend Millie.”

“How do you do?” Nicholas Craig said stiffly.

I expected Millie to make a pert curtsy. She didn't even acknowledge his greeting. She just stared, hands clasped in front of her. Nicholas Craig tilted his head to one side and studied both of us with narrowed lids as though trying to get a perspective on a picture he intended to paint. I groped for Millie's hand. She seized it eagerly.

Nicholas Craig studied us. We stared back. He was tall and slender, dressed in a stylish but rumpled black suit, the trousers narrow, the jacket hanging loose to reveal a maroon satin vest embroidered with black flowers. His boots needed polish. His ruffled white shirtfront looked a bit dingy. He had a long, stern face, his complexion pasty, as though he didn't get enough sunlight. His nose was straight, his cheekbones high, hollows beneath them, and his mouth was much too wide. His eyes were a dark, brooding brown, magnetic eyes that seemed to pierce and probe. The lids were heavy, giving him a lazy look, smooth brows arching above them like dark wings. His black hair was untidy, curling at the back of the neck and around his ears, several locks spilling over his high forehead. He was beginning to gray prematurely, and one forelock was streaked with silver.

“Are you afraid of me?” Craig asked.