Mrs. Palmer propelled Beth through alley after alley, twisting and turning. Beth realized Mrs. Palmer was trying to make her lose her bearings in the maze of streets, but Beth knew Bethnal Green like the back of her hand. She’d grown up here, had fought to stay alive here, had even once been happy here.

“Where are we?” She gasped, pretending to be confused.

“Where are we going?”

“To my sister’s. Stop asking questions.”

“Hart will know about your sister and where she lives, won’t he? And I know I won’t be looked after. You’ll kill me once you get me there. She’ll help you kill me.” Mrs. Palmer’s fingers were like iron pincers. “I’m not letting you run back to them until I’m well away. I’ll send a confession of everything I’ve done once I’m gone, and tell them where you are.”

“I don’t believe you,” Beth sobbed, putting every bit of drama she could into her voice. “You’ll let Ian hang for a crime he didn’t commit.”

“It’s Hart I’m trying to save, you little idiot, and I don’t care who hangs instead. It’s always been Hart.” Again she snapped her mouth shut and kept Beth stumbling beside her. Beth’s greatest fear was that Mrs. Palmer would simply leave her on the street, hurt and alone. Beth knew the denizens of this part of London would rob her blind in a minute and leave her for dead. Some kind soul might summon a constable, but perhaps too late.  “Please,” she tried. “Let’s find a . . . a church or something.  Let me seek sanctuary there, and you can run away. I won’t know where you’ve gone.”

Mrs. Palmer growled under her breath. “I don’t know why they marry such insipid women. That pale-haired creature Hart married ruined him. Stupid woman had to go and die, and it cut him up something horrible. And that bitch who jilted him before that was no better. Broke his heart. I hate them all for what they did to my lad.” Fury rang in her voice, and she gave Beth’s arm an extra jerk. Beth could see what Sylvia had: that here was a woman who’d do anything for the man she loved. She’d murder for him, lie for him, risk going to the gallows for him.

Around a few more corners, that was all Beth needed.

There. “There’s a church.” Beth hung heavily onto Mrs.  Palmer, pointing to the gray brick of Thomas’s former parish church. “Take me there, please. Don’t leave me in this hellhole.  I’ll go mad. I know it.”

Mrs. Palmer snarled something and dragged Beth toward the church. She didn’t approach the front doors but tugged Beth down the narrow alley between buildings. The small churchyard opened in the back, hemmed in by the walls of buildings and the vicarage itself. In Beth’s day the chapel’s back door had been left unlocked, because Thomas liked to nip from vicarage to sacristy through the churchyard and always forgot his key.

Mrs. Palmer grabbed the handle and easily opened the door. She pushed Beth into the small passage that led to the sacristy. The familiar scents of candles, dust, books, and cloth assailed Beth, and transported her in her stupor back to her life as a vicar’s wife. Those had been days of peace and order, of one season following the next like pearls on a string. Advent, Christmas, Epiphany, Lent, Easter, Whitsuntide, Trinity.  One knew what one had to read and eat and wear, what flowers should be in the church, and what colors on the altar.  Up at dawn for the joy of Easter, late to bed on Christmas Eve. No meat at Lent, a feast on Shrove Tuesday. Morning prayer, Evensong, the main service on Sundays.

There hadn’t been enough money for an organ, so Thomas had blown a note on a pitch pipe, and the congregation had lurched through the hymns they knew by

heart.


O, God our help in ages past,

Our hope for years to come,

Our shelter from the stormy blast,

And our eternal home.

She could hear the even rhythm of the slow tune, old Mrs. Whetherby’s high-pitched warble floating out from the front row.

The church was empty. The whitewashed walls looked the same, as did the high lectern to the right of the altar.  Beth wondered if the lectern door’s hinges still squeaked as they had every time Thomas marched up the tiny flight of stairs and opened the half door.

The trump of doom, he called it. Now they have to listen to the vicar preach. When Beth suggested he have the sextant oil the hinges, Thomas replied, Then there won’t be anything to wake them up when the sermon’s over.

Everything in this narrow church spoke of Thomas and Beth’s old life, the small measure of happiness she’d found here. But that was long ago, and Thomas’s voice was faint and far away. Now she was hurt, alone, and feared she’d never see Ian, the man she loved with all her heart, again.

Ian shoved his way past Cameron and Fellows and bolted out of the room. He heard Hart behind him snap, “Stop him.”

Cameron came after Ian, but Ian was faster. He was down the stairs and out the door before Cameron could catch up, and made straight for Hart’s carriage. He yanked open the door to see Katie asleep on one of the plush benches. She was alone.

Ian shook her. “Where is Beth?”

Katie blinked at him. “I dunno. I thought she was with you.”

Ian’s heart hammered. He slammed the door and strode to the coachman leaning on the wall near the horse’s heads, chewing a plug of tobacco.

“Where is she?” Ian’s voice rang out, and the horses jerked back.

“Your missus? She ran inside, guv. I thought. ..”

Ian didn’t wait for the rest of his spluttered explanation.

He ran back to the house, meeting Cameron halfway. His brother paused, turned back. “Ian, what the devil?” Ian dashed into the house, shouting Beth’s name. Hart looked down from the landing, Fellows beside him. Two ladies popped out of a room on a higher floor.  “Where is she?” Ian shouted at them.

Hart and Fellows only stared, but one of the girls answered, “She ain’t up here, love.”

“Did you see her?”

“I saw Ma Palmer hurrying down the back stairs,” another put in. “Guess she didn’t want to see the good inspector.” Fear and rage narrowed Ian’s focus. Beth. Find her.

“Ian!”

Cameron’s shout came from the bottom of the back stairs, the way to the kitchens. Ian barreled down them, then through the quiet kitchen and through a back door. Cameron stood in the tiny yard behind the house with a lantern he’d snatched up from the kitchen.

Ian peered at what had Cameron’s attention. A brown-red stain had splotched the bricks, new against the coal grime.  “Blood,” Cameron said quietly. “And a smear here, on the gate.”

Ian’s heart pounded so rapidly he was nearly sick. As Fellows came out to see what was going on, Ian caught the inspector by the collar and shoved his face at the stains.  “Bloody hell, your lordship,” Fellows bleated.  “Find her,” Ian said. He jerked Fellows upright. “You’re a detective. Detect something.”

Cameron opened the gate and stepped into the alley.

“Ian’s right, Fellows. Do your damn job.”

Hart put a hand on Ian’s shoulder. “Ian.”

Ian twisted away, unable to bear his touch. If Beth was dead . . .

Fellows quickly stepped away. “He’s not going to have one of his mad attacks, is he?”

Ian turned his back on Hart. “No.” He strode out of the gate to join Cameron, pulling Fellows by the collar with him.  “Find her.”

“I’m not a bloodhound, your lordships.”

“Woof, woof.” Cameron said, giving Fellows an evil grin. “Good dog.”

Chapter Twenty-one

Beth cried out as Mrs. Palmer shoved her onto the hard wood of a pew. No one was there, not a sextant sweeping a floor or the rather doddering vicar who’d taken Thomas’s place nine years before.

Beth grabbed Mrs. Palmer’s wrist. “No, don’t leave me.”

“Don’t be foolish. Someone will find you.”

Beth hung on with all the strength she could muster.  “Please don’t leave me here alone. Wait for the vicar with me. Please. I don’t want to die alone.”

Her tears were genuine. The pain had increased, waves of it rolling over her. Would Ian understand where she’d gone?  Would he find her? For all his obsessions with minutiae, he wasn’t stupid and had a brain that could reason complex mathematical problems and memorize the intricate language of treaties. But could he fit the pieces together and come up with an answer to the puzzle?

Mrs. Palmer made a noise of exasperation but sat down in a rustle of skirts. Beth slumped against her, unable to support herself.

“Did you kill Lily Martin?” Beth asked in a whisper, too numb now to fear. If Mrs. Palmer had simply wanted to kill Beth, she would have done it by now. The woman was afraid, and Beth had the sudden feeling she was now more afraid of Hart than of being caught by Inspector Fellows.  If Mrs. Palmer let Beth, the wife of Hart’s beloved brother, die, Hart would never forgive her.

“Of course I killed Lily,” Mrs. Palmer said viciously.

“She was a witness to Sally’s murder.”

“Then you think Hart really did kill Sally.” “Hart was so angry with Sally. The little bitch was blackmailing him to get money so she could run off and leave me. Hart told me he would fix her, make her regret trying to play her games.”

“You were angry at Sally, too.”

“If Sally wanted money so much, she could have asked Hart for it. But she wanted power over him. As though she ever could control someone like Hart. He has the will to command. I saw that when I first met him, when he was all of twenty years old.” Her voice dropped to fond tones. “He was a bonny lad then. All handsome and charming, before so many people hurt him.”