Van Deusen, that was. And what did that tell her?
Cobie had read the short account of the child’s murder in The Times with mounting pity and horror. He had no doubt as to who was responsible. Sir Ratcliffe had, like the Grants, been back in London for a week, and doubtless had grown bored with the milk and water life of his social equals.
He contemplated going to Scotland Yard immediately with what he knew, and the devil take the Prince’s reputation—to say nothing of his own. But what hard evidence could he offer against Heneage? Simply that he had once seen him with Lizzie Steele in a house of ill fame, and that he had helped her to escape from him. His one possible witness, Hoskyns, was dead—and even if he had lived, what would his sole evidence have been worth against Sir Ratcliffe in his power and might?
Besides that, would the faceless men behind Beauchamp ever allow Sir Ratcliffe to be caught and tried, either for Lizzie’s death or that of his latest victim, while he could still hold the Prince to ransom with the stolen letters? All he could do was go to his City office and hope that Walker would visit him there, and not at Park Lane, to disturb Dinah again.
Sure enough when he arrived there, Walker, with one of his constant shadows in attendance, was waiting for him, Bates standing stolidly in his rear.
‘So, Mr Dilley,’ Walker began without preamble, ‘what do you say to that?’ He flung an assortment of newspapers, all crying out against the murderer of girl children. ‘You killed Hoskyns for nothing, didn’t you? The real murderer of Lizzie Steele is still running round among us. How do you feel about that?’
There was nothing for it but to put on his most baffled face, and lie—as usual.
‘Really, Inspector, I had thought I had done with these baseless accusations. Why should you think that Hoskyns was killed because of Lizzie Steele’s death—or that it was Hoskyns who murdered her? My own belief, for what it’s worth, is that these children are being killed by someone from a different walk of life altogether.’
‘Oh, aye,’ jeered Will Walker, turning to grin at Bates, before going on. ‘Some toff, I suppose. Well, now, Mr Dilley, the only toff I know of on the loose is your good self, and I don’t think that the Vampire killer is you—even though I might like to.’
Cobie said slowly, ‘What sort of evidence would convince you that I may be right, Inspector?’ More than ever he regretted having made an enemy of the man.
‘Hard evidence, Mr Dilley. Hard evidence. No whim-whams, no putting it on to someone of your own kind whom you happen to dislike. No confessions made by a dead man, either.’
This was a shrewd hit, if only the Inspector had known it!
Cobie said slowly, ‘Suppose I found evidence, Inspector, and passed it on to you? Would you respect it?’
Walker thrust his face forward. ‘I’ll tell you what I would respect, Mr Dilley, and that’s that you won’t go round killing anyone else because you might think they’ve done in Lizzie Steele and this latest child. We don’t know the poor creature’s name yet. I’ll have you if you do—and that’s my last word. That’s why I came. You go home to your pretty young wife, make her happy, and leave us to do our job, and you do yours, which I understand is making money. You aren’t in the U.S. of A. now, Mr Dilley.’
No, he couldn’t mention Sir Ratcliffe’s name to the disbelieving man before him. A crony of the Prince of Wales, a Cabinet minister, if a minor one, with a family name which went back fifteen generations! He could imagine Walker’s scornful laughter. As well accuse the Prince himself.
No, somehow he must find hard evidence against Sir Ratcliffe—and then decide what to do with it. A task which would be difficult for him, knowing that the wretch was being protected in order to avoid a dreadful scandal which might shake the throne and strengthen the powerful Republican movement.
In the meantime, he smiled and bowed Walker and Bates out, commiserating with them, until Walker turned at the door, leaned forward and seized Cobie by the lapels of his splendid coat. He thrust his face into his and hissed, between his teeth, ‘Mind what I say, Mr Dilley, one false step and this time I’ll see you swing, I swear I will.’
‘By God, he’s a cool one, guv,’ Bates said respectfully, when they got into a cab to take them back to Scotland Yard. ‘He never turned a hair when you warned him at the end, just laughed in your face, as usual.’
‘Well, as long as that’s all he does, Bates. But he’s a slippery devil—and we’ve not seen the last of him.’
Once the officers had gone, Cobie rang for Rogers, his secretary.
‘I want to hire an enquiry agent,’ he said abruptly, ‘an honest one. I need to find out about one of our business rivals, so I want a discreet man I can trust—and soon. Not next week, not next month, but yesterday. You understand me? Use your connections.’
Rogers used them to good effect.
Twenty-four hours later, a dour ex-police officer, as sardonic in his way as Walker was in his, sat before him.
‘I want you,’ Cobie said, ‘to investigate a man named Sir Ratcliffe Heneage. These papers—’ and he indicated a report he had written ‘—will tell you who and what he is—and what I also believe him to be.’
Jem Porter took the folder over, and asked, ‘What’s he done, then, that you want to have him investigated?’
‘He likes girl children,’ Cobie told him, eyes hooded. ‘Too much. I want evidence of where he goes for them, who finds them for him, what he does. Anything. And, besides that, anything else which you can find of his doings, good and bad.’
‘I can’t say I’ve come across him,’ mused Porter. ‘I’ve heard whispers, nothing more. He’s not the only one with strange tastes, you know.’
‘I want more evidence than whispers,’ said Cobie, curtly, ‘and the less you tell anyone else of this, the better. Be discreet, be careful, and I’ll pay you well. Report back here to me while I’m in town. When I go to Markendale next week, you may send me a written report there. Our man will be staying at Markendale, too. While he’s out of town, pursue discreet enquiries among the staff of his London home, and among the underworld in the East End.’
‘Understood,’ said Porter. The man before him was paying him enough to inspire loyalty as well as discretion. He said, drawing a bow at venture, ‘These child murders. Will Walker’s in charge of the investigation. I used to work with him. Ever come across him?’
‘Yes.’ Cobie was his laconic business self, offering nothing. ‘By chance.’
‘Good man, Walker. You can trust him. Stood by me when things went wrong. I still see him occasionally.’
‘Ah,’ Cobie said, ‘I’m glad you told me. If you do come across him while you’re working for me, don’t let him know that you are. That’s an unbreakable order. Break it, and I’ll fire you on the spot.’
‘Right.’ Porter nodded. ‘I know which side my bread’s buttered on. Trust me. Mum’s the word, sir.’
That was that. Everything was now in train, and he and Dinah could go to Markendale with that out of the way, and hope that Porter might find anything—or something—which he could use.
Dinah’s
