The Reckoning

Eleanor Rain waited for the door to close before moving to a low, loose-cushioned sofa against which rested a small table, upon which was a tray bearing a China-blue tea service. Taking her seat, she brushed an imaginary speck of lint from her sleeve and regarded Hawkwood with cool detachment.

“How curious; I’m trying to recall the last time a representative of the constabulary came to call, but I declare it’s quite slipped my mind. Though, of course, members of the judiciary are always dropping by.”

The emphasis placed on the word “members” had been deliberate. It was her way of telling him that she regarded his visit as no more than a distraction and that, as a person of little consequence who could not possibly understand innuendo, his presence would be tolerated only for as long as it took him to state his business.

Hawkwood nodded. “After a hard day on the bench, no doubt.”

In the ensuing pause, the ticking from the clock on the mantelpiece sounded unnaturally loud.

Until that moment, Hawkwood had been having difficulty equating the woman seated before him with the Ellie Pearce who’d earned her living servicing a parade of men in the back room of a Smithfield public house, but as her expression changed in the face of his rejoinder he saw caution in her eyes and a growing realization that it was not just her own appearance that might be proving deceptive.

Her swift recovery also told him that this was a woman who was unashamedly aware of the effect her looks had on the opposite sex. If she’d been in the trade for as long as Connie had hinted, the half-smile she now offered in acknowledgement of his response would be as much a part of her repertoire as the way she held herself and her penetrating and provocative gaze.

Similarly, the dress she wore, while appearing simple in cut, served to add to her allure. Cream, with an ivory sheen and inset with fine blue stripes that matched the colour of her eyes, the high waist and hint of décolletage artfully accentuated her shape, with the clear intention of making life a little more interesting for aficionados of the female form.

Her choice of jewellery was as understated as her attire. A blue gemstone the size of a wren’s egg hung from a silver chain about her neck, the jewel resting above the gentle swell of her breasts. She wore a ring set with a smaller, similar-coloured stone on the third finger of her right hand, while her left wrist was encircled by a delicate bracelet, also made of silver to match the clasp in her hair and the fine linkage at her throat.

Leaning forward, she reached for the teapot, the motion deepening the shadow at her neckline, as she had known it would.

Hawkwood recognized it as part of a strategy designed to remind her visitor of his true place. Seated, she was Lady Eleanor Rain, granting him an audience. Standing, he remained the underling, the minion who, even though he was an officer of the law, meant there was not the slightest chance he would be invited to take tea. Tea was expensive – the caddy would be hidden away under lock and key – and the idea that she would consider sharing such a valuable commodity with someone she saw as being beneath her station was unthinkable.

He watched as, with precise, almost sensual deliberation, she proceeded to pour herself a cup, using a strainer to catch the leaves. When the cup was three-quarters full, she laid the strainer to one side. Adding neither milk nor sugar, she lifted both cup and saucer from the tray and cradled them in her lap.

Raising the cup to her lips, she took a small sip. Returning it to the saucer with exaggerated finesse, she straightened and regarded him expectantly. “Perhaps you should explain why you are here?”

Hawkwood, tiring of the game, decided to dispense with the niceties.

“I’m here to enquire if any of your girls are missing.”

It was not what she’d been expecting. Taken aback by the bluntness of Hawkwood’s response, she stared up at him. “Missing? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“A body’s been found.”

“A body?”

“A young woman.”

“I see. Well, that is distressing, but what makes you think she might be associated with my salon?”

“She had a rose tattoo on her upper arm. I’m told you’re familiar with such a mark.”

She stared at him without speaking.

Hawkwood matched her gaze. “Or have I been misinformed?”

He watched the indecision steal across her face, quickly replaced by a more guarded look, which did not make her any less attractive. Two more seconds passed. Then, lifting a hand from the saucer, she made a dismissive gesture. “An affectation; nothing more. A mark of quality, if you will.”

“Like Mr Twining’s tea?”

She blanched. Then, collecting herself once more, she looked up. “Do you have a description of this unfortunate young woman?”

“Petite, brown hair, blue eyes and young, as I said. We believe she was in her early twenties.”

Even as he uttered the words, Hawkwood knew the description was a poor one as it probably covered half the molls in London; a fact mirrored by Eleanor Rain’s less than engaged expression.

“And how did she die?”

“Painfully. Beaten and throttled, then tied in a sack.”

No point in mentioning the mutilation. It was always best to hold something back.

For the first time a look of genuine shock distorted her features. “Murdered,” she said softly.

“I doubt it was suicide.”

She coloured. “No, of course not. Forgive me, it’s …”

Returning the cup and saucer to the tray and placing her hands together on her lap, in a more composed voice, she said, “My apologies. It is difficult to gather one’s thoughts after being told of such a thing.” She drew herself up. “I can assure you, however, that all my ladies are accounted for.”

Hawkwood nodded. “I’m relieved to hear it. Though ladies do come and go, do they not?”

She frowned, as if the idea had not occurred to her. “They do, but surely I cannot be expected to account for the whereabouts of those who might have chosen to leave my employ.”

“That’s true. So has anyone flown the nest recently?”

“They have not.”

The answer came sharply but then she took another breath and in a considered tone said, “May one enquire when the killing took place?”

“We believe death occurred a day ago; perhaps two.”

“Where?”

“That we don’t yet know. I can tell you where she was found: in a grave, in St George the Martyr’s burying ground.”

“A grave?” she said, puzzled. “Then how …?”

“An open grave.”

Hawkwood watched her as the image ran through her mind.

“And she has lain there unseen until now?”

“Yes.”

“All that time? How terrible.”

“Murder usually is,” Hawkwood said.