The “chase” the previous evening had been so utterly typical that Arthur felt he must have scripted it himself. Emily had dashed into a passing two-wheeler on Palmer Street, and Arthur and Bram had quickly found another free cab behind her. They had shown their driver a handful of coins and let him know that it would be his fee were he to successfully follow the two-wheeler up ahead to its destination. He’d given Arthur a heartening “As you say, ma’am” and whipped at his reins. If the cabbie had any concerns as to the disassociation between Arthur’s clothing and his voice, he did not express them.
They had ridden from Westminster all the way to Clerkenwell, as the whole while their driver kept Emily’s hansom in view. They arrived at the four-story on Aylesbury Street just as Emily was turning her key in the front door. Arthur had the cabbie stop a few houses before Emily’s and then instructed him to pull up outside it after she had entered. They’d waited a few moments, until a light turned on inside the thirdfloor flat. Arthur and Bram couldn’t see far enough into the windows to tell what Emily was doing, but they now knew where she lived.
After they had let the cabbie go, there’d been considerable disagreement over what to do next. Arthur had wanted to bang on the front door, demand to be let up, and then confront this girl as to her role in the affair. Bram noted that this plan carried with it a considerable amount of danger. It was likely that Emily was a clandestine associate of at least two murdered suffragists. She had been involved in the murders of Sally Needling and her friend, and perhaps the letter bombing of Arthur’s study. They still didn’t know what the tattoos meant. And most importantly, they had no information about the murderous husband they were after. If Emily knew him, or if she even conspired with him, he might come calling on her at any moment. Perhaps it would be helpful to have a little more information before they confronted her.
Arthur had not been entirely convinced by Bram’s arguments, though he had been cautioned by them. “Very well,” he allowed. “Let us first set up watch over Emily and her quarters. We’re going to have to get out of these ridiculous clothes sooner or later, so let’s take turns running home for trousers and shirts while the other keeps a view on those windows. If Emily leaves, we shall again give chase. If she stays, we shall do the same. Agreed?”
And so they had proceeded, with Arthur taking the first trip home for a fresh change of clothes. There had been no more trains at that hour, so he had engaged another hansom in the most expensive cab ride of his life. At home he was greeted by the stillness of a sleeping household. At the sound of his key in his lock, at the clap of his shoe on the floor of the front hallway, he had felt suddenly alien. Like a thief in his own home. Not one of the souls peacefully sleeping underneath this roof knew a thing about the quest which had so consumed him over these past weeks. His obsessive machinations were hidden from these drowsy snorers on the second floor. Not his wife, Touie, nor his love Jean, was so alive in his mind as were the dead and their killer.
No one had stirred as he had ascended the stairs to his chambers. Fortunately, he and Touie still kept separate sleeping arrangements, on account of her illness, so he had no need to disturb her slumber as he fumbled about with his corset.
He had returned to Clerkenwell three hours later, riding in the same hansom in which he’d left. It was then Bram’s turn to make use of the cab, the driver of which was having the most prosperous of evenings. Arthur and Bram had alternated thus for much of the following day. They took turns sleeping in a nearby hotel, though neither man managed much in the way of decent rest.
And now, at a quarter to six in the evening on the day after the suffragist lecture, Arthur manned his post alone, with only a silver case of Morris cigarettes to keep him company. The night had been long, yes, but the day had been even longer. The midnight chill had kept him awake until dawn, but Arthur was growing disoriented by the day of half-sleeping and half-waking attention to a single window. Pedestrians came and went, yet Arthur remained, forcing himself alert despite the stultifying inactivity. He had heard soldiers in the Transvaal describe sentry duty as being one in which the hour of the day became lost entirely. A second might feel like an hour, and an hour like a second, until one had no idea whether it was noon or night. Arthur found himself having just the opposite experience. He knew precisely what hour it was, and he counted down the minutes to Bram’s next arrival on his pocket watch.
At six o’clock exactly, Arthur saw Bram turn the corner onto Aylesbury Street. Bram looked considerably more rested than Arthur, though he seemed no happier about their mission. The men traded pleasantries, though neither seemed in the mood to be particularly pleasant about it.
When the light in Emily’s window clicked off, it stole Arthur and Bram’s attention toward the darkened flat. They each instinctively stepped away from the streetlight, well outside the range of the gas lamp twelve feet above their heads. After a long few moments, Emily appeared in the building’s front door. She carried a heavy purse, into which she deposited her keys after locking the door behind her. At the bottom of the four steps between her front door and the street, she almost smacked directly into an old woman. Emily appeared to blurt out a quick apology and continue on her way, while the old woman regained her balance along the handrail and ascended toward the door of Emily’s building.
Arthur turned to Bram. “Do you think we have the same plan in mind?” he asked.
“I’m sure we do not,” replied Bram cautiously.
“Then I’ll explain in a moment,” said Arthur. “For now, come!” Arthur spun around and headed straight for the door to Emily’s building. She was walking east and was already approaching the corner. In a few seconds, she would be out of view.
But Arthur paid her no mind. Rather, he hopped up the four steps to Emily’s residence while the old woman fumbled with her keys.
“Pardon me,” said Arthur to the old woman. “Might I give you a hand with that?”
The woman looked confused as she glanced up from her ring of keys and into Arthur’s bright face. He’d shaved at home, but left his upper lip untouched. Not yet twenty-four hours old, Arthur’s nascent mustache was ill shaped and splotchy. He looked like a teenager overeager to prove his manhood.
“I…” stammered the old woman. “Well… I… certainly…”
Arthur reached out and snatched the keys from her hand. He found the right one and opened the door to her building. He handed the keys back to her while he held the door open and gestured for her to pass inside.
“After you, madam,” he said.
She seemed unsure of how to handle this situation, but years of social training kicked in.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, and walked into her building. She moved through the small vestibule, and, the correct key already in hand, she unlocked the door to her flat and went inside. Arthur remained smiling at the building’s entryway, continuing to hold open the door as if he were a shoddy butler. As soon as she’d vanished into her flat, Arthur let his smile drop and called outside to Bram.
“What are you waiting for? Let’s go!” he cried.
Bram followed Arthur up the building’s winding central staircase and onto the third-floor landing. They came to a sturdy door with the letter “C” marked in brass upon its face. Arthur tried the knob, on the off chance that it happened to be unlocked. It was not.
“Well then,” said Bram. “Fine work. What now?”
By way of response, Arthur picked up his right leg, leaned back, and kicked at the door with all his might. There was a loud crunching sound, and both men could see the doorframe shake. And yet the door itself did not budge. Arthur kicked again, just beside the knob, and again the hallway was filled with the slap and crunch of boot against wood. But again the door did not give.