Murder Ignited: Penrose & Pyke Mysteries, #6

Missing Bride

Charlie Pyke slid his watch from the pocket of his new waistcoat. Eleven o’clock on the morning of Saturday, the twenty-first of January, 1893. The beginning of a new life.

Behind him, a gentle murmur of conversation rose and fell in a sea of Sunday-best clothes and familiar smiles, in pews filled to squeezing point. The minister stood ready, radiating serenity. The organist kept an eye on the door, poised to play as soon as the bride appeared.

Charlie’s best man checked the rings in his waistcoat pocket for the fifth time. Alistair Stewart had been his commanding officer and mentor, but now he was Charlie’s business partner in their private investigation agency. Slim, faultlessly dressed, with the calm confidence of a gentleman in his club, former Detective Inspector Stewart had fooled any number of criminals into thinking he was no threat. In contrast, Charlie’s groomsman would never be mistaken for anything other than a policeman. Detective Sergeant Declan Kelly stood at ease, feet apart, hands at sides, biceps at the ready, eyes scanning the crowd for threats from force of habit.

Charlie stared straight ahead, hoping that the snakes writhing in his belly did not show on his face. Deep down, he knew his bride, Grace Penrose, would be here soon. Nothing would stop them getting married, short of kidnapping. The snakes formed a knot. Grace would not be kidnapped, he told himself. Their lives might be besieged by murder and mayhem, but not today.

He began counting off the seconds to distract himself. Charlie did not relish being the centre of attention. As a private detective, he preferred to be an inconspicuous presence – to the extent that a six-feet tall, broad-shouldered, quarter-Chinese man could be inconspicuous. Last year’s feature in the Dunedin Ladies’ Journal hadn’t helped. He craved anonymity, but teetered on the tightrope between recognition and infamy.

Charlie’s count reached three hundred. Grace was now over five minutes late. It felt like five hours. Alistair had warned him that a little tardiness was normal for a bride, but Grace was rarely late when it mattered. The door of the church opened, just a crack. Thank heavens. The organist struck the first notes. Charlie’s heart thundered as he turned to see his bride.

A middle-aged, grey-haired woman slid through the narrow gap into the church, obviously hoping nobody would notice her. Everybody noticed – Charlie most of all. The music shuddered to a halt. Miss Newland mouthed sorry, and slid into a non-existent gap on the nearest pew. As the woman in charge of the day-to-day running of the local women’s refuge, Lavender House, no doubt Miss Newland had a good reason for being a little late.

The communal surge of excitement ebbed away. Charlie resumed his count, but lost track when he reached the high eight-hundreds, almost fifteen minutes after the wedding ceremony had been due to start. By then, even Declan and Alistair were shuffling their feet. The minister’s lips moved as he whispered a silent prayer. The low murmur in the church had risen to chattering level. Charlie had the awful feeling that people were glancing his way with that very particular expression of embarrassed sympathy he loathed. He kept his eyes averted.

Charlie’s heart told him only the direst of catastrophes would stop Grace from walking down the aisle. Perhaps she had torn her gown in her haste to get to the church, or her great-aunt, Anne Macmillan, had had another fall? Anne, the director of Lavender House, was in her seventies and increasingly frail of body, but as sharp as ever of mind and tongue. Grace’s other attendants were Charlie’s Aunt Lily and Grace’s best friend, Molly Ravenwood. A crusader in her seventies, a tiny middle-aged half-Chinese healer, and an eight-month pregnant woman. Grace Penrose was never conventional in her choices.

The door slammed open so forcefully it crashed against the wall, sending reverberations around the church.

A young man stood in the doorway, his cap askew. Lavender House is on fire!

Able-bodied men leapt to their feet and rushed from the church. The wooden buildings of Dunedin could burn to the ground in less than an hour, taking their neighbours with them. Older guests dipped their heads in fervent prayer, their memories etched with the horror of the catastrophic 1879 fire in the Octagon as if it was yesterday.

Charlie stripped off his black morning coat, not wanting to damage a new garment. As he followed the exodus, two thoughts crossed his mind. First, please let all the women staying in the refuge be safe. And second, would this be the only wedding in memory where neither the bride nor the groom were there?

Abandoned Gown

Grace Penrose tried not to look at her abandoned wedding gown, draped over a chair in her room at Anne Macmillan’s house. Her gaze slipped sideways to the mantelpiece clock. Five minutes to eleven o’clock. She was going to be late. Very late. Grace hated being late for important events. Being late to her own wedding counted as excruciating torture.

She cursed herself for falling into the trap of believing her wedding would be perfect. And so it had seemed, until now. The families had arrived safely and showed every sign of forming a bond of friendship, as well as kinship. Grace’s tearaway brothers had behaved perfectly (under threat of being shipped to a remote speck of rock in the icy southern ocean). Even the morning had dawned brightly after days of rain.

And now the clock ticked relentlessly towards the hour and her abandoned gown mocked her. Grace imagined her beloved Charlie Pyke waiting at the altar, growing increasingly alarmed. He would be worrying she had been kidnapped, or, worse still, worrying she had decided not to marry him.

Molly moaned. Grace switched her focus back to her best friend. In all the time Grace had known Molly, her friend had always been cheerful and strong. Now, she was hunched on a bed, rivulets of sweat streaming down her pallid skin, staring at Grace with terror in her eyes. A wedding could be delayed, but a first baby determined to arrive early could not. Grace held Molly’s hand and murmured for her friend to breathe. Molly muttered an oath, which was most out of character. Grace didn’t blame her. Another contraction came and went with a drawn-out wail from the patient.

Grace’s great-aunt examined Molly with practiced hands. Anne Macmillan had delivered more babies than most qualified doctors would see in two lifetimes. Grace had seen her fair share too, even though she still had another two years before she completed her training at the Otago Medical School.

Anne checked her watch as Molly had another contraction. Five minutes that time. Like Grace, Anne had stripped off her finery in favour of a smock. Births and white satin gowns did not mix.

Five more agonising minutes passed. The mantlepiece clock downstairs chimed eleven times, with a deep, ominous dong. As the last dong reverberated, the door slammed open and footsteps thundered up the stairs.

Molly, where are you?

In here, Rory, Grace called, with a surge of relief.

Grace had sent her other attendant, Lily Stewart, to get Molly’s husband, Doctor Rory Ravenwood. Grace desperately wanted to send Lily to tell Charlie what was happening, but she conceded the priority must go to the father of the baby ruining Grace’s wedding day.

Rory rushed to his wife’s side, taking over Molly’s hand from Grace. He wasn’t foolish enough to ask how Molly was feeling, when her face was slick with perspiration and tight with pain. Instead, he wiped her forehead with a cool cloth. Won’t be long now, my darling. How far along is she, Anne?

Anne looked up from her watch. Molly’s contractions were down to four minutes apart, but they’re back to six minutes now. We may have a false labour on our hands.

Grace glanced at the clock again. Even if she dressed straight away, she’d be appallingly late.

Rory saw the direction of her glance. Grace, we’re so sorry to have ruined your wedding day. Lily caught me just as I was leaving for the church. She dropped me here and said she was going to tell Charlie what has happened. Lily will come back to pick you up as soon as she can.

Grace blew out a puff of pent-up breath. Thank heavens Charlie wouldn’t be worrying for too much longer. Babies take precedence, Rory. Charlie will understand. Grace prayed it was true. Her heart ached for the thought of him, standing in front of all their friends and family as the minutes ticked by, feeling abandoned. She scrubbed her hands in the basin of water on the washstand.

I’ll take over here, Anne, Rory said. while you help our lovely bride back into that beautiful gown.

Seven and a half minutes apart that time, Anne said, snapping her pocket watch closed. Your baby has decided a wedding takes precedence, after all.

By the time Anne had helped Grace into her wedding gown and seen to her hair, Molly had regained her normal colour. Will you ever forgive me, my dear Grace?

Grace didn’t answer. She stood by the window, watching her father and mother get out of the hired landau. Lily was not with them. Her heart contracted. Her father was supposed to be waiting at the church, ready to walk her down the aisle.

Doctor George Penrose knocked before entering. Lily said Molly is in labour. I’ve come to assist Rory if he needs it.

The baby has taken pity on me, Father. We have an aisle to walk down. The stricken expression on her father’s face caused Grace’s heart to contract again. What’s happened?

A fire at Lavender House, her mother said, with all the nonchalance of a person reporting a minor annoyance of no consequence. Three decades of marriage to a doctor and six boisterous children had left Mrs Louisa Penrose with the ability to remain calm and competent in any crisis. You’re not to worry, Grace. We will wait here until the blaze is out. After that, the wedding will proceed as planned. Mrs Penrose gave a mirthless little laugh. Better late than never, I suppose.

Grace was more like her father than her mother. Slim and dark-haired, with the energy of coiled springs – she and her father both remained calm in a crisis only when busy. She tugged at her veil. Where’s Charlie? Please don’t tell me that idiot almost-husband of mine has dashed off to be a hero again?

Mrs Penrose crossed the room to save the delicate veil from being ripped. Rest easy, Grace. There are dozens of able bodies eager to help put out the fire. Alistair Stewart will stop Charlie from doing anything stupid on his wedding day. That’s what a best man is for.

Grace snorted. If there is one person more likely to put Charlie Pyke in harm’s way than me, it’s Alistair Stewart. Get me out of this gown, Mama. I want to be there if Charlie needs medical help.

Her mother touched three fingers to Grace’s cheek softly, a gesture that had soothed her tempestuous daughter over the past twenty-three years, from broken toys, to grazed knees, to faithless boys. Grace forced herself to stand still while her mother undid the dozens of tiny buttons down the back of her wedding gown. An hour ago, the gown had seemed the most perfect garment in the world. Now it was a straitjacket, tormenting her frazzled patience.

Be reasonable, Grace. Her father, this time, using the same soothing tone his wife had used. A fair proportion of the doctors in Dunedin are at your wedding. Lily stayed to help too. This is one day your medical skills are not needed.

If the fire spreads quickly, there may be more injuries than doctors to tend them, Grace replied. We can use the church hall as a temporary shelter.

Grace knew her great-aunt’s heart would be breaking at the thought of Lavender House in flames. Anne had established the free medical clinic and refuge decades ago. It was her pride and joy, and her legacy. Grace was on the verge of suggesting her mother stay here with Anne, but Anne had already shaken herself out of her initial state of shock. Anne shot Grace an all too familiar don’t you dare get in my way glare, before grabbing her medical bag and heading for the door. The thump-thump of her walking stick on the floor brooked no opposition.

In the end, they all went. Molly insisted she would be fine sitting in the church hall, while Rory, who was the medical director at Lavender House, tended to the injured with Grace and her father and Anne. Mrs Penrose carefully wrapped the wedding gown in a sheet, ever the optimist, and joined them to help look after the displaced women and children.

Inferno

Charlie smelled the fire before he reached the corner of Maitland Street. Lavender House backed onto the town belt, a wide strip of grass and trees circling the city of Dunedin. One rogue spark and the fire could spread for miles around the city. Yesterday, Charlie had been praying for the unseasonal barrage of rain to stop. Today, he thanked the rain gods for leaving the ground so sodden.

Behind him, the church bells tolled, calling the community to action. Ahead, the siren in the street-side fire alarm box still blared. As Charlie rounded the corner, he saw smoke billowing from the rear of Lavender House, but no flames leaping from the roof, as yet. Hordes of locals, driven by fear, were already working together to douse the fire in the crucial minutes before control became impossible.

A bucket brigade passed water over the row of lavender bushes and herbs to the front door. Two teams of muscled men from the local volunteer fire brigade worked the pumps, pumping water into the hoses snaking up to two men on ladders, who directed the jets of water at the flames through the second storey windows. A throng of young lads and lasses hauled buckets of water from nearby houses to damp down any sparks in the vegetation. Thanks to the quick actions of the local community, the structure appeared largely intact so far, although the volume of smoke surely indicated a level of destruction that would bring tears to Anne Macmillan’s eyes.

On the outskirts, a growing crowd gathered, slack-jawed.

Beyond them, a group of men clapped and jeered. One tried to start up a chant, Burn the witches! Burn the witches! The other men did not join in, but nor did they stop his vile rant. Protesters regularly gathered outside Lavender House to yell abuse at those who sought refuge within. Men whose beaten wives had run away. Men who distrusted any place that kept them out. Men not used to losing control of their womenfolk, whom they saw as their property.

A tall, broad figure with flaming red hair directed the firefighters in a voice loud enough to wake the dead. Mr Campbell, foreman at the local carriage-works and captain of the local volunteer fire brigade. The perfect man for a crisis. He had saved Grace from an attacker once, to Charlie’s eternal gratitude.

As the protesters continued to chant, Campbell bellowed a name and jerked a finger. A bull-sized man left his spot on the pump and ran across the road. The chanting man took one look at the charging colossus and swinging fist, and took to his heels. The avenger was back at the water pump thirty seconds later.

Charlie’s groomsman, Detective Sergeant Declan Kelly, veered to the side and collared the protester. A policeman to the bone marrow, he pulled out a notebook and started taking a statement. Declan yelled to a newly arrived constable and directed him to take names of witnesses, starting with the protesters. A wise move, in Charlie’s opinion. The protesters had become increasingly aggressive in recent times. Arson would be a leap beyond their normal activities, but it wasn’t impossible. As a quick means to shut down the women’s refuge, a destructive fire could not be faulted.

Charlie diverted his attention to Miss Newland, who was herding a group of wide-eyed women and sobbing children away from Lavender House. One of the local doctors followed them. Doctor Harvey, Charlie recalled, on seeing his elderly face. Harvey barked a question at Miss Newland, who indicated one of the women.

Doctor Harvey pointed at Charlie. Bucket of cool water, quick as you can.

Charlie ran to the bucket line and commandeered a heavy enamel basin. In the few seconds he was absent, Harvey had the woman’s sleeves rolled up and his own cravat off, ready to use as a cloth to bathe the patient’s burns.

Does she need to be taken to hospital, Doctor Harvey? Charlie wanted to help, but he was also determined to be sensible. The local folks had the situation under control, so there was no need to barge in and risk making a widow of Grace. Not that she would be a widow, as they had failed to exchange vows. Charlie pushed that thought aside.

The doctor shook his head. Minor scorching. Cold water will do the trick for starters.

The church ladies are setting up the hall to take minor injuries and anyone needing respite. Charlie ruffled the hair of a soot-smudged child. There’s a feast waiting for you from an abandoned wedding. Before you go, Miss Newland, can you confirm that everyone from Lavender House is accounted for?

Miss Newland dashed a tear from her red eyes. I’m not sure. It’s difficult to tell in the chaos. A woman was brought in just before the wedding, which was why I was late. She’s not out here with the other Lavender House women, but she was drunk, so she may have wandered off.

A prickle of foreboding raised the hairs on Charlie’s arms. How do you know she is not inside?

Miss Newland gestured at the young woman with the burn, who also had a black eye fading to purple. Kathleen raised the alarm and checked all the rooms. She found the drunk woman’s room locked, the key gone, and no answer when she banged on the door. I cannot even recall the woman’s name, I was in such a hurry to get to the church. I’ll never forgive myself if she didn’t get out.

What room number was she in?

Miss Newland glanced up at the building, fear ravaging her usual imperturbable façade. Number four, where those flames are coming from.

A hand came down on Charlie’s shoulder. Don’t you dare even think of going up there, Pyke. Alistair Stewart’s Scottish accent always became more pronounced in a crisis. Grace would string me up by the sporran if I let any harm come to you today.

Yes, Uncle Alistair. Since Alistair Stewart had married Charlie’s Aunt Lily, this was a legitimate form of address, but only used when Alistair worried unnecessarily about his protégé.

Good. Have you seen my wife?

Charlie pointed out Lily Stewart, who was kneeling on the pavement, tending to a bucket brigade casualty. Smoke inhalation, by the dazed look on his face. Charlie had been in a fire before. He knew how quickly smoke could suck the oxygen out of the air, adding to the disorienting effects of a smoke-filled room. His father had saved him last time. Charlie never again wanted to experience that feeling of his brain shutting down, unable to find a way out when he knew the door was only a few paces away.

A ruckus behind him drew Charlie’s attention. A woman, with two crying children clinging to her, was refusing to go with Miss Newland and the other women.

Miss Newland beckoned him over. Mr Pyke, Mrs Coster’s son is missing.

The woman looked up at him with desperate eyes. Have you seen a boy in blue dungarees and a plaid shirt? Six years old, blond hair? Fred Coster’s his name. I thought he was outside playing with the other children, but I can’t find him.

I’ll find him, don’t you worry. Go to the church hall and I’ll bring him to you.

Charlie spotted his parents and some of the other wedding guests. He ran over. We need to find a missing boy. Fred Coster, aged six, blond, blue dungarees, plaid shirt. He could be hiding in the trees behind the house or in the neighbouring gardens. Charlie crossed his fingers and prayed the lad wasn’t inside. Pa, can you alert the bucket brigade and the man in charge, Mr Campbell? I’m going to check around the other side of the house.

Sergeant Thomas Pyke didn’t waste time with words. He was off before Charlie finished his sentence.

Charlie sprinted to the far end of Lavender House, where fewer people were gathered. He called Fred’s name several times, poked through the hedge between the two properties, and called again. He was about to go into the next garden when a flash of movement from above caught his eye. A small face, topped with an explosion of blond hair, pressed up against the upstairs window. Charlie caught a glimpse of terror before the face disappeared again.

Stay there, Fred, Charlie yelled. I’m coming.

Mr Campbell was at the front door by the time Charlie reached it, with Thomas Pyke beside him. Charlie leaned in close to be heard over the noise. The boy is at the far end of the house on the second storey. I know where to find him.

Wait, Charlie’s father said. He ran over to a woman huddled within a thick woollen blanket and ripped it from around her with the most cursory of apologies. Thomas flung the blanket over Charlie, while Mr Campbell ordered his men to dump two buckets of water over Charlie’s head.

We’ll bring one of the ladders around, Mr Campbell said. Throw the boy out the window if you have to. We’ll get another blanket and men to catch him. You too, if necessary. Don’t stay inside any longer than you have to.

Charlie’s father gripped his arm. Be careful, Charlie. I’ll get that ladder as quickly as I can.

The last thing Charlie heard before he plunged into Lavender House was his mother’s scream. He hoped Grace hadn’t made a late arrival on the scene.

Smoke filled his lungs as soon as Charlie stepped through the door. Downstairs, the curtains, furniture, walls and ceiling were all black with soot, although the ground floor structure of Lavender House appeared to be remarkably intact, thanks to the determined efforts of the bucket brigade. They had soaked the entire space from floor to ceiling in water, creating a swirling, choking mix of steam and smoke. Wet blankets hung from a cluster of chairs, where embers must have caught and been doused.

A line of buckets passed Charlie as he went up the stairs. For each bucket, a man came back down, minimising the time any one man spent near the heat of the blaze. At the top of the stairs, the heat hit him as a physical blow. A coughing figure emerged from the nearest smoking room with a bucket.

An arm shot out as Charlie moved aside to let the man pass. It’s not safe beyond here. We’re keeping the spread of flames at bay in the nearby rooms, while the hoses do their work at the heart of the fire.

Charlie pushed past. There’s a young boy trapped at the end of the building.

The arm retreated. Another bucket of water sloshed onto him before he had time to draw the blanket over his head. God be with you, a smoke-roughened voice said in his ear.

Don’t come looking if I don’t come back, Charlie replied. We’ll go out through the window.

Charlie bent low, but smoke filled the upstairs corridor from floor to ceiling. He took a gulp of air and held his breath, before charging towards the far room. Five paces in, he realised he had underestimated the fire. Black smoke streamed around the edges of a door halfway along the corridor, making it all but impossible to see where he was going. Water gushed under the bottom of the door from the fire hose at the window.

Despite the quick actions of the fire crew, the heat was intense. Charlie paused, but there was no going back. He made a run for it, half-blinded by smoke and steam. Right at the peak intensity of the heat, he stumbled over a mop and bucket. Charlie fell sideways, his head colliding with searing metal on the door. Charlie had time to register the number four before his upper arm burst through the thin shell of charred timber. In an instant, heat scorched through his shirtsleeve, where the blanket had fallen away.

Charlie jerked away from the pain, falling to his knees and gasping for what little air