Death at Whitechapel Read Online Free

latter, who I regret to say intends leaving the Army in order to go into Parliament.
    You have plenty of time before you, and should certainly stick to the Army before adding MP to your name.
    Â 
    Hoping that you are flourishing,
I am, Yours very sincerely,
A.E. [Albert Edward, Prince of Wales]
    T he dining room at Sibley House was as large and as bleak as a cave, but Kate had screened off an area near the fireplace and had a table for seven arranged there. Their guests were Lady Randolph and her companion, a handsome young (very young) lieutenant of the Scots Guards named George Cornwallis-West; Manfred Raeburn, the managing editor of Jennie’s magazine; Mr. Raeburn’s vivacious and thoroughly modern sister, Maude, who had recently returned from a walking tour of Italy and Greece; and Winston.
    The staff at Sibley House was so excellently trained that Kate gave scarcely a thought to the mechanics of dinner. Elegant dishes appeared and disappeared and fine wines were poured with a flourish, while sparkling conversation ebbed and flowed the length of the intimate table. The only difficulty that Kate could see was a marked coldness between Winston and Mr. Raeburn, a bespectacled man who had apparently been in his regiment, and a definite stiffness between Winston and Lieutenant Cornwallis-West. Kate understood perfectly well what that was about, because the young guardsman, who was almost exactly Winston’s age, was Lady Randolph’s current affaire du coeur. Lady Randolph—her dark beauty emphasized by her pale green satin gown, quite décolleté—was a stunningly attractive woman who always had a coterie of men at her heels, usually younger men. The rumors about her relationship with the gallant and self-assured guardsman had been flying wildly about London all summer, even finding their way into the newspapers. Kate put Winston’s aloofness down to jealousy, for it was obvious from the way he looked at his mother that he was extraordinarily attached to Jennie, and not a little possessive.
    The women made their usual departure after dinner, Kate leading them to the smallest of the three drawing rooms, where fresh flowers from the conservatory scented the air and coffee and liqueurs were arranged on a table in front of the fire. Miss Raeburn excused herself to freshen up, and Kate and Lady Randolph were left alone.
    Kate leaned back in her chair, wishing that she were an artist and might sketch this beautiful woman with the enigmatic eyes. “I am so glad to get to know you better, Lady Randolph.”
    â€œI should like to call you Kate,” Lady Randolph said decidedly, “and I wish you would call me Jennie.” She returned Kate’s smile and lowered her voice confidentially. “After all, we are both Americans, married into English families. We both know how difficult that can be.” She paused. “And you already know that I am a great admirer of Beryl Bardwell. I have read all her work.”
    â€œThank you,” Kate said, although she doubted that Jennie Churchill knew everything she had written. Back in New York, where she had supported herself entirely with her pen, Kate had produced whatever she could sell—mostly sensational penny dreadfuls with titles like “Missing Pearl” and “The Daughter’s Deadly Revenge” for Frank Leslie’s monthly magazine. She wasn’t ashamed of the work, for it had put food on the table and a roof over her head, and had taught her a good bit into the bargain. But the surprising inheritance that had delivered her from writing for a living now allowed her to write as she chose. While her recent work still belonged more or less to the popular genre of detective fiction, it was far more psychologically inclined, with a deeper exploration of motive and mood. Kate was especially interested in portraying strong and self-willed women who made their own way in the world, sometimes becoming victims of