(“We didn’t think anything about it was illegal,” said one of them indignantly at some point after midnight.

“Then what on earth did you think you were doing?”

“It was for the toffs, wasn’t it?” he had answered bitterly. “They have all sorts of clubs.”)

In the end twenty-five people had been arrested, among them several with very illustrious names indeed. Most of these men remained silent, confident in their solicitors; it was the Earl of Kenwood who gave them the most information, desperate to be released before anyone learned that he had been arrested. (A hope in which he was to be disappointed.) Club membership was only available by personal recommendation, he told them; the fees were spectacularly high, something nearly to boast about, Lenox heard in his voice; the girls changed often enough to keep it interesting; of course they were well paid, of course, why else would the fees be so high …

He himself—a thin, pointy-faced man in his sixties who owned most of Hampshire—had been referred for membership by Wakefield.

“Before he died, you know, poor chap.”

“You were friends?”

“Not close—but there are so few fellows in the House of Lords who have any idea of fun, and he used to stand me a drink now and then.”

Lenox understood. Wakefield and Kenwood operated at very different levels of malice, Kenwood a more insipid and less violent person, but nevertheless these sorts of men always did find each other. They had as long ago as Oxford; look at the Bullingdon Club, whose new members destroyed a different restaurant or pub or college common room each year, solely from the pleasure they took in drunken destruction.

Kenwood’s volubility stood in stark contrast to that of the four women who had presided over St. Anselm’s. None of them spoke a word. Nicholson had realized at some point that it would be a difficult case to prosecute, as had his superiors at the Yard. The owner of the two houses, Wakefield, was recently dead, and his son could hardly be held legally accountable for what he was on the brink of inheriting.

The key, Lenox knew, was the tales of the young women. None of them had been able to offer these yet, however, for none of them spoke more than very bad English. It wasn’t even clear what country they came from. A fleet of government translators was coming to the Yard that morning, and they would try to speak to the young women in a variety of languages.

“You’ll be away all day?” Lady Jane asked, over the breakfast table.

“Yes.”

“You must be tired.”

“On the contrary, I have a great deal of energy,” said Lenox, standing. There was a lovely morning light coming through the windows, the room softened by its gentle natural hue. “Though I wonder how it all relates to the deaths of Wakefield and Jenkins.”

Jane looked up at him. “Poor Mrs. Jenkins,” she said. “Do you think it would be inappropriate of me to call on her? We’ve never met.”

“On the contrary, I think it would be very kind.”

“The day after the funeral must be difficult,” said Jane. “At least a funeral is something to … well, not to look forward to, I suppose, but something to plan, something to expect. The days ahead must seem so empty once even that part of it’s over.”

“I expect so.”

She was staring out the window, and when he came around the table to kiss her good-bye, she said, “Do be careful, would you?”

He kissed her, then took a last swallow of tea. “Always, my dear. Do you feel safe here? With Clemons’s precautions in place? You could still take Sophia to the country, you know.”

“We’re safe. But solve the case quickly, Charles. For my own part, I don’t know that I could face the day after your funeral.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

That morning, a team of constables had gone out to every house the Marquess of Wakefield owned in London, checking each of them top to bottom. None of the others proved more than a simple domicile. One did have an unusually high number of cats in residence—twenty-nine—but that was, apparently, legal, and the owner who answered for them, a man named Withers, promised that he kept them all confined to the house and in excellent health.

Still, the Commissioner of the Yard was in an utter state, according to Nicholson. There had been word from very high, indeed from the Palace itself, that the matter was be resolved and quieted as quickly as possible. The presence of the Slavonian Club in the heart of London was an embarrassment not just to its members but to England; already emissaries from the Vatican were on the way according to Hepworth, with whom Lenox had exchanged notes that morning.

As a result the translators were at the sheltering house very promptly. They were a varied group. Some were darker skinned, others more clearly of British descent; some wore the tweeds and spectacles of the academy, others looked slightly less reputable, and one, a fellow named Chipping just down from Caius College, affected an Oriental robe.

Lenox, Nicholson, and one of Nicholson’s superiors were present to watch. One by one, the translators stepped forward and said, in some language, a phrase Nicholson had written: “If you understand the language I am speaking, please come to me, and I will translate your story for these police officers. Regardless of what you tell us, the Metropolitan Police of London guarantee your safety.”

So the young women—clothed now in plain wool dresses, and having eaten a breakfast delivered with vehement generosity by Her Sisters of the Holy Heart that morning—began to divide up and tell their stories. Lenox sat and listened to them, translated from Turkish, French, Arabic, and German, among other languages. Three of the women didn’t respond to any of the languages; they grouped together and spoke among themselves. All of them looked, to his eye, as if they might be from India.

The whole process took many hours, but the tales of life inside the Slavonian Club were depressingly similar: privation, cold all through that winter, enforced prostitution, the alternating viciousness and kindness of the gentlemen who visited the club, each of those beset by its own brand of difficulties. Several of the women were extremely reluctant to speak, as if this might be a trap. That was understandable. There were some weak friendships among them, but women who spoke the same language had always been divided at Portland Place. Punishment had been rife, and all of them recounted the violence of Sister Amity, who beat them with a switch if their paint was careless, if they attempted to speak to each other, if any of the gentlemen were dissatisfied. When these beatings left marks, the women stayed in the dormitories until they were gone. Going more or less hungry, Lenox gathered.

But all of this came out slowly, whereas the most interesting thing of all, to him, came out almost immediately. That was the story of how they had ended up in London.

Aboard a ship.

None of them knew the ship’s name, but Lenox felt, instantly and with tremendous certainty, that it must be the Gunner.

One young Turkish woman, with beautiful delicate cheekbones and troubled dark eyes, told her story, which was similar to the rest of them. Like the other women, she had been a courtesan in her homeland, too, though, also as with them, that had been in very different circumstances—in luxury, as in most of their cases. It wasn’t difficult to imagine, given their beauty.

“A client came in,” said the Turkish woman through one of the translators. “He was very handsome. He had lovely manners. He persuaded me to come and see him the next evening, that he wanted to give me something. He paid my mistress twice what she had asked, and left a card with his name upon it. He made me promise to come. He said he loved me—love at first sight. I was intrigued by him.