‘Spill it,’ Finn says.
‘I’ve been working with a sequencing facility on Rafe’s DNA. I was hoping to make a big show of my commitment to this damnable magic formula that Clovis relentlessly pursues. The whole process is completely anonymous. I’ve used the facility several times to test their integrity and I trust them.
‘And?’ Finn tries not to display his alarm.
‘I tested yours as well, Finn.’
‘You what?’
‘I was trying to prove something, something unrelated to the … My intentions were completely innocent. I wanted to prove to Clovis that there is no science that explains Rafe’s condition … our condition. I thought if I could show DNA results … Anyway … oh, God.’ He sighs.
‘You should have asked our permission.’ Finn is pacing now, wondering how to salvage this mess.
‘Owen, you’re making me uncomfortable,’ Rafe says.
‘All right.’ Owen pauses. ‘Finn, the results prove that you’re not Rafe’s biological father.’
‘What? What did you just say? Are you sure?’ Rafe asks.
‘Certain.’
‘Finn?’ Rafe waits for an explanation.
‘Bloody hell.’ What else can he say. Of course he’s not Rafe’s father!
‘Then who is my father?’
‘I … I don’t know,’ Finn admits a half-truth. He doesn’t even know the man’s name.
‘Did they give you a report, or a statement, or what, Owen?’ Rafe asks.
‘I downloaded it onto this laptop that I use for storing sensitive data. I’ll print a copy for you and then delete it. It’s secure,’ Owen assures him as he opens it, finds the file, and hands the laptop to Finn.
‘Scroll down to the bottom, past the number charts.’
‘There. There it is.’ Rafe reads aloud. ‘The alleged father is excluded as the biological father of the tested child. Finn?’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘There’s something else,’ Owen says.
From his desk drawer he produces an aged piece of paper, a prepaid penny-letter sheet.
‘Read it. Both of you, read it,’ Owen growls, like something wounded.
It’s addressed to Mr O. Mockett, Mockett Chemists, Commercial Road, Limehouse. The year is stamped 1852; the month has faded completely. The hand is legible, but the creases make for slower reading.
‘Owen, what is this?’ Finn asks.
‘Please, just read it.’
Dear Sir,
Regarding your late wife. I am in possession of the enclosed headline clipped from the Illustrated London News.
Fatal Accident on the Commercial Road
Wife of East London Chemist Trampled by Horses
Mrs Nora Mockett, wife of Mr Owen Mockett
Sir, I am a wicked, wicked woman. I am also a dying woman, and as such, I write to you my confession.
I had the misfortune to meet Clovis Fowler while incarcerated at Millbank. She sought me out, I suppose for my circumstances and my desperation, which at the time were worse than most. She discovered my darkest and most shameful secrets. In exchange for her silence and for enough badly needed coin to help me from returning to a former life, I was required to perform one task for her after I obtained my ticket-of-leave. I did not know what the task would entail, and at the time I am not certain she knew either.
I pushed your wife to her death on the order of Clovis Fowler. I cannot forgive myself, and could never hope to earn your forgiveness at this late date. I did not come forward sooner for my child’s sake. I eventually married and was inexplicably blessed with a daughter late in life. They were taken from me – cholera – and as my life has consisted predominantly of misfortune, I expected that woe. The time I had with my husband and daughter was a little bit of undeserved heaven, but I have not had a moment of pure happiness since that afternoon, when out of fear, and desperate again with self-preservation, I performed that evil act.
I am truly sorry. I deserve your anger and disgust. The guilt has eaten me daily. I feel no relief as I write this. I only wish to warn you and should have done so before now. But as I said, I am a wicked woman and have waited until death stands at my bedside. I write to tell you that Clovis Fowler is far more evil than me. The devil himself has laid his hand on her. Do not allow yourself to become lost in her amber eyes for you never shall return.
With deepest regrets.
I am sincerely yours,
Henrietta Martin
Finn drops the letter sheet onto the desk.
‘What the bloody hell, Owen? Why didn’t you show this to me when you received it?’
‘I didn’t believe it.’
‘Henrietta Martin. I know that name,’ Finn recalls. ‘There was gossip at the prison. Something about Clovis obtaining leniency for the woman and influencing her release from the dark cells. Ridiculous, I thought at the time. Millbank was nothing if not a den of gossip. I asked Clovis about the woman during one of our visits while we were still inside. She laughed – we both did – she said she didn’t even know who I was talking about. Never heard of her.’
‘Wait,’ says Owen. ‘Clovis said she’d never heard of Henrietta Martin?’
‘Yes, I remember it clearly.’
‘That she’d never even met her?’ Owen presses.
‘That’s what she said … that she’d never met anyone by that name.’
‘Then she lied. She told me quite a different tale. She said she had met Miss Martin and was kind to her, but then Miss Martin took advantage of her and threatened to ruin her. I had no reason not to believe Clovis. Is it possible Finn? You were there.’
‘Almost anything was possible at Millbank.’ Finn is uneasy. ‘But as I said, the place was crawling with outlandish stories.’
‘What made you dig up that letter now?’ Rafe asks.
‘Something’s always bothered me about it. The amber eyes. Miss Martin mentions Clovis’s amber eyes. It’s not a detail she is likely to have invented, it’s too risky. The DNA test made me think of it again.’
‘Nora visited you at your home in Bermondsey Street, didn’t she?’ Owen asks.
‘Yes, she did.’ Rafe appeals to Finn, ‘We might as well tell him.’
‘Nora threatened to reveal our condition,’ Finn admits. ‘And she was
