Death Below Stairs

by Jennifer Ashley

  An older man bent down, hands on his knees, as I touched the offered handkerchief to the gash on Daniel’s forehead. “You need help?” the old man asked. “You shouldn’t have provoked them, lad.”

  Daniel spit blood onto the pavement. He shot a glare at the young men disappearing into the station and said a few words ladies should never hear.

  The woman next to me grinned. “Aye, they should stay in their posh houses where they belong. But he could have you, lad, for hitting him back.”

  “Pure accident,” Daniel mumbled. He sent me a glance. “Take me home, missus?”

  I climbed to my feet, accepting the assistance of the man and woman, and together we hauled Daniel upright. He was a bit unsteady, but his legs worked—at least the toffs hadn’t broken his bones.

  “Best get him indoors,” the old man advised me. “Give him some gin for the pain.”

  “Water and lavender to wash the cuts,” the woman put in. “Can you take him all right, love?”

  “Yes, indeed.” I gave them a nod that was as dignified as I could make it, but my heart was racing, my worry high.

  My fear made me sharp as I helped Daniel limp away, the kind woman telling me to keep the handkerchief. “We’ll have to walk all the way back now,” I snapped. “No one will let you on a train or omnibus looking like that.”

  Daniel, damn the man, had the impudence to grin. “We’ll take a hansom. Don’t worry, Kat. I’ll be fine.”

  “Fine?” I said in a near-shout. “Die of infection, I would say. We need to get you home and cleaned up before Mr. Davis sees you. He’ll sack you, and I need you there.”

  Daniel’s look softened. “Aw, Mrs. H.—you’re sweet.” He sounded as drunken as the toffs.

  “Don’t talk nonsense,” I said in a tight voice.

  Daniel did not in any way look remorseful. He lifted his hand at a passing hansom, letting out a whistle that released a spattering of blood.

  The hansom, to my surprise, slowed for us. Cabbies were tough men, for the most part, who had no compunction about refusing to let ruffians or other undesirables into their carriages. This one, however, leaned from his perch on the back to peer at us, and his eyes widened.

  “McAdam? God’s balls, what the devil happened to you?”

  “Hoping it would be you, Lewis,” Daniel called up to him. “Give us a ride home, eh?”

  “If you can heave yourself in.” The man called Lewis stopped his horse, then tipped his hat to me. “Ma’am.”

  He had to keep hold of the horse, so Daniel actually handed me in, seeming plenty steady enough to do so, before he hauled himself up behind me.

  The hansom was a typical one—two wheels and a seat with doors that closed in front of us, the driver in the back to guide the one horse. As soon as Daniel sat down and snapped the door shut, Lewis tapped the horse and clicked his tongue. The horse started forward at a smart trot, the cab jerking as it began.

  I took the already bloody handkerchief and resumed dabbing at Daniel’s wounds. I was still shaking, fear and anger swirling together.

  “Do you know every cabbie in London?” I demanded.

  “Only some of them.” Daniel let me wipe blood from the corner of his mouth. “I drive a cab occasionally myself.”

  “Of course you do. Friend of yours, is he?”

  “Colleague.” Daniel’s voice gentled. “I am well; don’t worry yourself. I’ve taken far worse beatings from far worse ruffians. Those lads were half drunk and unpracticed.”

  “That is a speech to make me feel better, is it?” I glared at him. “Do you often seek beatings?”

  Daniel winced as I touched an open cut. “In my younger days, when I was foolish, I am afraid I did. In this case, there was not much I could do but tuck myself up and wait for them to grow tired of their fun. If I’d fought back, they—or some passing copper—would have dragged me to a magistrate, who would have me up for assault before I could get things sorted out, and I don’t have time for that. I never expected you to join in.”

  I gave him an incredulous look. “Was I to stand aside and wring my hands? Screech oh, oh, like a wet heroine in a silly melodrama?”

  Daniel tried to laugh, then grimaced when it pulled at his mouth. “I believe I adore you, Kat.”

  “Enough of that. Stay quiet until we reach Mount Street. We can try to get you in through the mews and hope the head groom holds his tongue.”

  “He would. He’s a decent sort.”

  I had paid no attention to where we were, bent on cleaning as much blood as I could from Daniel’s face, but when I looked around, we seemed to be on Southampton Row, heading nowhere near the direction of Mayfair. We turned east then south again not long later, moving along Drury Lane toward Long Acre, then Covent Garden, skirting that busy area but continuing south.

  “Wherever are we going?” I asked Daniel. “Did you plan to ride back through St. James’s, perhaps taunt a few more toffs?” I was nervous, fearing Daniel might do just that.

  Daniel shook his head. “When I said home, I did not mean Mount Street.” He pressed aside my hand with the scarlet-blotched handkerchief. “I meant my home. At least, my lodgings—the ones I’m keeping for the moment.”

  “Oh.” I lowered the handkerchief to my lap, curiosity seeping through my anger. Daniel was going to let me see where he lived, wonder of wonders.

  The hansom stopped south of Covent Garden in Southampton Street, near the Strand. The house we halted before looked no different from its fellows—a brown-red brick building with white trim on the windows, shops on the ground floors and rooms above.

  Mr. Lewis calmed the horse that shifted in the traces, the two-wheeled cab moving a little as we descended. Daniel climbed stiffly out first and insisted on handing me down. He also insisted on passing Lewis up a coin, though Lewis tried to refuse.

  “You answer to another,” Daniel told him. “I’d not see you lose your post for giving us a ride for nothing.”

  Lewis ceased his arguing, pocketed the coin, touched his hat, and tapped the horse with his long whip. The horse clopped away, the wheels of the hansom rumbling on the cobbles as Lewis headed for the Strand.

  The shop in the bottom of the house where Daniel lived was a pawnbrokers. Three small gold-painted balls hung from the sign above its door, and its narrow window showed a number of disparate wares—a nicely painted black box, a pair of silver-plated tongs with some of the silver flaked off, and a copper colander. A black-painted door next to the shop opened to reveal a plain staircase, narrow wooden steps leading upward between two white walls.

  Daniel trundled up this staircase, taking sharp breaths now and again as pain caught at him. I shook my head and came behind.

  “Good heavens.” A woman’s voice rang down from the upper floors, followed by the woman herself stepping onto the landing. She had gray hair pulled into a severe bun under her white cap, a frock as equally gray as her hair, and a pinafore with so many ruffles I had no idea how it served as an apron. Perhaps she sought to enhance the plainness of her gown and hair with a frivolous pinny.

  “Whatever have you done to yourself, Mr. McAdam?” the woman asked as she started down the stairs. She looked past him at me, her gaze full of curiosity. “Is this your cook?”

  I had no idea who the woman was, or why she ought to be staring at me so impertinently. Daniel only clung to the wooden railing and pulled himself to the landing on the first floor.

  “She is indeed,” he said. “Mrs. Williams, this is Mrs. Holloway, the finest cook in London.”

  Mrs. Williams gave me another assessing look. “Tell me what happened to him, dear. What did he do to earn such a thumping this time?”

  I pressed my lips together as Daniel unlocked a door on the first floor and opened it into a sunny room. He ushered me inside as though we entered an elegant parlor.

  I answered Mrs.
Williams as we went in. “He said too much to the wrong person.”

  Mrs. Williams gave me a look of understanding. “Aye, he has a silver tongue on him, does our Mr. McAdam. Gets him into trouble sometimes, the foolish lad.” Her lilt, now that she relaxed her rather rigid English, sounded Scottish. “Good of you to bring him home, dear.”

  I did not correct her and say that Daniel had brought me here. He’d disappeared into the back room, presumably his bedchamber. Mrs. Williams heaved a sigh. “I’ll fetch some water.”

  She stalked out, leaving the door open, and I looked about with interest.

  The sitting room was bright because the day had turned so, sunshine not yet blocked by the buildings across the road. The floor was covered by a colorful carpet—a floral design bordered in black—that was old but clean and not threadbare.

  None of the furniture matched. A desk stood in the corner, and several chairs were put about, one an old-fashioned Belter chair with a carved back, another from even longer ago—Chippendale style with claw and ball feet. A third chair was newer, in a plainer mode that was becoming more fashionable nowadays.

  Daniel had a sofa, a small thing that two people could barely fit onto, and only one table, not even large enough for a spread of tea. Perhaps Mrs. Williams had a parlor where lodgers could invite their guests, or perhaps she reasoned they’d find their sustenance elsewhere—in taverns or tea shops, Covent Garden being just up the road.

  I saw no evidence of personal things belonging to Daniel. No photographic portraits of family, no souvenirs from various places around London—or anywhere else for that matter—no small knickknacks we all pick up from time to time.

  In short, nothing of Daniel McAdam rested in this room. I wondered how long he’d lived here, and if he had rooms elsewhere in London that housed his true belongings.

  Mrs. Williams bustled back in with a bowl and an ewer. She looked about for somewhere to set it down, and I cleared a lamp off the small round table, allowing her to rest the bowl there.

  Daniel walked out from the inner room as Mrs. Williams poured the steaming water from the ewer into the bowl. He’d rid himself of his coat and bloodstained shirt but pulled on another shirt, which he’d modestly buttoned to the throat. He wore a resigned look, knowing we women were going to fuss over him.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Williams,” I said. “I will make sure Mr. McAdam is well.”

  Mrs. Williams was obviously curious about Daniel’s battle, but she only nodded politely and moved to the door.

  “Mrs. Holloway will give you her recipe for her lemon sponge cake before she goes,” Daniel told her. “Light as down it is.”

  “Of course,” I said, not bothering to give Daniel an annoyed glance.

  Mrs. Williams looked delighted with this, smiled at me, and departed. She left the door open once again.

  I pointed to the plain chair, and Daniel sat without argument. I dipped a cloth Mrs. Williams had left into the hot water and began to clean his wounds.

  He had a cut in the shape of a cross next to his eye, a deeper gash on his forehead, a lump on his jaw, a cut on the side of his lip, and skin scraped off his left cheek, though the swelling had subsided there a bit. Those were only the injuries I could see. Who knew what bruises he had on his ribs and chest? Daniel’s shirt was closed up to his chin, hiding his torso.

  “I cannot help remarking,” I said as I worked, “that these rooms are suspiciously close to my old boardinghouse. A brief walk through Covent Garden, and there it is.”

  “Not so curious.” Daniel flinched as my cloth dug a bit of pavement out of his cut. “When I was looking for you a few weeks ago, I wandered the streets in this area to see whether you had moved somewhere close by. I saw that Mrs. Williams had rooms to let, and I thought they would suit me.”

  “For a time,” I muttered.

  “Pardon?”

  I cleared my throat. “You seem to move about. Here, there, never long in one place.”

  “True.” Daniel sucked in a breath again as I pulled out a small piece of glass he must have rolled onto. “Those lads truly worked me over, didn’t they?”

  “Why did you provoke them?” I asked, my fears surging. The cloth hovered, dribbling dark blotches onto my skirt. “If you are going to playact, Mr. McAdam, you ought to remember which part you are taking at the moment.”

  Daniel flushed, which made his bruises still more purple. “Right as always, Mrs. H.” Coolness entered his eyes. “The young man who rammed into me—Minty, they called him?—made me lose my temper. You are right that I should have let him go, but I could not resist.”

  “And got beaten down for your trouble.” My fingers continued to shake, water dripping everywhere.

  Daniel closed his hand over mine, his warm and steady. “I beg your pardon, Kat. I never meant to upset you. I am arrogant and forget not to be.”

  He squeezed my hand, his strength undimmed, and his blue eyes met mine.

  Daniel had eyes a woman could look into for long stretches of time. Dark, clear, unfaltering. A dangerous thing was Daniel’s gaze.

  I worked my hand free and pressed the cloth to the cut beside his eye. He let out a hiss of pain.

  “All that over a young man you don’t know and never are likely to,” I said, my voice not quite as firm as I would have liked.

  “Not quite.” Daniel reached into the pocket of his trousers and withdrew a card case.

  The card case was gold and shining, decorated with an inlay of blue and red stones in an oval across its top. Daniel opened it and extracted a thick, ivory-colored card.

  “Lord Frederick Piedmont,” he read. “A stretch to call him Minty, isn’t it? But perhaps it refers to something other than his name.”

  11

  I stood up, aghast. “Good heavens, you picked his pocket?”

  Daniel nodded as though the fact was of no moment. “While he was bashing me about. I thought I’d like to know my assailant, in case I wish to bring him to court. Or other things.”

  “Daniel.”

  Daniel looked up at me, took in my shock, and his expression softened. “He’ll never miss it, Kat. I expect he has dozens.”

  “That is hardly the point. What will you do with it? Take it downstairs to the pawnbrokers? Then this Minty truly will have you up before the magistrate. I do not believe your connections—whoever they are—will help you then.”

  Daniel rose to his feet a bit unsteadily, dropped the card case and card to the table, and took hold of my hands. “You’re a wonderful woman, Kat Holloway. Don’t worry. I will return it anonymously to his father, and our Minty will conclude he dropped it.”

  I let out a breath. Daniel held the wet cloth as well as my hands, but this time I did not pull away. “How do you know who his father is?”

  “Lord Freddy Piedmont—Minty—is the youngest son of the Marquis of Chalminster.” He chuckled. “Chalminster is always in a bother about his sons.”

  I didn’t answer, not quite knowing how to. As a cook working in prominent households, I did know about aristocrats and other well-heeled ladies and gentlemen—you came to remember who was whom, and besides, the newspapers are full of their exploits. But Daniel could pick names out of the air and put them together like no one I had ever known. No matter how many calluses Daniel had on his hands, he understood the genteel world as no deliveryman should.

  But I couldn’t believe Daniel himself was one of them. No highborn gentleman stooped to the manual labor Daniel did, not even for a lark. Daniel performed his tasks well too, uncomplaining, unflagging. I couldn’t imagine Minty, a spoiled, rather cruel young man, lasting all day on a delivery cart, toting things down into the kitchens of his highborn neighbors.

  Daniel seemed to be no one from nowhere. And yet he moved among high classes and low, changing from one to another like a chameleon. Lord Rankin certainly seemed intimidated by hi
m. Daniel lived here, in small, cheap rooms like a working-class man, with a working-class landlady who regarded him with fondness.

  “You told me you had your eye on Lord Rankin,” I said slowly, “and that he was a swindler, but that it was too dangerous for me to know more. But I think I ought to know, if I’m to help you.”

  Daniel raised one of my damp hands, kissed the heel of it, and released me. “I believe I am changing my mind about asking for your assistance. About this part of it, anyway.”

  I made a noise of exasperation. “Well, of course you need me to help. Else you would have found some way by now to remove me from the house, no matter how much I protested. You know this.” I pointed a wet finger at him. “Please tell me, very specifically, why you are watching Lord Rankin.”

  Daniel sighed. The sigh came from the depths of him, a man realizing the woman before him was not the capitulating, malleable creature she was supposed to be. The many articles and books postulating that women are inferior beings and have not evolved as far as men are, in my opinion, written by rather ignorant males. I have concluded that either the writers are unmarried or they have carefully chosen their wives from females of deficient intellect, who will never contradict them.

  Daniel moved past me, closed the door so softly the latch did not click, came to me, and led me to the very center of the room. Away from the windows, chimney, and registers, I realized.

  When he spoke, his voice was very quiet, and I had to step close to hear him.

  “You speculated that Lord Rankin would be ruined for being caught committing fraud,” Daniel began. “But he won’t.” His look turned annoyed. “He’s very clever, is our Lord Rankin. A genius with figures, and we are having great difficulty unraveling his, though I have my best man working on it. But what he has done is make certain some very bad gentlemen have made a great deal of money through him, money they use to commit even more terrible acts. Including ones against Britain.”