Once we reached the inn, Daniel returned alone to the station to send off telegrams, leaving the rest of us to settle in, none of us much wanting to speak or to even gather for a meal.
The room I was given was luxurious, at least in my eyes, with a wide bed, a soft carpet, and windows that gave out to the curve of the river. The bridge loomed above the inn, a reminder of why we’d come.
The thing seemed so solid. The iron girders that curved down to the tracks were thick and substantial, the pillars that held it over the river vast. It would take some doing to destroy a bridge like that.
And yet in December of the year before last, the huge Tay Bridge had fallen, crumbling into the water. The blame for that tragedy was proved to be faulty bridge construction, not a deliberate act—speculation was that the bridge simply couldn’t stand against the constant wind that blew through the firth. Still, it proved that even a mighty bridge like the Tay could fall.
The landlady, a woman called Mrs. Rigby, brought me a bit of bread and cheese on a tray, with tea to wash it down. The bread was stale, the cheese a bit leathery, but I ate it, knowing it would be some time before I saw my kitchen again. The tea, on the other hand, was quite nice, and I sipped it as I looked out of the window.
It was very late, and I was exhausted, but I did not yet want to lie down and sleep. I wondered if I waited for Daniel’s return, and why that should be. He would no doubt come in and go to bed without speaking to me, and we’d reconvene in the morning.
Even so, I sat, sipping tea until the pot was empty. The occasional train clacked past on the bridge, freight cars carrying goods, and one passenger train, probably the last of the night, heading into Cornwall.
Otherwise there was quiet darkness, broken only by the trickle of the river and a white glow when the moon sailed from behind torn clouds.
That moonlight showed me a dark figure slipping out of the inn around one o’clock. At first I thought it a man—Daniel?—but I dismissed the idea immediately.
I rose, set my empty teacup aside, and took my coat from the wardrobe where the maid had hung it. I buttoned it as I quietly left my room and went down the stairs, not bothering with my hat.
The inn’s front door was unlocked, and no one came to see what I might be doing as I opened it and crept into the night. The air outside was chill and damp, a rising wind sending clouds up the river from the nearby coast. I pulled my coat closer as I hurried down the tiny lane and out to the shingle that led under the bridge.
The figure ahead of me moved more quickly than I could, boots better for tramping along a riverbed than my city shoes. I stumbled over rocks, my ankles turning, but I managed to keep the person in sight.
I halted when my quarry did; then I watched the silhouette climb onto the base of one of the great pillars that held up the bridge. I moved forward slowly, not wanting to make my presence known, the mud muffling my footsteps.
When I reached the pillar, I saw a flame flare up above my head, making my nerves jump. The flame went out, and a small orange glow took its place, the lit end of a cigar.
“You shouldn’t have followed me, Mrs. H.”
Lady Cynthia stood above me on the pillar’s massive base, leaning back against the tower of stone. A puff on a cigar followed, Lady Cynthia pressing her free hand against the stones to keep her balance.
“Come down from there,” I said sternly. “Before you fall and hurt yourself.”
Cynthia shrugged. “Who would care?” She let the cigar dangle at her side, the glow like a firefly, the acrid scent of smoke swallowed by the tang of the river and a smell of fish. “My sister would adore it if I cleared off and left her alone with Rankin. Rankin wants me in his house, but only so he can keep his eye on me and make sure I don’t do anything too sensational. My parents don’t want me underfoot—they wish I’d been the one to top myself, not my brother.”
I opened my mouth to assure her she was wrong, but sadly, she likely had the right of it. From what I understood, her parents had nearly gone off their heads at the death of her brother, but they’d shoved Cynthia off on her sister and Lord Rankin without remorse.
“Of course we would care,” I said stalwartly. “What about Bobby? She is your great friend, is she not?”
Cynthia groaned. “Bobby.” She sank into a crouch, rubbing her forehead with a shaking hand. “Oh, Mrs. H., I’m afraid, so afraid, that Bobby was the one who killed Sinead.”
20
I stared in astonishment. “Bobby—I mean, Lady Roberta? Why would you believe so? Why should she?”
“I don’t know.” Cynthia raised her head, her eyes bleak in the shadows. “That is why I wanted to go away to Brighton with her—I planned to put her to the question once we got there.”
“A dangerous idea if you are right,” I said, my heart beating faster. “But good heavens, what makes you think she killed Sinead? For what purpose?”
Cynthia heaved a long sigh. “Because Bobby was at the house that night. I slipped her in—with the help of Mrs. Bowen. Rankin, of course, hates Bobby, and I always want to put one over on him. Bobby and I shared a bottle of his best brandy, and she slept on the floor of my bedchamber—she thought it a great lark. I pushed her out in the wee hours, sent her down the back stairs through the servants’ hall and the kitchen.” Cynthia coughed, her voice growing hoarse in the chill. “What if Sinead saw her, perhaps threatened to report to Rankin that she’d been there, demanded a price for her silence? Bobby isn’t worried about what Rankin thinks of her, but she lives in fear that her father will cut her off if she takes her larks too far. As we told you, neither of us have a bean of our own. What if she grew angry at Sinead and . . .” Cynthia’s fears shone in her eyes. “She might not have meant to, but Bobby is strong, and she’s learned to fight like a man. She wants to be a man—never mind the impossibility of that.”
I listened in growing astonishment. “If you are casting Sinead as a blackmailer, you are being fanciful. She seemed a sweet girl. Why should she threaten to tell Lord Rankin of your pranks?”
Cynthia shook her head. “You did not know Sinead long, Mrs. H. She could be quite friendly—and I know she’s innocent of the sorts of terrible things her young man has been doing—but she knew things.” Cynthia stubbed out the cigar, as though already tiring of it. The orange glow died, which made the pale moonlight seem all the colder. “I told you, Sinead lived with my family in Hertfordshire. She was one of the servants Em insisted on bringing with her into her marriage—Mrs. Bowen was the other. Mrs. B. was a sort of under-housekeeper in the Gothic mess my parents live in, and Em insisted she come down to London and work for her. But Sinead—one found oneself imparting secrets in front of her, because you’d forget she was in the room. Next thing you’d know, Sinead was using that knowledge to finagle little favors—time to walk out with her man, someone else to do an unpleasant chore like empty the chamber pots, a few pennies so she could buy ribbons in the village. Nothing she asked was very dire or expensive, so we always capitulated. Sinead never told what she knew—she was good at keeping secrets. But maybe Bobby didn’t understand that, and panicked.”
Cynthia looked miserable. If Bobby had been the culprit . . . Well, she’d likely be arrested for it. A person needs to be held accountable for the harm they do others, whether they meant to do the harm or not.
But I understood what her guilt would mean for Cynthia. Even if Lord Rankin decided to have the fact that Bobby killed Sinead hushed up—and he had the money and position to do such a thing—he would use the incident to make Cynthia’s life even more unbearable than it already was. Lord Rankin was that sort of gentleman.
“It might not have been Lady Roberta at all,” I pointed out; then I made an impatient noise. “Do come down from there. I am getting a crick in my neck talking to you like this.”
Lady Cynthia slowly unfolded her legs and slid from the pillar, landing on her feet beside me. She
overbalanced, and I caught her before she could slip and fall in the mud.
“Thank you,” she said sincerely as I helped her to stand.
A mean-spirited young woman might have snapped at me, a servant, for growing too familiar, or boxed my ears for my impertinence at touching her, but Cynthia only gave me a look of pathetic gratitude.
She let out a breath that steamed in the damp air and turned to face the slowly flowing river. “Do you think it runs in families, Mrs. H.? Suicide?”
I regarded her with a twinge of worry. “I really have no idea. I shouldn’t think so. It’s not like the color of your eyes or shape of your nose.”
“My brother was mad.” Cynthia threw the half-smoked cigar into the river. “Spoiled rotten as well. He gambled, like my father, was up to his ears in debt even when he was in university. He traded on my father’s name to get credit, but after a while even the most loyal creditors refused him. Then he came under the power of that oik, Piedmont. Piedmont had some kind of hold over my brother—I was too young to understand what.”
I drew a sharp breath. “Piedmont? Does he go by the odd nickname of Minty?”
“That’s the chap,” Cynthia said. “I’ve always wanted to turn him upside down and shake him until he tells me what he did to my brother, why he had so much influence over him.”
I wondered as well, very much. Things had been connecting in my head during our journey, and now thoughts danced and spun until they made me dizzy—Minty, the financiers Lord Rankin had been told to spy on, the death of Sinead, the Fenians, Cynthia’s family.
I needed to speak to Daniel.
However, Lady Cynthia was still morose, and I did not want to simply run away and abandon her. “I do not believe it runs in families,” I repeated. “Your brother might have had troubles you know nothing of. If this Minty did do something to upset your brother, you might be able to bring suit against him.”
Lady Cynthia perked up a little at my words. The wind, which had been steadily increasing, ruffled her hair and mine. “Jove—I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll speak to a solicitor, dig up some dirt on the dreadful Minty.” She did a little dance step on the muddy sand, slipped, and righted herself by putting a light hand on my shoulder. “You’re cheering me up no end, Mrs. H.”
“Good. Now let us get indoors. It’s going to rain.” Clouds had built as we’d spoken, and the wind held dampness.
“Right you are.” Cynthia stuck her hands in her pockets, and we started for the inn. I wanted to move quickly, as the stiffening breeze began to slap at us, but Cynthia strolled without haste, seemingly oblivious of the weather.
“That Daniel is an odd duck,” she observed. “What’s he about? If he can dress like a gent, why is he working as a drudge for Rankin?”
“I’m certain he has his reasons.” My retort came out more sharply than I’d meant it to, but I had no answer to the question, and this irritated me.
“He must have something to do with the police,” Cynthia said, not noticing my tone. “No other reason a man would become a menial if he didn’t have to. Oh, no offense, Mrs. H. I don’t think of you as a menial.”
“Thank you,” I said. A cook was not the equivalent of a scullery maid—my mother and then my mentor had taught me that.
My mother had been a charwoman, not even in the employ of a big house. She’d scrubbed her fingers to the bone to see that I had some schooling instead of going straight to the factories and then finagled me a position as a kitchen maid so I could apprentice to a skilled cook. I owed my present good fortune entirely to my mother and to the cook who’d given me such valuable training.
I shuddered to think I’d nearly tossed it all away when a duplicitous man had smiled at me. I was somewhat glad my mother had already passed by the time I’d been drawn into my false marriage, so she hadn’t had to watch me ruin all she’d set up for me. My husband’s departure and Grace’s arrival had at last brought me to my senses.
Rain began coming down in fine needles, and our conversation had to cease. The wind increased—it would be a gale before morning. I hoped the weather would deter the anarchists, though true fanatics might either not be bothered or simply choose another venue for their crimes.
Cynthia gave me a breezy good night as we parted, she in much better spirits. If I’d done nothing else this evening, at least I’d cheered her.
I saw no light under the door of the room Daniel shared with Mr. Thanos. I’d not observed Daniel enter the inn while I’d been sitting up, nor had I spied him returning while Cynthia and I had been out by the bridge. I’d kept a close eye out, even there. I knew Mr. Thanos had already gone to bed, as he’d bade us a formal good night and shut himself into his room when we’d first arrived.
In my chamber once more, I resumed my seat at my window. I remained dressed but wrapped myself in a blanket to stave off the chill. Rain and mist blew along the river, obscuring the far shore and the lights of Plymouth. The bridge became a dark shadow in the night, but its presence could be felt—huge, iron, industrial. Indestructible.
A train rumbled by in the next hour, moving slowly over the bridge, its lanterns pinpoints of light in the rain. Once the train cleared the bridge and slowed into Saltash, I saw a man emerge from the shadows at the bottom of the hill and dart through the front door of the inn.
I untangled myself from my blanket, left my room, and went down to meet him.
Daniel paused at the bottom of the stairs to shake rain from his hatless hair. The inn was dark save for the light a lamp hanging outside the door cast through the transom.
I couldn’t very well scold Daniel and say, Where have you been? I did not feel I had that right, and besides, I didn’t want to wake those upstairs with my shrill demand. I settled for, “Did you send your telegrams?”
“Hours ago,” Daniel answered. “Had a few replies already. I’ll return to the station in the morning for any more.”
“Oh.” My fingers twitched on my skirt. “You’ve been in the telegraph office all this time?”
“Hmm?” Daniel slid his greatcoat off and wiped it down with his hand. “No, I’ve been chatting up the locals . . . in the local.”
I noticed he was a bit unsteady on his feet. Also that he wore his working-man’s clothes, his hair loose and plastered with rain.
“I need to speak to you,” I said in a low voice, sending a furtive glance up the stairs.
Daniel caught my urgency, grasped my arm, and steered me into the empty parlor. He closed the door, towed me to the middle of the room, and lit a lamp on the table there. He’d known exactly where the lamp stood and where to find the box of matches to light it, which meant he’d thoroughly investigated this room already.
I quickly told him about my conversation with Cynthia under the bridge—the fact that Bobby had been in the house the night of Sinead’s death and Cynthia’s speculation that innocent Sinead had been a blackmailer. Daniel listened, interest in his dark eyes.
“We will have to question this Bobby,” he said when I finished. “She might have killed Sinead in a moment of alarm, or she might have simply gone home and is completely innocent. I’d rather know before the police get hold of her—or the newspapers.”
I agreed—journalists would make a meal of two women who liked to dress as gentlemen being together in the night, with a maid found dead in the morning.
When I told Daniel about Cynthia’s speculations about young Lord Minty hounding her brother to his death, a grim light entered his eyes.
“If that is true, I will make him answer for it,” Daniel said with finality. “Lady Cynthia’s brother was half crazed, from what I hear, wild and brash, and fell in with a bad crowd. He caused much grief to that family. Does still.”
“She worries she will turn out be much the same,” I said, unhappy for her. “I think she’d do better if she could get away from her family altogether, Lord Rankin inc
luded. But she’d have to marry to do that, and I’d only feel comfortable if she married a decent man. Someone like Mr. Thanos, perhaps?” I let my inquiry linger.
Daniel’s eyes widened. “Thanos?” He regarded me in amazement for a moment, then looked thoughtful, then shook his head. “I don’t know. Thanos is a good-hearted chap, yes, but he barely lives in this world. Lady Cynthia would have to take him in hand, make certain he ate meals and put on matching shoes, that sort of thing.”
I wasn’t certain the idea was so far-fetched. Perhaps Cynthia would thrive with a man like Mr. Thanos to look after, a kind person who cherished her presence. It is always good to feel needed.
“What did you learn from the local men?” I asked, setting aside my matchmaking for now.
Daniel made a noise of exasperation. “That the fishermen of this village do not like outsiders. Including me. Even after standing a few rounds, which loosened tongues the slightest bit, I did not hear of any hordes of Fenians descending on the area or of anyone hanging about with an interest in the bridge. It’s been rather quiet, the natives say. That might be true, or they might have closed ranks against me.”
“Very likely they did,” I said. “It ought to be me going about asking questions, you know. I wager I could find out a great deal, without having to buy a pint.”
Daniel shook his head. “This is dangerous. Even aside from the threat of Fenians, the fishermen around here are hardened and tough. I don’t want you near them.”
“Not them, ridiculous man. The servants. The cooks and maids and chars in these houses learn everything that goes on in a town and will tell another servant. Those in service know far more than any journalist or policeman is ever likely to, still more than the gentlemen who sit in Parliament all day and believe they run the empire.”
Death Below Stairs Page 21
