One of the constables came forward with some articles they’d already uncovered, either in the house or buried in the garden, and Gage flicked through these with a single finger before nodding that they be taken away. They also brought forth a few metal instruments and a rope tied in a noose that I assumed they thought might be murder weapons.
There was loud discussion among the spectators about these objects, and I studied their faces, looking for familiar features or some sign of restlessness or uneasiness. Something that might indicate they were of a similar profession. But most of those gathered appeared angry, and who could blame them. Not when their neighbors might have committed murder right under their noses.
It wasn’t long before Gage and Anderley returned to the carriage, directing our coachman to drive on. “Thomas has this well enough in hand, and I trust he won’t miss anything now that I’ve pointed out where to search,” Gage muttered dryly.
“I take it he wasn’t best pleased to have you inserting yourself into his investigation,” I surmised from both men’s annoyed expressions.
“If Corder hadn’t been there, he would have turned us away with a flea in our ears. Even then, only invoking Lord Melbourne’s name convinced him to cooperate.” He shook his head. “He’s not a bad officer, all in all, but he speaks before thinking, and his eagerness and moral certainty outstrip his logic and practical knowledge.”
We rode on in silence for several minutes, but then I noticed the carriage taking a different route home. I glanced at Gage in question.
“We’re stopping in Holborn on our way back to Mayfair. Anderley needs to speak with a contact of his there. He received some information that might lead us to the boy’s identity.”
“What of the exhumation?” I asked in confusion. “I thought a man from Birmingham was coming to confirm the identity of the boy.”
“Perhaps. But Anderley and I are not convinced it will be the right one.”
Anderley’s expression was black. “The authorities don’t care as long as they have a name to put to the boy. One that will not later be proved wrong.”
I couldn’t help but note the distress tightening his brow. The identity of the boy mattered to him, and it mattered to him to get it right. But it was more than just thoroughness, or an innate sense of nobility, that drove his interest. This was personal to him somehow.
I offered him a smile of empathy and then turned aside, knowing he would find it uncomfortable for me to continue staring at him. Out of the corner of my eye, I could tell some silent communication passed between him and Gage, but I ignored it, instead focusing on the city as it rolled by.
The homes in this northern section of the city surrounding Old Street were better kept and wider spaced, if not exactly desirable. At the Charter House we veered north, traveling by lesser roads, and then west through Clerkenwell Green before entering Holborn. This respectable neighborhood was populated by mixed levels of society and contained several smaller districts of certain professions or ethnic groups. As such, I was not surprised when Anderley explained that the area comprising such lanes as Saffron Hill, Vine Street, and Bleeding Heart Yard was called “Little Italy” because it was filled with Italian immigrants.
However, I was startled to hear him call out the window in Italian at a passerby as he rapped on the carriage wall, telling the coachman to stop. He leaped out of the conveyance and trotted over to two dark-haired men, launching into rapid speech in the foreign language, complete with expressive hand gestures. Such was the transformation that, had I not known he was my husband’s valet, I should have mistaken him for another immigrant.
Having leaned out to order the coachman to circle the area, Gage perceived my astonishment as he returned to his seat. “I didn’t tell you this before, because it was Anderley’s story to tell, but he’s given me permission to explain.” His eyes searched mine. “He was once an Italian Boy.”
My eyes widened. “Like the image boys we see on the street and the lads who exhibit animals and such? Like the boy the burkers killed?”
He nodded. “His parents were impoverished when Napoleon invaded northern Italy, and even afterward they couldn’t recoup their losses. So they sold their son’s services to a man they call a padrone, who agrees to take the boy under his wing in a sort of beggar’s apprenticeship and teach him a skill. In Anderley’s case, his parents were told he would be wandering the world as part of a theater company. His mother had been a gifted soprano before her marriage, so theater was in his blood.”
“But that wasn’t the case, was it?” I asked, having already guessed this was going to take an unpleasant turn.
Gage’s face was averted, staring out the window, but I could hear the fury in his voice. “These padroni do not bring the boys here to teach them a trade. They treat them like little more than slaves. Sending them into the streets to display their busts and boîtes à curiosité, or exhibit small animals. All of which they own and force the boys to rent.”
“But isn’t that illegal?” I gasped. “Aren’t they essentially procuring children to beg for alms?”
“Yes, but they escape exposure by using threats and manipulation. Beatings if they must. They tell the boys to lie and claim their padrone is their uncle or older brother, or there will be dire consequences.” His voice lowered. “There are entire houses in this neighborhood which are owned by the padroni and filled to the rafters with Italian Boys.”
My eyes lifted to the window, wondering which of these inconspicuous homes hid those poor, lost children. They’d been taken from their loved ones, sold for a lie, and forced into servitude for men who were supposed to care for them and give them hope for the future.
“And Anderley was one of those boys,” I stated solemnly.
“For a time. Until he ran away. To Cambridge.”
I looked up, meeting Gage’s gaze.
He nodded. “I met him six weeks after my mother died. Two weeks after I’d discovered her maid had murdered her.” The tiny lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled in remembered pain. “I was reckless, too consumed by grief to care. Or pay attention to my surroundings.” His voice lowered in chagrin. “One night, I was set upon by footpads. They overpowered me and were proceeding to beat me when Anderley interfered. He drove them off and helped me back to my lodgings.” He paused. “He’s been tending to me ever since. First as more of an errand boy, but then as my valet.” His lips quirked. “He’s a quick learner. Picked up the basic skills from one of my friend’s manservants. And he was soon imitating him with amazing precision.”
“I never even suspected he was Italian,” I admitted. “Well, not until a few days ago when I started to fit some of the pieces together. But I’d only wondered if he might be part Italian.”
“He has a remarkable facility with languages and accents. Some of it learned from his mother, while the rest appears to be innate ability. Believe me, it’s come in handy more than once.”
A thought suddenly occurred to me. “How old is Anderley?” I frowned. “If that’s really his name?”
“He was fifteen when I met him. Not as young as I assume you were contemplating. So he’s currently thirty-one. As for his given name, that’s Andrea Landi.”
“When did he tell you all of this?”
“Years ago. At first he was reluctant to speak of his past, for obvious reasons. He feared I might dismiss him or turn him over to his padrone or even the authorities. But little by little, as he began to trust me, the truth emerged.” He lifted a hand to rub the corner of the window curtain between his fingers. “He was loyal, and in my world, such absolute devotion was rare.”
Knowing the pains of his past, this did not surprise me, but it still made my chest ache.
“I think we both found in each other something the other needed.”
Which explained their unique relationship—their easy comradeship, the solidarity in which they inte
rrogated a witness or pursued a suspect. It also explained why Anderley had been hesitant to accept me.
“What of his family?” I murmured. “Are they aware of what happened to him?”
“Not the whole truth. He doesn’t want them to know that. But they write to each other. And he visited them once, while we were on my Grand Tour of the continent after I finished at the university. We tracked them down near Florence.”
I reached for his hand, studying the long fingers and strong knuckles. “So this inquiry is personal for him. He knows these Italian Boys, knows how they live, knows their pain.” I looked up into his troubled gaze. “And he knows how easy it is for one to disappear and never be missed.”
“Precisely. In many ways, the Italian Boys are the perfect prey for men like these burkers. If the porter at King’s College hadn’t noticed anything suspicious about the body, their crime would have gone undetected. The body would have been dissected and buried in a pauper’s grave. No one would have known nor cared what happened to him until it was far too late.”
It was a chilling thought. One that instinctively made me want to shrink away from it in horror, but also scream at the injustice of a society that allowed such things to happen.
“Perhaps the only good that has come out of this is that London has suddenly taken an acute interest in the Italian Boys. They’re watched over with an almost sentimental protection. Now, if only that would extend to an interest in where they sleep at night and who is supposed to be caring for them.” His eyes glinted with cynicism. “The padroni have been on their best behavior, and several of them are assisting the police, trying to win favor, or at least convince them to continue to turn a blind eye to their activities.”
“They know?”
“Some of them do.”
The carriage veered to the side and slowed. Gage reached out to open the door, and Anderley vaulted back inside without the use of the step.
“Any luck?” Gage asked.
He shook his head. “Though word is that Paragalli is determined to give him a name, one way or another.”
I recognized the name as belonging to one of the people who had come forward to view the boy’s body the day after the bodysnatchers were arrested. “Is he a padrone?”
Anderley glanced from me to Gage and then back again, as if confirming I’d been told all. “No. He and his wife are street musicians. But they associate closely with the padroni.” His eyes narrowed. “Their hands are not clean.”
“I anticipate Minshull will convene a special hearing at Bow Street on Monday,” Gage told Anderley. “We should plan to be there.”
He nodded decisively.
We traveled on in silence. I wanted to say something to Anderley, to convey to him my sympathy for what he’d been through, for what this inquest must be forcing him to relive, but I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t want to discomfit him in any way, but I also couldn’t remain quiet and let him believe I thought less of him. However, he was also a male servant. I couldn’t precisely embrace him.
He sat stiffly across from us until we reached Chapel Street, where he descended first, waiting to assist. Fortunately, Gage must have understood my dilemma, for he moved away, allowing his valet to help me down from the carriage. Rather than relinquish his hand, I squeezed it, forcing him to meet my gaze.
“Thank you, Anderley. We’re lucky to have you,” I told him earnestly in a low voice, so as to not draw the attention of the footman.
His dark eyes blinked several times, and then he nodded.
I released his hand and turned away, relieved to have found a way to express myself, and relieved that Anderley seemed to comprehend. In fact, I felt an even greater fondness for the man than I ever had before.
I passed into the house, where Jeffers waited to accept my outer garments. Gage already stood several steps away, next to the entry table where Jeffers laid any correspondence that arrived for us while we were away. While untying and removing my bonnet, I watched as he broke open the seal on a letter and read the contents.
His shoulders slumped. “David Newbury has died.”
I felt a jolt of disbelief at the news, even having anticipated it. Sadness welled in my chest at the loss of the amiable young man, at the pain his family must be enduring.
“He never regained consciousness,” Gage added as a forlorn afterthought.
So we had no new information to help us uncover a connection between him and Feckenham, and no idea why Newbury had been murdered. Unless, as Gage suggested, Feckenham’s killer had been trying to throw us off his scent. But that was such a coldhearted, extreme measure, that I preferred to exhaust any other possibilities first.
And so, it seemed, did Gage.
“I must speak to Lord Newbury, and then I’m going to White’s. Perhaps someone at the club will be aware of something we haven’t thought of.”
I nodded, knowing that privately Gage preferred Brooks’s to White’s—Brooks’s being the bastion of the Whigs and White’s the Tories. But like his father, he was one of the few men who managed to maintain membership at both elite clubs. Mainly because he kept his politics to himself, regardless of what he believed. Such dual membership had been invaluable to his past inquiries and might prove so in this instance as well.
“I may dine there as well, so don’t hold dinner for me.” He pressed a kiss to my temple, gathered his things, and was gone.
I stood gazing after him, feeling slightly at loose ends.
“Tea, my lady?” Jeffers inquired.
“Yes, please.” He turned to depart, but I stopped him, having had a sudden notion. “In the study.”
“Very good, my lady.”
The room was chill when I entered it, but I knew Jeffers would remedy that once he returned. I crossed to the bookcase and ran my fingers along the spines until I came to the title I was searching for. Setting the book on Gage’s desk, I gathered pencil and paper and cracked open Debrett’s Peerage. If all we had to work with was the fact that Feckenham and Newbury were heirs to a noble title, then perhaps they weren’t the only young gentlemen of such a position at risk.
Though compiling such a list would be somewhat tedious, I didn’t have any better theories to pursue. If nothing else, maybe searching through the titles of the peerage would give me a better one.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Sunday dawned cold and rainy, and we spent a soggy few hours traveling to morning services and back. I’d hoped worship might lift my spirits, but given all the darting glances and tight-mouthed glares I’d received from fellow parishioners, any solace I might have taken from the liturgy was dashed. By the time Gage and I had settled before the fire in the morning room to dry ourselves, we were both in decidedly unpleasant frames of mind.
His foray to White’s had proven unproductive. The only new development he’d returned with was a massive headache from hours of listening to Tories complain about the Whigs’ continued support of the Reform Bill, and the ineffectiveness of the New Police, despite the fact the Police Act had been a measure that had passed under Tory leadership. In order to cope, he’d drunk more spirits than he was usually wont to do, which had resulted in crapulence and a sour temperament this morning.
For my part, I’d retired early after hours spent poring over Debrett’s. I’d created a sizable list of young heirs—those who were older than children but had not yet reached an advanced age. In truth, I didn’t know what additional criteria the killer had used if their status as heirs was all that connected the victims. Did they need to be heirs apparent—the eldest living son or the grandson of the deceased eldest son of the current titleholder? Or could they be heirs presumptive—a person who was first in line to inherit a title but could be displaced by the birth of a more direct heir? Did they need to be bachelors, or could they be married with or without an heir of their own? With only two victims to compare, it was difficult to
decide what was applicable and what was not.
In any case, at that moment neither of us wished to discuss the inquiry. So I sat with my feet up, sketching my ideas for the nursery at our townhouse in Edinburgh while Gage lounged in the chair across from me with a book open in his lap. Truth be told, he was spending more time staring into the flames flickering in the fireplace than reading, but I wasn’t going to point that out.
There was a rap on the door, and I called out for the person to enter, thinking it was Jeffers with some word about the midday meal. When I glanced up to see Bree enter, her dress still damp at the hem and her normally bouncy curls flat and listless, I lowered my feet to sit upright. “Bree, come closer to the fire before you catch the ague,” I beckoned, concerned by the agitated look in her eyes and the tight line of her mouth. “Don’t tell me you walked all the way from Mass?”
Four months earlier, I’d learned my maid was Roman Catholic, and while she typically attended church with me, Gage, and the rest of the servants while in the country, here in London she more readily had the option of attending Mass.
“I dinna mind a walk in the rain.” She glowered. “Least no’ when I’m no’ bein’ followed.”
Gage looked up at this.
“You were followed?” I asked.
“Aye. ’Twas the same man who followed me back from Mount Street yesterday.”
“Bree,” I gasped. “You didn’t tell me that.”
I knew she had talked with the gardeners at 108 Mount Street the day before, for she’d reported they had nothing to tell. However, she hadn’t mentioned being trailed.
She shrugged. “I couldna be sure. And I dinna want to worry ye.”
Gage’s brow lowered in displeasure. “This is dangerous work we undertake sometimes, Miss McEvoy. It would have been for me to decide whether such an occurrence was cause for concern or not. Do not keep such information from us again. Is that clear?”
An Artless Demise Page 24
