A Gentlewoman's Guide to Murder

by Victoria Hamilton

  The other two men arrived together and Sir Henry confronted them. An argument ensued. This all would have taken, at most, half an hour. The potboy at the Farnsworths’ had told Tommy he had heard a scuffle or scream—presumably Claybourne’s final vocal effort before his throat was sliced—and then someone ran away. About this time, one of the watchmen was beaten, and the fellows who had done it were chased across the green but not apprehended. No other alarum was raised, and no one knew about the murder. The other watchman likely thought it was a random act of violence against his colleague, not uncommon, unfortunately, as drunken young gentleman thought it humorous to tip the watchbox over or fight the watchmen, who were too often elderly or infirm.

  The commotion heard by Arnie Biggins, the neighbor potboy, could have been either Ratter or the two other men killing Sir Henry, but Ratter being later murdered suggested that he had known too much—probably, the identity of the two men—and was not the killer himself. Maybe he had even seen the other two at their dreadful task. After the disturbance, it appeared that calmness had fallen upon the small courtyard, and the remaining watchman called the midnight hour. No one ventured out to see what had happened, and Sir Henry’s dead body lay there until the fishboy arrived between five and six the next morning.

  Emmeline had questions: Did no servant lock the doors at night? Or was that the master of the house’s task? What Sir Henry meant to say to Ratter and the two others was not something he would have wanted anyone to overhear, but that didn’t mean no one had. One or both of the Hargreaves had seen the men, and then Arnie had heard them; had no one else? Emmeline sighed and put her head down on her dressing table.

  Gillies entered with the linens that had been returned from the laundress they employed. “Are you well, miss?”

  “I’m weary,” she said, straightening. “Is it too much to ask in this world that children be safe, and that those charged with protecting them actually do their duty? Can we not have a society where humans don’t kill each other?”

  The maid sat down on the bed, her blue eyes filled with sorrow. “I asked the same, miss, about the tairible conditions in the mines in Scotland when my own little lad was killed. The mine owner didnae care one bit about poor William. It’s a sad world.”

  “Will it ever get better?”

  “I wouldnae count on it.” She put away the linens, stacked the newspapers together, and tidied the room.

  All Souls’ service at All Saints church, a commemoration of the faithful departed, was special to Emmeline. She attended in order to repeat the names of all those she had loved and lost: her mama, Emily, and Maria. Gillies, who accompanied her, prayed for her dear departed husband and little William. She prayed too, though, for her children alive, the ones she hadn’t seen for years, and the grandchildren she would never know.

  On the walk back to the townhome, bundled against a sharp November wind, Emmeline discussed with Gillies her thoughts and her timeline, and her conclusion that the two men who had last spoken to Sir Henry were likely both tied up in the child-for-sale scheme and responsible for his murder. “I don’t want to decide based merely on that who killed the man, but it makes sense. So far at least.”

  Gillies was silent for a long moment, then said, “Miss, what d’ye think about all the other poor lasses, the scullery maids brought to London? If we find a way to stop them monsters from buyin’ an’ sellin’ them and maybe even identify the men doing it, where will they go? How’ll they live?”

  “I don’t know.” She told her maid about the girls she had met the previous night. “Their eyes, Gillies … the dead look in their eyes, despite their chatter. I wonder what they were like before the street? It makes me ache with sadness.” She paused at the long wooden rail fence along the Cheyne Walk and looked out over the river at the abundance of boats and skiffs. A ferry headed to the other side, carrying cargo of some sort. The ever-present smell of the river was in her nostrils, along with coal smoke and a sweet smell drifting to her from somewhere. A gust caught her bonnet and she grasped it as it tugged at the pins in her hair.

  “Those two girls have had a far more difficult life than I, yet I feel a kinship with them. You didn’t know me then, but when my mother died, I was adrift. My father and aunt conspired to break me, even more so after … after the incident with the tutor.” It was a tale she seldom told but that Gillies knew of, about a young man who had taken advantage of her innocence and naiveté. And her rebellious spirit, she admitted to herself.

  “Aye, but it’s no’ the same, miss,” Gillies said.

  “I know there’s no comparison.”

  Gillies was silent for a long moment and looked troubled.

  “What is it, Gillies? What’s wrong?”

  She simply shook her head. There was something worrying her, but Emmeline knew her maid by now; it would come out in its time. They continued on home, Gillies silent and Emmeline thoughtful.

  Luncheon was light, and Fidelity cheerful and chatty. That afternoon, Emmeline wrote letters and posted them. Simeon employed male journalists who could snoop and pry and loiter with much less attention paid them, so she posed some questions to him.

  As she sat in the drawing room at a table by the window, writing her dutiful weekly letters to Leopold and Samuel, Birk staggered into the room. “What is it?” Emmeline cried, starting up and spilling her ink across the paper.

  “She’s dead … the poor princess,” Birk groaned, tears welling in his eyes. “Princess Amelia is no more.” He burst into sobs.

  All Souls’ Day, and the youngest daughter of King George, was gone.

  And so, at one in the afternoon on Friday, November 2nd, 1810, the nation was plunged into the dusky world of official mourning. Poor Princess Amelia, beloved daughter of the old king, was the youngest of the Prince of Wales’ siblings. She had been tenderly romanticized by the kingdom despite whispered gossip of a doomed and inappropriate love for the king’s equerry, the Honorable Charles FitzRoy, twenty-one years her senior but beloved by her nonetheless. And now after a long and sporadic range of illnesses, never able to marry her one true love, she had succumbed.

  Emmeline felt a definite sympathy for the woman, who was so close to her own age. And yet, as stifling and restricted as life as a royal princess must be, it was a velvet-lined prison. The death shuffled every story off the front pages of the newspapers that evening and the next morning. All trumpeted the tragic news in detail, including the poor old king’s devastation, the ring Princess Amelia had made for him with a braided hank of her own hair in foreknowledge of her death, and plans for her funeral, which would, in accordance with custom, be attended by the male members of her family only. Women of the genteel class were too fragile, too openly emotional, to attend.

  But they could shop. There were practical considerations, and that included mourning wear for the public. Overnight, drapers had black and gray material, some dyed to suit, arrayed in their shops. Ladies who had ordered a complete colorful wardrobe for the winter—rich crimson and amber, emerald and rose—would now need to return for more somber gowns in dark gray and dull mauve, no gloss, no shine. Emmeline, accompanied by Gillies, went out to order two gowns, one in a sober dark gray, close enough to black for someone so far removed from the royal sphere, and one in a deep, rich mauve. She’d need black ribbons to refurbish hats, and black gloves. Birk was going to a lesser draper to obtain black ribbons for himself, Josephs, and even the horses. Mrs. Bramage would do the same for the maids.

  Emmeline’s choice of draper, the inimitable Harding, Howell & Co.s, at number 89 on Pall Mall, was near her uncle’s home in St. James. Josephs dropped her and Gillies off at the door, and went on to Simeon’s newspaper to find out the latest news. The draper’s was an enormous establishment, a hundred and fifty feet deep, made up of several departments divided by glass partitions. When she and Gillies first entered, they walked through the furrier’s goods—luxurious sable an
d fox—and beautifully made fans. Past the first partition was haberdashery, then lovely trinkets: jewelry, ormolu clocks, and even perfume. The last section was the one she needed, millinery and dressmaking.

  It was crowded with women all looking for mourning dresses. She sighed, but every customer was resigned to a wait. Every lady remaining in London must needs have a mourning gown or two, or three, depending on their social calendar and plans to stay in London or depart for the country, given that public amusements would become thin while official mourning took place.

  “How fortunate are the gentlemen; black gloves, a black hatband, and they are done,” Emmeline murmured. “As ladies we must have a complete wardrobe.”

  Gillies sent her an exasperated look. “Nouw, miss, y’know that isn’t quite right. We could pick over a gown and restyle it. I can dye the gray from last season.”

  “All right, Gillies, I choose to get a new gown or two,” she murmured. “T’will loosen my brother’s purse strings and I can perhaps order some sheet music and books at the same time and he’ll not notice.”

  Gillies snorted. “He’ll notice, miss, and make ye pay in other ways.” She didn’t care for Leopold any more than did her mistress.

  Emmeline watched ladies chatting, ordering fabric, consulting with mantua makers, and gossiping. One lady attracted her notice by her absolute stillness in the feminine whirlwind of the millinery section. “Why, that is Miss Gottschalk,” she said. The lovely blonde sat alone but for a maid, her expression perfectly solemn. On an impulse, Emmeline rose and swiftly threaded through the women who milled about, approaching the lady. She touched her arm and greeted her.

  “How kind of you to speak to me,” she said, accepting Emmeline’s outstretched gloved hand.

  “May I sit with you while we await service?”

  “If you so choose,” Miss Gottschalk said.

  It was not a joyful invitation, but it was enough. Gillies and the young German woman’s maid, also German, managed a stilted conversation apart from their mistresses, while Emmeline did her best to find topics in common. They spoke of clothing, which Miss Gottschalk clearly enjoyed, as well as music and opera, which she knew on a far deeper level than did Emmeline. If she had been able, Miss Gottschalk would have pursued a career as a singer, but of course that was not to be.

  “What do you think of our English customs, Miss Gottschalk?” Emmeline asked after a silence of some few minutes. She was beginning to regret her friendly impulse toward the young woman, who had initiated no topic on her own.

  “I find much peculiar about your country, in particular your people’s unwillingness to speak of certain things in what you call polite society.” She turned her icy gaze upon Emmeline. “Although with you, I see a hint of rebellion.” She smiled faintly and tilted her head to one side. “I like it. I don’t understand why it is verboten to speak of what is truly on everyone’s minds.”

  “Which is?”

  “The murdered man. And what that scandalous writer, the Rogue, said about him. And what the woman, that … what do they call her? Avengeress; what a ridiculous name that is. Anyway, what that woman did and may have done.”

  “What do you mean, may have done?”

  “She may have killed him, yes?” Miss Gottschalk examined Emmeline’s face, frowning. “Why do people say this cannot be? Better he should die like a pig than impose his foul self on children. Most women would feel so.”

  “I find your honesty refreshing.”

  “And that is another thing; why does politesse demand I lie? I have learned to keep my tongue silent, but only because William becomes … how do you say … incensed, if I do not.”

  “In the spirit of such honesty, I must ask; why are you marrying Mr. Wilkins?” Emmeline said. “Pardon me if you love him, but you are so much better than he, in every single way.”

  Miss Gottschalk smiled for the first time and nodded, accepting the point. “I agree. If I cannot give him a disgust of me and make him … what is the phrase? Cry off, that is it. If he does not cry off very soon now, I must refuse to marry him.”

  “He won’t cry off. Pardon me again for asking, but … are you wealthy?”

  Miss Gottschalk nodded. “My family is; not me, of course.”

  “But your marriage settlement will be generous?”

  “Yes. Do you mean he will not cry off because of that?”

  “He seems motivated by money, and given his lack of personal charms, I think you are a better wife than he ever thought he would attract. Pardon my bluntness, but your father sold you too cheaply. With your beauty, wealth, and talent, you could have married a title.”

  “My father has many daughters. I am his least … acquiescent daughter. And his least favorite. He feels fortunate someone will take me, given my charmlessness.”

  Emmeline was astonished at the man’s lack of insight into his daughter’s worth. “Trust me on this, Miss Gottschalk; I feel sure that Mr. Wilkins will not cry off. There is the money, and there is society—men who break engagements are ostracized—and there is your great beauty.”

  She smiled and nodded. No one so beautiful could fail to be aware of it. “My father undervalues beauty because it does not matter to him. My mother is a plain woman, though very good and kind, and he loves her. As I had not found a husband in Germany, Papa came here and brought us, his girls, hoping to find good husbands, leaving my mother home in Germany with the younger children. William met Papa through another brewer, and my father invited him to dinner.” Anger darkened her blue eyes. “He offered for my sister first.” She met Emmeline’s eyes. “Not the next oldest, you understand, who is twenty, nor the next oldest to her, who is seventeen, but my fourteen-year-old sister.”

  Emmeline felt a shiver down her back, and a stillness in her soul. “What brewer was that, who made the introduction?”

  “Sir Henry Claybourne, the one murdered.” Her gaze was steady and solemn.

  Ah, of course! Mr. Wilkins had spoken of knowing Sir Henry the night of her uncle’s dinner party. Emmeline watched the elegant young men buzzing around the drapery department, helping the ladies. They were gradually serving everyone, helping them choose fabric and then ushering them back beyond the curtains for a consultation with their dressmakers. She had a dreadful thought and took a deep breath, then looked squarely at the young German woman. “Miss Gottschalk, is there something that disturbs you about Mr. Wilkins? Some other reason you say you will not marry him if it comes down to it, besides not caring for him?”

  “When he visits, he makes sure that my sister Bertha—the one who is fourteen—is with us. He compliments her. She giggles and blushes and is quite taken with his favor, as she has never been so noticed. He would still prefer her to me.” She gazed steadily at Emmeline. “I did not know him well enough when I agreed to the marriage. If I marry him, how would I ever be able to have Bertha visit my home, stay overnight, if I was always worried about what my husband might do?”

  “You’re right,” Emmeline murmured. Her heart thudding sickly; she remembered Mr. Wilkins leaning heavily on his walking stick and his halting walk, just like one of the two men Sir Henry had spoken to before his murder. So many small coincidences, too many to all be random: Mr. Wilkins knew Sir Henry Claybourne; they belonged to the same club; Wilkins walked with a limp and used a cane; he had an attraction to very young girls.

  And she remembered something else; the silver cap she had found in the courtyard, the one she’d thought was a thimble. Had it come off the bottom of his walking stick, the one with the rough end and silver band but no cap? She shivered, bile rising up in her throat. Sir Jacob would be horrified if he suspected his man of business was involved in the scheme to procure little girls from orphanages. But she had no proof yet that Wilkins was part of it. And given that he and the knight had clearly been friends of a sort, surely Wilkins could not have been one of the killers? But what else would
a murderer do but praise his victim, perhaps even effusively, so as not to be thought guilty?

  Emmeline met Miss Gottschalk’s gaze as a salesman approached. She wanted to be clear. “Are you suggesting …?” She didn’t need to finish the question.

  “It is more that I fear it,” the young woman said, her eyes welling. “God protect me, I don’t know what to do. My father would never believe me. He would say I am imagining things. He would say I read too many novels.”

  Another suspicion arose for Emmeline: could such a man as Wilkins use her uncle’s connections and standing in society to shield him, perhaps even taking advantage of his position as Sir Jacob’s business manager to further his own ends? It was unthinkable, and yet she had thought it, and now that thought would not go away.

  She rose quickly and signaled to Gillies that they were leaving. “I cannot stay; ordering cloth will have to wait until Monday.”

  “Where are you going?” Miss Gottschalk asked.

  She could not tell the young woman all that she feared. “To make inquiries.”

  The clerk came to Miss Gottschalk, so Emmeline escaped without further explanation. But she knew the German woman was watching her leave, a confused Gillies trailing in her wake like a small skiff following a schooner.

  “Where are we goin’ miss?” Gillies asked, bobbing along behind her as they reached the pavement.

  “To my uncle’s.”

  Twenty-Five

  “Can you find Josephs?” Emmeline, distracted, afraid, and panicked, searched the street, her gaze sweeping up and down it.

  “D’ye not remember, miss?” Gillies asked, shielding her mistress from a lad carrying a stack of linens on his shoulder. “You sent him on to visit Mr. Kauffman to lairn the latest, and to see if there is any response to your note. He’s not due for another half hour or more.”