“And since the same person, we believe, killed the others, it follows that the murderer resides in this house, or has frequent access to it,” said Cordingly, drawing the same inevitable conclusion as Agnes. “Is the pistol still there?”
“I have not returned to the cellar since.”
“Then let us send someone to retrieve it.”
Theodore tugged the bell pull. John appeared again almost immediately. “It seems the weapon that went missing from my father’s room is secreted in the basement. Mrs. Meadowes saw it there. She will go with you and show you where it is. Be so kind as to bring it here immediately.”
“Very well, sir.” John shot a look in Agnes’s direction.
Agnes felt cornered. John would report all this to Mr. Matthews, and more questions would inevitably follow. She nodded to the others and, forgetting to make a curtsy, left the room.
Chapter Thirty-seven
AGNES HURRIED ACROSS the empty hall toward the back stairs with John trailing close behind. Neither Philip nor Mr. Matthews was anywhere to be seen, though to judge by the clatter coming from the dining room, one or both were engaged in laying the table.
Glancing through the dimpled panes of the hall window, Agnes observed two men across the street. Mr. Matthews was deep in conversation with Thomas Williams. Mr. Matthews was turned slightly away; he appeared to be listening intently and was nodding his head, while Thomas spoke with adamant gestures.
Most probably, she thought, they were discussing the recovery of the wine cooler. Mr. Matthews always liked to be well informed of events concerning the household. Or perhaps Thomas was asking him to convey a message to her.
“When you’re ready,” said John impatiently.
“Isn’t that Mr. Matthews outside, with Mr. Williams?”
John peered suspiciously through the glass. “What? Where?”
Just then a wagon drawn by a pair of oxen and laden with sacks of coal plodded by, temporarily obstructing her view. The driver whipped them along, but his cracking leather and discordant shout wrought little change in pace. By the time the vehicle had passed, the two figures had gone.
“I see nothing,” said John firmly. “Now, shall we get on?”
They found no sign of Mr. Matthews in the pantry, but he came in a minute later.
“There you are, sir,” said John.
“Why, where else might I have been?” replied Mr. Matthews sharply.
“Mrs. Meadowes fancied she saw you in the road with Mr. Williams.”
“Nonsense,” said Mr. Matthews crossly.
Agnes noticed that the back of his white stockings were splashed with mud.
John nodded. “I told her the very same. And now, sir, may I trouble you for the key to the cellar.”
Mr. Matthews set his lips firm. “Oh, and what for?”
“Mrs. Meadowes believes she saw Mr. Blanchard’s pistol hidden there. She has said as much to Mr. Blanchard and Justice Cordingly, and now they both wish to see it,” said John, exchanging a meaningful look with his master.
“Saw the pistol down there, did you? When was that?”
“The other day, sir. When I came to find you—I chanced to see it.”
“Then why did you not say so at the time?”
“I thought you must already know it was there.” Agnes forced her expression into one of chagrin and deference.
“’Course you did,” muttered John.
“I hope that was all you saw,” said Mr. Matthews darkly.
“Yes sir. I would never pry.”
“Good. You’re a fine cook, but that don’t mean I want ructions below stairs. Now where exactly did you see this gun?”
“There is a niche at the foot of the stairs. It was lying there wrapped in a cloth.”
“Very well, John, I shall accompany her myself.”
And so the butler lit a lantern and led the way slowly down the stairs. Agnes tried to peer over his shoulder at the ledge where she had last spied the pistol. When they reached the bottom, he turned round to face her, his light held aloft. “Now where did you see this weapon?” he demanded with undisguised disbelief.
“It was here, sir.” Agnes pointed to the deep ledge. “Wrapped in a cloth. I only caught sight of the handle.”
Mr. Matthews stretched his lantern toward the recess, illuminating the cobwebs and the flaking whitewash and render. A lumpy bundle appeared in the flickering glow. “There!” said Agnes.
Mr. Matthews reached for the parcel and unwrapped it, letting the cloth fall to the floor. Encrusted with mud and the barrel rusted, it was indeed Nicholas Blanchard’s missing pistol. “Terrible,” he muttered, “the damage that water can do. Even with oil and spirit and pumice I doubt I shall ever get this right again.”
Agnes murmured something noncommittal, but only half heard him. She noticed with a jolt of surprise that the cloth the weapon had been wrapped in was a square of checkered muslin, of the variety Mrs. Tooley preferred for dusters.
Back upstairs, Agnes was preoccupied by questions of who had wrapped the pistol in one of the household dusters, Thomas’s conversation with Mr. Matthews, and the butler’s coyness on account of it. The haricots and mutton were simmering faster than they should. It was only at the sound of spluttering and hissing that she realized. They had nearly cooked dry. Absentmindedly she added more stock and prodded the meat with a wooden skewer. Doris was dawdling in the scullery, pretending to wipe an iron pot with oil when she might have been doing any one of a dozen more useful tasks. The reason for her tardiness was obvious. Philip, wearing a leather apron, his shirtsleeves rolled up on his muscular arms, was standing at the adjacent table, mixing scrapings of beeswax with turpentine, resin, and Indian red to make furniture polish. The pungent smell wafting through the kitchen irritated Agnes as much as the sight of Doris moon-eyed beside him.
“Doris,” she called out impatiently, “would you leave that and come out here this instant. I asked you to wash the leeks, peel the potatoes, and string those cardoons, and they’re all still as dirty as they were when they left market. As for you, Philip—why do you choose to do that in my scullery when the proper place is the butler’s pantry? I can hardly breathe for the stench of it.”
Doris started guiltily. “I was just about to do ’em now, Mrs. Meadowes. Won’t take more’n a couple of minutes.”
“If you do them properly it will.”
“Apologies, ma’am,” said Philip good-humoredly. “No offense intended—I was only keeping this peach company.” He winked at Doris, who turned as red as a rump of beef.
Agnes sighed with exasperation. Philip’s appeal was beyond her comprehension. She went to the barrel of eels in the larder, caught one writhing body firmly just behind the neck, and carried it to the kitchen, where she gave its head a sharp knock on the edge of the table. Usually she performed this operation without feeling squeamish. But today, although she knew that the eel was dead the moment its head struck the table, its spasmodic twitching disturbed her. She breathed in uncomfortably as she swiftly cut round the skin of the neck, pulled away the skin, and removed the innards, the long fins, and bristles running up the back. The dark muscular flesh reminded her of Drake’s decapitated body. Had he twitched in such a manner? Had Rose done so too before her body was encased in its muddy grave? Banish such fancies, she told herself crossly. They help no one and will not let you think clearly. She coiled the cleaned eel round in a shallow fish plate, poured just enough water to cover it, and set it on a hook over the edge of the fire to come slowly to the boil.
“Put the cardoons in a dish with a little red wine, if you will, Doris, and fetch me the livers.” As Agnes looked up she saw Philip with his arm round Doris, gazing down at her upturned face and the swell of her bosom. He was whispering something, then blowing softly downward, much to Doris’s delight. Agnes opened her mouth to scold them, but just then Nancy burst in and caught sight of them. “Gawd sake, Philip,” she screeched. “Don’t you stop at nothing, not even that dog?”<
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Philip’s head jolted up. “Don’t be jealous just ’cos I ain’t with you,” he said evenly. “We had our fun, and it was you what called it a day.”
“That’s a lie,” yelled Nancy as Doris, scarlet and, to judge from her swaying, apparently dizzy with passion, glared angrily and tottered off to the larder. “It was you going off with Rose that done for us.”
“Well, Rose ain’t here now, is she? An’ I’m sure I could find a moment for you.” He advanced toward Nancy and tried to put his arm around her.
“Not bloody likely,” she said, recoiling. “Now I see what type o’ man you is I wouldn’t go with you, not even if you begged me.”
“Is that so?” Philip released her and rubbed his belly. “Then I reckon that’s ’cos you’ve more’n me to worry over now.”
“My worries ain’t none of your affair,” retorted Nancy, her voice shrill.
“And ain’t I glad to know that.”
Just then a shadow appeared in the doorway. “What on earth is this racket?” Mrs. Tooley came in with a couple of neatly starched pillow slips folded over her arm. “Enough, Nancy. Go to your work. And Philip—another word out of you and I shall call Mr. Matthews.” Then, turning to Agnes, “I’ve no notion what started all this, but one thing I do know—my poor head cannot stand it. I feel quite wretched.” Then after a further pause she added, “Is all in order for dinner?”
“Yes, Mrs. Tooley, perfectly so,” Agnes quietly replied, as Doris plonked down the bowl of gleaming livers and the dark reek of blood filled her nostrils.
At a quarter past three, the kitchen was taken up with the final preparations for dinner service. John and Philip disappeared into the butler’s pantry to put on Valencia waistcoats, change into clean white gloves, and brush their coats until the velvet pile stood up like moleskin. Mr. Matthews had decanted a magnum of claret into a pair of crystal jugs. These vessels were only three-quarters full—he had carefully sampled the rest to ascertain its condition, and his cheeks had a matching garnet glow. With studied care, he transported the jugs to the dining room, stood them on the sideboard, then lit the candles with a taper, paying attention not to spill wax onto the damask cloth. “First course up in five minutes, Mrs. Meadowes, if you will,” he ordered on his return.
Agnes added cream and nutmeg and a little lemon juice to the leek potage, but distracted, she let the soup boil and curdle. She added half a pint more cream to it, and ladled the mixture into the tureen. “Scrape me some cheese to finish the cardoons, please, Doris,” she said, while she thrust the salamander into the flames.
Usually she would have warmed the Scotch scallops gently, but today the sauce got too hot and before she knew it, they turned gray and curled at the edges. “Ready here,” she declared, nonchalantly scooping the now overdone scallops into a serving dish and covering it over before Mrs. Tooley came in.
“Salad, Mrs. Meadowes? I don’t see it here.”
With her spoon Agnes pointed to a dish on the dresser. “There, ma’am. I’ll leave Mr. Matthews to dress it at the table, the cruets have already gone up,” she said as she sprinkled Cheshire cheese over the cardoons, took the salamander out of the fire, and pressed it down on the cheese to brown it. Nothing was quite as it should have been, but she finally declared, “First course ready, Mr. Matthews.”
In stately process, John took up the tureen of soup, Philip the eels, Mrs. Tooley the Scotch scallops and salad. Agnes heard Mr. Matthews knock upon the door of the drawing room and distantly announce, “Dinner is served.” Suddenly, she remembered she had left the salamander on the cardoons too long; sure enough, when she lifted it the cheese was charred and hard.
“Just the jelly we’re waiting on now, Mrs. Tooley,” said Agnes several minutes later when the housekeeper returned to ensure the second course was as it should be; she had covered her mistake with chopped parsley.
“Scallops looked a little overdone,” Mrs. Tooley remarked, adjusting her spectacles. She lifted the lid of the cardoons and scrutinized the burned cheese. “That’s not like you, Mrs. Meadowes.”
Agnes flushed. She dipped the copper mold into a basin of water and inverted it onto a plate. The jelly should have emerged shimmering and tremulous, like a miniature castle. But she failed to warm the mold evenly and part of one side broke as it slid away from the mold.
She surveyed the four dishes set ready for serving upstairs, their domed covers gleaming almost as resplendently as Sir Bartholomew Grey’s wine cooler. “Second course ready to go up, Mr. Matthews,” she yelled up the back stairs.
AGNES WIPED HER FOREHEAD against her sleeve and opened the drawer in the kitchen table where she had put the silver box that Elsie had found in Rose Francis’s pocket. She tugged Rose’s ring off her finger (using a smear of lard to ease it) and compared its marks with those on the box. They were almost the same: lion, leopard’s head, the three tiny crosses in a shield, the initials AW in an oval stamped along the inner edge. Only one was different—the letter mark. The box was stamped with a K, while the ring had the letter M. Agnes tried to recall what Thomas had told her. The pair of initials denoted the maker, the lion represented the silver standard, and the leopard’s head showed the piece was made in London. Thus, she deduced, the objects were made by the same maker, but in different years.
But, confusingly, there was a fifth mark on both pieces—a shield impressed with three tiny crosses. She frowned; was there another mark Thomas had explained that she had forgotten? She racked her brains, but remained certain he had mentioned only four. She pulled the label she had retrieved from Harry Drake’s body out of her pocket and turned it over. They were as she remembered—four in a row—a lion, a leopard’s head, a date letter, and the initials NB. What then did the fifth mark on Rose’s silver signify? Agnes knew that she would have to ask Thomas to explain, but if the label were discovered in her possession, it would land her in trouble. She ought to give it to Mr. Matthews or Mrs. Tooley and tell them truthfully where she had found it, but neither alternative seemed safe. If she gave it to Matthews and he or John were somehow embroiled in the murders, he might see her gesture as a threat. If she gave it to Mrs. Tooley she would fly into a state and doubtless tell Mr. Matthews. It would be better all round, she decided, to return the label quietly, so that no one knew where it had come from.
At this hour, with both footmen on duty, it was impossible to venture upstairs and not risk being seen. She resolved to return it to Mr. Matthews’s pantry, where silver was often brought for polishing while the butler was supervising the the men upstairs. Agnes knocked on the pantry door, and when there was no reply, peered cautiously in. Mr. Matthews was sprawled in a chair with his stockinged feet up on the table, snoring loudly; his mouth had lolled open and a trickle of wine had dribbled down his chin. The decanter from dinner stood empty on the table next to him, and beside it an empty glass and a couple of letters. “Mr. Matthews,” said Agnes softly, “may I come in?”
Mindful that Mr. Matthews was a light sleeper and had been known on occasion to start awake and, finding a footman in the midst of some transgression, box his ears, Agnes tiptoed in. She glanced around for somewhere to put the label where it would not be conspicuous. The silver cupboard was the most obvious place, but Mr. Matthews was fastidious about keeping it locked. Agnes saw that the drawers beneath the cupboard had no locks. She slowly pulled open the top one very slowly, one hand on the underside, one on the knob, so as to make as little sound as possible. Despite these precautions, the drawer’s contents rattled as they moved. Mr. Matthews stirred, making a throaty groaning noise, and shifted his hand from his armrest to his groin. Agnes froze. But Mr. Matthews seemed to settle down deeper in sleep, and his breath came more evenly. The drawer was crammed with assorted bric-a-brac: several horn buttons, a tangle of twine, a lump of beeswax, dried pieces of soap wrapped in wax paper, morsels of chalk, a phial of camphor, a coiled and cracked razor strop, and a razor with a broken handle. It was a perfect place to leave the label.
/> She buried it beneath the other contents, then pushed the drawer closed, wincing with every creak and rattle. But Mr. Matthews snored soundly. As she skirted the table, her eyes lingered on the post. The top letter was addressed to Mr. Theodore Blanchard. On a sudden whim, she pushed it to one side to regard the one beneath. The hand was vaguely familiar, large and clearly formed and black. “Miss Rose Francis.” It came to her in a flash—the hand was the same as on the letter Nancy had stolen, the person with whom Rose had her assignation on the night of her death.
Without considering the consequences, Agnes snatched the letter and hurried out of the pantry. Returning to her kitchen table, she prised the wax away from the paper with her sharpest knife.
14 January 1750
My dearest sister,
I was never more surprised than when you did not arrive to meet me. I do not comprehend why you did not at least send me a note to explain your change of heart or circumstance. I can only think that perhaps your engagement is mended, though after all the shilly-shallying I confess I have my doubts it will last. I waited for you all day in Southwark, and next morning, since the passage was booked, was obliged to leave. I write this from Dover, where I await a packet to France. A storm has brewed that makes the crossing impossible. If you change your mind and wish to join me, you may write and tell me so at the address written at the bottom of this letter. I must take up my duties as schoolmaster immediately. Do not fear that you will find it hard to adapt to our new life. Any life must be preferable to the one of servitude that you have been forced to adopt since our father died. Your talents will certainly be better employed in teaching than drudgery.
I am your faithful brother, as ever.
Agnes sat in front of the fire and considered how she had misjudged Rose. She had been escaping romantic entanglement, when Agnes believed that was what propelled her. But to whom had Rose been engaged? Philip? Riley? Some other person of whom she knew nothing?
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