Scandal Above Stairs

by Jennifer Ashley

  The servants ate it with gusto, including Mr. Davis, who waxed eloquent on the lightness of the pastry. True to my word, I put together a basket of the leftovers for Tess to take to her brother if she could find him. As I went out the back door with her, performing my nightly task of handing out food to the beggars, I beckoned to the youth I knew would be hanging about as well.

  “Do you know where your father is?” I asked him.

  James nodded readily. “Want him, Mrs. H.?”

  I considered but gave my head a shake. “Not just now.” I did not want some villain following James and springing upon Daniel and the weakened Mr. Thanos. “Tell the coachman I said you could sleep in the mews tonight. Be on hand if I need you to run to your dad—can you do that?”

  James grinned. “I’m your man, Mrs. H.”

  “Be on your guard,” I warned. “There are villains about.”

  “This is London. Always are. Good night.”

  James swung away and ran off down the street, heading for the mews behind Mount Street where the horses and carriages were housed. He’d be safe there—the head groom and the stable lads knew him and would look after him.

  I returned to the house. Tess came running back a half hour later, with gratitude and an empty basket. She’d told her brother, at my suggestion, to see if he could find a bed with the vicar at Grosvenor Chapel, as Daniel had done. Daniel trusted the vicar, and therefore, I did as well.

  I left the rest of the cleaning up and preparing for the morning in Tess’s charge and took my weary bones to bed.

  I was annoyed with myself for tossing and turning instead of sleeping when I was so exhausted, but too many things knocked at my brain for me to succumb to slumber.

  The garish boxes in Clemmie’s bedroom and the matching one at the pawnbrokers danced through my head, their gaudy colors swirling. I saw again the dead man in the morgue, with his work-worn hands and broken nails, Mr. Varley staring down at me in dark suspicion, and Mr. Pilcher with his huge body and cold eyes. I thought of Sir Evan Godfrey feeding poison to his guests and wife without qualm, and Daniel spiriting Mr. Thanos out of his reach. The fact that Daniel hadn’t taken Mr. Thanos to Southampton Street meant he feared someone who knew exactly where those lodgings were.

  In the small hours, I finally found sleep and woke sandy eyed and groggy. I washed, dressed, went downstairs, and fetched my bowl of dough from the larder, only to find Lady Cynthia waiting for me at the kitchen table.

  She’d obviously returned home some hours ago, for she’d divested herself of her lovely gown and now lounged in trousers, an ivory waistcoat, and a finely tailored black coat. When she saw me, she came to her feet, her face somber.

  “Is Lady Godfrey well?” I asked, fearing what her expression meant.

  Cynthia nodded. “Yes, she’ll pull through. She has the best doctors looking after her, and her mother arrived too. Her mum doesn’t like me much, so I decided to come home. And to tell you the news. Sir Evan took sick in the night, and now he’s dead too.”

  24

  My bowl thumped onto the kitchen table as the breath rushed out of me. “Sir Evan is dead? But I thought . . . We thought . . .”

  “That Evan poisoned Mr. Harmon, his wife, and Mr. Thanos,” Cynthia finished for me. “I still do believe that. Evan must have had a fit of remorse and took a dose himself.”

  I wondered. I wondered very much.

  I dropped into a chair, never mind that Cynthia was still standing. “Perhaps we were wrong and someone else did this dreadful thing,” I said. “I am very glad Daniel has hidden Mr. Thanos away.”

  “Well, it wasn’t Clemmie who killed Evan,” Cynthia said, resuming her seat. “She was insensible most of the night, and I was right beside her. Do you think she’s still in danger?”

  I rested my limp hands on the table. “I do not know. She is rather an innocent bystander in all this. If Lady Godfrey is surrounded by people who will protect her, she’ll likely be all right.”

  “Well, she’s a widow now,” Cynthia said. “Free of her oik of a husband. I know it sounds horrible to say it, but it’s true. As a widow, she’ll have respect, whatever money he provided for her, and the freedom to marry whom she wishes. Being a widow is much better than being a spinster, in my opinion, or even a wife.”

  “One must be a wife before one is a widow,” I reminded her, but I spoke absently, my thoughts elsewhere.

  Sir Evan might not have known there was poison in the powder he gave Mr. Harmon, Clemmie, and Mr. Thanos. When Sir Evan realized what had happened, perhaps the murderer killed him before he could report how the poison had been administered, or perhaps Sir Evan guessed who had dosed the bottle.

  But then, Elgin had told Daniel and me that the powdered mummy had been poisoned, and no one had crept here in the night attempting to kill me. No, I held firm to my belief Sir Evan had deliberately killed Mr. Harmon to rid himself of a man to whom he owed money.

  Still, I glanced uneasily at my bowl of dough, which had sat all night in the larder. It would be easy to poison every bit of food in this house—I did not believe anyone had done such a thing, but the thought put me off wanting my breakfast.

  Poison was sadly easy to obtain. Anyone could go to a chemists and purchase a bottle of arsenic with which to kill vermin. Arsenic was also used in the making of common things like glass, wallpaper, and paint. A thief who knew what he was looking for could take arsenic from a manufacturer, though I would hope they kept such dangerous chemicals under lock and key.

  Sir Evan had been killed—that was a fact. I did not believe for one moment that he’d done it himself in a fit of remorse. He’d known too much, and so the murderer had decided to add one more body to the heap.

  This killer must be stopped.

  “I will have to go to the shops,” I announced abruptly. “The dough is spoiled, and I’ll have to purchase our bread.”

  Cynthia blinked in surprise before her eyes narrowed. “Are you thinking a murderer came in here in the night and sprinkled arsenic everywhere? The front door was fastened like the portal to a fortress. I had to bang on it before anyone opened up. Back door locked today too. I doubt anyone’s been in here.”

  “Even so.” I was already on my feet, heading for the housekeeper’s parlor. “Tell Tess to throw away the dough and wait until I return to begin breakfast. She’ll start her day out after that.”

  “Have someone else tell her,” Cynthia said, slamming herself up. “I’m going with you, wherever you’re off to.”

  Mr. Davis came out of his pantry as I fetched my bonnet and coat and headed for the scullery, Lady Cynthia at my heels. “Going out again, Mrs. Holloway?” he asked in amazement.

  “To the shops,” I called over my shoulder. “Tell Tess to wait for me.”

  “A footman can run to the shops,” Mr. Davis tried to protest.

  Cynthia shouted back at him, “Very important. Just hold breakfast until we return. Do it, Davis.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Davis’s chill deference spoke volumes. I heard him muttering to himself as he closed the door.

  I led Lady Cynthia around to the mews, she striding easily beside me. James was just coming out of the stables, clapping two currycombs together to beat off the dust and horsehair.

  “Mrs. H.,” he said in surprise, then made little bow. “My lady.”

  “Please find your father,” I said without preliminary. “And make bloody certain no one follows you. Tell him to meet me at the pawnbrokers in the Strand. If he argues, explain that I am already off there, so he’d jolly well better come.”

  “Right you are.” James tossed the brushes at another stable lad, touched his cap, and took off at a run.

  “The pawnbrokers where that chap died?” Lady Cynthia asked even as we hurried to the street. “What are you thinking?”

  I wasn’t certain what the thoughts whirling i
n my head meant. I was certain I understood the sequence of events, but I wasn’t certain who the head villain was. I thought I knew, but it was a very bad thought.

  Cynthia whistled sharply for a hansom on Park Street. A cabbie halted, looking askance at Cynthia’s suit and bare head, but he said nothing as we climbed aboard.

  The hansom veered into traffic, and then halted abruptly amid shouts and curses as a slim figure darted from among the horses and wagons and sprang into the cab. She landed next to me in a flurry of skirts, making the vehicle list dreadfully.

  “You ain’t going off and leaving me, Mrs. H.,” Tess said breathlessly. “If you’re hunting murderers, I’m coming with you.”

  “How do you know I’m hunting murderers?” I asked as the hansom moved forward after a snarl from the cabbie.

  “Mr. Davis said you and her ladyship flew out the door and told me not to leave until you came back. Why would you unless you were off to track down villains? Stands to reason. Besides, it’s my day out, and I can go where I please, you said. So I choose to follow you.”

  “Fair enough,” I said, in too much of a hurry to argue.

  The hansom wove its way out of Mayfair and along Piccadilly to Haymarket, and down to Charing Cross and past the railway station to the Strand. I called out for the cabbie to stop when we reached the pawnbrokers, and we climbed out. Lady Cynthia handed the man the fare and a generous tip, and he clopped away, his snarls lessening.

  The door to the pawnbrokers was unlocked, opening easily to my touch. I hesitated, peering into the dim interior, but Lady Cynthia pushed past me and strode inside, every inch an aristocratic lady.

  “Shop!” she bellowed, the standard cry that meant she was ready to be waited on. “Anyone here?”

  No one appeared to be. I entered more cautiously, Tess right behind me, so close she nearly trod on my skirts.

  I made my way immediately to the table where I’d seen the trinket box. It was still there, to my relief. Had the killer not thought anyone would notice it? Or perhaps he’d known it would be too risky to try to return it to Sir Evan’s house.

  “That’s Clemmie’s,” Cynthia said in surprise as I snatched it up.

  “Indeed. A thief trying to make extra money on the side brought it here, and he paid with his life. So did Mr. Harmon, and, I believe, Sir Evan.”

  Tess blinked. “For stealing an ugly old box? That’s a bit hard, ain’t it?”

  Footsteps sounded without, and we all swung around, but it was Daniel. Behind him came Chief Inspector Moss, who I was not as happy to see, but I supposed we’d need the police if I was right.

  James had come as well, though he lingered outside the shop, likely instructed by Daniel to keep watch. I saw James through the window, leaning against the wall near the door, his foot propped behind him as he gazed at the passersby.

  “What do you have there, Mrs. Holloway?” Chief Inspector Moss peered interestedly at what my hands hid.

  I held it out. “A keepsake box. Originally found on Lady Godfrey’s dressing table. It is part of a set.”

  “Ugly, ain’t it?” Tess shook her head. “What the upper classes think is lovely, I don’t understand. Oh, sorry, me lady.”

  “I agree with you, Tess,” Cynthia said without offense. “It’s completely awful—Clemmie has no taste at all. Are you saying a thief grabbed it from her dressing table and decided to sell it at a pawnbrokers? It’s gilded and expensive—I suppose he must have realized its value.”

  Daniel nodded. “A professional thief would.”

  I moved a step closer to Daniel, my worry rising. “How is Mr. Thanos?”

  “Much better,” Daniel said, his relief unmistakable. “He is stubborn, and I believe he’ll mend.”

  I let out a breath. “Thank heavens for that.”

  “Indeed,” Cynthia said. She turned her back and touched her finger to her eyes, as though rubbing dust from them.

  Tess was gazing at the box, still mystified. “Explain it to me, Mrs. H. Why would someone get himself killed for stealing this hideous box?”

  “Perhaps you should give that to me, Mrs. Holloway.” Chief Inspector Moss held out his hand. “Mr. McAdam will tell me all about it at the Yard. This is no place for ladies.”

  He must have been of the opinion that women ought to bury themselves in domestic affairs and not come out of their houses. But this was a domestic affair, I’d realized, one that had run headlong into professional crime.

  I held on to the box. Daniel made no move to take it from me; he merely folded his arms as Chief Inspector Moss lowered his hand, frowning in impatience.

  “As I say,” I began, “the man who was killed here stole this box from Lady Godfrey’s bedchamber. Which raises the question—why was he in the Godfreys’ house at all?”

  “Robbing the place,” Tess said. “He looked a right thug.”

  “Yes, but Lady Godfrey told Lady Cynthia and me that no break-ins had taken place—no broken windows, no forced locks. Therefore, the man must have been invited into the house. But for what reason would such a villainous-looking man be admitted? I wondered until Mrs. Martin—Sir Evan’s cook—told me that Sir Evan had been hiring extra help for things like moving furniture, and doing work in the attic and on a garden shed. All sorts of men hire on as laborers for the cash. What an excellent excuse to have a man on hand to take away the paintings Sir Evan wanted to sell in secret, or to deliver to Sir Evan the antiquities he coveted. While the thief was in the house either coming or going, he sneaked into Lady Godfrey’s room and helped himself to a small item he reasoned probably wouldn’t be missed. He took it to the pawnbrokers, thinking to make himself a few extra bob on the side. His mistake was to bring it to this pawnbrokers.” I sent Daniel a significant look.

  Daniel’s interest rose as I spoke. “Because his coming here would connect stolen antiquities from the British Museum and other collections with Sir Evan Godfrey and his purchase of said antiquities.”

  “Mr. Harmon must have been the go-between,” I went on. “Lady Godfrey told us that Mr. Harmon conducted business transactions for Sir Evan. Mr. Harmon hunted up the antiquities, and Sir Evan paid him. When Sir Evan ran out of money, he gave or sold Mr. Harmon the paintings. I imagine the choicest pieces from archaeological digs are very expensive, especially now that many archeologists are advocating for not taking the items out of their respective countries. That can only make the price of the antiquities rise. More of a risk to smuggle them away—fewer antiquities in England at all.”

  “Well thought,” Daniel said. “The antiquities were brought to this shop by a network of thieves, and then sold from here to shady collectors or men like Mr. Harmon, who had buyers. A neat market.”

  “Stealing to order, as you speculated,” I said. “Mr. Harmon promised collectors like Sir Evan that he could get them specific pieces, and then hired men, like Mr. Varley and the man who died here, to do the thieving. I imagine the former pawnbroker paid the thieves regularly, which is why Mr. Varley was happy to tell Daniel he’d bring in things—he believed Daniel would be his new paymaster. Mr. Harmon would take the things, or have the thieves deliver them to their new homes. Collectors, I’ve observed, can be quite insane for their bits and bobs, and I imagine some didn’t care where the antiquities came from as long as they could have them. Mr. Harmon would have to be careful, as many collectors know one another, to not sell them one another’s things.”

  “Thus, the basement storage at the museum began to be raided,” Daniel said, his eyes gleaming in growing excitement. “Those were pieces no one had seen before, and Mr. Harmon likely told his clients that they were fresh from digs. Setting me up as the pawnbroker was a way to halt the thefts—I’d simply take what I was given to the police.” He paused with a flash of irritation. “I ought to have pretended I was a collector, not the pawnbroker, and nabbed Mr. Harmon when he brought me the stolen things. He
was the biggest villain of all. If I had done so, Mr. Harmon might still be alive, though in gaol, of course.”

  “Yes,” Chief Inspector Moss said darkly. “But not for long. I’d have seen him on the gallows.”

  I shook my head. “I believe it would have been difficult even for you, Daniel, to pretend you were crazed enough to do anything to acquire antiquities. Mr. Harmon likely would have smelled a rat and offered you nothing. In any case, if you had arrested him, he could tell many a tale, such as who he was working for. His life was already forfeit before you even started your investigation.”

  Moss looked puzzled, as did Cynthia and Tess. “Wasn’t Mr. Harmon working for himself?” the chief inspector asked. “If I understand your speculations, Mr. Harmon was the leader of this gang. He killed his thief when the man nearly gave the show away by stealing Lady Godfrey’s box and pawning it in this shop. If Lady Godfrey had reported the theft and the box was found here, the pawnbrokers would be investigated and all might come out.”

  “Hang on,” Lady Cynthia said, frowning. “Why didn’t Mr. Harmon simply take the box back, leave it somewhere in the house so Clemmie would think a maid had moved it, and give his thief a severe ticking off? Bashing in his head was a bit extreme, was it not? And if Mr. Harmon had been the source of the antiquities, I have to revise my opinion that Sir Evan killed him, even if he owed Harmon money. Evan would have found a way to pay to keep his antiquities coming, even if he had to pawn Clemmie’s jewelry. He was that sort.”

  “I think I understand,” Tess said decidedly. “This Mr. Harmon knew too much about everything—rich coves buying stolen antiquities, his hired thief helping himself in Sir Evan’s house, Sir Evan selling off his paintings and pretending they were stolen. Maybe Mr. Harmon was having a fit of conscience and threatened to go to the police. Or was angry at someone else in the gang and threatened to expose him. Or made a blunder when he killed the thief what took the box. Gangs don’t like it when one of their number takes too many risks.”