“You know what they’ve done?” I asked.
“They had a little holiday, didn’t they? Sure enough got tangled up with Scotland Yard at the end, but it was a holiday, too. What makes you so interested? They take some of your fine jewels?”
“Do not speak to my wife in that tone,” Colin said. “We’re here on Crown business. You’ll have enough trouble coming your way without standing in the way of my purpose.”
“I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing,” Mr. Majors said. “I’m running a fine establishment here. You seen a workhouse lately?”
Colin didn’t reply, but glared at the man, who scurried along, leading us to a room directly above the one in which his employees made the matches. It was identical in size and shape, but instead of vats over fires and rows of dipping slabs, here were miserable little piles of bedding, laundry hanging from lines strung from wall to wall, and wobbly tables covered with the remains of what must have been a deeply unsatisfying luncheon.
“This is where they live?” I asked, searching the space for Dobson and Florence.
“They’re right there,” Mr. Majors said, motioning to two huddled figures in a corner. “Only useless toe rags not working.” He crossed over to them and poked Dobson with his stick. “Back to work.” His voice was loud although he knew the man couldn’t hear him. “Now!”
The pair stood up, shirked when they saw us, and scuttled to the stairs.
“I don’t like what you’re doing here,” Colin said. “You’re exploiting these people.”
“I keep saying—”
“I don’t want to hear about the workhouse,” Colin said, taking Mr. Majors firmly by the lapels. “You’ll be hearing from me.”
He pushed the round little man against the wall, took me firmly by the arm, and steered me back into the street.
“You’re never coming here again,” he said.
* * *
Agitation and despair had consumed me by the time we’d exited the building. We started to walk, both of us filled with rage at what Mr. Majors was doing. What had seemed an endless trek on the way there passed almost too quickly on our return. We’d reached the steps of St. Paul’s and I still hadn’t calmed down enough to speak. Though the day was warm, my teeth were chattering, so upset was I. How could anyone live in such conditions? How had I lived so long without being aware of how bad life could be? I pulled Colin into the church, needing an infusion of peace and beauty. We sat in silence close to the altar for three quarters of an hour, each of us mired in the darkness of what we’d seen. What could one do in such circumstances other than pray?
Take notes, apparently. Colin was scribbling furiously in his book.
“Ready to go home?” he asked, placing a tender hand on my arm. “I need to find out more about Mr. Majors’s factory.”
“Of course,” I said, but didn’t rise to my feet. “We have to do something, Colin. We can’t let those poor people stay there. It’s … it’s … I don’t care what it entails. I don’t care if we have to take them into our home. Now that I’ve seen them, I cannot go on as if my world is the same as it was yesterday.”
“I understand, Emily. But there’s only so much we can do. Countless people live in similar conditions.”
“How can you live, knowing that and doing nothing?” I asked.
He kept his eyes steady on mine. I remembered how, when we first met, this had unnerved me. Now I found it soothing. “I work to make the world more just. You’re doing that now, too.”
“But it’s not helping those people.”
“Change comes slowly,” he said. “Especially when it comes to social justice.”
“There must be more we can do,” I said. “We have so much money.”
“What would you like to do?”
“Can’t we fund a home for them? Something that delivers on the promises Mr. Majors made to those families?”
“We can,” he said. “But it will make a very small dent in the problem.”
“It’s better than no dent at all,” I said. “I want to do something concrete that will make an immediate difference in their lives.”
“I’ll help you arrange it,” he said, squeezing my hand. “I love you, Emily. And I love your compassion.”
15
Colin headed straight for Scotland Yard after dropping me home. I retired to the library, pulled down my copy of Mary Elizabeth Braddon’s The Venetians, and tried to settle in for a good read. Davis had opened the French doors in the back of the room, and the delicious breeze coming through them drew me to a chair with a beautiful view of our garden. It was a relief to have a break from the oppressive heat of the past weeks, but I couldn’t escape a pang of guilt for enjoying these pleasant surroundings when I knew how those in the East End were living. I rang for a cup of tea and, after a few false starts, lost myself in our heroine’s adventures.
So absorbed was I that I did not hear Davis enter the room. Nor, so he tells me, did I stir when he spoke. Nor when he stood two feet in front of me. It was only when he shook my shoulder that I looked up, still half in the dreamy world of reading, and saw him before me.
“Mr. Dalton has sent an urgent message for Mr. Hargreaves, madam. His man is waiting for your reply, which I told him is all he can have at the moment as the master is not at home.”
I tore open the linen envelope and read: Cordelia is gone. Please come at once.
I slammed shut the book and rushed to the Daltons’ waiting carriage. Their house was in an uproar. A parlor maid answered the door and moaned that she didn’t know where Mr. Dalton was. The valet who’d summoned me berated her for her lack of decorum. I left them to argue and began to look for the family in the first-floor drawing rooms. Eventually, the butler found me—or I found him—and directed me to his master’s study, where Cordelia’s parents had sequestered themselves.
Her mother, wearing black in deference to her daughter’s mourning, sat stick-straight on an overstuffed chair, her eyes red and swollen. Mr. Dalton had his back to her as he looked out the window.
“Where is Mr. Hargreaves?” Mrs. Dalton asked, her voice strained to the point of breaking.
“I’m afraid he’s away,” I said. “But I can help you.”
“I don’t think so,” Mrs. Dalton said. “How would you begin to know what to do?”
“First tell me what’s happened,” I said. “Then I’ll be able to tell you if I do know what to do. And I promise if I don’t, I’ll tell you that, too.”
“She did save Robert Brandon,” Mr. Dalton said. “I’m not inclined to dismiss her.”
Part of the reason—perhaps the only reason—Robert allowed me to corrupt Ivy was the role I played in freeing him from an erroneous murder charge. He’d been accused of shooting his mentor, a man hated by nearly everyone in the empire. While he’d languished in Newgate, refusing to let his wife visit him, I’d traveled to Vienna in pursuit of clues I thought would lead me to the true killer. The crime proved at once more simple and more complicated than it looked, but in the end, my work led to his exoneration and release from prison.
Mr. Dalton’s wife flung her hands into the air. “Who am I to argue? And what would be the point? You’d only do what you want, anyway.”
Mr. Dalton did not respond to her outburst. “As you know, we’ve been keeping a close eye on Cordelia. We were vigilant before, but even more so once we knew about these letters she’d kept hidden from us. We’ve read every piece of mail that’s come for her, and have monitored all her visitors.”
“Not that she’s received many callers,” her mother said. “It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“Of course,” I said. Heaven forbid the girl receive the comfort of too many friends after having suffered such a brutal loss. “Did she leave the house today?”
“No,” her father said. “We’ve forced her to stay on the property. It seemed the safest course of action.”
“No doubt it was,” I said. “When did you notice she was missing?”
Mrs. Dalton interrupted her husband. “She was in better spirits than she’d been in so long.”
“Had anything happened that might have explained the change in mood?” I asked.
“Her outlook improved after your husband captured those vagrants in the park. She said it gave her hope she’d see justice for her fiancé,” Mr. Dalton said.
“Was there anything else?”
“Not of which I’m aware,” he said. “Am I missing anything?” He turned to his wife.
“No,” she said. “There’s nothing else.”
“Did you see her after breakfast?” I asked.
“She retired to her room for the better part of an hour, and then returned downstairs,” Mrs. Dalton said. “We were both answering correspondence in my sitting room.”
“Do you know to whom she was writing?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said.
“Have the letters gone out?” I asked.
“Yes. I had several items that needed urgent sending. One of the footmen saw to it.”
“I’ll need to talk to him,” I said. “What did she do after she finished her notes?”
“I’m afraid I’m not entirely sure,” her mother said. “I should have been keeping better track.”
“Were any of the servants watching her?” I asked.
“No,” Mr. Dalton said. “We have someone outside her door all night, but I didn’t think she’d be in such danger in the middle of the day.”
“It’s possible that she left of her own volition,” I said. “And entirely reasonable for you to have been more concerned at night.” This worried father didn’t need cause to take more blame on himself.
“I saw her on the stairs around one o’clock,” he said. “She had a book and a parasol. I assumed she was going into the garden to read. It’s walled, though, so I didn’t think it would prove problematic.”
“One of the gardeners saw her soon thereafter,” Mrs. Dalton said. “My husband’s assumption was correct. She was sitting under a tree, reading.”
“And after that?” I asked.
“I’m afraid we know nothing further.” Mr. Dalton’s voice choked. “Perhaps Mr. Hargreaves was right. We should have taken her abroad.”
“There’s no point considering what might have happened,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “It’s entirely possible the same thing would have occurred somewhere else. All that matters now is trying to find her. Have Scotland Yard been here and left already?”
“No,” Mr. Dalton said. “We have not contacted them.”
“You must—at once,” I said.
“I’m afraid we can’t.” He handed me a sheet of paper. “This was underneath Cordelia’s book.”
Should you desire to ever see your daughter again, leave the police out of it. I shall contact you when I’m ready to converse.
“But you did try to contact my husband,” I said.
“Mr. Hargreaves is not technically police,” he said. “I’ve not disobeyed this villain.”
This was correct, but I was more interested in the fact that the letter-writer had not mentioned us specifically—not due to an overblown sense of ego, but because he must have learned of our interference with his cronies in the park.
“Scotland Yard are already watching the house,” I said.
“I shall send them away at once.”
“We need their help, Mr. Dalton, and their resources,” I said.
“I can’t risk any more harm coming to Cordelia.”
“What if I were to go to them and seek advice? Quietly. You wouldn’t be involved.”
“I forbid it.” He was becoming angry, and I did not want to alienate him.
“I will of course respect your wishes,” I said. “Let us put our heads together and see what else we can learn here. Could you please show me where Cordelia was sitting in the garden?”
“Yes,” Mr. Dalton said. “And I shall fetch the gardener as well.”
“Thank you. Would you object to my sending a note to Park Lane? I would like Colin to join us as soon as he returns.”
“I would appreciate that, Lady Emily. Forgive me if I’m—”
I stepped closer to him and touched his arm. “There’s nothing to forgive. You’ve been through too much already today. I promise you I shall do everything I can to help you.”
I followed him, my hand firm on his wife’s arm to keep her steady, into the garden. On any other day, it would have been a blissfully idyllic setting. The flower beds overflowed with fragrant blooms and tall trees created pockets of shade from the bright sun. The sounds of the street couldn’t penetrate the thick walls—all I could hear were the cheerful songs of birds. We followed the neat gravel path until we reached a gleaming white wrought-iron chair. Next to it stood a small, round matching table on which rested the book Cordelia had been reading, The Heavenly Twins by Sarah Grand, one of the so-called New Woman novelists.
My surprise at the title must have registered on my face. I’d not read it, and silently scolded myself for the oversight, but had heard much talk about the story of three ladies and their marriages. While that might sound tame and appropriate, it was anything but. Sarah Grand used her writing to attack the double standards in society, particularly those regarding men’s romantic relationships before marriage.
“We have never tried to control what she reads,” Mrs. Dalton said. “And Mr. Dillman was a very forward-thinking man, you know. He encouraged her.”
I liked the deceased man better and better, and wanted more than ever to see his murderer punished. “May I?” I asked, motioning to the book. She nodded. I picked it up and leafed through the pages. No note, no envelope, no scribblings in the margins or on the end papers.
My heart broke a little at the rest of what was on the table. A half-empty glass of lemonade, once cold, water that had condensed pooled around its base, and a plate covered with the crumbs of what must have been lovely biscuits. One could almost imagine Cordelia would reappear at any moment, that she’d gone for a wander and fallen asleep in a shady corner where no one had thought to look.
But I knew that to be nothing more than a wish. Trying to gather control of the overwhelming emotions bubbling inside me, I asked to speak to the gardener.
He was a pleasant man, eager to be helpful. Unfortunately, however, he’d been working in another section altogether and had seen or heard nothing. He suggested it wouldn’t be difficult to scale the walls, pointing out to me the bricks, which had been laid in a manner that made them potential, if not easy, footholds. I thanked him, and wondered silently how a girl in a corset and heavy skirts could have made her way over the top.
I walked the rest of the garden alone, insisting the Daltons go sit inside, wanting to be able to focus on spotting clues. A shred of black cloth clung to the thorns of a tall rosebush, and while it might have been from Cordelia’s dress, it wasn’t much of a discovery. It could have been her mother’s, could have come off a different day, and regardless, was a mere four feet from the table and chair. It offered no suggestion as to what might have happened.
I returned inside, where I carefully examined Cordelia’s room and spoke to the rest of the servants in the house. My best hope was the footman who’d dealt with the post, but he’d taken no notice of the addresses on the letters. No one else knew anything. It was as if the girl had vanished by magic. Which suggested to me only one thing: she’d gone willingly. No doubt because her attacker had convinced her he would harm her mother if she didn’t.
Rage burned inside me. I despised this person for what he’d made Cordelia suffer, and was infuriated he was still free, pursuing his twisted agenda. I returned to the garden and paced, trying to eliminate my nervous energy so I could adopt an appearance of calm before I went to the sitting room where the Daltons were waiting for me. I had nothing useful to tell them, and hated the feeling of being so helpless. The desire to act in a bold and swift manner consumed me—ever
y hour that passed with Cordelia missing gave her captor gruesome opportunities. She might already be dead.
But that wasn’t possible, I told myself. He wouldn’t kill her so long as he still believed she had the information he had sought from her. That was her insurance. That was her only hope. Which meant it was mine, as well.
* * *
We sat, nerves on edge, for two hours more. I didn’t want to leave the Daltons alone, but wasn’t quite sure what to do with them, either. I was desperate for Colin to return. When at last the butler opened the door to announce him, I leapt to my feet and embraced him before I could help myself.
“We are in dire need of your services,” I said, and briefed him on the situation. He did not take a seat, pacing in front of the windows as he listened.
“We cannot involve the police,” Mr. Dalton said when I had finished.
“I understand,” Colin said. “Do, however, let me assure you that should you change your mind, we can work with Scotland Yard without the kidnapper ever knowing.”
“There’s no way to guarantee that,” Mr. Dalton said. “What if he has connections inside the force?”
“He’s done nothing to indicate he does,” I said.
“At this point, I’m not much concerned by your wish to keep the matter private,” Colin said. “I have full access to their investigation, and will continue to keep current with what they know. We won’t miss any possible leads.”
“Is there anything we can do at the moment?” Mrs. Dalton asked. “Would you like to speak to the servants?”
“Emily’s already done that, and I have absolute faith in her thoroughness,” he said. “What I will need is for you to inform me the instant you hear from the miscreant.”
“Rest assured, we shall do so immediately,” Mr. Dalton said.
“And if you wouldn’t object, I’d like to put a man of my own on the house to replace the one from Scotland Yard you sent away. I noticed he was gone when I arrived.”
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