by Annis Bell
She had just taken her place at the dinner table when Levi appeared carrying a silver tray on which lay a letter addressed to her.
“Thank you,” said Jane, and took the letter. Wescott was sitting opposite her, and she held the letter in the air. “May I?”
“Of course.” He leaned back and sipped his wine.
Jane quickly scanned the lines Violet Sutton had penned. The woman apologized extravagantly for her panic-stricken flight and begged Jane for forgiveness. She invoked her nervous constitution and said that she wanted to come by in the next few days with a gift. “Mrs. Sutton excuses herself, but doesn’t really mention the incident. I don’t think she knows about the dead men.”
“Dead man. Only one of those cutthroats died. The police were there but found out nothing from any of the residents. No one saw or heard a thing. That’s typical for people who live in the slums. Police mean trouble, and they’ve got enough trouble in their lives already,” said Wescott, setting down his glass.
“Did Blount tell you everything? I mean, did he mention the orphanage run by the missionary in Lambeth? And Polly?”
“So that was the name of the girl at Rosewood. Polly,” he said and smiled sadly. “Polly and Mary. Did you find out anything else?”
His sympathy affected her and, full of hope, she said, “I fear that Mary is heading down the same path as Polly, and that she will suffer the same fate. Everything points to it. Both came from Newbridge, and both were supposed to be taking up a position in London. Ledford lied! He told me that Mary went to Norfolk. Why? He’s got something to hide. He knows that the girls he sends here are in danger.”
For the first course, Levi served an artichoke soup. It was very tasty, but Jane managed to swallow only two spoonfuls. “What if it really is Hargrave ordering girls from Newbridge? There was another girl who died quite close to Mulberry Park, not so long ago. No one misses the poor things.”
“And what do you think Hargrave is doing with these girls?”
“He’s abusing them! He’s exploiting their innocence. I don’t need to have Madame La Roche’s experience to know that some men will pay a lot of money for a girl’s virginity.” She reddened slightly as she said it, and was immediately annoyed at herself for doing so.
“I would not have married you if you had Blanche La Roche’s experience, Jane,” said Wescott. He leaned forward and set his spoon aside. “But that is beside the point. No, I don’t know Hargrave particularly well, at least not as well as his bosom friend Rutland does. They’re a notorious team, those two. Still . . . I doubt either of them would be capable of murdering a young girl for the sake of satisfying their own lust.”
Jane lowered her eyes. She took a sip of wine and looked up again at Wescott. “Why not?”
He seemed more relaxed than he had when she and Hettie first returned. He had exchanged his dinner jacket for a house jacket and stretched out his long legs under the table. “I’ve been through a lot. During the war. Let’s say that I’ve picked up a certain feeling for people, and Hargrave and Rutland are certainly a pair of libertines. They love debauched parties and amusing themselves with women, including women you pay for. But children? No, I don’t know about that. There are—how can I put it?—there are certain taboos, in the clubs, too, among initiates. Taboos that cannot be broken or there will be consequences, even in the highest circles.”
“Well, they’re not going to announce it in the papers, are they? They meet in secret,” said Jane.
Wescott sighed. “There’s no such thing as a secret, unless those keeping the secret are dead.”
“Is that true?”
Wescott grinned. “It’s true. A secret stops being a secret the moment you share it with someone else. Every confidant is a threat, every servant a risk.”
“Oh, I just remembered. Polly was deathly scared of a dark-skinned man who wanted to strangle her with a scarf. What do you suppose that means? It sounds to me like one of the Thugs.”
“A Thug? Why?” Every trace of humor vanished from Wescott’s face.
“I thought of my childhood in India. My nanny there told me stories about gods with many arms and secret societies. She always warned me about the Thugs, the killers with the yellow scarves, who silently murdered entire groups of travelers. And Henry Sleeman published his memoir just a few years ago. Even Queen Victoria has read Confessions of a Thug,” said Jane.
“Then you also know that Sleeman eradicated the Thug cult. And the whole story’s been blown out of proportion in any case,” he said, but his words lacked conviction.
Jane raised her eyebrows. “Do you seriously believe they wiped out all of the Thugs? With all due respect to our empire and its army, I find that highly unlikely.”
“Jane, I simply don’t want you talking about such things. It is too dangerous,” Wescott said indignantly.
Jane let out a dry laugh. “Rubbish. Why should I keep my mouth shut about Indian assassins? We’re alone here, and I lived in India, didn’t I? My parents spent many years there.”
“You don’t want to understand, do you? I’m not just talking about the Thugs. I mean all of it, including talking about people like Hargrave and Rutland. This is no topic of conversation for a respectable woman.”
“Aha!” Jane sniffed.
“By poking around and asking questions, you put yourself in harm’s way, and you hear and see things you shouldn’t hear or see. That’s what I mean!”
“David, I don’t want to spend my life at tea parties prattling mindlessly about dreary balls and things like that, nor do I want to fill my days redecorating my home and paying formal visits to superficial people I don’t particularly like. Polly died in my arms and begged me to save her friend. Now I’ve picked up Mary’s scent! I feel—I know—that she is somewhere here in London, perhaps very close to where we sit! I will not ignore Polly’s dying wish! That orphan girl, that poor, tortured waif . . . she gave my life a purpose. I can help. Don’t you see that?”
His expression remained inscrutable. “What’s your plan, Jane? Do you want to visit every respectable house in London and ask about Mary and an Indian servant?”
“Laugh all you want, but yes, why not? Alison has outstanding contacts, as you know. Oh, I almost forgot. Hargrave’s masked ball is in four days. That would be a good opportunity. His house is on Park Lane. I believe we can rule out Rutland. What do you think?”
“You won’t give up.”
“No.”
Levi brought in the next course, and they sat silent until he had closed the door behind him again. Jane prodded disinterestedly at her fish, and rolled peas from one side of her plate to the other. Finally, she dropped the fork on her plate with a clang.
“Why should I trust you when you won’t come so much as a step in my direction?”
“In what way?”
“Madame La Roche said that you’ve been investigating.”
“Did she now? She talks too much sometimes. You shouldn’t believe everything—”
“Oh, stop sidestepping! She knew exactly what she was saying. I’m sick of it all!” Jane threw her napkin on the table and was about to stand up when Wescott shook his head.
“Jane, please. Stay. There is, in fact, a great deal that I can’t tell you and don’t want to tell you. My past is like a dark shadow that still holds me in its claws. But beyond that, my current work demands absolute confidentiality with respect to my employers. But I want to help you. You just have to let me do it my way.”
“Hmm.”
“I’ve been making some inquiries into Ledford. He’s got a past. He used to run an orphanage in Manchester but had to give it up after some improprieties with donated funds. Convicts are still being transported to the colonies. Children, too. It seems that Ledford is secretly sending far more than the officially listed number of children to Australia and America. I don’t yet know how or wit
h whom he’s in league, but I’m working on it. We cannot do anything without proof, and I fear he has an influential employer. But it isn’t Hargrave. That much is certain.”
“My God! So Ledford is selling children to the colonies? That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
“Yes, unfortunately. And there’s no promised land waiting for them there.”
Jane’s eyes filled with tears. “Why? What more do they have to bear? No one deserves to suffer like that.”
“Don’t cry, Jane. We will get him, but we can’t afford to scare them off. I want whoever’s paying him, not the small fry. Ledford’s just a nasty little rat, a cog in a machine.”
Jane dabbed at her eyes and nose and said, “What about that teacher, Peter Gaunt? Can you find out if he actually sailed off for America? And Miss Fannigan?”
“I’ve got someone checking the passenger lists of all the ships that sailed from Plymouth in that period. It will take some time, though. If Gaunt’s name doesn’t appear on the lists, then we have a reason to question Ledford.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?”
“I would have told you as soon as I had a result.”
“Is that how you always do things?”
“I’ve never had cause to do them any other way.”
They finished the meal in silence. Neither ate dessert, and Wescott escorted Jane up to her bedroom.
“Good night, David.”
They were standing opposite each other in the dim light of the corridor. Down below, Levi and little Josiah scurried back and forth, clearing up. A normal household. But we are not a normal couple, thought Jane with a pang of regret.
Very gently, David touched her cheek with his fingers. “Our marriage was not something arranged with your uncle, Jane. I married you because I wanted to. Good night.”
31.
Mary
Mary had grown used to the daily routine and quickly proved so adept at her work that Jenny praised her and Mrs. Avery left her in peace. The food was so good and plentiful that her perpetual hunger began to fade, and Mary’s body gradually took on more feminine curves. She was eleven years old, and her monthly bleeding would start soon. She knew that from Polly. As Mary climbed out of the washtub and dried herself that morning, Mrs. Avery entered and stood in front of her with a stern look on her face.
“Either you’re not working enough or you’re eating too much. You’re getting too fat. The master doesn’t like that. From today, no more sweets for you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mary murmured, disappointed. She loved the pastries and candied fruit that were prepared in the kitchens along with all the other delicacies.
“You’ll be working in the laundry today. One of the girls is sick, though I think she’s gone and got herself pregnant. You’re not there yet, are you? Or are you?” Mrs. Avery eyed her suspiciously.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, have you got your monthlies! Idiot child.”
Mary shook her head, ashamed.
“Well, get on then. Hurry!” Mrs. Avery adopted her usual haughty posture and strode away.
Mary took less than usual at breakfast, which the cook noticed. “What’s the matter with you, then? You normally eat twice as much. Don’t you like the food anymore?”
“Oh, yes, it’s wonderful, but Mrs. Avery said I’m getting too fat,” Mary explained sadly.
The other servants laughed, and the cook patted her cheek. “Don’t take it too hard. Then we’ll just have to let out your dress a little. You were such a skinny thing, and there’s still not much meat on your bones.”
The cook was a short, plump woman with a friendly face. She maintained a strict rule over her kitchen kingdom, but her heart was big.
Mary smiled sweetly, but could not bring herself to eat more, and headed off for the laundry. The wash was boiled, rinsed, and wrung through a mangle in a room at the end of the long corridor that led to the backyard. Lines had been strung up in the yard and were used mainly to hang the servants’ clothes, the towels, and sheets. An additional large room was equipped with roll-out drying cabinets and ironing tables. This was where the laundry for the master and his guests was dried.
Laundry girls ran back and forth, carrying baskets of dirty wash, folding and smoothing towels, ironing linen. Maids in light-blue dresses and white aprons ironed underskirts and embroidered handkerchiefs. Hot steam from the irons and the vats drifted through the passages and rooms, making everyone who worked there sweat profusely. After two unrelieved hours of stirring laundry in one of the vats, Mary was exhausted and went out to the yard where there was a water pump. She leaned down and held her face under the cool stream of water and was about to straighten up when someone suddenly grabbed hold of her and pushed her face into the basin beneath the pump.
Mary fought desperately to free herself from the grip of her unseen assailant. She lashed out wildly, splashing and swallowing water until she thought her lungs would explode. Just before she thought she would drown, she was jerked back and thrown to the ground.
“You miserable little bitch! Look at me,” snarled a familiar voice that struck fear all the way into her bones.
Mary choked and spat water. She had to prop herself up on both trembling arms to look at the man. Through a curtain of her own blond hair, she recognized the face of Jedidiah, contorted with hate. He looked even seedier than the last time she had seen him, and one hand was wrapped in a bandage.
“I’d drown you like a dog. You and your girlfriend, Polly. That was ’er name, right? You and ’er ’ave given us nothin’ but trouble, and it started with ’er. All ’cause they didn’t keep an eye on ’er. She got away, and now we got this blasted nosy lady on our backs. Nothin’ but trouble!” He kicked furiously at Mary, who curled into a ball and wrapped her arms around her head protectively.
“What the devil is going on here?” snapped the sharp voice of Mrs. Avery. “Jedidiah! Leave her alone!”
Terrified, Mary pushed herself backward over the sand until she felt the stone basin below the pump at her back.
“Look at this, ma’am!” Jedidiah held up his bandaged hand reproachfully.
“Shut up, you stupid fool!” Mrs. Avery barked. She dragged the burly man across the yard with her, away from Mary. Behind a plane tree, she berated him.
Carefully, Mary climbed to her feet and wiped the hair out of her face. Moving between the lines of washing, she approached the pair as closely as she dared. When she could hear their voices clearly, she stopped.
“I want to talk to the master! I need more money. I can’t stay ’ere. I ’ave to disappear. She ’ad a bodyguard we didn’t see. ’e came out of nowhere like a damn cat and sliced Eddie’s throat like a pie! A devil ’e was! I ain’t never seen no one like ’im,” Jedidiah whined, with real fear in his voice.
Who was he talking about? Who could frighten a paragon of wickedness like Jedidiah?
“Be quiet, Jed, and wait here. I’ll go to the master and ask him what’s to be done. Were you recognized?”
“No, no, I don’t think so. There were no one else around, in any case. The lady didn’t get a clear look at me, that’s certain. Only ’er maid looked right at me when she bashed my arm. I got ’er with the knife.”
“Then let’s hope she’s dead, or we’ve got something else to take care of. No witnesses, you know that. What’s got into you? Are you getting too old for this kind of work?”
Mary heard the murderer groan in pain.
“And he got you, too? That never would have happened before. Wait here.” Mrs. Avery’s shoes crunched on the gravel.
Quickly, Mary dodged back between the lines of washing and dropped at the wall of the house as if she had collapsed there.
“Mary! Get up. Not a word to anyone.” Mrs. Avery grabbed hold of her arm and dragged her to her feet. She glared balefully at Mary. �
��If you breathe so much as a syllable about this to a soul, I’ll take you to court as a thief. And you know what that means.”
Mary nodded, but said nothing. She had to summon all her courage not to cry. Punishment was drastic and designed to deter. She’d heard that a fifteen-year-old lad was sentenced to seven years of hard labor in the colonies for the theft of a pocket handkerchief. Some judges were more lenient and would sentence you to only a year in prison, but even the thought of that—of ending up in Brixton’s notorious women’s prison—made Mary’s heart race with fear.
Polly had been here. Jedidiah let the cat out of the bag, even if he didn’t mean to. Someone had to know about her. But whom could Mary trust? Everyone feared Mrs. Avery and could betray Mary to her. She did not want to think about what would happen to her then. Maybe the only choice was to run away, like Polly.
“You listen to me, girl,” said Mrs. Avery, shaking her roughly by the shoulders. “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t even try it. We’ll find you just like we’ve found every other one who tried to run away from us.”
“Polly got away,” Mary whispered.
“And where’s your precious Polly now?” asked Mrs. Avery, almost gently.
Mary said nothing.
“You see? Go and change and come straight back down!”
Mary did as she was told, then spent the rest of the day working in the laundry. She spoke to no one. But she was determined not to spend a single day more in that house. After everyone had gone to bed and the domestic wing was quiet, Mary climbed out of bed as silently as she could. The floorboards creaked a little underfoot, and the two kitchen hands she shared the room with turned in their beds but went on snoring. Their working day was long and hard, and once they fell asleep they were not quick to wake up again.
