by Annis Bell
Alison appeared rather drained. “Ally, are you all right? Has your cold come back?” Jane asked, hurrying over to where her friend lay on the daybed.
“Jane, how nice of you to come by! I don’t have to play at being the suffering expectant mother today, because I’ve actually been having some early labor pains. I feel as if I’ve been run over by a milk cart.”
“No! Has Dr. Cribb already been to see you? You haven’t had any bleeding, have you?”
“No. Cribb was here and prescribed laudanum for me, but I don’t like that stuff at all. It makes me woozy, and I don’t have any control over my body. I want to feel the life inside me, not anesthetize it.”
A new contraction shook Alison, who closed her eyes and took short, sharp breaths. Jane held her hand and kissed her friend’s forehead. After a few moments, Alison relaxed but kept her eyes closed. She whispered, “Why don’t you tell me what you and David have been up to? Nora was very enthusiastic when she told me he was here. Your dear husband’s mere presence seems to be breaking hearts in droves.”
Jane smiled at that, then told Alison about their excursion with O’Connor and how Cedric was so afraid of horses. “I’m trying hard, Ally, but I can’t bring myself to say I like the boy.”
“He was sick for a long time, then spoiled rotten. One ought to keep that in mind, and his father is not what you’d call a model of paternal warmth, after all. How is Charlotte?” Alison had opened her eyes again, and the color was returning to her face.
“She’s hiding something. That terrible bout last night and her dizzy spells—it isn’t normal at all. Could she be taking too much laudanum? Has she always been so prone to illness?”
Just then, Nora showed David into the room. The maid could hardly take her eyes off David and stumbled as she backed out of the room.
“No, not at all! Oh, David, how lovely to see you!” Ally sat up in bed. “I look like a blubbery walrus, but as far as I can tell, my little menace here wants to see the light of the world as soon as he can.”
All three talked animatedly about events at the house, and Alison said, “Poor Rachel! What about the butler? Have you questioned him yet? It would have been easy for him to lure Rachel out there.”
“Let’s assume it was a rendezvous. Then why did Rachel have to die?” Jane wondered.
David sighed. “An unwanted child is often reason enough for such ‘accidents.’”
“Was she pregnant?” Alison automatically placed a hand on her stomach.
“I don’t think so. Theoretically, an autopsy should have been done, but Sir Frederick did not allow that, and until we can produce a lover, we have no motive. My own suspicions are tending more toward the Cunninghams and their orchids.” David took Jane’s hand. “Darling, we should go down for tea.”
“David!” Ally said, keeping them a moment longer. “That would mean that Sir Frederick—”
“Not necessarily, Ally.” David patted his jacket. “Which reminds me of a telegram I just received from Blount. I have to leave tomorrow.”
“No!” Jane could not suppress a cry. She felt David’s hand on her back.
“Blount has been looking into Korshaw’s past, and Rooke needs me. But I’ll return as soon as I can,” he promised.
The following morning was even colder, and Jane put on her fur-lined coat to accompany David to the waiting carriage.
“Take care of yourself, Jane,” he said and stroked her cheek. “No wandering around at night. I’ll send you a telegram as soon as I find out anything new.”
“If I can’t help Charlotte, then I’ll come home and bring Alison with me,” said Jane. “It’s just that Charlotte isn’t doing very well at the moment.”
“You have a generous heart, Jane. I hope Charlotte deserves the effort you’re making.”
Over the course of that day, Jane thought often of David’s words and considered Charlotte’s behavior in another light. Ally loved her cousin and did not have the necessary emotional distance to get to the bottom of how Charlotte was acting. Did she have the right to distrust Alison’s friend, however, when she herself did not know what was making her so ill?
That afternoon, Jane wandered into the green drawing room and looked at the porcelain figurines. The sweet faces and endearing animals were the friendliest things in that gloomy house. Maybe Charlotte felt the same way? Maybe that was why she found some consolation in those little works of art? Holding a little shepherdess and lamb figurine, Jane jumped when loud voices suddenly sounded outside the library door.
“No, Charlotte! Stop behaving so hysterically!” She heard Sir Frederick’s sharp voice. “Mr. Hartman was not the right man for the job, and I am going to send Cedric to boarding school. That is my final decision.”
There was the sound of subdued crying, and Jane, still holding the porcelain figurine, retreated to a secluded corner of the room in case the doors opened.
“You grant me nothing! Nothing! You’ve got your accursed orchids, but I have only my children, and now you’re taking them away from me, too!” Charlotte sobbed.
“Just look at yourself!” Sir Frederick snapped. “You’re not in any condition to raise our children. If it wasn’t for Miss Molan, Cedric wouldn’t even be able to get on a horse. She at least has what it takes to assert herself with the boy. My God, if it weren’t for your dowry, I never would have married you anyway.”
“Without my dowry, you wouldn’t be able to buy all your expensive orchids!” Charlotte threw back at him, but her voice sounded fragile, and Jane thought she could hear suppressed sobbing punctuating her words.
“You know nothing about the state of my finances, you stupid woman!” Sir Frederick shouted. “What have I done to deserve this? If only my dear Eunice had not died so young.”
In utter disbelief, Jane stood rooted to the spot, still holding the porcelain figure tightly in both hands. Then the door swung open and Mrs. Gubbins entered. The housekeeper seemed to have heard the argument between her employers as well, and her mouth was twisted contemptuously—as if agreeing with Sir Frederick’s words.
“Do you have a particular wish for dinner this evening, my lady?” Mrs. Gubbins asked calmly.
Jane turned the figurine in her hands around, then set it down on the table. “Very pretty . . . no, thank you. I’ll eat almost anything.”
Mrs. Gubbins went to hold the door open, as if expecting Jane to leave the room with her. As slowly as possible, Jane acceded to the woman’s unspoken demand, then managed to surprise her by asking, “When will Rachel’s burial be?”
Out in the hall, Mrs. Gubbins replied, “The day after tomorrow. The girl’s family has been sent a message. It is only right and proper that they attend. Death absolves one of all sins.”
“Why do you say that? Had Rachel sinned?”
With her hair pulled back in a tight bun, her collar buttoned to her chin, and her black dress, there was something crowlike about the housekeeper’s appearance. “I was only speaking generally, my lady, if I may. The girl was half-Roma and turned men’s heads with the way she looked.”
“That does not mean she did anything wrong. Perhaps someone was trying to seduce her.”
Mrs. Gubbins lifted her chin. “Is it not a sin to submit to the temptations of the flesh?”
A bigoted moralistic sentry as a housekeeper who favored the deceased Lady Halston—what a heavy burden indeed for Charlotte, who seemed to have neither the strength nor the skill to assert herself against Sir Frederick.
“I find excessive adherence to such imperatives unhealthy, Mrs. Gubbins,” said Jane, and she turned on her heel and left the housekeeper standing there.
After those disagreeable episodes, Jane needed some fresh air; in any case, a stroll outside before dinner would do her good. As she left the house with Hettie a short time later, the sun had already set. Jane buried her hands in her coat pockets as they wandered slowly along the frozen paths. Their breath hung like white fog in the evening air.
“I haven�
�t been in this kind of cold for a long time, ma’am.” Hettie pointed toward the yard outside the kitchen, where stairs led down to the cellars. “Is that where you explored with the captain?”
“Yes, and any burglar could also easily get inside there. Wait, do you hear that? That’s Miss Molan!” Jane stopped and pulled Hettie with her behind a hedge.
“I’m so sorry, Walter!” they heard Miss Molan say.
Jane peered through the hedge and saw the governess holding a man’s arm in a very familiar manner, the two of them climbing the steps from the kitchen yard up to the garden.
The kitchen door was open, exuding the scent of fried fish, game, and herbs, and Jane could see that kitchen staff were scurrying around, preparing the evening meal.
“Mr. Hartman!” Draycroft suddenly appeared at the kitchen door but did not venture outside.
Miss Molan’s companion extracted his arm, patted her hand, then turned to Draycroft. “Yes?”
“Your papers. You’ve forgotten your papers,” Mr. Draycroft said as he handed the man a thin file.
“Thank you very much.”
“That must be the tutor that Miss Molan recommended,” whispered Hettie, standing close to Jane.
“I daresay. And I believe our Miss Molan’s interest is more than just professional,” Jane murmured.
“Hmm. But he’s not allowed to stay?”
“No. Shh!” Jane raised a gloved hand.
Stuffing the thin file into his coat pocket, Mr. Hartman returned to Miss Molan, who was waiting at the steps. Jane could not make out much of Hartman’s face in the dark, but she did see that he wore a moustache. He seemed to be of average height, rather stocky, and his clothes looked dignified enough.
“Lissy, don’t go blaming yourself, please. I’ll take a room in Allenton, and we can talk everything through there. There is too much going on here,” said Hartman, nodding toward a young kitchen boy carting out a box filled with rubbish.
Melissa Molan was standing close to Hartman, who took her hands in his and kissed her lightly on the cheek. She murmured something in his ear.
“What did she say? I couldn’t hear,” whispered Hettie in turn.
“Neither could I,” Jane answered. Miss Molan turned back to the house, and Hartman walked away along the path.
“Is that her lover?” Hettie bit her lips excitedly.
“It’s possible, but frankly, I would have thought of Miss Molan as being more calculating when it came to her choice of a man. A tutor is not what I would call a step up. Well, one can always be mistaken. Let’s finish our walk and go in for dinner.”
Just before they entered the dining room, they saw Miss Molan cross the hall, followed by a girl carrying a tray.
“Miss Molan!” said Jane with a smile.
“Della, wait. The children should not start without me,” Miss Molan instructed the maid, then turned to Jane. “Yes?”
“Will Cedric have a tutor now?” asked Jane innocently.
A shadow briefly crossed the governess’s face. “I’m afraid that Sir Frederick has decided against it. Mr. Hartman would be an excellent teacher, but what can I do? Now the boy will go to boarding school, and I doubt very much that he will be better off there.”
“Do you mean he won’t be able to watch rabbits being butchered?” Jane said sarcastically.
“Death is part of life, my lady. We have to kill to eat. I must say that I cannot fully comprehend your sensitivities. The children in my care have always learned young that life has its cruel side, and this knowledge has harmed none of them. On the contrary, in fact, it enriches them.”
“Well, Miss Molan, I would not think of criticizing your methods. That would be a task for Lady Charlotte. May I ask where you worked before coming to Winton Park? Were you perhaps abroad? You have made an exceptionally cultivated impression on me.”
The governess raised her chin slightly and briefly narrowed her eyes. “So far, I’m afraid, a period abroad has not been my fortune, but I will accept your compliment as a tribute to my own outstanding teacher. Thank you, my lady.”
Mr. Draycroft came out of the kitchen just then. Ignoring Miss Molan, who quickly left, he bowed slightly toward Jane. “Dinner is served, my lady.”
16.
London, December 1860
The city smelled fetid, and it was so cold that the Thames had begun to freeze. As David rode through London, he saw not only the impressive façades of grand houses; not only the wide windows of the shops along Regent Street, offering delicacies from around the world, silk and velvet fabrics, jewels, and exotic stuffed birds; but also the workaday miseries of the poor in the dark alleys, far from the city’s shine. In cold weather, the poorhouses and workhouses were bursting at the seams. The mud larks waded out day after day, up to their hips in the filth and sewage, scavenging whatever they might be able to sell—a piece of iron, a length of old rope, a chunk of coal. Often enough, the scavengers cut their feet on broken glass or sharp metal, and a fatal infection could follow.
When David stepped into the police station at Brompton that morning, the stench of the Thames rose to meet him, and he coughed and covered his nose.
“Good morning to you, Captain. A horrible stink, ain’t it? Comes from our guest here! Hey, you just going to sit there, you little rat?” Sergeant Berwin snapped at a boy dressed in rags who was sitting on a chair against the wall.
The boy shivered. His arms and legs were so thin that David could practically see his bones. Sad, sunken eyes stared bleakly back.
“One of our mud larks has figured out that stealing’s a better game. Gets him into the pen, eh? Ain’t that it? You’d rather be behind bars and fed three times a day than perish out in that stinking brew, wouldn’t you?” The officer knew his clientele, but at the same time he was sympathetic to their plight. He turned to David. “Can’t say I blame him. He’s pinched an apple and earned himself three weeks as punishment,” he said with a wink.
The boy looked at them with some fear, but his hands were clasped together gratefully.
Rooke shouted from the other end of the corridor, “David! We’re waiting for you!”
“I’ll be right there.” Something about the boy moved David, and he said, “What’s your name, lad?”
“Myron,” the boy replied hoarsely, his eyes fixed on his filthy hands.
“Do you know your way around the city?”
Myron nodded.
“Good, then you can run errands for me. Unless you’ve got something better to do?” David saw a little light flicker in the poor creature’s eyes.
“What’s the pay?”
“Depending on the distance, a penny or more. You’ll get three meals a day, and I think we can find a place for you to sleep. Sound fair?”
The boy looked up from his hands in disbelief. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Sergeant Berwin will tell you where to find me. That issue with the apple . . . no doubt that was a misunderstanding. I’m sure that can be sorted out, can’t it, Sergeant?”
The policeman rolled his eyes. “Captain, a heart as soft as yours don’t always pay off. They’ll lie as soon as open their mouths, and best don’t forget it. But if you want him, he’s yours.”
David left them and walked down the corridor, feeling the boy’s eyes on his back as he went.
As he stepped into Rooke’s office, the policeman greeted him with a shake of the head. “What do you want with that little imp? Light-fingered rogues, the lot of them. Doesn’t matter how young they are. Don’t let them pull the wool over your eyes. There’s always a big brother somewhere that they owe; then they’ll help themselves to your belongings.”
“We shall see. So far, my experiences with people I’ve helped have been good.” David thought of Levi and hoped that he had not deceived himself when he’d taken the musician into his house.
Rooke sat behind his desk. “Tea? Something stronger?”
“No, thank you. I’m curious about what you’ve found out.” Without taki
ng off his coat, David sat down. “It’s cold in here! How do you bear it?”
Rooke smoothly lifted a bottle of whisky from the floor behind his desk. “One ought not to underestimate the warmth from within.”
Both men laughed, but Rooke immediately grew serious again. “I’ve got something for you, David.” He pushed a note across the desk. A name and address were coarsely scribbled on it.
“Bill Pedley, Seven Bells, St. Giles,” David read aloud.
Rooke ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. “I have neither the means nor the right men to follow up on that, but I believe you might be successful. The man was once a soldier, lost a leg in India, war wound. Bill was supposed to have been friends with Korshaw in India, according to our informant. Anything more than that is up to you.”
St. Giles was one of the most dangerous districts of London, a meeting point for the underworld, where criminals holed up in dingy, stinking alleyways behind the façades of once-splendid buildings. Crime rates there were higher than in any other part of London, and violent crimes were the order of the day. St. Giles was also notorious for its numerous gin distilleries and brothels. Most of the distilleries operated illegally because licenses were either too expensive or simply impossible to obtain. Illicit alcohol, however, continued to be a favorite among the poor, but turpentine was sometimes added, and consumption could lead to death. At the same time, men from all walks of society visited St. Giles in search of danger and thrills.
“Seven Bells, isn’t that one of the illegal gin stills? Who does that belong to these days?” David asked.
“Officially, they run a clean operation, but everyone knows what goes on there. A man named Big John is in charge; he stages illegal dogfights there.” Rooke grimly drummed his fingers on the table. Dogfights had been banned since 1835, but rat-baiting—dogs killing rats—was still a popular sport among bettors. “We’ve almost caught him many times, but he’s always warned in advance. He’s being protected by someone, someone with a lot of money. I’m certain that Seven Bells doesn’t belong to Big John but rather to some influential businessman, or maybe to one of those fine gentlemen in the House of Lords.”
