by Annis Bell
Still wearing her evening dress from the night before, and with her hair bedraggled, Jane knew she must look like one of the fallen girls that frequented St. Giles. She swept the curtains open, and Nora was instantly wide-awake.
“Oh, good gracious! Pardon me, my lady. I’ll put water on and get breakfast started right away.” She looked over at Alison.
“Get changed first, Nora. Lady Alison is still sleeping.”
Nora seemed relieved and gave Hettie a shove as she left the room. Hettie grumbled indignantly, then fell out of her armchair in surprise when she realized where she was.
Dr. Cribb had stayed with his patient until well past midnight. He had done what he could to stop the contractions from getting any stronger. He wanted to be sure that Alison’s bleeding had caused no harm, and his efforts seemed to have been successful.
After Jane had bathed, dressed, and eaten some breakfast, she remembered Mrs. Gubbins’s visitor and went out into the hall, where she met Mr. Draycroft.
“Good morning, my lady,” he greeted her, inscrutable as ever.
“Good morning, Draycroft. Yesterday evening, a visitor arrived for Mrs. Gubbins and her husband. From India, I heard? How thrilling!”
“You mean Mabel, Mrs. Gubbins’s daughter?”
“Yes, of course. I would love the opportunity to talk with her. I spent my childhood in India, you know,” said Jane.
“If you would like to wait in the green drawing room, my lady, I will have Mabel brought to you.”
“That’s very kind, thank you.”
Jane walked through the chilly entrance hall and was happy to discover that a fire had already been lit in the drawing room. When Charlotte’s porcelain figures caught her eye, however, she was overcome by a desperate sadness. What could she do to help the poor woman? Jane would gladly have talked with Cedric himself, but she was not allowed in his room, and Miss Molan watched over the boy like a mother hen.
A young messenger entered the drawing room with a telegram for her. Jane tore open the envelope, and her hand instantly rose to her lips. “New development. Black widow is blond. Myron dead. Korshaw friends with Tomkins in London. I arrive tomorrow. Be careful. David.”
What could that mean? Tomkins was in England? But hadn’t Frederick just received a letter from Colombia? And the black widow was actually blond? That could only refer to the woman who had poisoned her husband in India, which David had mentioned in his last report to her. The key to everything seemed to be Korshaw. Oh, it was all so exasperating!
Jane gazed through the window. Ice crystals had formed around the edges of the glass. Outside, thick icicles hung from tree branches, and the artfully carved hedges seemed covered in a layer of frosting. The snow had only been cleared from the entrances, and rounded white caps crowned the stair posts. From where she stood, Jane saw Miss Molan carrying a jug and walking on the path that led around the outside of the house to the kitchen.
The soft sound of someone clearing her throat brought Jane out of her thoughts, and she turned to see Mrs. Gubbins standing behind her. Her graying hair was pulled back tightly, and a string with two keys on it hung from her belt.
“I asked to see your daughter, not you,” said Jane.
“Draycroft said the same to me. Unfortunately, my daughter is not well. Her long journey has left her ill, and I hope that my lady will forgive her for not attending.”
“What’s wrong with her? I hope she hasn’t come down with some kind of tropical disease? Or a fever? Something like that can be extremely annoying and can come and go for years.”
“No, it’s nothing like that. She is simply exhausted and needs rest,” Mrs. Gubbins quickly reassured her.
Jane raised her eyebrows. “That’s a relief. Then I’m sure she’ll be strong enough to join me for tea this afternoon.”
Mrs. Gubbins hesitated, then nodded. “Very good, my lady.”
“Oh, and where is your daughter lodging? Does she have a comfortable room?” Jane inquired.
“My husband and I live in the stable master’s quarters. We have a guest room there.”
“I’m glad to hear it. It must be wonderful for you to finally see your daughter again after . . . how long has it been?”
“Mabel’s been away for eight years, my lady.” Mrs. Gubbins’s hands trembled as she spoke, and Jane read the trembling as a sign of emotion in the normally composed woman.
“Thank you.” Jane watched the housekeeper leave. Mrs. Gubbins clearly not only expected perfect behavior from her staff, but she had also built an iron cage of discipline around herself.
What if Rachel had seen a photograph of Mabel then read a newspaper article about the black widow and put two and two together? No time to lose, Jane thought, hurrying up to her room.
“Hettie, take out my coat. We’re going for a walk.”
She told Hettie about David’s telegram but did not mention Myron’s death. David had mentioned the boy to her, a boy he had wanted to give a second chance. And this was the same man accusing her of being too softhearted? Jane smiled to herself.
“Ma’am, how far are we going? Should I be putting on my heavy boots?”
“Just as far as the stables.” Jane pocketed the small pistol David had given her to defend herself. It fired only a single shot, but sometimes one shot was enough.
Over a sturdy day dress, Jane wore a short velvet coat with long tails and a fur collar. Since her gloves were unlined, she kept her hands tucked inside her muff instead. Hettie loved the new tweed coat that Jane had custom-ordered for her. The girl had never had any new clothes made just for her, and it was a pleasure for Jane to see Hettie so happy.
“It’s actually lovely up here.” Jane and Hettie were standing on the terrace in front of the park, looking out over the snow-covered fields toward the treetops, beyond which lay the river and the moor. The skies were once again hung with gray clouds.
“Humph. I’ll be happy when we’re back in London. Or even better—in Cornwall! Ma’am, will we be at Mulberry Park for Christmas?” There was yearning in Hettie’s voice, a longing for the stretch of land she called home. She began to hum, “O, come all ye faithful—”
“I’m afraid not. Christmas is only two weeks away. Even if Ally brings her child into the world today or tomorrow, she can’t drive home again immediately. And Charlotte . . . oh, Hettie, whatever are we going to do?”
Jane saw a man striding through the trees, a gun over his shoulder and a hound at his side: O’Connor. He had seen her as well and headed toward them.
“That Mr. O’Connor, ma’am.” Hettie pulled her shoulders back. “Strange that he isn’t yet married . . .”
“Maybe he has a dark secret,” Jane joked, and her thoughts turned to Miss Molan. Perhaps something was going on there, and they had skillfully managed to keep it under wraps?
“Good morning, my lady. Miss Hettie,” O’Connor greeted them pleasantly. “Guests don’t normally put up with Winton Park this long. It gets particularly lonely up here in the winter, unless you like to hunt. After Christmas, we always expect a big hunting party, though I’m not at all sure Sir Frederick will follow tradition this year.”
“You mean because of Lady Charlotte?” O’Connor’s dog had positioned itself beside Jane. Thinking of Rufus, she scratched its head as they walked. She was also beginning to feel the need to return home.
“That too,” said O’Connor, offhand as usual.
Jane’s instinct told her that O’Connor was a good man, so she decided to talk with him more frankly. “Rachel was lured onto the moor by someone in the house. We know that with certainty.”
The gamekeeper’s expression darkened. “You’re sure? That’s not good. If Rachel was having an affair with the butler, I could take him to task—”
“No! Take my word for it, Mr. Draycroft had nothing to do with it,” Jane assured him hurriedly.
O’Connor glanced at her in surprise. “You seem very certain of that.”
“I am. Without explan
ation, you will simply have to believe me. Did you know that the Gubbinses have a daughter who’s been away in India?” Jane turned them onto the path that led to the stables.
O’Connor stopped and looked at her dourly. “Where’s this going, my lady? Are you implying something?”
“What? No! What makes you think that?”
His expression relaxed. “Then you didn’t know. Mabel and me, we were quite close, once.”
“Oh!”
Hettie inhaled loudly.
“It’s long over. She wanted something different, and she got it. Now, if there’s nothing else, my lady, I’ve other things I have to be doing.” He tipped his cap and went off with his dog in the other direction.
When he was out of earshot, Hettie said, “He has some nerve! Though he doesn’t seem to have much good to say about Mabel Gubbins. And if she takes after her mother even a bit, he can count himself lucky to be rid of her.”
Jane’s thoughts, however, were leaning in a different direction. Mabel had got what she wanted. What had O’Connor meant by that? “Come on, Hettie. Mabel has a few questions to answer.”
As they stepped into the courtyard in front of the stables, they saw Mr. O’Connor talking with Miles. The stable master’s quarters were attached to the end of the stable building. “Hettie, I want you to go over there and ask the men something about horses, anything to distract them. I want to get to the Gubbinses’ rooms without being seen.”
“What should I ask?” Hettie said unhappily.
Jane simply gave her a small push toward the men then ran along the hedge, briefly pausing behind a parked carriage. She saw Hettie gesticulating wildly and steering the two men into the stable, and she grinned.
As quickly as her dress and the frozen cobblestones would allow, Jane hurried to the single-story stable master’s quarters. She saw a shadow move behind one of the windows. She had to knock twice before the door opened a few inches.
“Yes?” The female voice inside sounded anxious and young.
“Miss Mabel Gubbins? I’m Lady Jane Allen, here as a guest of the Halstons. May I speak with you for a minute?”
The door opened further, and Jane entered a narrow vestibule leading directly into a small kitchen and a living room that was hardly any larger. The rooms were very warm, which Jane assumed had to do with the daughter’s return from India and her need to readjust to English climes.
“Please, my lady, have a seat in the living room. Tea? I’ve just brewed some.”
Mabel Gubbins spoke very softly and with a slight accent. She may have been thirty, but her features were girlish, and she looked younger. Her flaxen hair was parted carefully in the middle and tied back into a knot, and large, blue eyes gazed out from a round face. Her demeanor was courteous, her expression eager and friendly. Was this the face of a woman who had poisoned her husband then run off with an adventurer?
“Tea would be lovely.” Jane took a seat and set her muff aside. “Miss Gubbins,” she began.
“Mabel, please,” said the young woman, handing Jane a cup of aromatic tea.
“Excuse my barging in like this, Mabel, but I am so happy to finally talk to someone who has just returned from India, as I grew up there.”
Mabel had wrapped a tartan shawl around her shoulders and perched on the edge of a chair. It was the posture of someone used to being subordinate, not the posture of a self-assured officer’s widow. That, or Mabel was an exceptionally good actress.
“Really? I was there for eight years, but now I’m very happy to be home. The climate was not good for my health, and with all the humidity there, the pianos were always out of tune. Horrible!” A smile flashed over Mabel’s face.
“Are you a musician?”
“I teach music. I don’t have the courage or the confidence to perform onstage, which you need as a professional musician. That was my dream once, but now I teach gifted girls and am happy if they can learn to love the music for itself.” Mabel paused. “Pardon me. When it comes to my music, I get carried away.”
“Oh, no, quite the opposite, I find it extremely refreshing. Women have a hard enough time finding a useful occupation that is also socially acceptable.”
Mabel’s eyes lit up. “I know! There are so many female talents that can never come to the fore. I try to make my students realize that they are capable of more than just a marriage of convenience.” So, Mabel Gubbins was a secret supporter of women’s rights. Where did she get that from?
“Then may I assume you are not married?”
Mabel lowered her eyes. “No. I . . . well, some years ago I had to make a choice, and I have not regretted it.”
“Tell me about India! I miss the smells of the spice markets, the forests, the heat, all the wonderful colors!”
The exotic climate might well have caused her grief, but Mabel apparently felt some connection to India, and she was more than happy to tell Jane about it, describing her travels through the various British administrative regions. “The only place I would not like to return to so quickly is Burma,” she concluded. “The people there are not my sort, and the heat is even more unbearable.”
“But you were there?”
“My last employers moved from Calcutta to Bassein to try to deepen some business relationships.”
“And are you going to continue teaching now that you’re back in England?”
“I’ve accepted a new position in Kent. Lady Teynham was looking for a woman to teach music to her daughter.”
Jane nodded. “I wish you every success there, Mabel. It was a pleasure speaking with you. I’m sure your parents are proud of you.”
A shadow crossed Mabel’s face. “Yes. Thank you, my lady.”
A bowl containing a small heap of powder caught Jane’s eye. “Spices from India?”
Mabel shook her head. “Oh, no. No, Miss Molan was good enough to let me have a few crushed henna leaves. I have some cloth that I wish to dye.”
Jane froze inside. The leaves of the henna plant were traditionally used in India for making a dye to decorate hands. The color was an intense brown, and the dye could also be used for fabric or hair. Trying to keep her tone light, Jane asked, “Where would a henna plant grow here?”
Mabel laughed and said, “You’re right, henna won’t grow in this cold, but Sir Frederick allowed Miss Molan to grow a henna plant in his hothouse. I think it is very nice of him, considering that he needs all the space he can get for his orchids. My mother is actually very worried about him and says that ever since the death of his first wife he’s been quite obsessed with these flowers. Sad, isn’t it? When you lose your great love, then live with someone who doesn’t understand you? You know . . .”
Jane was already on her feet. “Mabel, you have no idea how much you have helped me! I’m sorry, but I have to go!”
Out in the yard, Jane searched quickly for Hettie, finding her at the stable entrance with Miles, Mr. Gubbins, and a black horse. “Hettie!” Jane called to her.
The maid said something to the men, who laughed, then Hettie hurried over to Jane. “Yes, my lady? Have you found something out?”
“My lord, yes! How could I have been so blind? Tell me, Hettie, what did you say to the men?”
“Oh, ma’am, it was so childish. I asked about the horses’ teeth, why they put up with having a bit in their mouths. You know, that sort of silly girlish twaddle, but they liked it.” Hettie was grinning broadly.
“You’re an absolute wizard, Hettie!” Jane said and patted her cheek. “But listen closely—Miss Molan is our suspect. She came out of the house this very morning carrying a pitcher.”
They were hurrying through the park, and Jane only slowed her steps when they were close to the servants’ wing. “She would have poured it out somewhere around here. And fool that I am, I didn’t give a second thought as to why she would have bothered going outside at all.”
“I can’t say I follow you completely, ma’am.” Hettie stumbled along behind Jane. “Oh, look, ma’am. Someone t
ipped out a dark liquid here.”
They were standing above the small yard in front of the kitchen. A hedge shielded them, keeping them out of sight from the staff down below. It was a good place to get rid of something secretly, and if it hadn’t snowed, the liquid would have seeped away unnoticed into the earth. As it was, a dark fringe had settled into the snow.
Jane crouched. “Clever Miss Molan. She poured it into the hedge, but she forgot that the ground was frozen and that not everything would drain right away. Once the earth was saturated, the rest of it spread into the snow.” She scratched up a chunk of snow and raised it to her nose. It smelled distinctly of wet hay. She held it out to Hettie to see. “Do you know what this is?”
“Blood?”
“No. Henna.”
“What?”
“It’s a dyestuff from India. You can use it to color cloth or skin. Or hair.” She looked meaningfully at Hettie.
The import of Jane’s words struck home instantly. “My goodness, no! Then she’s . . . We have to get to Lady Charlotte!”
27.
London, December 1860
The man had spent the entire night sitting on the cell floor. He had touched neither the porridge nor the water, and he had not said a word. The other inmates kept a respectful distance from him, which only confirmed David and Blount’s suspicion that they were dealing with a professional assassin.
Now, the next morning, David and Blount were in Martin Rooke’s office. “Martin, I’m running out of time,” David said, his anxiety showing. “I have to drive north! Jane is in danger, I can feel it, but—”
“We can’t let Myron’s murderer go free, and we have to find out why he killed the boy and not the uncle.” Rooke was standing at the window, arms crossed.
“We don’t know if I caught the right one,” growled Blount. “I’m starting to think it was one of the others, the one with the big mouth.”
