by M C Beaton
The jehu told Clarisse in a surly voice that he was going home and did not want another fare so she offered him a sovereign to take her to cheap lodgings anywhere outside the West End.
He agreed, although grumbling at the weight of Clarisse’s trunks as he put them on the roof.
Then the hack moved off into the night. Clarisse was still nervous and on edge. She had very little actual cash. She would go to Ludgate Hill in the morning and pawn one of the countess’s pieces of jewelry at Rundell & Bridge. It would be safer, admittedly, to go to some backstreet jeweler who would ask no questions, but would give her half the value. And one brooch should be able to keep her for some time to come.
Chapter Eight
The earl of Torridon had, with a great effort, stayed away from Matilda. She must be allowed time to make up her mind. But then he began to wonder if his absence might harden her resolve not to get married. He decided to buy her a present and take it along and then see if he could sweep aside any objections.
He made his way to the famous jewelers, Rundell & Bridge, on Ludgate Hill. He stood looking in the windows at the glittering display. It would need to be something not too gaudy. His eye fell on a delicate little brooch made of fine diamonds and sapphires. That would be perfect. Then he frowned and took out his quizzing glass. There was something familiar about that brooch. He had a sudden feeling of déjàG vu. When he had been courting his late wife and fancied himself in love, he had stood before this jewelers’ window, just as he was standing now, looking at that selfsame brooch.
He opened the shop door and went into the dark interior. The jeweler came forward and bowed low.
“That brooch,” said the earl. “The one in the window of sapphires and diamonds. How did you come by it?”
“Only this morning, my lord,” said the jeweler. “Of course I recognized it. We made it ourselves and you bought it quite some years ago. I suppose it has been through various hands since then.”
“Not to my knowledge,” said the earl grimly. “Who brought it in?”
“Wait but a moment and I shall check our ledger. Here we are. A Mrs. Jackson.”
“Address?”
“Forty-two Cheapside.”
“And what did this Mrs. Jackson look like?”
“My lord, I trust nothing is wrong. She was a most genteel lady fallen on hard times. She was sallow of skin, black eyed, slim, very finely gowned and soft spoken.”
Can it be Clarisse? thought the earl.
“I am sorry to tell you,” he said aloud, “that the last time I saw that brooch it was in the possession of my late wife. Withdraw it from sale until I make some inquiries.”
“Of course, my lord. This is a most respectable firm. I would not have bought it had I thought there was anything suspect about the lady.”
The earl drove up and along Cheapside and reined in his carriage outside number forty-two, which was a haberdasher’s. He entered the shop to learn they had never heard of a Mrs. Jackson, that the haberdasher and his family lived above the shop and did not take in lodgers.
He went back to St. James’s Square and told his butler to find her ladyship’s jewel book. The room in which his wife had died had been locked up ever since her death and the earl had done nothing with her possessions. They had made joint wills shortly after their marriage, leaving everything to each other.
After a short time, the butler returned with a squat black book.
The earl opened it and began to scan the pages. “Bring her jewel box as well,” he said.
Soon all the pieces were spread out on his desk and he examined and ticked off each one. All the items appeared to be accounted for in Clarisse’s neat italic handwriting. He leaned back in his chair, the book in his hand. The ink and handwriting were peculiarly uniform, as if the whole book had been written in one go. He went through the items again, searching his memory. The brooch was missing. Then he remembered giving her another brooch with her initials in emeralds on a gold setting. That was gone.
The reason for Clarisse wishing to kill her mistress was becoming plain. And while Lady Torridon needed Clarisse to help in the pretence of pregnancy, then Clarisse would have a hold over the countess. But the night of the ball, that hold had been broken. The earl had always been amazed at his wife’s generosity toward the maid. He remembered one gown in particular of which the countess had been extremely fond, and yet she had given it to Clarisse.
He went out again, this time to Mrs. Trumpington’s, and listened, appalled, to the old lady’s tale of attempted murder. “And she must have been hiding in the house, the cunning vixen,” said Mrs. Trumpington, “for in the morning all her things had gone.”
“And you did not report her to the authorities?”
“I would have done, but the duchess pointed out there was no real proof and all that would happen would be a lot of nasty scandal.”
“I have just discovered she theived some of my wife’s jewels and so I will report her now. Good heavens, do you not see? If she is not arrested for something, she may murder someone else, for I am now convinced it was she who poisoned my wife.”
The earl went to the magistrate in Bow Street and laid charges of theft against Clarisse Perdaux, “although,” he added, “I am now convinced that is an assumed name, for I am sure she is not French, but it is the name she has been using for some time. In Rundell & Bridge, she used the name Jackson.”
He offered a reward of a thousand guineas, and then made his way to Matilda’s while wanted posters were rapidly printed and posted all over London, the ink still wet from the printer’s.
When he entered Matilda’s drawing room, he found not only Matilda but Sir Charles and Letitia. He briefly told them what he had discovered and Sir Charles clapped his small hands in delight. “Now we have her!” he said.
“But we need proof that she killed the Countess of Torridon,” said Matilda wearily. “After all this time, the evidence will be only circumstantial.”
“With all these wanted posters going up in London,” said Sir Charles slowly, “she will find it impossible to sell anything else. She cannot work. Sooner or later, she will have to come out of hiding.”
“Sir Charles,” said the earl, “can you not take Miss Plumtree for a walk in the Park? I wish to be alone with the duchess.”
Matilda turned quite pale but said in a low voice, “Do leave us.”
Letitia went to fetch her bonnet. Sir Charles was turning over in his mind ways in which he might be able to find the missing Clarisse.
When Letitia and Sir Charles had gone out, the earl sat on the sofa next to Matilda and took her hand in his. “I have stayed away from you,” he said, “to give you time to make up your mind.”
Matilda looked at him sadly. “You must understand, Torridon, that I dread the scandal. I loathe all this murder business, all this dark crime. I have not recovered from my husband’s death. I still see him lying there with his life blood spilling out.” She shuddered.
“So you will not marry me?”
“Give me a little more time,” pleaded Matilda.
“I see what it is,” he said bitterly. “Your passion cannot equal mine or you would marry me tomorrow and let the tattletales of this world rot in hell. I could shake you.”
“Do not bully me,” said Matilda. “I have had enough of murder and mayhem to last me a lifetime!”
“Then it must be a lifetime without me.” The earl strode from the room and Matilda burst into tears.
Emma and Annabelle, who were just arriving, nearly collided with the enraged earl. They went upstairs to find Matilda in floods of tears.
“The brute,” cried Emma. “Has he not done enough damage? You must tell your servants to forbid him in the house!”
Matilda dried her eyes. “I am a disgrace,” she said. “I am so very weak. He despises me.”
“Who is that Scotch oaf to despise such as you?” said Annabelle hotly.
“I had better tell you all, my dear friends,” said Matild
a wearily. “The Countess of Torridon’s lady’s maid, Clarisse, took up employ with our old friend Mrs. Trumpington. Mrs. Trumpington was much taken with her, so much so that she planned to leave everything in her will to Clarisse. My charge, Letitia, is being courted by Sir Charles Follett. He suspected that Mrs. Trumpington, who was ill, was suffering from arsenical poisoning. He had all arsenic removed from the house and convinced the old lady to change her will. Yesterday morning on Ludgate Hill while I was in the mercers’ with Letitia, she saw Clarisse going past and ran out and followed her. The maid bought arsenic in Creed Lane. We got to Mrs. Trumpington’s in time to stop her drinking soup that I am now convinced was laced with arsenic. Clarisse escaped us. The earl has just discovered that she has sold a brooch belonging to his late wife. We did not know before what the maid’s motive for killing the countess could possibly be. There is a warrant out for her arrest for theft, but after all this time, it will be nigh impossible to prove she murdered the countess.”
“And is that why you are crying?” asked Emma.
“I am crying because the earl has obtained a special license and wishes me to marry him and I cannot while there is all this murder and mystery and scandal.”
“Matilda,” said Annabelle, “you were bullied dreadfully by the duke. You cannot possibly be contemplating marriage to a man who will bully you as well.”
“I love him,” said Matilda flatly. “I am wretched without him.”
Annabelle shook her head in amazement. “Can this be our Matilda? The bold and resolute Matilda. Why, if those are your feelings, you must forget about scandal and nonsense and marry him! If he was suspected of his wife’s murder, I could see your point.”
“He will not want to marry me now,” said Matilda, large tears rolling down her face. “I am so silly. I have led such an irregular sort of life, I wanted safety, security, tenderness, not this burning passion.”
“There now,” said Emma. “If he loves you very much, he will wait, and if you love him very much, you will send for him.”
“But love is supposed to be happy, tender! Not burning and aching as if one had the fever.”
The two matrons exchanged smiles across Matilda’s bent head.
“I would marry him, Matilda. Frustration is all that is up with you,” said Emma, and then laughed. “We must sound as bold and brazen as American women at the dinner table.” In America, the ladies always dined separately from the men and tales of the alarming frankness of their speech when they were in their cups startled many visiting Englishwomen.
“But there is Letitia,” pointed out Matilda. “It would be cruel to pack her off home so quickly.”
“As to that,” said Emma, “she can stay with me for the rest of the Season. She will probably marry Sir Charles. They are the talk of London.”
“Letitia even survived a visit to Sir Charles’s dreadful mother,” said Matilda. “But he is about the first man she met. I would like to see her having a chance to meet others.”
“Worry about yourself. Send your earl a note telling him you will marry him and that will be an end of it.”
“Give me a few days to think,” pleaded Matilda.
“It has nothing to do with us,” pointed out Emma. “But do not leave him too long or he may propose to someone else out of sheer bad temper!”
Letitia and Sir Charles walked slowly through the Park. “Where in the whole of this metropolis would Clarisse go?” asked Sir Charles.
“I do not know,” said Letitia. “I would not know where to begin to look. She may have left the country.”
“Soon she will need money.” Sir Charles stood stock still. “I have the glimmerings of an idea. But first we have to find her.”
“She will see the wanted posters and change her appearance. She could now look quite different.”
“I was very good at amateur theatricals,” said Sir Charles. “It is amazing, the best way to change one’s appearance is to do something very simple but people always go too far. I would wager anything that Clarisse had dyed her hair red, altered her shape with cushions, and put wax pads in her cheeks to change the shape of her face.”
“Oh, wonderful,” said Letitia. “All we have to do is search among the thousands of people in London for a fat woman with red hair.”
“Let me think. You saw her in Ludgate Hill, did you not? And the earl said she gave an address in Cheapside. So she is probably hiding somewhere in the City.”
“Thousands in the City,” said Letitia gloomily.
“But not late at night. And late at night is when she will probably emerge to buy food.”
“How can we patrol the City streets at night? Matilda would never let me out. We are to go to the opera tonight, and I must admit I am looking forward to it. I have never been to the opera before.”
“I shall take you to hundreds of operas,” said Sir Charles. “Could you not plead the headache and slip out of the house, say, at about midnight? I could be waiting with my carriage at the corner of the street.”
“Very well.” Letitia began to laugh. “We are quite mad, you know. A lady as tall as myself and a gentleman as finely dressed as you will attract a lot of attention.”
He frowned and then his face cleared. “I could purchase a suit of men’s clothes for you and we will both be plainly dressed, like a couple of shopkeepers. Is there a servant who would take the clothes for you and not say anything?”
“There is the duchess’s page, Peter. He is devoted to her and would do anything if he thought he was helping her.”
“Then take him into your confidence and send him to my lodgings at six. I will give him the clothes.”
“How will you be able to choose a suit of clothes to fit me?”
Sir Charles flushed slightly. He had gone over every inch of her body in his imagination. “Do not worry,” he said. “They will fit.”
Letitia was relieved when she returned to find that Matilda had gone to lie down and had left word she would not be well enough to go to the opera that evening. Summoned to Letitia’s bedchamber, the page, Peter, listened open-mouthed as Letitia told him the story of the murdering lady’s maid. “You see, Peter,” said Letitia, “if you aid me in this deception, you will be helping your mistress. For she will break her heart if she does not marry Torridon, and yet she is afraid to marry him until the death of his wife is explained.”
“Can I come with you?” begged Peter. “I can see in the dark excellent well.”
“But you do not know what Clarisse looks like.”
“I remember her well. I was lamp boy at Ramillies and went out walking to Hadsborough one day. The countess was driving through with a lady beside her and folks told me it was the countess and her lady’s maid. I marked her particularly for she looked too haughty and grand to be a servant. I have a good memory for faces.”
“If Sir Charles does not object, you may come with us.”
Sir Charles would have liked to object strongly when he saw the page following Letitia along the street, for he had been looking forward to sharing the adventure with her and with her alone. But the boy looked so excited and happy that Sir Charles had not the heart to send him away. He complimented Letitia on her appearance, saying she made a very fine shopkeeper. Letitia was wearing a brown coat over a plain waistcoat, buff trousers, and Hessian boots. Her beaver hat felt tight for she had crammed her thick tresses up under it. Sir Charles, minus paint and jewels and finery, looked very strange to Letitia. She adored his normally elaborate clothes.
They drove to the City and along Cheapside. Sir Charles’s groom held the horses, and then the three set off to patrol the streets of the City on foot.
Clarisse was very hungry and very frightened. She had seen that poster that afternoon offering a reward for her capture. She had promptly given up her lodgings and moved to new lodgings in Pudding Lane, talking in a broad country voice and introducing herself as a widow. The poster had fortunately described her as a French maid. Clarisse, as the earl and Sir Charl
es had rightly suspected, was not French. She was the daughter of a farm laborer from Kent, brought up one of ten, in filth and poverty. She was bright and so the local schoolteacher had taken pity on her and taught her her letters and found her a post in a local household. From there, having obtained a good reference, Clarisse had traveled to London, again finding a post as a housemaid, but in a noble household. She envied the lady’s maids of society with their airs and their fine clothes. She was well aware of the vogue for French maids, and so, when she had obtained a post as a housemaid in the Countess of Torridon’s household, she had set about making it look as if the countess’s lady’s maid was stealing things. When she exposed the “guilty” maid to the countess, she had told her she was in fact French, and had only changed her name out of fear of English prejudice. The countess was delighted to have a French maid to replace the one she had just fired, and so Clarisse got the post.
She waited in the dingy little room that was now her home. There was not room enough to hang away all her gowns and they lay piled up on the bed, the rich stuff shimmering in the candlelight. Clarisse did not know what to do. Any jeweler, even one who consorted with criminals, would gladly turn her over for that reward.
She decided that if she had something to eat and drink, then she might hit upon a plan. She had one mourning gown. One of the countess’s relatives had died a few years before and the countess, who had taken her maid to the funeral, had bought her a black gown and black straw hat with a heavy veil. Now Clarisse put them on. People, she knew, were apt to shy away from anyone in mourning.
It was four-thirty in the morning. Practically all the taverns and chop houses were closed. But there were a few, she knew, that would open soon down in Lower Thames Street to serve the porters of Billingsgate fish market.
She let herself quietly out of the building. Above her stood the Monument to the Great Fire of London, pointing up into the night sky. She scurried down Pudding Lane where the Great Fire had started and along Lower Thames Street and past the grim walls of St. Dunstan’s workhouse. A great clanging bell sounded, a signal that the market was opening for business. The sky was lightening by the minute but Clarisse was so very hungry, she was determined, despite the risk, to find something to eat.
