by Issy Brooke
“Hoi, sir, you may hand me back my whip this instant!”
“Do it, Geoffrey.”
“I had every intention of doing so.” Geoffrey sprang up to take his place on the one-person bench next to the driver, though the man was unwilling and nearly pushed him back off again.
“Well, I cannot ride inside with the lady,” Geoffrey said, and settled himself over most of the narrow seat. “Back to the Inns, now, if you please.”
The journey back was long and bumpy, and Cordelia nestled deep inside the cab, with her eyes half-closed, letting the noise of the wheels and the street beyond lull her into a half-sleep, half-dream.
She played out the room in her head, seeing it from every angle.
Someone broke into the room from the adjoining one, through the cupboard back, she knew. It was too much of a coincidence to ignore it.
Was the back of the cupboard removed that night of the murder?
No, she thought. There was plaster dust on the floor too; between each wardrobe would have been a lath and plaster wall. It would be noisy and have created much more mess than she had seen. So it was pre-meditated.
Had the joiner known?
He had warned her about privacy and security, after all.
Then a new thought struck her. Was, perhaps, Florence — although not guilty of the deed herself — an accomplice? Could she have enticed the man to be there at that time?
Or, more guilty still — did she lay the trap and had she arranged for some other party to come in through the wardrobe and do the deed?
No, she realised. That was nonsense because the manner of killing was poison in the wine. If she was going to poison him, she didn’t need anyone to come in from outside.
It meant, even more strongly, that Florence was likely to be innocent of both the crime and the manner of its doing.
Someone must have come in, while they slept, and added the poison to the wine.
And that made Cordelia wonder who the intended victim was. Bonneville, or Florence herself?
Or both?
But Florence did not drink and so she did not die.
Was she still in danger? If so, then the safest place for her to be was probably the police cells, though that was a bit of a stretch, Cordelia had to concur. Surely a small payment in the right hands and anyone could gain access to the cells to end Florence’s life.
She remembered Constable Evans. There were still honest men there yet, and too many potential witnesses. No, Florence was as safe there as anywhere.
At least, until they hanged her.
Chapter Twenty-one
Cordelia was assailed by the smells of cooking as soon as she entered her sitting room. The door to the kitchen was firmly closed, but it was not enough to prevent the aromas of something sweet wafting through the rest of the rooms. Back at Clarfields, the kitchens were well away from the living areas, down cool corridors and through many doors, to stop the smells contaminating the rest of the house.
But Cordelia quite liked it. She realised that it was mid-afternoon now, and she had not eaten since she had breakfasted on kippers very early in the morning.
There were priorities that came before her stomach, however. “Where is Stanley?” she demanded as she opened the kitchen door.
Mrs Unsworth was by the small range, stirring a copper pot on the top. She simply nodded towards the stable lad who jumped to his feet. He had been sitting at the table, a half-eaten apple in his hands. Judging by the brownness of the apple’s flesh, he had been taking his time in eating it.
“My lady!”
“I am glad to see you are back here,” she said.
Ruby was also there, and Neville Fry who was polishing the silverware. That was his preferred task when he was distracted and upset. Cordelia wondered if he’d polish the knives right down to mere slivers.
Geoffrey blundered in behind her, and the kitchen was suddenly far too small and far too crowded.
“The ladies of the mission were distressed,” Stanley stammered out, bright red, and she felt awful for him.
“I am so, so sorry,” she said, wanting to take his hands in hers and reassure him that it didn’t matter. But it did matter. “I shouldn’t have lied but I didn’t think they’d take me seriously if I told them who I really was.”
“They can’t understand it. They feel betrayed, my lady.”
Ruby snorted. But Cordelia put up a warning finger and her maid did not speak.
“I will go to them and make a donation to their works, and try to explain all,” she said. “I hope this will not make things awkward for you at your church.”
Ruby was unable to stop herself. “They should forgive, though, shouldn’t they?”
“They will,” Stanley said, but he was miserable. “They will forgive but they won’t forget.”
Mrs Unsworth slapped a bowl onto the table and snatched his apple up. “Here, sit, boy. Eat that and stop grizzling.” It was as kind as the cook could get, and he sank back to the chair when Cordelia urged him to.
“Now,” Cordelia went on. “I have some things to tell you all, especially you, Mr Fry. I think you will be assured that your daughter is, indeed, innocent.”
She told them all what she had seen in Mrs Clancey’s lodging house. Mrs Unsworth doled out more vermicelli pudding for them all. Geoffrey ate standing up, leaning against a dresser. Ruby and Stanley sat on wooden chairs while a softer one was brought through from the sitting room for Cordelia. She felt deliciously transgressive to be eating with her staff. Neville Fry, of all of them, could not eat in her presence; he simply couldn’t unbend enough. Besides, he was hanging on her every word.
She also told them about Hugo Hawke, and how he wanted her help with the police. At that, Geoffrey was immediately suspicious.
“There is a great deal he isn’t telling you, my lady.”
“I know that, but it intrigues me. He really does seem to need me.”
“No. It will be a trick and nothing more. He seeks to bring you down. He’ll pretend to be all needful-like, and then at the last minute, he’ll sell you out. Avoid him, my lady. Let me go after him, if you like.”
“Absolutely not! We’ve been through this,” she said. “You are not to go around hurting people on my behalf. At least, not without my knowledge and permission.”
Stanley nodded furiously. She could only see the top of his head and the tips of his ears which were red with anger. He must be feeling responsible for me being arrested, she thought, and therefore responsible for meeting Hugo at the station house.
But when Stanley spoke, he simply said, “Vengeance is the Lord’s.” He coughed and dropped his spoon with a clatter, and picked it up with a white-knuckled hand.
Geoffrey said, “Ha! No, it seems to me that vengeance can be the work of man. It saves the Lord some time so He can get on with other stuff. Like, oh, inventing giraffes and all that. Singing on clouds.”
“That’s angels,” Ruby said, but she was laughing.
Even Mrs Unsworth seemed to stir the pot with a slightly lighter hand and Cordelia herself smiled.
They all froze when they heard a knock on the outer door. It persisted and grew louder.
Neville Fry suddenly roused himself and patted at his trousers and jacket and tried to smooth his hair down, all at the same time. “The door!” he said, as if no one had realised.
“Go to it, please.”
He disappeared, through the sitting room and into the antechamber that lay between the main rooms and the corridor. She heard a familiar voice.
“It’s Septimus,” she said. “I’ll meet him in the sitting room. Thank you for the pudding, Mrs Unsworth.”
The cook grunted.
Cordelia walked into the sitting room still carrying a little mirth in her heart, which curled up and died as soon as she saw Septimus’s long face. He folded his arms and she knew that gesture from her girlhood. He’d always seemed old, to her, and now she felt like a little girl again, caught running through the
flowerbeds or teaching the dog to roll over and play dead when someone sneezed.
“I have heard of your latest exploits,” he said.
“Ahh. Um, do have a seat, dear Septimus.”
He hesitated long enough to make her feel awkward, and then flung himself into a wing-backed chair. He stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. “Cordelia. Explain.”
“What exactly have you heard?” she countered.
“Why, does that make a difference to what you are about to explain? Is your version of the truth dependent on what I want or need to hear? Are you going to lie to me like you have done to the good and honest ladies of East Street Mission?”
Cordelia folded herself into a chair opposite him. “I did not mean to take advantage of their good natures…”
“But you did. So, explain, if you will, for you are here trading on my good name and my good nature and if you have used me in this manner also…”
“No! Not at all! Listen…”
She told Septimus everything she had previously told her staff. He listened, and he softened as he did so. She was glad to see it. She could not bear the thought of having her old friend disappointed in her.
“I can understand your actions,” he said at last. “I don’t agree with them, not one bit, but I know you, and I can see how you ended up acting so … impulsively.”
“That is a kind way of saying I am a foolish woman.”
He raised an eyebrow, and allowed her a brief smile. But he soon returned to a more serious tone. “Unfortunately, Cordelia, there are wider ramifications of your actions. I am not here to be kind. Have you not yet wondered how I came to hear of these misadventures?”
“I have … and I assume that the streets of London are already paved with gossip rather than gold.”
“Indeed they are. The police sell their stories to the newspapers, obviously, and I work in the world of publishing. And nothing travels faster than news. A meeting here, a word there, a mention over a drink … I suspect I know more about the situation than you do.”
“How so?”
“I know, for example, that you are not to be charged with anything. The police have had their sport, and now it is over.”
She felt relief wash over her, sweat prickling all along her spine. “Oh! Thank goodness.”
“Alas, that is not quite the end of it for you. Or, in another sense, it is very much an ending…”
“Septimus, enough with the riddles, please!”
“I hesitate to tell you this.” He sighed. “I am sorry. I cannot put it off. Cordelia, the magazine has cancelled your column.”
“What?”
“No more weekly articles on cookery or anything. I am sorry. You were already on thin ice because you were not writing exactly the sort of thing that the readers wanted. Then you missed a deadline. And now this scandal — they simply can’t keep you on.”
“But…” She subsided into a gloomy silence. There was no point in arguing. She knew why the magazine could not continue to publish her. It would be death to their sales.
Septimus got to his feet and extended his hands. She rose, dutifully, and he enfolded in a sudden, surprising, deeply improper hug. She hadn’t been held in so long — so many years — that the shock of the contact with another human body nearly broke her. She swallowed painfully and blinked until her eyes were clear again. He squeezed, and then released her.
“I take the liberty as I once saw you quite naked,” he said, daringly. “Admittedly, you were three years old at the time.”
“Septimus, thank you.”
“Please, Cordelia, have a think about what your aims are to be, now. I honestly counsel you to give up the writing.”
“My aim is to solve this murder.”
She waited for him to try and dissuade her.
He did not.
“Then I wish you all the luck in the world, and you know where I am if you need to call on me and my resources at any time.”
He left, and Cordelia sank back into the chair. She closed her eyes for a brief moment. When the door from the kitchen opened slightly, she barked at whoever it was to leave her alone; she didn’t open her eyes but she heard the door close again.
She was morose about the column.
But she had an aim, and she had support, and those things were beyond value. How many other widows in her position had such motivation in their lives, save for the endless quest to find ones’ self a new husband?
Refocus, refocus, she told herself. I must look again at that lodging house with the false wardrobe. Someone has done that; someone will know. Did that joiner know anything of it? If he did, then he was foolish to let me into that room. At any rate, I must return there, somehow.
And Socks. They say that he was an enemy of Bonneville yet there was a connection there. The connection is Florence Fry. She groaned in frustration. How could she get to see Albert Socks? He haunted clubs and dining rooms; places she could not go.
He was single, as far as she could tell. No one spoke of a wife or a family. Ruby had confirmed it from her dealings at the house, speaking to the staff there.
She was startled once more by a knocking at the outer door. She thought it would be Septimus, returned to tell her some new thing or to collect something he might have left behind, so she sprang to the antechamber and answered the door herself.
It was not Septimus Gibbs.
The smug, slappable face of Hugo Hawke leered at her. He leaned his weight on one leg, posing and louche, and said, “Hello again, dear Cordelia. This is merely a courtesy call to see if you are quite recovered after your earlier ordeal.”
“I should slam this door in your face.”
He shoved out a booted foot against the door. “You should let me in. Do not forget, dear one. You owe me.”
Chapter Twenty-two
She backed into the sitting room. “All my staff are here, including Geoffrey.” She nodded towards the kitchen door. She didn’t think he would try anything, but she was taking no risks.
“Jolly good.” Hugo ignored her veiled threat, and instead wandered around the room, staring idly at the pictures on the walls.
“Oh, sit down. If you are trying to unsettle me, it’s not working. You’re just annoying,” she snapped.
“Ooh, but you sound unsettled.” Nevertheless, he took the winged armchair that Septimus had just vacated. She hoped, viciously, that it was still unpleasantly warm.
She remained standing, and placed herself close to the door to the kitchen. With her arms folded, she said, “I am fine. Thank you for coming. Thank you for paying my bail. How much was it? I shall settle up with you immediately.”
He waved at her dismissively. “No need, no need. You can pay me in other ways.”
“Geoffr–”
“No, no, no, foolish woman. You do think very lowly of me, don’t you? I can admit I am a cad, but I am not that beastly. No, I want information. What have you found out about the police?”
“I don’t really understand what you want.”
“Evidence, hard evidence, that they are corrupt and ignoble curs so that I might have them all dismissed and … and honest men put in their place.”
“I cannot think of a single bit of hard evidence that would suit your purpose. What do you want? A signed confession? There is much that you are not telling me.” She wanted to stamp her feet in frustration. “You ask the impossible of me!”
“Listen, while you were in the station house, did any of the policemen there seem likely to be honest? Were there any who might speak privately to you? Anybody upon whom you might use your womanly charms? Anyone who might turn evidence against the malpractice in that division, or others? Bow Street is important. I think that might be my way in to expose Holborn.”
She thought immediately of Constable Evans. She said, “No. No one would speak to me.”
He sighed. “I should have left you there. I wonder if I can get you re-arrested…”
“Absolutely no
t!”
He smoothed down his whiskers and sighed again. If he did it a third time, she resolved to throw something at his head. He said, “Perhaps we need to make allies in other areas. I must have my way into this pit of snakes. I must stop them!”
“And this is all to do with your public house, is it?”
“You don’t believe me?”
“No, I shall be frank with you: I do not!”
“The police are stopping my boxing matches unless I pay them vast bribes. This is blackmail, plain and simple. I told you this.”
“These boxing matches of yours, Hugo. Are they fixed? Are they legal?”
“Of course they are not fixed. They’re a vital source of revenue, it is true. But all manner of men attend them, even fine gentlemen. It’s not just a sport for the lower orders, though there is a certain element of ‘roughing it’ that appeals to gentlemen and the like.”
She noted that he had not answered her query as to the legality of the matches. She filed that away.
“Tell me this,” she said. “Have you heard of one Lord Brookfield? Does he attend them?”
“I have heard of the man, of course, but no, I am unaware of him attending the matches. My publican would have told me, I am sure of it. He keeps me appraised of the more interesting spectators.”
“What about the man who is dead, Bonneville?”
“Again, I know him by reputation only.”
“Well, then. And what of one Albert Socks?”
“Oh, that reprobate?” He laughed. “What do you want with him? I meet him at card games around the city from time to time. Is he a suspect in your little endeavour?”
“He is certainly of interest to my enquiries,” she said.
“Aha! And you want an introduction to him, I suppose? Another favour from me, eh? They are quite stacking up.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “It could be for your benefit too.”
“How?”
“There was one constable at the station house who might look favourably on me.”
“You said there was not!”
“I am not certain. I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”
