by Issy Brooke
“It is,” said Cordelia, impressed. “Let us wait no longer. Dodson, please, lead on.”
“Right you are, Mrs C. Follow me, and step as light as you can.”
Cordelia was nearly sick with excitement. Somehow, in the company of her staff and in particular the confident and oddly charming Dodson, she felt like it was all a silly adventure.
That was, until they crept to the front door. There were steps to the right that led down to the area in front of the house, fenced off from the street by iron railings. Dodson led her that way, creeping into the inky blackness where he began to prise at a small window.
She could not see what he did but suddenly the pane of glass fell forwards silently into his waiting hands. He laid it carefully on the floor.
“Prized out the putty, Mrs C,” he said cheerfully when he saw her peering at it. “Come along now, and silently.”
He slithered through the window, and Cordelia stared at the opening.
There was no way her dresses would fit through that.
Dodson poked his head back out. “Are you coming?”
“I can’t.” She gestured hopelessly at her wide hips.
He rolled his eyes but there was a good-humoured smile on his face. “Go up to the door then, as soon as I open it.”
She waited in the shadows until she heard the faint creak of the front door opening from inside, and she darted up the steps. He pressed it closed behind her and led her quickly through the hall. Nothing was lit, save one lamp to light Socks’ way on his return. She strained her ears and caught very distant laughter.
“The servants in the hall beyond,” Dodson whispered as he crept up the stairs, testing each tread for a squeak before he committed his full weight to the step. “And if we can hear them from here, I would wager they are making very merry with the master’s alcohol.”
From what Cordelia knew of them, that sounded very likely.
Now it felt less like a game, and more like dangerous folly. Actually being inside the house, so close to the other occupants, made Cordelia realise that this wasn’t a fun little adventure.
She could be arrested once again, and this time there would be no chance of bail.
Now they were on the first floor landing. There was one lamp lit, at the far end, where another set of stairs snaked upwards. Dodson pressed himself far too close to Cordelia, and whispered, “Any idea which one is the study?”
“Not a clue,” she hissed back.
Dodson then went to each door in turn, silently padding along in his soft-soled shoes, and sniffed at each door, bending to put his nose close to the keyholes.
“This one!” he said suddenly, raising his hand.
“How can you tell?” she asked as she dashed to his side.
“It smells more strongly than any of the others of pipe tobacco,” he explained. He twisted the handle. “And luck is on our side, Mrs C. It ain’t locked.” He tutted. “You think these rich folk would have more sense. Anyone might come along. People like us!”
“Indeed,” she said.
He opened the door very slowly and steadily. She knew why he had to move so carefully but it made her feel tense. Her palms sweated and her scalp felt prickly and itchy. He slid through a narrow gap and she followed, opening the door a little wider to accommodate her skirts.
The cloak was all very well, but she perhaps should have dressed a little more for house-breaking than house-calls.
She was impressed by Dodson’s guesswork and strategy. They were, indeed, in the study. Dodson went to the windows and looked out. “We are by the street,” he said in a low voice. “I can see your girl down there. She’s a bold one. Does she have a sweetheart?”
Cordelia glared at him but he had his back to her. “Yes,” she hissed. “Many.”
He sighed in disappointment. “Right, to our task! This key. Have you any idea what might distinguish it from any other key?”
“I suspect that it will be on its own, not part of a bunch or set. It will be unmarked, or have the name of a lodging house — Mrs Clancey’s — on it. It will be plain, and much used, as it is one given out to those who rent a room in this particular place.”
“That helps,” he said. “And will he not miss the key?”
“I do not intend to take it,” she said. “For that will mark me as a thief and I’ve already had one brush with the law. I do not want to give them more ammunition against me.”
“Then what will you do with this key?”
She smiled, and he was facing her now. “Wait and see.”
They got down to the task. There was a gas lamp in the street outside but it barely illuminated two feet around it, and lent very little light to the room itself. But their eyes had adjusted to the gloom, and Dodson had brought a stub of a candle which he lit and shaded with his hand.
She worked methodically. She went first to his desk and began to open drawers. She soon hit upon one that was locked, and Dodson stepped in. He crouched down and inserted a fine length of wire. Curiously, he turned his head away, and closed his eyes. He appeared to be listening intently to the lock mechanism as he made tiny movements of his fingers.
And then the drawer sprang open and he stood up with an even wider grin than normal. “I do get an uncommon sense of achievement in my line of work, Mrs C,” he said. “I’d recommend this as a change of job for anyone who feels a little jaded, you know.”
“Goodness. I will bear it in mind.”
She peered into the drawer. There was a bundle of paperwork tied up with a ribbon and she studied it to see if it offered any clues. Sadly it didn’t have a signed confession on it; it seemed to be business relating to voting and policies and something to do with the current state of famine in Ireland. The writing was in black but another hand had scrawled across the top, in red, “Fifteenth of May!” The dots over the letter “i” were formed with circles, like a child would do. She wondered what was to happen in the following month. She put the documents aside and looked towards the back of the drawer.
“I have it!” she said suddenly.
“Hush!” Dodson came to her side and looked at the key. “May I?”
“For a moment.” She handed it to him and fished around in a pocket that she had tied on around her waist before she’d left her own lodgings. She brought out a small piece of biscuit dough that she had carefully wrapped in waxed paper, and laid it on the desk.
After staring at the key intently, Dodson handed it back to her, and she pressed it into the dough. “I have worked on this for days,” she said. “I wanted to find a mixture that would hold a shape most accurately, and this is it.”
“That is clever, indeed,” Dodson said. “But I ought to tell you that as soon as we leave this place, I could draw out the key in its exact shape and take that image to a locksmith who would make up an exact copy, you know.”
“Your powers of recall are strong.”
“Not so; it is a trick,” he said. “See here.” He held the key up horizontally between them so that it was more visible in the darkness. “You must imagine a set of lines that run from left to right, each corresponding to one of the teeth of the key. The lowest then will be numbered one. So this key can be read as three, one, two, one, four. Do you see?”
“How fascinating! But the key itself is of a particular shape.”
“Yes, but all are based on a few distinct moulds. It is an art, and one of my many skills.”
“Mrs Unsworth certainly chose the right man.”
“And she chose the right mistress,” he said. “For I know what you do for her family.”
“Hush,” she said, turning away and putting the key back in the drawer. “She does not.”
“But—”
“Can you lock this drawer again?” she said.
“Certainly, Mrs C,” he replied, and he bent to the task cheerfully.
As he wriggled the wire in the lock, she prowled around the rest of the study. It was furnished in a typical bachelor way and reminded her o
f Hugo Hawke’s male domain. She wondered if they all bought their novelty globe drinks cabinets in the same shop which exclusively provided furnishings for bachelors’ studies. She crossed to the fire and shook her head in disapproval when she saw that the grate had not been swept out.
On a small table by a comfortable-looking chair was a book, and she was curious to see what he was reading. It turned out to be The Count of Monte Cristo, but when she flipped it open, the bookmark was only a few pages in. He hadn’t made much progress.
She was about to close it when she noticed that the bookmark was a note scribbled on a scrap of paper.
Coercion will fail. Look to your loyalties; speak not to me. B.
Her heart thudded. She grabbed it and thrust it into her pocket, and nearly squealed in surprise when something showered against the window.
Dodson ran past her and pressed against the glass, waving. “Mrs C, that is our signal to depart.”
“Of course.” She put the book down and hesitated. Wouldn’t he notice that she had taken the note? She didn’t understand it but she had a very strong suspicion as to its meaning.
“Mrs C!” Dodson said urgently.
Now her attention was caught by the fireplace once more. Socks had not been burning coal. She peered more closely. There was the ragged edge of fabric there, and white dust.
“Mrs C!” Dodson hissed. “I shall leave you here. Remember you must leave by the door unless you wish to strip yourself of your clothes…”
“Dash it!”
There was no more time to think. She followed him out of the room, down the stairs and through the main door. He remained within, and locked it, and within moments he had slithered out of the lower window.
Ruby was waiting for them in the street. She was frantic, and pointed to the right. “Geoffrey is there, arguing with the coach, and I assume it is Socks, so we must go.”
They ran to the left, towards Stanley, and were joined by a breathless Geoffrey a few moments later.
“I hope your housebreaking was worth it,” Geoffrey said. “I have been writhing around on the floor pretending to be quite mad. My jacket is ruined.”
“I shall see that everyone is fully recompensed,” she said. “Especially you, Dodson.”
“I already have been, Mrs C,” he said cheerfully, and opened his coat to reveal an array of small objects pilfered from the house of Albert Socks. “I already have been.”
Chapter Thirty-six
They all slept late the next morning, except for Neville Fry who was up and prowling about from dawn. The smell of silver polish seemed to hang in the air like a winter fog. Cordelia woke by slow degrees, coming to a gradual awareness as the recollections of the previous night’s adventures ambled through her mind.
And then she was bolt upright in bed, and calling for Ruby.
“I know what we must do next!” she declared. “Come along. Get up and get yourself dressed. Help me get dressed. We must breakfast and go straight down to the police station house!”
“All at the same time?” Ruby grumbled. She shuffled off to the kitchen to seek out warm water.
***
Cordelia and Ruby walked together to Bow Street. Cordelia was brimming with excitement and determination. She carried a very precious parcel, well-padded, in her hands.
“This could be it, Ruby,” she said as they neared the open doors of the station house. “We could soon have Florence Fry free at last, and the real murderer in irons!”
“We have much to do to effect that,” Ruby said cautiously.
“Constable Evans!” Cordelia called and leaped forward. The young policeman was coming down the steps to the street and he looked wide-eyed at the apparition before him. Cordelia had insisted on dressing to the very highest standard. Nothing strikes fear into a man like a woman well-corseted with a high feathered hat, she had told Ruby, and her maid agreed.
Certainly, the look on Evans’ face was bordering on terror.
“Good lady, my morning,” he said. “Oh!”
She smiled at him, and wondered if the police would be a fitting career for her Stanley, who was similarly afflicted. “Good day,” she said politely, as if he hadn’t stumbled over his words. “I wonder if I might have a private talk with you. We need your help.”
“I, oh, thank you. I have just finished my shift,” he said.
“Of course. We won’t be long,” she said, and she hustled him back up the steps into the stationhouse. “Any little office will do. Thank you.”
He had no choice, trapped as he was in a pincer movement between Ruby and Cordelia. There was no sign of Inspector Hood and she was relieved about that.
Once they were in a small side room, she wasted no time. “Constable Evans, there is a girl in your cells who is not only entirely innocent of the crime she has been accused of, but in fact, she is a victim herself! A victim, being treated as a murderer. The situation is intolerable.”
“Miss Fry, you mean, my lady?”
“The same. Now, she is the victim of a hateful campaign to push the blame onto her. This cannot be allowed to happen.”
“But she goes to the Old Bailey next week, and there is no one else to stand trial for the deed,” Constable Evans said. “I fear that she will be found guilty and she will hang, for sure.”
“Absolutely not. Not while there are fine men like yourself who work tirelessly for justice.”
He swallowed nervously. “But what can I do? I am just an ordinary man on the beat.”
“Are we not all ordinary people yet called, sometimes, to extraordinary things?” Cordelia did not glance at Ruby, who would be rolling her eyes by now. But the rhetoric was working on the constable. He was standing a little taller, and watching Cordelia with eyes of pride and hope, and not a little trepidation.
“Yes, my lady, perhaps…” he said.
“Marvellous. I knew that you would understand. Did I not say so, Ruby?” she said, without looking at her maid. “Now, we shall begin this important work, together. I am so glad you will help us. All we need is to see the evidence that has been gathered on Florence Fry. We shall wait here.” She beamed at him expectantly.
He frowned, smiled, gaped, sighed, and licked his lips nervously. Once he had run through the gamut of emotions, he had nothing else left to do but to obey.
“I shall do what I can,” he said, and disappeared.
He was not gone for long.
When he returned, he was carrying a large paste-board box, and he slid it onto the table. He nodded at the door and Ruby jumped to close it behind him. She stayed there, on guard against sudden unexpected intruders.
Cordelia put her own precious parcel on the table next to the box, and unwrapped the layers that protected it. “I believe a key was found in her possession,” she said.
“Indeed,” Constable Evans said, and dug in the box until he pulled it free. “This is it.”
She took it, and laid it onto the object she had revealed from the parcel’s wrappings. “It matches!”
And it did. The key that Florence had used now lay in a perfect impression of its twin, nestling on a bed of hardened biscuit dough.
Cordelia clapped her hands. “The key that Albert Socks keeps is, indeed, the same as the one to her room. And, as we know, Ruby, all the rooms on that floor use this very key.”
“That introduces some doubt, then, my lady,” Ruby pointed out. “This key is not an exclusive pattern.”
“It is enough, I think. I am sure of it,” Cordelia said. “What else lies in this box?”
“See for yourself,” he said, and stepped back.
She peered inside. There was the bottle of wine, now empty. She sniffed at the bottle but could detect nothing but a vinegar odour, and stale at that. There were Florence’s gloves, and her small handbag. Inside that was a purse containing a few coins, a tortoiseshell comb, and a small pot that seemed to have cream within it. Separate to all that was a note.
Her heart leaped. More clues, she thought, an
d unfolded the paper to read what the message said.
It was thick and expensive paper, ragged at the edges, with a definable laid pattern to it. The hand that had written the note was firm and steady, with looping letters, a pure and proper copperplate. “Where was the note found? In Florence’s handbag?”
“I do not think so, my lady. It was in the room, yes. But it is from Miss Fry herself, I believe, to the deceased gentleman.”
It was a simple and straightforward message. “Meet me at Mrs Clancey’s tonight. Our usual room. F.”
Ruby came from her post at the door to look at the letter. “Her handwriting’s improved,” she said.
Cordelia blinked. “Goodness, so it has.” She still had the letter that Florence had sent to her father. She compared the two. Florence’s original letter was childish and badly spelled.
This new note was perfect in every way.
“She did not write this note,” Cordelia said. “This, then, is more evidence that this murder was arranged, and she was but a pawn in the affair!”
Before Constable Evans could protest, she put the key and the note in her own bag. She saw his look, and explained, “I cannot leave it to the police here; you understand that, don’t you? I must take charge, now.”
He nodded, a little unwillingly.
She took her leave before he could change his mind, and try to stop her.
***
After such a good start to the day, Cordelia thought that things would continue to go well. Unfortunately, she spent the afternoon pacing the lodgings at Furnival’s Inn, trying to work out how she was going to set up the final confrontation.
Ruby and Stanley were in the room, and Neville hovered by the open kitchen door, trying to work but failing to complete any task.
Cordelia sat, stood up, walked, sat, and generally huffed and puffed and sighed her way around the sitting room.
“We cannot leave this to the police,” she said. “She will not go before the police court at Bow Street, so the fact that I know one of the magistrates there is of no help.” She thought of Hugo Hawke, and his insistence that the police corruption that was thwarting him in Holborn was only to be solved by public exposure. Maybe he was correct.
