by Issy Brooke
“So,” she continued, now standing at the window but not looking at anything in particular. “So … I must confront Albert Socks in a public place, and in sight of persons of standing, and the law itself, and the general population. There must be witnesses so that his guilt is made unequivocally plain to all. I will demonstrate, with this actual evidence, that Florence did not write the note. I will demonstrate that Socks had a key to the room. I will explain how the murder was committed, and I also have the note from Socks’ own house.”
“I do not understand that note,” Ruby said.
Cordelia read it out again. “Coercion will fail. Look to your loyalties; speak not to me. B.”
“Brookfield?”
“Bonneville,” Cordelia said. “It is clear that Socks has tried to coerce Bonneville because of his revolutionary politics. Socks wanted to change Bonneville’s mind. Undeterred, Bonneville has continued, and sent this note to remind Socks that he cannot be coerced, and to leave him alone.”
Ruby nodded. “I see.”
“But where can I make this stand?” wailed Cordelia in frustration. “Must I go to Parliament myself and bang on the door like Black Rod until I am allowed in?”
“You could blow the doors off with gunpowder but a woman can never gain admittance,” Ruby said.
Cordelia leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the window. “Come on, Stanley,” she said. “You are the one who steps in at this moment and makes everything all right again.”
“I am sorry, my lady, I am trying,” he stammered.
“It’s obvious.”
Cordelia shot to the kitchen door. Geoffrey was sitting at the table, a scattering of food around him, and he was grinning. He nodded towards Stanley who had followed Cordelia.
“He knows, he does, the lad,” Geoffrey went on. “You were talking about it last night and all.”
“I know what?”
“You were mithering on about some lecture that you wished to attend but you felt you would not be welcome, on account of you just being some stable boy.”
“I was,” Stanley said. “Oh! My lady, perhaps it is the thing. For it is a political debate to be held, tonight, at some public rooms.”
“What is the nature of the debate?”
“The famine in Ireland.”
“Peel says there is no famine. He says it is an exaggeration.”
“Not so,” Stanley said, blushing at the arrogance of correcting his mistress. “The church I attend is very clear upon the matter. They are dying there, dying like dogs, falling to the ground by the side of the road, dying where they fall and where they lay.”
Cordelia’s flesh chilled and her goose bumps rose. “But can we be sure that Socks will be there?”
“We cannot.”
“We can find out,” said Ruby. “I will return to his house and speak to his staff once more. Stanley, if you please…”
He leaped to her side, and together they went out on their mission.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Many politicians had turned out for the lecture. Sir Robert Peel was losing his already-tenuous grip on his own party, never mind the whole country. Things looked bad for him. Many said that he knew that his days were now numbered, and that he was trying to push through as much legislation as he could before he had to resign — or, worse, another assassination attempt was made. The last one had led to the tragic death of his secretary.
Cordelia surrounded herself by her staff, and had made them all dress up as finely as they could. “You must look like the well-to-do liveried members of a good household,” she had told them.
“You mean we’re not?”
But they had responded, and now she approached the lecture hall, flanked by Ruby, Stanley and Geoffrey, all following a half-pace behind and fanning out like a train behind her.
It appeared to be a very popular lecture, or debate. Indeed, Cordelia was not quite sure what she was heading for. The topic of the night was a difficult one, and she was not sure which of the reports she’d heard were the right ones. And if there was a famine in Ireland, was it the role of the state to intervene? What had caused it? Foolish farming? Free trade? Many blamed the tendencies of the Irish poor themselves, as if they were animals not people; some of the things that Cordelia overheard made her sick and angry, though she recognised fear and misunderstanding in their words. She herself had never been to Ireland. Perhaps they were correct in what they said. Could people be so different, country to country?
She thought, then, she ought to travel even more widely, and see for herself.
“My lady!” Ruby’s urgent hiss brought her back to herself. Ruby caught up and put up a hand to stop Cordelia. “Look, his footman was right in what he told me. There is Socks himself! I recognise the coach he is stepping down from. Look at that crest! Does he fancy himself as a lord, then?”
“Clearly he does,” Cordelia said. “You are right. That is the ambitious little toad himself.”
“Will you confront him here?”
“I don’t know.” Cordelia was buffeted on all sides now that she was closer to the entrance. She heard someone call her name, and saw Ivy and her husband who were approaching from the opposite direction. That put Socks right in the middle of them. “Yes,” she said, decisively. “Now is the time!”
She stepped forward and raised her hand up high. “Albert Socks!” she said, trying to shout, but somehow a bout of nervousness had gripped her out of nowhere, and she merely squeaked.
She tried again. She needed to catch him before he entered the lecture hall. “Albert Socks! You are a murderer!”
That stopped him. In fact, it stopped everyone. He spun around and spotted her.
“Er … good evening, my lady,” he said, confusion all across his face. He didn’t look remotely guilty or threatened. “Are you addressing me? Is this a parlour game gone wrong?”
“I am addressing you!” she declared and moved closer to him. “I am here to tell you that you are to be arrested for the murder of Florence Fry.” There were policemen within earshot, and Mr Delaney the magistrate on hand too. How could she fail?
Easily.
Socks laughed. “Oh dear. London air and London stress has had a terrible effect on you, my dear woman. Your maid must take you home directly.”
“I have evidence,” she said. She pulled out the key and the impression she had taken in dough.
“You have a biscuit,” he said, and the nearest people laughed. She had already amassed a curious crowd.
“The key that was taken from Florence Fry is the same key that you had in your possession! You gained entry to the room that night.”
He looked around at the expectant watchers, and smiled, playing to them. “Of course I have the same key. I rented that room and I have never denied it. She took a copy of the key, the foolish and duplicitous girl. She wanted to use that room for her own ends.”
“But why did you rent such a room?” Cordelia said.
There was a low hum of laughter even before he answered, quite simply, “I am a man.”
No, you’re a fool, and that’s quite different, she thought. She then brandished the note aloft. “They claim that this note was written by Florence, asking Bonneville to meet her there! But we have a letter from Florence and it clearly demonstrates that this note was a forgery.”
“It only shows that one or the other might be a forgery, not which one,” Socks said. He seemed to be enjoying himself. “Any other evidence, you poor dear?”
“This!” she said and held the final, coded message aloft. “From Bonneville himself, asking you to stop bullying him! You could never hope to coerce him to change his politics. So you killed him!”
His eyes widened when he recognised the note, and he took a step back. Mr Delaney had come up close beside him, and put out a steadying hand. The magistrate looked very serious, and very sad.
“My dear lady,” he said, in a low voice. “I shall ask my Ivy to accompany you home, and I know a ver
y good doctor who might be called upon at your earliest convenience.”
“I am not ill, nor am I mad!” she said. “This is evidence!”
Mr Delaney shook his head. “It is with very great regret that I must inform you, my lady, that all your evidence is utterly useless.”
“Why?” She fought to appear to be in control but it was hard as waves of anger made her hot. “Because the police are corrupt? Because he is a man of some influence? I do not believe it!”
“No,” Mr Delaney said. “For Mr Socks was dining with me on the night that Louis Bonneville lost his life.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
She stepped back. The crowd was roaring with laughter now, and her staff closed around her, fending off the pointing fingers and baying voices. Ivy, too, came up to her, and she looked distraught with worry.
“Dear Cordelia, come this way. You can use our carriage.”
Cordelia could barely think straight. She stared as Albert Socks tipped his hat to her, very shallowly and rudely, and disappeared into the lecture hall. Mr Delaney waited at a respectful distance. Others mocked her as they passed. She heard a familiar voice and turned to see the tall, distinguished figure of Lord Brookfield. He was looking at her curiously.
She felt her face burn.
“You!” she said, suddenly, pointing at him. “It’s you, it has been you all along, has it not?”
He shrugged. “My lady, you are unwell.”
“It’s you!” she said, her voice now rising in a shriek that took everyone by surprise. He had been at the party on the fateful night she had been abducted. Stanley had spoken to a well-dressed man. She had spoken too much of her suspicions, that night; he had become concerned and arranged for her kidnapping, surely!
He doffed his top hat completely, and came forward as if to perform a courteous bow. But when he was close enough to speak quietly, he simply said, “Well? Prove it.”
Then he was swept away with the rest into the lecture hall, and the doors slammed, and she was left alone with her staff, and her long-faced friend Ivy.
***
Ivy Delaney was as good as her word. She hurried Cordelia into her carriage, and they began their journey back to Furnival’s Inn. Ruby, Stanley and Geoffrey walked.
“I know that I am not the most popular person at parties and events,” Ivy said to her as they made slow progress through the streets. “I know that I giggle and I talk a lot and I pry into much that is not my business. It was the same at school, if I am honest. The other girls seemed to band together and … oh! There I go, doing it again.” She reached over and patted Cordelia’s hand familiarly. “What I am trying to say is this: you can rely on me.”
“And your husband?”
Ivy nodded, but she looked downcast. “It is true what he says.”
“That he was dining with Socks?”
“Yes. And a few others.”
Cordelia didn’t know the magistrate well enough to believe him, but she knew Ivy now and she had the utmost faith in her. She sat back. “I have made a dreadful mistake.”
“In accusing Mr Socks?”
“No. Yes. But no, mostly in showing my hand too soon. Now they all know what evidence I have.”
“Yet the evidence, if I may be so bold, was wrong.”
“No,” said Cordelia, urgently. “No, the evidence still stands. It is simply my interpretation of the evidence which has been amiss. Ivy, may I call on you later?”
“Of course. I shall be at home all afternoon tomorrow. Please do. Ah, here we are, your lodgings.”
Cordelia pressed Ivy’s hand firmly. “Thank you. For everything.”
***
Ruby and the others tumbled into the sitting room soon afterwards. Geoffrey had bought some meat pies, and Stanley had bought some fine pastries. Ruby scurried through to make some tea, and Cordelia followed her. She drew the armchair up to the kitchen table and rested her elbows on the wooden top.
No one spoke for a while. Geoffrey stood, leaning on the wall, picking at his fingernails with a pocket knife. Stanley fidgeted, and Ruby busied herself with the kettle and teapot. There was no sign of Mrs Unsworth, nor of Neville Fry. It was evening, and she assumed they were both out.
When she looked up, she saw that all of them were looking at her, but no one was bold enough to be the first to speak. There was a tentative wariness in the air.
“Which of you thinks that I am mad, then?” she said at last.
“No, my lady!”
“Of course not.”
Geoffrey coughed. “But a little misguided and hasty, perhaps.”
“You didn’t stop me.”
“Could I have?”
He had a point.
“Do you really think it’s Lord Brookfield now?” Ruby said.
“I am strongly suspicious of him. I have been, all along.”
“No, you haven’t.”
Cordelia waved that away. “I have, underneath. Certainly I have been suspicious of some interactions between him and Albert Socks.”
“But does the evidence point to Lord Brookfield?” Ruby asked. “The room was rented by Socks. The key was found in Socks’ house. Even that note…”
“Ah, the note.” Cordelia plucked it from her bag which was on the floor by her feet. She spread it on the table. “Coercion,” she said. “That is not what I think it is.”
“How can it be anything other?” Ruby said.
“This is a political matter,” she said. “It’s a term that I was not familiar with, but it is to do with a law or an act or something. This is to do with Bonneville, yes, but not in the way that I had thought.”
“My lady,” Stanley said, “may I say something?”
“Of course.”
“You were kidnapped after that ball.”
“Yes,” she said, remembering how she had got drunk and brought shame on her name in front of … oh! In front of Lord Brookfield.
“And you accuse Lord Brookfield of being the murderer.”
“I do.”
“He is rich, he is powerful, and you have already found your life in danger. By bringing this matter into the open so dramatically, do you not think that now, you are in double the amount of danger?”
“He can surely not act against me. Not again. It would be too obvious.”
“He knows you have evidence, if you are correct in your assertion,” Ruby said. “If you really think that your evidence will bring the killer to justice then you have just told him — potentially the killer — that you have the means for his downfall, right here, in your hands. You have given him even more reason to wish to do you harm.”
“I am a threat,” Cordelia said.
“You always have been.”
Cordelia pulled the other note from her bag and put it on the table. “This handwriting is not from Florence, and nor does it match this message, which I am now convinced is from Lord Brookfield. So who sent the note asking Bonneville to meet Florence at Mrs Clancey’s?” She stared at it.
“I suppose we are looking for someone who owns a red pen?” Ruby said.
“It is an unusual colour to — ah. There was something in Socks’ desk also written in red. And look! There is a circle over the letter “i”, too. Socks wrote this note. I am sure that if we obtained more written evidence from his possession that it would confirm what I am saying.”
“So what’s next, my lady?” Ruby asked. “Do we now pounce on Lord Brookfield with this evidence?”
“I suspect that things would go ill for me,” Cordelia said. “However, something can be done. You told me to be clever, Ruby.”
“I did.”
“Then I shall. A clever person does not do something if they can ask another, with better skills, to do it for them.”
“That is why you have servants, my lady.”
“Indeed. And that is why a message must be conveyed to Hugo Hawke.”
Her staff protested, but she wrote a note and ordered it to be conveyed to him that moment, irre
spective of the late hour. “And you must wait for a reply.”
“And if he is out?”
“Wait longer.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
Mr Delaney was sceptical about her plan. “My dear Ivy has assured me that she has complete faith in you,” he said, the next night, as they stood outside in the dark street with a light rain falling around them. “Yet I confess that I cannot fully understand why we must do it this way.”
“He is guilty,” she said. She was wrapped in her cloak with a hood pulled over her head, and wore sensible, unfussy clothing. Her “house-breaking” costume, as Ruby now referred to it. “I have the proof now, but the police in this division — your division, as you know — are not to be trusted. I am sure, now, that he is paying the detectives off.”
“I have my own men,” he said. “Faithful ones.”
“And yet,” she persisted, “what good has that done? You are a high-ranking man and perhaps that is an obstacle in some ways. Here, on the street, dreadful things are happening, all the time. And if I bring this evidence to the police, to Inspector Hood, right now, what do you think will happen? Brookfield has escaped justice and he will continue to do so. He will laugh at me. They will both laugh at me.”
“And this way is better? I fail to see how forcing a confrontation will work. You have nothing new to say to him, have you?”
“I have,” she said. “But far more important is the way that I say it. But there is one more thing. I am confident that I can extract a confession from him, in public.”
“If you can, we will all be in your debt.”
She smiled. “That is exactly what I hoped you would say. There is a favour you might do for me. Bow Street has the unusual capacity of having a kind of jurisdiction over the other Metropolitan divisions, am I right?”
“Indeed you are correct. We can step in anywhere, by virtue of our history as the headquarters of the old Runners.”
