by Issy Brooke
“What is the secret to this?” Cordelia asked as she lifted the brown scone to examine it. “For I must confess I am interested in all the culinary arts…”
“We use the whole part of the grain in the flour,” Hetty explained. “I know that some will say it’s only fit for the poor, and horses, but we find that it aids the stomach wonderfully.”
“Oh. Indeed.” Cordelia had never had to eat anything other than the finest milled white flour, and she bit into the new scone with curiosity. It was chewy. But not, on second thoughts, too bad, considering.
Hetty smiled. “I know. Our ideas are considered most outlandish here. Why, in London, Donald could bathe with quite a crowd in the Serpentine but here, he is restricted to sneaking around at quiet times of the day, just to be able to take a dip in the river!”
Why anyone should want to dip anything, let alone their own body, in the local weed-strewn rivers was a mystery. Cordelia hoped that her grimace was hidden by the scone as she lifted it to her mouth.
“Did you live in London before you came here?” Cordelia asked.
“Briefly. You must try our bread,” she urged. She pointed to the standard long thin cucumber sandwiches, although the cook had neglected to cut the crusts off. Perhaps it was deliberate, Cordelia thought.
“Thank you. Yes, it is good. And before London?” she said, angling for more information.
“The north west. But Donald is forever seeking more information, more data, more knowledge. That is why we move so often,” she said.
Oh, really? “And have you been married long?”
“Oh, you mean to ask, where are our children?” Hetty said, blushing. It was not at all what Cordelia meant but she nodded anyway. “We have not yet been blessed,” Hetty went on. “But all in good time, I am sure.”
“I am sure.” Cordelia accepted a cup of tea that Hetty stood to pour. She was thinking of a question to frame about the north west - specifically, where did they live, and when. But she did not get the chance. As Hetty sat down again, she leaned in and dropped her voice.
“Now, did you hear the latest news regarding the dreadful murder?” she asked.
“I did not. What has happened?” Cordelia was immediately alert. Was she about to be fed more lies by the murderer’s accomplice?
“Mrs Hurrell, the primary suspect – indeed, the only suspect – has been released!”
Cordelia gaped for a moment. She had not expected that revelation. The last she had heard, Mrs Hurrell was to be hung. She sipped at her tea to churn things over in her mind. At last, she said, “You say the only suspect. Is there no one else to be considered, do you know?”
“I have not heard so. I believe they are now accounting it the work of a passing madman, perhaps, and the authorities intend to close the case. And what is more – I also heard that your information was highly valuable to them! Yes, they considered your words carefully. Your conclusions about the way the murderer must have escaped were well-regarded.”
“Oh, really?” She could not help but preen a little at that. Was it enough to win the wager? Not if no one was brought to account – damn them! She was only just getting started. She bit down the feeling of being betrayed. “Goodness.”
“You should have made a fine lady-constable,” Hetty said.
“Is there even such a thing?”
“Of course not.” They both laughed at the absurdity of it, but Hetty then said, “Though one would think that a woman might do a fine job of it. Oh, no, not the grappling with criminals in the streets, of course. But in other matters, those of the mind. More delicate matters, that call for careful watching and questioning. I think we might do mightily well in such things.”
Cordelia nodded, trying not to let the thrill she felt show on her face. Hetty was right, she was so right; and it seemed like a confirming sign from the universe that this was the topic of conversation.
She wanted to spill all her secret hopes and dreams, then, and indeed she might have done, but there was a commotion by the doors that led out onto the terrace where they presently sat.
“Hetty! Oh, and Corde-e-e-lia!” The manic, frazzled figure of Freda Carter-Hall appeared, closely followed by the frowning housekeeper.
Hetty rose, and waved the housekeeper away. “Ah, Freda, how lovely to see you.”
Cordelia remained sitting, and folded her hands in her lap, observing. The woman was full of energy, a suspicious amount of energy to be sure; it was not morphia that sizzled in her eyes this day.
“And that woman of yours said you were not at home!” Freda said, descending on them. She flung herself into a chair but rather than coming to rest, she fiddled and twisted her hands, she kicked her feet and she looked about relentlessly. “But I knew. Oh yes. I saw your carriage, Cordelia, and so I knew that Hetty was here and receiving guests. I am clever like that, you know! I see everything,” she added in a low whisper.
“Do you, indeed?” Cordelia said drily. “Did you see the murderer of Thomas Bains?”
“Who? Oh! That boy. That is yesterday’s news. Do you know, I had quite forgotten about it. No, the talk now is all about Brazil!”
Freda began to talk at length about a distant cousin of hers, a man of some renown who was a high-placed officer in the Royal Navy, and his escapades at sea now that the Act was finally passed which authorised the interception of slave vessels from Brazil. Cordelia noted that Freda’s excitement was not aimed at the moral or ethical debates about the Act, but instead the fact that her cousin had been injured and was awfully brave and terribly stoical and dreadfully mangled about the face and whatever was to become of his poor wife and so on and so forth.
Hetty interrupted the wearingly flow of words with the question that Cordelia wanted to ask: “And how is your husband?”
Freda pulled at a long thread of her skirts and it did not break; ominously, it kept on unravelling. “Oh, he is in Bristol. No, London. Somewhere. He is gone to London – or wherever – on some awfully, awfully important bank business. I do not understand how a bank can have so much business that needs attending to. Though I daresay, there are his other interests there which occupy much of his time.” She was no longer giggling. Her mouth was ugly in a down-turned sneer.
“Has he other businesses aside from banking?” Cordelia asked. Hetty shot her a warning look, but Cordelia pretended not to notice.
“In a manner of speaking. It is the way of men, is it not? I have a fancy to take a lover myself!” Freda suddenly declared, jumping to her feet and startling both Cordelia and Hetty. She began to twirl across the terrace, somewhat clumsily. “A fine, strong man who will whisk me off my feet and take me to new places. France! Paris – yes, I should very much like to go to Paris, and there he will feed me the finest truffles and we shall dance all night.”
Hetty was shaking her head. So, Cordelia thought, it is as I suspected; Ewatt has many women. But I am slightly surprised that she is talking about it so freely. I suppose she must know that everyone knows...
She looked again at Freda, who had exhausted herself quite suddenly and was now embracing a stone carving of a weeping maiden. Hetty leaned over to Cordelia, and said, “I shall call for my man to drive her home.”
“That would be for the best.”
Both women rose in silent accord, and approached Freda carefully, as if she were a young horse they did not want to startle.
“I ought to be grateful to them,” she whispered as she clung to the stone angel, hiding her face. “I suppose that all those women keep him away from me, at least.”
Chapter Twenty-one
After parcelling Freda into the doctor’s gig to see her home safely, Cordelia took her leave of Hetty and was driven home herself by Geoffrey. She relaxed into the cushions of the carriage, reflecting on the latest news.
So, the investigation was over, then, was it? No. That could not be allowed. She still knew nothing of the young man’s family; but he seemed to be unmourned and unmissed. And she had to find a culprit.
Was the coroner correct? Was the sheriff correct? Had Thomas Bains simply been killed by a passing madman?
Then why had no one been seen in the area? Madmen were usually conspicuous in their madness.
At least Mrs Hurrell was not going to swing for the crime. Cordelia took comfort in that fact. She was utterly convinced that the landlady had not done it. Even if she had suspected that Mrs Hurrell had done it, there was not enough evidence to be perfectly sure. And only God could make the final judgement, Cordelia thought. Certainly not I. Nor any of us mewling mortals. There is something suspicious about Mrs Hurrell, for sure, but I think it is more to do with her dealings in London than anything else.
Cordelia closed her eyes. She thought back to the morning of the event. The note. From whom did this note originate, and what did it say? Where was it now? If it had not been burned or lost, perhaps the sheriff had it, or maybe the bumbling constable discovered the note, and held it as evidence that Mrs Hurrell was, indeed, telling the truth?
Was the note a ruse? If it were from the murderer himself, then that suggested no madman – no, indeed, such a thing was a calculated act to get Thomas Bains on his own.
Thomas had hit his head as he fell. Perhaps the murderer was an unintentional killer. It was conceivable, of course, that the murderer had wanted to speak to Thomas, privately. They might have argued – Thomas being well known for wilful disagreement. The death might have been accidental, and the murderer fled in horror.
It was possible.
Cordelia imagined herself standing once more in the dark cottage room. She pondered the drawer of papers. Mrs Hurrell had her own secrets.
But then, she had to say, did not all women have their private drawers, their hidden letters, their secret lists or notes or diaries? Mrs Hurrell could have reacted because she thought there was something in there – that was not in there. Who could say?
Cordelia knew that her suspicions might be simple flights of fancy, conjured by an underused brain seeking novelty and distraction.
Yes, Ewatt Carter-Hall was a man with secrets, though his secret love affairs were clearly not so well-hidden. And Freda had her own sadnesses though again, they seemed to be worn on her sleeve for all to see. The doctor had a tale or two in his past, but she thought that Carter-Hall’s interest in the doctor was more interesting than the doctor himself.
The doctor’s wife, the dear Hetty, was so pleasant and agreeable that even that fact could be seen in a suspicious light.
And if she were extending her list of suspects, Cordelia thought, then why not add Ralph Goody to the list? He had argued with Thomas, and–
Her eyes flew open at that. Things seemed to fall into place and she sat forwards, and suddenly noticed that the carriage was stopped, all was quiet, and the door was open. She blinked, and rubbed her eyes, and peered out to find that they were in the stable yard behind Hugo’s house.
Geoffrey was sitting on a low wall, picking at his nails with a pocket-knife. He looked up and nodded.
“Was I asleep?” she asked.
“Yes, you were, my lady, and I didn’t like to wake you.” He came forward to help her down from the carriage.
“Thank you.” Still in a daze, she made towards the path that ran to the front of the house so that she might enter by the main doors, but after three steps, she paused, and turned back to Geoffrey.
“Geoffrey. One hour after dinner, will you send Stanley to meet me here?”
He narrowed his eyes, but nodded.
* * *
Dusk was gathering when she slipped out of the house and around to the stable yard. She was dressed in her finery and had endured a slow and silent dinner with Hugo, who had glowered at her from the far end of the table. She took the chance to creep away when Hugo had taken off to drink some brandy and smoke a cigar with an old friend who had happened by.
It was cool and she pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders. Stanley was already waiting, leaning by the mounting block. He jerked to attention but kept his eyes low.
She wondered if Geoffrey was hiding in the shadows, listening.
“Stanley, thank you. I have a task for you but you must listen carefully. And I need you to act with authority.”
“M-m-m?”
She wasn’t sure if he were saying “me?” or “my lady” but it hardly mattered. She pulled out a sheaf of letters and hastily written notes from where she had been holding them under her shawl.
“You are to go to Liverpool,” she said.
His eyes widened, reflecting the lights from the windows of the back of the house. He didn’t even try to speak.
“Yes,” she carried on, as if he had questioned her. “I am aware it is some distance hence. I will ask Geoffrey to take you to Cambridge to catch the next train. I have no idea of the changes you will need to make to effect your journey – I tried to make sense of the timetables but I was completely defeated. This is why I say you must act with your own authority. You will be on your own, and making your decisions. I trust you. I have a quantity of money for you to use.”
Geoffrey would have been a more confident choice, but she didn’t want him returning to her with a trail of bodies behind him. His ways of extracting information were not the ones she really needed at that moment.
She passed Stanley a bag that she had had looped at her waist. In it were a number of bank notes from a London bank, more easily changed than the notes issued by the provincial banks scattered around the country. She had also filled it with coin and some certificates that he might exchange. “Do hide the various things around your person,” she counselled him. “If you are robbed or pickpocketed, then you should not lose the whole.”
“P-p-p?”
“And if the worst should happen,” she continued, “here is an address for you to go to. Indeed, I wish you to seek this person out anyway, as soon as you arrive in Liverpool. I have written to them and they will know to assist you in all ways. I suggest you commit the address to memory.”
“B-b-but … my task, my lady?”
“I want to know everything about Doctor Donald Arnall. I want to understand his past, his dealings, and his first marriage. What became of Clara Arnall? Discover everything, no matter how slight. In particular, has he any enemies? And if you find out that Ewatt Carter-Hall has any connections to him or to Liverpool, then that is of particular importance.”
She handed the stunned Stanley the letters. “Here. Some are letters of introduction to people who will answer your questions.”
“B-b-but, I cannot.” He looked absolutely horrified.
“You are not asking as yourself, Stanley,” she said, as gently as she could. “You are representing me. You are acting as my proxy. It is not your voice which speaks to these people, but my own, speaking through you. And the letters will open the way for it all. I know many people and I am sure that some of these will assist you. And not all of the letters and notes are addressed to high born folks, either. You will need to speak to prison guards and hospital staff, also. I am sure that you can accomplish this. I would ask no other to do this for me. I trust you.”
Of all her staff, he was also the least likely to make off with the considerable sums of money that she had given him.
“How l-long?” he asked.
She hesitated for a moment. “I cannot say. On the one hand, I want you to be as speedy as you can, and return swiftly. But do not neglect your duties. You must be thorough. This, then, is on your own initiative.”
His hands were shaking. “No, I cannot…”
“Yes,” she said, firmly now. “You can. And you must. Not, then, for me, if I am not incentive enough. Not even for Clarfields, and our own futures. No.”
He looked pained.
“No,” she continued. “Do it, rather, for the sake of justice.”
“Justice?”
“Yes, justice,” she repeated vehemently. She gripped Stanley’s upper arm forcefully, making him wince with the shock both of the strength
of her grip and the unconventional action. “Do this because it is the right thing to do.”
She stopped herself from giving him a stirring lecture to appeal to his religious sensibilities, but she could see that his mind was whirring in the right direction now. He met her gaze very briefly before he blushed and looked away. “Yes, my lady,” he said.
Geoffrey stepped out of the shadows, as she had predicted he might.
“Take him to the station,” she told him, and strode off back into the house.
* * *
She dashed up the stairs, her head and her body alive with potential. It felt good to be directing the action once more. She had a list now of things she wished to learn more about; Ralph, Thomas’s family, Mrs Hurrell, and more.
