by Amy Corwin
Olivia felt her smile slip as she glanced from Lord Milbourn to her brother.
“Good night, mi niña bonita. Take care.” He tapped the crown of his hat to seat it more firmly, smiled at her, and walked away, following Mr. Belcher and Mr. Greenfield.
“Well, Lady Olivia?” Edward moved to stand on the stoop and offer his elbow to her.
She took a deep breath of frustration. This was not going precisely as she imagined, but she couldn’t forget that pocket sagging at Mr. Greenfield’s side, with its bulky burden. She needed to read the journal — she simply had to.
How hard could it be to pick a pocket? Children on the streets of London seemed to do it quite regularly with near impunity, and it was dreadfully dark, despite the lamplighters’ efforts to light the streetlamps. The shadows would hide her actions if she could get close enough to the inquiry agent.
Edward seemed to want to walk at a sedate pace, but Olivia tugged him along faster. Ahead of them, she could see Lord Milbourn’s tall, broad-shouldered form, and a block further ahead, the hats of Mr. Greenfield and Mr. Belcher bobbed past other pedestrians. As she pulled her brother to trot more quickly through the alternating pools of shadow and golden lamplight, she saw Lord Milbourn’s long legs eat up the intervening distance between him and the other men.
She jumped up a few inches to see around another pair of men. Lord Milbourn paused to slap Greenfield on the back and joined him and Mr. Belcher.
“Come on, Edward. Can you not walk at least a bit faster?”
“I will not run, Lady Olivia,” Edward said in a low, angry voice. “What is the matter with you?”
“I want to catch up with the others. I — I forgot to tell Mr. Greenfield something.”
“You can tell him tomorrow. I refuse to chase them down the street. It is unbecoming in a lady, as you well know.”
“I rarely indulge in becoming exercises, as you well know.” She dragged him with her, running a few steps, walking a few, and then running again.
The three men turned the corner ahead of them. Fearing to lose them, she let go of Edward’s arm and dashed forward. As she rounded the corner, she was brought up short by a small crowd. A horse was snorting and rearing back with white-rimmed eyes, rattling a fragile, yellow-wheeled gig. One man was trying to grab the reins near the bit, while others, including Lord Milbourn and Mr. Greenfield, were bending over something in the street. Mr. Belcher stood a short distance away, watching them.
“Dead,” Lord Milbourn said. The single word sounded harsh and stark in the shifting shadows. He lifted a small form from the road and set it carefully on the walkway. “Does anyone know this child? Who he was?”
Several people in the crowd shook their heads and took a few steps back as if afraid of being held responsible.
A well-dressed man descended from the gig, his face white in the golden light from the streetlamp on the corner. “I never saw him — could not stop. He ran out right in front of my gig. I could not stop.”
“Did any of you witness the accident?” Mr. Greenfield straightened and looked around the crowd as he pulled out his small notebook.
A burly man stepped forward and yanked a tattered cloth cap off his head. “I seen it, sir. It were an accident — I seen it. No way to avoid it, poor lad.”
“What is your name?” Mr. Greenfield asked.
“Tom Willow, sir.” The big man shifted from one foot to the other.
“Can any of you others confirm this?” Mr. Greenfield revolved slowly, writing down murmured statements and names.
Several of the passersby at the edges of the crowd started drifting away into the darkness, having seen enough of the sad accident and unwilling to be dragged forward as possible witnesses. No one knew the child, and from the look of his tattered, ill-fitting clothing and dirty face, he appeared to be one of the impoverished, anonymous urchins trying to survive as best they could on whatever they could glean from the streets.
“Poor little mite, it’ll be a pauper’s grave for him, I fear,” Mr. Greenfield commented as he closed his notebook and slipped it into a pocket under his lapel.
The man in the gig frowned and dug around under his overcoat, drawing out a small leather coin purse. He plucked out a few coins and handed them to Mr. Greenfield. “At least give him a decent burial. And a name. Mine is Todd — give him that, if nothing else.”
“That is good of you, Mr. Todd,” Mr. Greenfield slipped the money into his pocket. “I shall certainly do as you ask. He shall get a proper grave under a stone with a name.”
The crowd had mostly dispersed, though the men who had provided Mr. Greenfield with names and statements remained. Olivia edged closer to the inquiry agent. A flash of red caught her attention.
She glanced around to see Cynthia Denholm and the Misses Peterson standing nearby. The red cloak draping Cynthia’s tall figure stood out vibrantly in the golden glow of the streetlamp. As Olivia watched, Cynthia strode forward, her cloak flapping around her in a swirl of crimson.
What was she doing here?
“Good thing I happened to be passing. You are obviously in need of assistance and a bit of common sense.” Cynthia’s voice boomed, startling everyone into silence. “Men.…” She shook her head. “Don’t know a child’s head from its feet.” She thrust past Greenfield to kneel next to the lad, oblivious to the mud and grimy patches of melting snow. She ripped off a glove and held it over the child’s nose and mouth for a minute. “Dead.” Sighing, she struggled to her feet and brushed the mud off her knees. “Not that you did him any good, standing around him like a lot of henless chicks.”
“I am sorry.” Mr. Greenfield ask, his voice rising in polite enquiry, “Miss?”
“Denholm. Cynthia Denholm.” Hands on her broad hips, Cynthia studied him. “Are you that Greenfield chap? The one annoying Lady Olivia about that other murder?”
The corners of Greenfield’s mouth twitched in a hastily hidden smile. “Yes. I am afraid so, Miss Denholm.” A somber expression slipped over his face. “And I am sorry, but I must attend to the matter of this poor child’s accident.”
“Death. He is clearly dead. No need for mealy-mouthed sentiment.” She sighed and glanced around. When her forceful gaze landed on the spectators, the men shuffled their feet, flushed, and more often than not, stumbled away on some other urgent business. “Well, carry on, then, though I don’t see what you can do for him now, Mr. Greenfield.” As she strode past him, she slapped him on the back before rejoining the two ladies standing with linked arms at the corner.
Olivia studied them fleetingly. How had they happened to be passing? True, the Peterson family lived nearby, and as they were friends of Cynthia’s, it was not beyond the realm of possibility that they were simply taking a walk before dining. The fashion-conscious Petersons would never have supper before nine, so they could well be passing the time before returning to their townhouse in ample time to change.
Perhaps there was nothing very unusual about their presence on this street, after all.
Once again, the large man, clutching and twisting his cap between large, reddened hands, spoke up. “I’ll fetch the undertaker, sir. He be my brother-in-law.”
“Very well.” Mr. Greenfield glanced around and almost bumped into Olivia. His eyes widened in surprise, and he nodded abruptly.
His left hand patted his coat pocket, and he stilled. Shock rippled over his face, and he patted more vigorously. Then he slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out…nothing. Jerking his head around, he stared at Lord Milbourn, Mr. Belcher, Edward, and finally, Olivia.
She looked at his coat. It no longer sagged to the left.
The journal was gone. A cloud of butterflies fluttered inside her chest. She felt lightheaded and then queasy as her pulse quickened. Her fingers tingled with cold.
Someone had stolen Grantham’s journal!
Chapter Sixteen
Much to his chagrin, Grantham’s journal continued to torment and elude Alexander. Greenfield proved s
o obstinate in his refusal to let anyone even glimpse it that Alexander was beginning to think he didn’t have Grantham’s diary after all.
The thought raised interesting possibilities.
He spent Sunday considering the case, and the following Monday, he attended the coroner’s inquest into the death of Mrs. Adams. When Edward Archer walked in alone and sat next to him, Alexander was relieved. Lady Olivia had obviously decided not to attend and had provided a brief statement, which Idleman read aloud to the jurymen.
“Lord Milbourn, we have read your statement. Is there anything you wish to add?” Idleman frowned grimly at him as if he could force him to remain silent through sheer force of will.
“Yes.” He walked over to the pitiful body, already ensconced in a simple wooden box in the corner of the room.
The cold February air had not kept all signs of decay at bay, and the corpse’s round cheeks appeared bloated and multi-hued. The putrid smell overlaid even the cleaner smell of the casket’s fresh wood and was so dreadful that they’d left one of the small windows nearby open, despite the blustery winds that swept through it.
Mr. Idleman and his jurors ranged themselves around him, although none of them seemed inclined to stand too close to the simple box.
“Well, my lord?” Idleman prompted him. He clasped his thin hands behind his back and fixed his gaze firmly on Alexander.
“You will recall that I requested various articles of Mrs. Adams’s clothing to be present.” Alexander gestured to his left.
A battered, black bonnet, shawl, and short pelisse were draped over the top of a square table shoved against the wall. Alexander picked up the bonnet and tilted it so that the gentlemen ringing him could see the brownish-red stains covering the interior.
“You see where the blood has pooled and dried?” he asked. “It is on the right side of her bonnet.” He placed the bonnet on the table and went to the wooden box. “If you examine the face of the deceased, you will also notice a livid area on the right side, running over the chin, cheek, and temple. This is blood that has pooled under the skin immediately after death.”
“Are you a physician, my lord?” one of the more elegantly dressed jurors asked. He stared at Alexander with an arrogant air that suggested he didn’t consider Alexander’s observations to be worthy of their consideration.
“No. I have seen death before, however.” He glanced around the circle of men. “Many of us have. There can be no question that the fluids in the body will naturally settle at the lowest point.”
“Well, what of it?” the elegant man asked, shifting his feet impatiently and gazing around as if unwilling to look at the pitiful body of the dead woman.
“You have heard Constable Cooke’s report. There was no sign of Mrs. Adams when he first searched the house on Wednesday, the thirteenth of February. And when we discovered the body, it was lying on its left side, not the right, and she had been dead for at least a day. This means the body was hidden somewhere and then moved to the kitchen.”
“Very well. I believe we can accept your assessment,” Idleman stated curtly. “Have you any additional points you wish to make?”
“I would also encourage you to examine the wound on her left temple. There is a pattern” — he pulled the drawing he’d made out of his pocket and handed it to the man standing on his right—”still visible, imprinted in the flesh. I suggest you find the weapon that made that wound, if you wish to uncover her killer.”
The men dutifully filed past the corpse, taking turns to bend over and examine her bloated face. The processes of decomposition had done much to destroy the delicate pattern, and several men shook their heads doubtfully. But enough saw the purplish-brown traces to grow thoughtful.
“I would only add,” Alexander said as he studied the coroner, “that her key to the premises where she was found is also missing. It would appear that she might have met her end because of that key. Whether the murderer intended to kill her with that blow or only wanted to render her unconscious long enough to take the key, the end result was the same. That is all.” He nodded sharply to the coroner and walked back to his seat.
The rest of the inquest passed rather prosaically.
The elegantly dressed man, Mr. Carter, brought up the apparent connection between the deaths of Mr. Grantham and Mrs. Adams. “There can be no doubt that the two poor souls were both foully murdered by the same despicable individual.” He looked at each of his fellow jurors in turn, before fixing his gaze on the coroner. “It is inconceivable that there should be two such desperate persons in London.”
The coroner nodded once in agreement, before catching himself and frowning at Carter. “Speculation, sir. Our purpose is only to determine the manner of death. The proper authorities will investigate the matter to identify the individual, or individuals, responsible for this outrage.”
A few minutes later, Idleman announced a verdict of unlawful killing by person or persons unknown and terminated the inquest. The decision was no surprise to anyone, though several jurymen, including Carter, clustered together near the doorway. Alexander heard them whisper Lady Olivia’s name as he passed them on his way through the door.
At least he had time, now. No one had been named, or taken into custody, at either inquest as he feared might happen. Idleman seemed curiously reluctant in that regard, though Alexander could well understand it if Idleman thought the evidence pointed to Lady Olivia. The coroner would not want to risk an accusation against an earl’s sister. He wisely left it up to Constable Cooke and Mr. Greenfield to uncover sufficient evidence to hand the entire affair over to the House of Lords; let them deal with Lady Olivia.
With luck, it would never reach that august body.
§
Chapter Seventeen
Considering how best to prove her innocence, Lady Olivia went about her duties Monday morning absentmindedly. Her inattentiveness led to incorrectly addressed correspondence, and a strange menu with multiple desserts, but no meat course. Her errors were gently brought to her notice, and by mid-morning, she felt that a cup of tea was not only deserved, but required.
Mary dutifully brought her a tray, including a few Bath buns wrapped in a napkin. The fresh bread smelled heavenly of yeast and were still steaming when Olivia unwrapped them and slathered on some rich, creamy butter.
“Mary,” Olivia called as the maid approached the door on her way out. “Ask Latimore to join me. I wish to speak with him.”
“Yes, Lady Olivia.” Mary bobbed a curtsey and scurried through the door.
A few minutes later, Olivia heard Latimore’s firm tread clattering over the marble floor in the hall. “Did you wish to see me, Lady Olivia?” Latimore asked. He remained standing in the doorway, one white-gloved hand on the doorknob.
“Come in, Latimore,” Olivia said. She shifted in her chair, feeling like a child about to chastise her father. It felt wrong and unseemly.
Latimore moved to stand in front of her, his hands clasped in front of him, and a calm, patient look on his face.
“About that button,” she said hesitantly, unsure how to ask him why he hadn’t warned her, why he’d left her to suffer such a terrible surprise at the inquest. She didn’t want to sound like a whimpering little child, even if she felt like one.
He nodded majestically. “I thought it might be a matter of concern to you, Lady Olivia. We did not mean to upset you. However, Mr. Peregrine thought it best not to worry you.”
“Not to worry me! I would have appreciated a warning, at least.”
“Yes, Lady Olivia. Perhaps it is best if I explain the circumstances.”
“I should think you would.”
“Mr. Greenfield insisted on examining your wardrobe—”
Sucking in a sharp breath, Olivia stiffened. “My wardrobe? Why was I not informed?”
Latimore bowed deferentially, his gaze fixed on the far wall. “I beg your pardon, Lady Olivia. You were at the academy at the time. Mr. Peregrine granted his permission.”
&n
bsp; “Peregrine?” She frowned, feeling betrayed, before she waved for him to continue.
“Miss Farmer was cleaning your pelisse at the time. She attempted to stop him from taking the garment from her. Unfortunately, she had discovered the button while handling your clothing, and it fell from her hand. She had no choice but to allow him to take the item.”
“No choice?” Olivia asked bitterly.
“No, Lady Olivia. Mr. Greenfield picked it up before she could regain possession of it. She went immediately to the housekeeper, Mrs. Keene, as was appropriate, and Mrs. Keene brought the matter to me. Miss Farmer was fearful that she would be dismissed, and Mrs. Keene was in favor of that course of action. Mr. Peregrine overheard our discussion and decided otherwise since he had given Mr. Greenfield permission to search in the first place.”
“I see my dear brother has a great deal to answer for,” Olivia murmured.
“Mr. Peregrine then told Miss Farmer to remain silent if she wished to remain in service here. He felt it would be best not to worry you, unnecessarily.”
She eyed him coldly. “Indeed.”
“Mr. Peregrine insisted.” He raised a gloved hand and covered his mouth as he coughed twice. “Pardon me, Lady Olivia. I hope you do not take this amiss, however, I must say that honesty is preferred in these circumstances. Hiding information or clues from the authorities can only do harm. I agreed with your brother. I felt that your honest and obviously shocked reaction at the inquest would stand you in good stead. The entire staff supports you, Lady Olivia, and believes in your innocence, if I may say so. I am sure Mr. Greenfield will do his best to discover the miscreant, but he can only do so if he is in possession of all the facts.”
Somehow, Latimore had reversed their positions. Once more he gently assumed the role of a parent, and for some reason, she wanted to cry. At least he thought she was innocent; they all did.
But that didn’t change the fact that they had plotted behind her back and hid crucial things from her. That was the one action she couldn’t quite forgive. She hated being left out, or having others decide what she should or should not know, as if they were superior to her and she were a fragile child needing protection from the truth. Frustration churned inside her. How dare they assume they knew what was best for her?
