Rose Campion and the Stolen Secret

by Lyn Gardner

  “Good day,” said Lizzie grandly. “I am Mrs Gawkin, here to see Mr Snetherbridge.”

  “This way, madam. Mr Snetherbridge is expecting you.” The youth closed the door and as he did so the bowler-hatted man put down his newspaper and walked slowly towards number twenty-four. At the railings he went down the steps and into the basement, whistling “Pop Goes the Weasel” as he went.

  Lizzie followed the stooped young man down a dark hall. The pimples on the back of his neck were raw and angry. He showed her into a small room dominated by a large desk. Behind this sat a large man with lustrous dark hair and whiskers who was wearing a funereal suit, rather the worse for snuff stains. His bright-yellow necktie made him look as if a dead canary had taken up residence around his neck.

  The man rose to his feet and nodded to the boy, who retreated from the room. Walking around the side of the desk, he briefly extended his snuff-stained hand to Lizzie and snatched it away again quickly as if he feared contagion. He then ushered her towards an upright wooden chair on the other side of the desk. The chair’s hardness was barely alleviated by a worn, dusky-pink velvet cushion.

  “Do sit down, Mrs Gawkin,” he said in silky tones. “Let’s get straight down to business, shall we?”

  Lizzie felt aggrieved. At the very least, she had expected to be relieved of her cloak and bonnet. She had even hoped to meet Lord Henry Easingford himself, who would quickly appreciate the quality and significance of her information. But she suspected that his lordship was nowhere near Soho Square, and that Mr Snetherbridge was not one of his lordship’s regular lawyers, who no doubt resided in fragrant airy offices decked with Chinese silk wallpaper in St James’s. Mr Snetherbridge, she surmised, was someone who was employed to deal with his lordship’s less salubrious business. Well, she would surprise his lordship yet, and make him take her seriously. She gave the lawyer her sickliest smile.

  “Of course, Mr Snetherbridge. I am here to help the Easingford family in any way I can.”

  Mr Snetherbridge looked pointedly at his pocket watch. “I have another meeting shortly, Mrs Gawkin, so I’m afraid I must hurry things along. In your letter, you said you believe there is another with a claim to the estate of Lord Easingford, and that you have some proof that this person is alive. I would like to make clear that my client, Lord Henry, is sure you are mistaken.”

  Lizzie gave a simpering cough. “What an honour it must be for his lordship – an appointment to the Privy Council by our dear Queen! And what a shame if there were to be any nasty rumours flying about…”

  The lawyer’s face hardened. “And what rumours would those be, Mrs Gawkin?”

  Lizzie narrowed her eyes. “That there was a child. Born to his brother’s wife, Lily Easingford, six months after the death of Lord Frederick. A son. Heir to the Easingford title and estate, and to his mother’s fortune. A child that makes Lord Henry a usurper both of the title and of Lily Easingford’s wealth.”

  “But the child didn’t live, Mrs Gawkin, as everybody knows. Edward Frederick Dorset Easingford was stillborn and has been buried in the Easingford churchyard with his mother for the last thirty-two years.”

  Lizzie smiled sweetly. “Now, Mr Snetherbridge, you and I both know that isn’t true.”

  Mr Snetherbridge rose. “What utter nonsense, Mrs Gawkin. Thank you for your time but I don’t think we have anything else to discuss.”

  Lizzie leaned forward and hissed across the desk. “Don’t be so hasty, Mr Snetherbridge. What if the child didn’t die? What if the coffin maker and his wife took Edward away for safekeeping? And if they took with them a silver cup bearing the Easingford crest and a blue ribbon that had been placed in the coffin with that child. What if Edward grew up and then had a child of his own? Like the father, any such child would have a legal claim against Lord Henry’s estate.” Lizzie sat back, her hand pressed dramatically to her heart. “Oh, Mr Snetherbridge! Just think of the scandal! The Easingford family name would be blackened forever if it ever came out that he had robbed his brother’s descendants of their true inheritance.”

  Mr Snetherbridge had resumed his seat but he looked unruffled. “This is a fine story, Mrs Gawkin, and you tell it well. But without proof, that’s all it is. A likely story.”

  Lizzie reached into her bag and pulled out a blue ribbon. “But, Mr Snetherbridge, isn’t that why I’m here?”

  The lawyer leaned forward to look at the ribbon, not quite so unruffled this time. “Is there anything more?”

  From the depths of her bag Lizzie pulled a piece of paper. On it was a drawing of a silver cup engraved with the Easingford crest.

  Mr Snetherbridge reached for the drawing but Lizzie kept it safely out of his way. “And you have the cup?” he asked.

  Lizzie smiled slyly as she put the ribbon and paper back into her bag. “Not on me, of course. I’m not stupid. It’s somewhere safe and the written account of its provenance is kept with it.” Lizzie touched her nose knowingly. “My insurance, just in case things get nasty.”

  Mr Snetherbridge rose to his feet for a second time.

  “Mrs Gawkin, I must talk to my client. It might be that we could see our way to making you some kind of payment for the return of the cup and ribbon, not of course because we believe that your story is anything other than balderdash, but because – if they prove to be genuine – they are part of my client’s family heritage, a heritage that he values. The story is, of course, a fabrication. Edward Easingford was stillborn. He cannot have had a child of his own. That is the end of the matter.”

  Mrs Gawkin’s eyes glittered. “If you say so, Mr Snetherbridge. But I know what I know. Edward lived and is in fact only recently deceased; his child is alive and well, and ready to make public a claim to be recognised as the direct descendant of the rightful Lord Easingford.” She paused. “And with Lord Easingford about to be made a member of the Privy Council…” She coughed delicately. “How unfortunate would it be if anything came to light to scupper that appointment?”

  Mrs Gawkin stood and faced the lawyer.

  “But have it your own way, Mr Snetherbridge. I have been patient for a while now, and I can be patient a while longer.”

  Mr Snetherbridge rang a small brass bell on his desk and the pimply youth reappeared to usher Lizzie out. At the door, she turned and gave a fox-like grin. “Good day, Mr Snetherbridge. I shall wait to hear from you.”

  As soon as he heard the front door slam shut behind her, Lord Henry Easingford – forbidding as an eagle and greying around the temples – stepped out from behind a curtained recess in his lawyer’s office.

  “Damn that woman!” he spat. “When she sent that blasted letter, I thought it was just a shot in the dark. How the devil did she get hold of that ribbon and cup? We must find them. And then we shall have to deal with her. But at the moment she’s more useful alive than dead. We need to keep watching her, see if there is anyone else involved. She might be part of a conspiracy. Check out her story. If my nephew did survive, we need to find him. If he’s recently dead, as Gawkin suggests, we need to find his brat. There may be a wife too, who will need to be dealt with. Get Josiah Pinch to report back on where Lizzie Gawkin goes and who she talks to.”

  Lord Easingford began to pace the room. “If my nephew did survive, why did he not come forward years ago?”

  “I don’t know, m’lud. Maybe because Edward didn’t live and this is just the fantasy of a common blackmailer. We will only know for sure if the objects she claims to have prove to be genuine. Your son, Edgar, is the estate and title’s only heir as far as the law is concerned.”

  “Ha!” Lord Henry gave a mirthless laugh. “And what news, Snetherbridge, of the ungrateful young pup?”

  “My informants tell me that he remains in America, m’lud. Still an actor, m’lud.” Mr Snetherbridge said the word “actor” as if he held it in a pair of tweezers. “About to play Hamlet in Chicago, so I hear.”

  His lordship looked unimpressed.

  “Play-acting! And for twe
lve years now. He has too much of Sarah in him. She always was the spirited one of the two sisters; my poor brother chose better when he married Lily.” Lord Henry stopped pacing and turned to his lawyer, who flinched at the dark look on his face. “I will settle this business, and then we will reel young Edgar in. He must face up to his responsibilities as my son and heir. Everything I have done, I have done for him, and it is time he became the true custodian of Easingford.”

  Mr Snetherbridge watched as Lord Henry resumed his pacing. It was as though his lordship had forgotten he was in the room and was talking to himself.

  “The vixen knows something, but does she know everything? The coffin maker and his wife disappeared the day Lily and her dratted babe were buried. I thought they were just fleeing the influenza. If I’d thought there was anything more significant to their disappearance, I’d have hounded them down long ago.” He shook his head. “No. The child was as lifeless as his mother. I made quite sure of that.”

  Mr Snetherbridge blinked at what he was hearing but Lord Henry seemed oblivious to his own confession. The lawyer cleared his throat. “Of course, there is a way to check if there is any truth at all in the story.”

  “What do you mean?”

  There was a pause. “Well, we could dig up the coffin.”

  Lord Henry stared. “But on what grounds would a judge grant us an exhumation order? Besides, it would cause more unwelcome gossip.”

  Mr Snetherbridge blinked very fast. “I was thinking of something a little more discreet, m’lud. Maybe something not altogether legal. A private uncoffining, as it were. I could provide the means and it might set your mind at rest.”

  His lordship stared at the other man thoughtfully as he threw a glossy black astrakhan coat around his shoulders. “That might be a very good suggestion,” he said. “Summon Josiah Pinch. Tell him to watch Lizzie Gawkin like a hawk, see if he can trace the coffin maker and his wife, and keep his ear to the ground for any rumours about the existence of my nephew. Oh, and, Snetherbridge, pay him well. I don’t want him turning blackmailer. He’s a nasty piece of work.”

  The lawyer watched his lordship leave the room, before ringing the bell. You’re a pretty nasty piece of work yourself, Lord Henry, he thought. But you pay well.

  There was a knock on the door and the boy appeared. “Fetch Josiah Pinch,” the lawyer barked.

  Effie slipped through the labyrinth of narrow streets as if she had known them all her life. She was on her way back to Campion’s after fetching some more bolts and screws for Thomas. The two of them were working together to mend the long disused tunnel above the stage where metal balls could be run from one end to the other to create the sound of thunder. Thomas thought a thunder-run would bring in more customers, and Campion’s certainly needed them.

  “If we get it working,” Thomas said, “we can have O’Leary going mad on the blasted heath in King Lear. Or if the gin has addled his brain too much, maybe I’ll play the role myself.”

  Effie frowned. She didn’t know who on earth King Lear was and she didn’t like the sound of a blasted heath.

  “Rosie said you used to be an actor?” she asked, finding it hard to imagine the sensible Thomas swaggering about on stage. She still found all the performers at Campion’s romantic and exotic figures. Thomas, who always had a twinkle in his eye, didn’t fit that picture at all.

  “I was, a long time ago. And a playwright too. That’s how I made the money to buy Campion’s. Writing melodramas. If we get the thunder-run working, Effie, I’ll write us a new play featuring lots of thunder and lightning.” He grinned wickedly. “Or perhaps we could put on a scene from Macbeth with Lizzie Gawkin playing one of the three witches.”

  Effie’s eyes grew round. “What’s Macbeth?” she asked.

  “It’s a play by Shakespeare,” said Thomas, “about a man who so wants to be king that he will go to any lengths to get the crown and keep it, even if it destroys him.”

  “Rose is always going on ’bout Shakespeare,” said Effie. “She said she’d teach me to read but I don’t see the point. Reading’s not for the likes of me.” She added proudly: “But I did let Rose teach me how to ride the bicycle, and she said I was a natural.”

  “Would you like to try performing, Effie?” asked Thomas. “Maybe you could get Rosie to help you work up an act?”

  Effie blushed. “I’m too shy. I like doing things with me hands.”

  “You’ve got nifty little fingers, all right,” said Thomas cheerfully. “If the theatre doesn’t work out, you could always consider prigging.” He looked up from the nail he was hammering and saw her expression, her eyes dark in a chalky face. “I’m sorry, Effie. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “S’all right,” mumbled Effie. “Lizzie Gawkin thinks the same.”

  “No one cares what Lizzie Gawkin thinks,” said Thomas firmly. “Just you remember that.”

  Now Effie was working her way through the streets, eager to finish the thunder-run. The frozen fog had cleared and there was a touch of warmth in the pale sun.

  “Home,” she said out loud, and there was such a skip in her step that the hawkers and errand boys smiled at her as she passed, and children ran after her trying to sell her a penny sparkler or a ribbon. But as she got nearer the river, the fog descended again and coated everything in its eerie yellow glow.

  Effie slipped down an alley and had almost reached the end when a figure wearing a bowler loomed out of the murk and seized her by the wrist.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” said the man, his face so close she could smell fetid breath and feel the tickle of his slug-like waxed moustache on her cheek.

  “Josiah!” squeaked Effie in fear.

  “Long time, no see,” said Josiah, raising his hat mockingly. “Tell me that you’ve missed me, Effie.” She tried to wriggle out of his grip but he held her tight in his grasp. “I hear you’re living at Campion’s.”

  “Who told yer? How’d you find me?” demanded Effie.

  “Oh, I have eyes and ears everywhere. Don’t think that you can ever escape me.”

  “Leave me alone!” shouted Effie.

  “I will, Effie, I will. I’ve no real interest in you, you’re just a sprat. But a sprat can be used to catch a mackerel. I need you to do a little job for me.”

  Effie’s eyes blazed. “I ain’t doing nowt for you!”

  Josiah tightened his grip on her wrist and Effie winced at the pain.

  “You will, my girl,” he drawled. “Because if you don’t, it will be the worse for you and that mother of yours. What if new information was discovered about her crimes? That she wasn’t just a poor woman taking her chance when temptation came her way but that she was a hardened criminal instead? Do you think the judge would show her such leniency then?” He laughed darkly and mimicked drawing a knife across his throat.

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Oh, Effie! Effie! You know me better than that. Of course I would.”

  “What do you want me to do?” whispered Effie.

  “It’s very simple, sweetheart. I need you to be my eyes and ears. Lizzie Gawkin – I want you to listen out for anything she says, any gossip about her, anyone who comes to visit.”

  Effie felt relief. She feared that Josiah would want her to spy on Thomas. She had wondered whether Thomas might be in debt to the same person who had owned the Shoreditch tenement where she and her mother had lived.

  “Nobody likes her. She don’t have any visitors,” said Effie, hoping it would be enough.

  “But people come and go. I’ve been watching.”

  “Course they do, it’s a music hall, ain’t it.”

  “Less of your lip, sweetheart,” said Josiah. “What about that pale woman I’ve seen? With the kid. Little boy? I’ve seen him through the fence playing in the yard. She’s always dressed in black.”

  “Grace? She’s got nothing to do with Lizzie Gawkin,” said Effie. “Thomas Campion has taken her in because her husband was murdered.”

  Josiah
smirked. “How very careless of him.”

  “I hate you!” cried Effie, trying to pull away from him. “Everyone says Ned Dorset was a good man, and he was murdered and flung in the Thames. You’re a pig for laughing.”

  Josiah cocked his head at her words and frowned. What was it old Snetherbridge had said? Keep an ear out for anyone called Edward Frederick Dorset Easingford, or anything like it.

  “Dorset, you say? Ned Dorset?” He applied more pressure to Effie’s wrist so that the skin burned and the pain was unbearable. Effie nodded, desperate to get away. “And what’s the kid called?”

  “Freddie.”

  Josiah gave a quick little smile. Ned Dorset must be the fellow Mr Snetherbridge and his lordship had been so keen to track down. So this Edward, or Ned, as he was calling himself, was dead. But there was a son, Freddie!

  “Listen, Effie,” said Josiah. “You’re going to do a job for me. I want you to find some things that Lizzie Gawkin has got and that I want.”

  “What?” asked Effie listlessly.

  “A silver cup and a blue ribbon.”

  “I can’t,” said Effie. “She and Aurora have their own dressing room. There’s no reason for me to go in there.”

  “Then make one up,” said Josiah. “And when you have, find the cup and the ribbon and bring them to me.”

  Effie’s eyes widened with horror. “You want me to steal them?” Josiah smiled nastily. “Once a thief, always a thief, eh?”