Rose Campion and the Stolen Secret

by Lyn Gardner

Rose’s mouth was hanging open. She was now absolutely certain that she knew who Ned Dorset had been. He was Lily’s son, which meant that Freddie was the rightful heir to Easingford. That placed him in more danger than ever. Rose knew she had to get away from Ivanhoe House and back to Campion’s as soon as possible.

  “Do you know what happened to Joe and Abigail and the baby?” she asked.

  The old woman shook her head. “But Oliver might. He always promised me he would try to find out. Oliver is a man who keeps his promises.”

  “Sarah, tell me one more thing. How did you come to marry Henry, especially after all you’d seen?”

  Bitterness flooded Sarah’s features. “I had no choice. I was his ward. It was a forced marriage. He cared less for me than he did for his dog, and he beat me more often. He wanted my fortune and he wanted a son and heir. I gave him both. Two weeks after I gave birth to Edgar he announced that I was to have minimal contact with my own son. He was to be raised away from me in the London house in Silver Square before being sent away to school. The loss was too much to bear and my breaking heart made me reckless. I told him that I knew that his nephew lived. He had me committed here, knowing no one would believe the words of a mad woman shut up in an asylum because her husband, a great lord, said she was insane.”

  Rose gave her a huge hug. “I believe you, Sarah, and I’m going to try to prove the truth of it.”

  A maid came into the room as Rose sat thinking. “There’s cocoa upstairs,” she said.

  Rose’s head flew up at the familiar voice. “Effie?”

  Effie put a finger to her lips. “I’ll tell you everything. But first I need to get you and Grace out of here.”

  Oliver Dorset Woldingham stood in the graveyard of Easingford Church, holding two letters that had arrived that morning. His head was reeling.

  One was from Chicago. It included some newspaper cuttings, glowing reviews of a young English actor called Ed Ford who had taken the city by storm playing Hamlet. Edward Easingford’s face smiled from a cutting. He looked barely older than he had thirteen years ago when Oliver had waved him off on the boat to America. The young man had been grief-stricken then. Oliver was thrilled that he was doing so well in Chicago, although he knew that all the success in the world could never make up for the terrible loss of his child.

  He turned to the other letter again. This one was far more troubling. It was from a Thomas Campion, and it contained the terrible news that Ned Dorset was dead. Murdered. Oliver put his face in his hands. He wondered if his actions had played a part in

  Ned’s death. He remembered when the boy had come to him in such pain and distress thirteen years ago, and their meeting just after Christmas when Oliver had told him everything that had happened on that long ago day following Lily Easingford’s death. Ned had been fired up with what he saw as a terrible injustice and was determined to right the wrong, whatever the cost to himself. Now it seemed he had paid a high price for trying to uncover the truth. Thomas Campion was asking urgently for information, and saying that Ned’s wife and child were in danger too. Oliver shivered. Henry Easingford had already destroyed the two Dorset sisters and now it seemed he’d thrown his malevolent web over the next generation as well.

  Oliver knew he must go to London at once. He walked over to the corner of the churchyard and the low grassy mound covered in wild daffodils, known as Lent lilies. The first buds of spring were just visible on the oriental lilies that he had planted by the wall by the knoll. He hoped that the cruel frost wouldn’t nip them, and they would bloom longer than Lily and Ned had done.

  Oliver knelt on the grassy mound, and thought about the night thirty-two years ago he’d spent digging alone in the dark churchyard, wild with grief. How he’d uncovered the coffin of Lily, his beloved, whose funeral service he had presided over that afternoon. The Easingford family had stolen her from him, but he was determined that they would not own her in death. He had simply been going to rebury the coffin in the sunny side of the churchyard in the unmarked grave he had dug for her and which he planned to smother with flowers. But the desire to look upon the face of the woman he loved one last time had been too strong. He had opened the coffin.

  Subsequent snatched meetings on the moor with Sarah Dorset had told him all he needed to know about what he’d found inside. Sarah had then been shut away in an asylum for telling the truth. Now he had to tell the world what had really happened. He bent and kissed the grassy mound.

  “Oh, Lily, Lily. No more secrets, my love.” He sniffed the air. For a moment he thought that it was filled with the sweet scent of summer lilies, but he knew that he must have imagined it.

  Ivanhoe House’s patients had all been sent to bed. Effie was scrubbing the cocoa pot and cups and saucers in the scullery. The door to the kitchen was open. Hannah Gawkin and the cook, Ruby Breton, were sitting at the kitchen table, gossiping.

  “Ever hear word of your sister, Han?” asked Ruby.

  Effie put down the pot as quietly as she could and crept closer to the door to listen.

  “Who? Lizzie, Bess, Bet? Don’t even know which name she calls herself these days. Haven’t laid eyes on her since she scarpered with our little Dawnie,” said Hannah with a bitter laugh. “Such a lovely little thing, and right precocious she was, always dancing and singing out on them black-and-white tiles in the hall as if it was her own personal stage. She even made Dr Fogg smile. I reckon Lizzie saw a way to turn a penny from Dawnie in the music halls, and went back to that way of life. I loved that little kid, Ruby. Did everything for her, looked after her like the child I never had. It broke my heart when Lizzie took off with her like that. It was like losing a daughter. If my sister turned up now, I’d call the rozzers. Reckon she wouldn’t like that one bit.”

  “Even though she’s your own flesh and blood?” said Ruby.

  “I know it sounds harsh. Lizzie was my little sister but she grew up bad, through and through,” said Hannah. “Four husbands and all of ’em dead within the year. Ain’t natural, if you ask me.”

  “And what about that scandal when she turned up here all those years ago,” said Ruby, who was enjoying these confidences.

  “Yes, well, she was never one to stay and face the music. She’d been working as a dresser at that hall down Bermondsey way where that tenor got murdered. Victorious, I think it was called. She came here with a long sob story about losing her job and how it wasn’t her fault. But I think she’d been up to her old tricks. Petty thieving, a bit of blackmail. I took her in, told her it could only be for a few days. Thought she could help out; we were short-handed as usual.”

  “We always are,” said Ruby. “People thinks they’ll be tainted by working in the mad house.”

  “Course, Lizzie was no help at all. She was always hanging round Sarah Easingford. I got quite shirty with her, particularly when I caught her with a silver cup. Red-handed, she were. I reckon the cup was why she was here – she’d prigged it and wanted somewhere safe to lie low. I was going to send her on her way. Was pleased when she said she was going away.”

  “But she came back?”

  Hannah nodded. “She disappeared for a couple of days and turned up back here with a little baby. Dawnie. One peep and I was lost. She said the child belonged to a friend who’d died. I doubted it was true, but the babe was such a sweet thing. So they both stayed. Then five years later she skips off with the little ’un without a word and broke my heart.”

  Hannah wiped a tear from her eye and then yelled towards the scullery.

  “You finished them pots, Edie?”

  “Just done,” called Effie.

  “That girl could be a bit of a find, even if she did come without a reference. A good little worker. Nifty with her fingers too.” Hannah yawned. “Right, bed for me.”

  “Me an’ all,” said Ruby. The two women got laboriously to their feet and shuffled off towards the stairs.

  Effie bit her lip. She was going to have to be very nifty with her fingers tonight, and no mistake. />
  Effie tiptoed into Hannah Gawkin’s room. Hannah was fast asleep on her back, the keys hanging from the bedpost above her head. Effie grimaced. They would make a noise as soon as she touched them unless she manoeuvred them with real delicacy. She took a step forward. Hannah’s breathing remained steady. Trying to stop her hand shaking, Effie very gently started to lift the keys up over the bedpost. Hannah stirred, and Effie froze until Hannah’s breathing steadied again. Carefully Effie raised the keys over the bedpost. If she was caught now, she would end up in Holloway. With her spare hand she pulled a piece of linen from her apron pocket and with the lightest of touches wrapped the keys in it in a single movement. There was just the tiniest clink.

  She hurried up the stairs to the third floor where Rose had told her Grace was incarcerated. But when she reached the top of the stairs and peered around the corner she saw a nurse sitting on a chair right outside Grace’s room.

  There was nothing she could do but carry on with the rest of the plan. Effie crept back down the stairs and unlocked the door that led from the public rooms to the kitchen. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed one o’clock as she did so, and a few seconds later Rose appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Where’s Grace?” she whispered.

  “There’s a nurse sitting outside her room.”

  “We can’t leave her here!” said Rose desperately.

  “Be sensible, Rosie, we have to,” said Effie. “If we can get you out with that bit of paper, Mr Cherryble will help her.”

  Rose opened her mouth to protest but Effie said very firmly, “Do you want to get out of here or not? This is your only chance.”

  Reluctantly, Rose followed Effie through the door that led to the kitchens and Effie locked it behind them. They hurried through the kitchen to the back door. Once again Effie selected exactly the right key from the bunch (she had been paying careful attention when Hannah Gawkin made her rounds of the house) and it opened soundlessly.

  The children tiptoed across the grass, its frosted blades shimmering in the moonlight. They headed to the small back door set in the high wall that surrounded the house. Effie looked at the lock and considered the keys. She tried a long one that was rustier then the others. It slipped into the lock as if it belonged there, but when she tried to turn it, it refused to budge. Fingers trembling, she tried another. No good. A light went on in a window at the back of the house. If anyone looked out of the window now, there was a high chance they would be spotted. Effie went back to the first key. Once again it fitted the lock perfectly. This time Effie pulled the door hard towards her as she attempted to turn the key. The lock turned with a rusty creak. Effie pulled the door open and they moved quickly through it. On the other side Effie pulled the door shut and relocked it. They set off swiftly down the lane where Aurora was waiting with a cart and horse.

  Rose threw herself into the cart. “Gee up! I need to see Thomas!”

  Thomas Campion was sitting at his desk. His head was heavily bandaged but he was feeling much better. If only he could recall more clearly what had happened to him. It worried him that somebody at the theatre had attacked him.

  The fog outside was thick tonight, as dense and sticky as porridge. He could see little outside his window, and just occasionally he caught the glimmer of a lantern crossing the yard. At least the fog in his mind was beginning to clear since Rose had returned in the dead of night. She had been sitting by his bed when he awoke. He’d been horrified to learn his bang to the head had left her a helpless prisoner. He had begged Rose’s forgiveness, but she had merely hugged him so hard that it hurt quite a lot, and said, “Oh, Thomas, I knew there’d be an explanation for why you hadn’t returned, and that you would come back for me when you could because I know you love me like a father.”

  Thomas and the others had been gripped by Rose’s account of her conversation with Sarah Dorset.

  “So I think there can be no doubt,” said Rose. “Ned Dorset was Lily and Lord Frederick’s son, Edward Easingford.”

  “Which means,” said Thomas, “that Freddie is actually the rightful Lord Easingford.”

  “It’s just like a stage melodrama,” said Rose. “Even better than the ones you used to write, Thomas.”

  “Maybe,” said Thomas. “But at least in my stories the blood isn’t real and nobody actually gets murdered. We’re going to have to go to the police.”

  Rose looked at him astounded. She didn’t have much faith in the rozzers, and they’d probably be laughed out of the station. Who would believe their word against that of a great lord, a man about to be made a privy councillor to boot? They needed more evidence. They needed to speak to Oliver Dorset Woldingham.

  “There’s more,” said Rose, and she nudged Effie, who told them what she had heard about Lizzie Gawkin.

  Thomas had frowned at the mention of the woman’s name. Damn his aching head, he just couldn’t remember what it was that made him feel so anxious about her.

  Just then, Lottie appeared at the door. She and Gus, the stage manager, had been doing sterling work keeping Campion’s going over the last two days and ensuring that the show did indeed go on. “All right, you lot, I need some ’elp downstairs and I bet Thomas needs a rest from your gabbing.”

  They’d all trooped after her to get ready for the first show, leaving Thomas sitting down at his desk to go over the takings. Houses had been superb the last two nights. Lottie had said that audiences were going mad for the cancan with the small blonde girl called Dora at the end of the line. When word got round that the girls’ bicycle act, in which Aurora would appear dressed as a boy for the first time, was back at the top of the bill tonight, both performances were likely to be sell-outs.

  Thomas wondered whether Campion’s fortunes might be on the turn. He hoped so. He was expecting Mr Cherryble imminently to discuss the finances and also to mull over what was to be done with Freddie. He could hardly stay hidden as a girl forever. Thomas wondered whether he should send him to his brother in the country for a while. He also wanted to talk to Mr Cherryble about Aurora. He wanted Lizzie out of Campion’s as soon as possible but he didn’t want her to take Aurora with her. If he had to pay to ensure Lizzie’s departure and to keep Aurora as part of the Campion’s family, so be it.

  But he wanted to be careful. The woman was vindictive, possibly dangerous. He needed her to leave Campion’s feeling she had got the upper hand. He felt quite certain she might put a match to Campion’s if she felt thwarted.

  There was a knock at the door. Thomas said, “Come in, Cherryble.” But it was not the lawyer. A man of about fifty with a kind face and cornflower-blue eyes stepped into the room. He was wearing a dog collar. He removed his hat and held out his hand.

  “Mr O’Leary said to come up. I’m Oliver Woldingham. I have come, Mr Campion, in response to your letter. I cannot believe that dear Ned Dorset is dead. I must tell you all I know to avoid further tragedy.”

  Thomas offered Oliver a seat, and by the time Mr Cherryble joined them, the men were already in deep conversation.

  Josiah Pinch sat at the back of the gallery watching as the cancan came to an end. Around him people were up on their feet, their faces glowing, but Josiah stayed firmly seated, his bowler tilted over his face, just in case those prying children saw him. He still felt certain that Freddie was hidden away at Campion’s. He had kept watch, but there had been no sign of the boy; the only child he had seen was a little blonde girl he had glimpsed running around the yard playing with the cat.

  Josiah was wondering whether he should follow Lizzie Gawkin’s example and get into the blackmail business. If he could only find the boy, maybe he could put the screws on Lord Henry. After all, Josiah knew rather more about his lordship’s affairs than he would ever want made public.

  The band struck up again. The crowd leaned forward. The tune was “Daisy Bell”. The crowd gave a cheer as Rose came on stage riding the bicycle. Josiah grimaced at the sight of it. He still had the bruises where Effie had cycled
into him. There was a roar from the crowd as a young boy stepped on stage. Josiah suddenly stood up to get a closer look. It was the same boy he’d seen going into Campion’s on the day of the Shoreditch debacle. Only it wasn’t a boy, of course. It was that Aurora girl pretending to be a boy! What an idiot he was. What a fool those kids had taken him for, parading Freddie in front of his very nose as little Dora. He stood up and forced his way along the row to the exit. He knew that Freddie Dorset was here. All he had to do now was snatch him.

  Aurora came off stage laughing. The act had gone really well. She loved doing it with Rose. Then they came face to face with Lizzie and her heart sank. She had enjoyed being so free of Lizzie recently, but she knew it couldn’t last.

  To Aurora’s surprise, Lizzie smiled at both the girls and said, “That’s a wonderful act you two have worked up. What clever little things you are.”

  Aurora and Rose were astonished and then suspicious; it was not like Lizzie to lavish praise. The woman continued, “You look very daring in that get-up, Aurora. And, Rose, you look lovely, my dear. But you ought to wear your hair up.” She moved to lift up Rose’s hair to reveal her neck but Rose squirmed away.

  “Thanks, Lizzie,” said Rose, trying not to shudder at the touch of the woman’s clammy fingers, “but I need to tighten the screw on this pedal before it drops off.” She disappeared with the bicycle.

  Lizzie stared after her. “I’m off for a gin,” she said, and walked off, leaving Aurora puzzling at her strange behaviour.

  Another big bunch of flowers had arrived at the stage door for Tess, so Aurora picked it up and took it down to the ballet girls’ dressing room. Tess, Lottie and the others were brewing a huge pot of tea.

  “Do you want some, Aurora?” asked Lottie. Aurora shook her head. She was about to leave when she spotted something under a jumble of clothes.

  “Oh,” she said. “There’s my shawl. I wondered where it had gone.”

  “Is it yours?” asked Lottie. “I borrowed it to wear to poor Ned’s funeral. It was in the trunk with the Aladdin props.”