by Dilly Court
Alf looked round slowly, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. ‘Can’t you guess? It’s Ma Flitton’s way of getting her own back on you, missis.’
‘I can’t believe she’d do such a thing,’ Mirabel said slowly. ‘She knew how much my husband loved the orchids. They were his life.’
‘And he’s dead.’ Gertie’s shrill voice reverberated off the tall brick walls surrounding the yard. ‘She blames you for that, Mabel. I don’t think the old bitch would have the guts to do this herself, but I know who would and he’s not a million miles away from here.’
‘Wiley,’ Alf said angrily. ‘She had a key to the back gate and it’s missing from its hook. That was the first thing I checked when I come out here this morning. She must have given it to him and told him to do his worst. It don’t take a ’tec to work that one out. I’m going round there now to give him what for.’
‘No.’ Mirabel stepped over the fragments of broken glass, and made her way into the wrecked greenhouse. ‘It’s probably what he wants and I refuse to play his game.’
‘I’ll go and find a copper,’ Gertie said eagerly. ‘Let them deal with it.’
Mirabel shook her head. ‘We can’t prove anything and who’d believe that a nice old lady like Mrs Flitton would suddenly turn into an evil witch? Wiley can be very convincing too, if he puts his mind to it. I’ll deal with this in my own way.’
‘I dunno how, missis.’ Alf pushed his cap to the back of his head, staring round at the ruined plant collection. ‘This lot must have been worth a small fortune. He should be made to pay.’
‘He will. Just give it time.’ Mirabel picked up a crushed flower, holding it to her cheek. ‘I’m just glad that Hubert didn’t live to see his beautiful orchids crushed and dying.’
Alf signalled to Tilda, who had been hovering anxiously outside the door. ‘Put the kettle on, girl. The missis looks as though she needs a cup of tea with a good splash of brandy. I’ll have one too; plenty of sugar, if we can afford it.’ He laid his hand on Mirabel’s shoulder. ‘Chin up, missis. I’ll get me boys to help and we’ll have this lot cleared up in a jiffy.’
‘Yes,’ Mirabel said dazedly. ‘Thank you, Alf.’ She made an attempt at a smile. ‘At least we’ll save money on coal.’ She stepped outside, turning her back on the vandalised greenhouse. It was the end of an era as far as Hubert’s orchid collection was concerned, but someone would pay for it, and that someone would be the man who had tried to destroy her and take what rightfully was hers.
Leaving Alf and his sons to sort out the greenhouse and clear up the mess, Mirabel braved the rain and paid another visit to the solicitor. Yardley himself was in court and likely to be there for some time, according to his clerk. It seemed that the day was going to be one of frustration and disaster, but Mirabel was not about to give up. She left Hubert’s will with the clerk, instructing him to send it for probate on her behalf, and asked him to get a copy of her father’s will. Hubert had promised to do so, but he had been busy arranging the expedition to Florida and must have forgotten.
She left the office feeling that at least she had done something constructive, and was even more determined not to be beaten by Wiley. At least the rain had stopped and a pale sun was edging its way through the clouds. She was halfway across the lawn in Lincoln’s Inn Fields when she saw a fashionably dressed woman walking towards her. There was no mistaking her identity. ‘Zilla.’ Mirabel quickened her pace, realising that Zilla Grace was about to walk past. ‘Zilla, it’s me.’
Zilla came to a halt, looking her up and down. A slow smile animated her painted face. ‘Why, it’s Mabel. You look so fine I didn’t recognise you. How is Hubert?’
Chapter Twenty-two
‘DEAD?’ FOR ONCE Zilla seemed at a loss for words. She tucked Mirabel’s hand in the crook of her arm. ‘Walk with me, Mabel.’
Zilla had never been one to show emotion, but Mirabel sensed that she was genuinely upset at the news of Hubert’s demise. ‘It was quite sudden.’
‘I suppose he was getting on in years,’ Zilla said slowly. ‘If it was anyone but you I’d suspect foul play.’
Mirabel withdrew her hand, coming to a halt. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’
‘It’s what many people would think, although I know better. How did it happen?’
‘The doctor said it was an apoplectic fit.’ Mirabel was in no mood for lengthy explanations and she set off, walking briskly in the direction of Carey Street.
Zilla hurried after her. ‘I would have liked to pay my respects at his funeral, and I’m sure my girls would have too. Why didn’t you let me know?’
‘Hubert was taken ill and died in America. He’s buried there.’
‘It might have proved expensive to travel so far for a funeral.’ Zilla quickened her pace to keep up with Mirabel. ‘I’m teasing you, Mabel. I know it was in poor taste but I’m agog with curiosity, and I won’t be satisfied until you tell me the whole story.’
‘I have to be somewhere, Zilla. I really can’t stop.’
‘Now I know there’s something you’re not telling me.’ They had reached Serle Street, where a cab had just drawn up in order to drop off its passenger. Zilla hailed the cabby. ‘Tenter Street.’ She seized Mirabel’s hand. ‘Hubert was my friend and I’m truly sorry to hear that he’s gone to his maker. You can spare me a few minutes of your time – you owe me that, Mrs Kettle.’
It seemed like years since Mirabel had set foot in Zilla’s establishment, although nothing had changed. Florrie acknowledged her with a curt nod of her head as she let them in, and Gentle Jane gave her a hearty slap on the back as she passed them wearing nothing but a skimpy robe, with her hair wrapped in a towel. ‘Left the old bloke and come back to join us, have you?’ she chortled. ‘Welcome home, Mabel.’ She clattered off towards the stairs, her slippers making wet slapping sounds on the floorboards.
‘Never mind her,’ Zilla said impatiently. ‘Come to my parlour and we’ll talk.’ She glanced over her shoulder at Florrie, who was loitering by the front door. ‘Don’t stand there looking like an idiot, girl. Bring us coffee and cake. No, make that my best Madeira and cake.’ She marched off along the narrow hallway towards her parlour.
Mirabel followed her more slowly. The house with its familiar furnishings and the stuffy atmosphere heavy with the smell of stale cigar smoke, wine and cheap perfume had once been a welcome refuge, but the memories it held were bittersweet. It was not her husband’s ghost haunting the corridors; it was the memory of Jack, whose lazy, lopsided smile was etched forever in her memory. Resolutely closing her mind to his presence she entered Zilla’s parlour. ‘What were you doing in Lincoln’s Inn?’ she demanded without giving her hostess the chance to speak. Perhaps, she thought, if she could deflect the conversation away from herself she might get away with a brief explanation as to why Hubert had died on foreign soil.
Zilla pulled a long and vicious-looking hatpin from her wide-brimmed hat, which was embellished with ostrich feathers dyed an unbelievable shade of purple. She laid it on the rosewood table next to a bowl of bronze chrysanthemums. ‘Oh, the usual,’ she said casually. ‘The police raid us on a regular basis. My solicitor attends court in my absence and I pay a fine. That’s an end to it until the next time.’ She slipped off her mantle and tossed it on a chair before taking a seat. ‘Now then, Mabel. What is it you’re not telling me?’ She reached for a silver box, took out a small black cigarillo, struck a match and lit it, inhaling with obvious enjoyment. ‘Go on, I’m listening.’
It was impossible to keep anything from Zilla. The scent of the tobacco and the relaxing effects of the fine Madeira, which Florrie had delivered with her customary lack of finesse, made it easier to mention Jack’s name when it came to that particular part of her narrative. Mirabel kept her eyes focused on Zilla’s face, searching for a change in her expression when his name cropped up, but she merely nodded her head and tapped the ash from the cigarillo into the grate. ‘He has a habit of turning up unexpectedly. I suppose you
’re in love with him.’
‘Of course not,’ Mirabel said hastily. ‘I hardly know him.’
‘When did that ever stop a female heart from fluttering, especially when the man in question is an attractive devil like Jack Starke?’ Zilla downed the last of her wine. ‘So you left him in Florida.’
‘He chose to stay. There’s nothing between us, Zilla. You can have him back for all I care.’
‘My dear child, I wouldn’t take him back if he crawled from Liverpool to London on bended knees. I like my freedom and I treat men in the same way they treat us. I take what I want and then I move on.’ Zilla put the cigarillo to her lips and inhaled, exhaling slowly and thoughtfully. ‘So what were you doing in Lincoln’s Inn? You must be a wealthy woman now.’
‘Not exactly. Hubert spent a great deal of money on the expedition and the bank manager told me that he’d made some ill-judged investments.’
‘So you’re broke – I can give you a job here?’ Zilla’s lips twitched and she tossed the butt of her cigarillo into the fire. ‘Maybe I could find you another elderly suitor?’
‘Thank you, no. I expect to inherit a considerable some from a tontine that Hubert had belonged to, and I intend to invest the money myself. I don’t trust banks.’
Zilla eyed her thoughtfully. ‘What sort of investment were you thinking of?’
‘I don’t know exactly. I want something to do, Zilla. I can’t see myself as a woman who occupies her time with domestic matters and good works. I’m never going to have children of my own and I need something that will occupy my mind. I’d like to have my own business; I just don’t know how to go about it.’
‘I might just have an idea, but I’d need to look into it further.’ Zilla rose to her feet and tugged at an embroidered bell pull. ‘Florrie will find you a cab. I’m sure you have things to do at home. I’ll let you know whether or not I think my idea will be of benefit to you.’
Mirabel stood up, swaying slightly as the Madeira wine took its full effect. ‘Thank you, Zilla. I know you’re a good businesswoman and I’d appreciate your help, but I’d like to hear more before you go to any trouble on my behalf.’
Zilla resumed her seat, reaching again for the silver box. ‘One of my clients is a seafaring man.’ She selected a cigarillo and struck a match. ‘Don’t look so worried, my dear. He’s nothing like Jack. He’s a serious sort of fellow but he enjoys the comforts my girls provide when he spends a night ashore.’
‘I don’t know anything about ships,’ Mirabel said hastily. ‘I was thinking of a shop, perhaps, or setting up a lending library.’
‘Poppycock. You’d be bored to death within weeks. My client is master and owner of the ship but a poor businessman. He needs a partner who would be prepared to invest and run the business side of things. If he doesn’t find someone soon I’m afraid he’ll go bankrupt and lose everything, which would be a shame because he’s a decent man.’
‘I’m not looking for a husband,’ Mirabel said warily. ‘I hope you don’t think you’re acting as a marriage broker.’
Zilla threw back her head and laughed. ‘Edric Hamilton has a wife and five children, as well as a stuck-up sister-in-law and a brother who won’t have anything to do with him.’
‘The name sounds familiar,’ Mirabel said thoughtfully. ‘He wouldn’t be related to Adela Hamilton, would he?’
‘Do you know her?’
‘She runs the soup kitchen where I used to help. Anyone related to her has my sympathy.’
‘Does that mean you’ll consider the idea?’
‘If you can arrange a meeting with Mr Hamilton I’ll be happy to hear what he has to say.’
At first sight Edric Hamilton was not a prepossessing figure. He stood on the quay wall, a towering figure over six feet in height. His fiery red hair stood out around his head in a mass of tight curls, matched by a beard and moustache that masked the whole of his lower face. His eyes, rimmed with sandy lashes, were the intense blue of a summer sky and a livid scar on the left side of his face showed up white against his tanned skin. ‘Mrs Kettle.’ He advanced towards her holding out a huge hand at the end of a muscular forearm exposed by his rolled up shirt sleeve. ‘How good of you to come.’ His voice was surprisingly cultured and at odds with his appearance. ‘Would you care to come aboard and see for yourself?’
Mirabel shook hands, trying hard not to wince as strong fingers crushed her bones together in a firm grip. ‘Yes, Captain Hamilton. I think I would.’
He descended the wooden ladder placed precariously on the deck of his vessel and propped against the wooden stanchions of the quay wall. Standing at the bottom he held out his arms. ‘I’ll catch you if you fall.’
‘Thank you, that won’t be necessary, Captain.’ Mirabel put one foot on the top rung, holding on for dear life as she climbed down the ladder. The vessel was a paddle steamer with one funnel amidships and its deck lined with wooden benches. ‘What exactly do you do carry, Captain Hamilton?’ She gazed in horror at the disarray on the deck, which was covered in a film of black oil, and the benches were splattered with bird droppings.
‘Passengers, ma’am. I used to carry sightseers in summer, although to be truthful not too many want to step on board these days.’
Looking round Mirabel could understand why. She tried to be positive. ‘What about cargo?’
‘Sometimes I get a charter, but I don’t have time to go looking for work. I’m a seafaring man, used to sailing bigger craft than this, but needs must.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand. Why do you continue with this type of work if it doesn’t pay?’
‘I have little choice, Mrs Kettle.’ He stared at her, his sandy brows lowered in a frown. ‘I have a family to keep, and taking sightseers downriver used to pay well, but when the Princess Alice went down four years ago with such a terrible loss of life my business suffered too.’
‘Perhaps what you offer isn’t quite enough these days,’ Mirabel suggested tactfully. ‘Maybe a clean-up and a coat of paint would attract more custom.’
Edric threw up his hands. ‘Ma’am, do I look as though I can afford to pay for such things?’
‘You can afford Zilla’s prices. I would have thought this would be your priority as it’s your way of earning a living. What does your wife have to say about all this?’
‘She says it was a bad day when I split with my old partner. He bought me out five years ago. I sold the brig and bought this, thinking I could run the business by myself.’
‘What happened to your partner? Wouldn’t he be the one to go to for advice?’
‘The poor fellow’s ship was lost off the coast of Havana with all hands.’
‘What was his name?’ Mirabel’s breath hitched in her throat and her heart pounded against her ribcage, and she already knew the answer.
‘Jack Starke. He was a good mate, God rest his soul. It was through Zilla that we met.’
‘He didn’t drown. Last time I saw him he was alive and well.’
The corners of Edric’s eyes crinkled into a smile. ‘You don’t say so. Well I never did. Where is the old devil?’
‘Florida. At least that’s where he was a few weeks ago.’
‘Zilla told me you’re well travelled, but I’d no idea you knew my mate Jack. How is he?’
‘He’s enjoying life as far as I know.’ It was painful to talk about Jack in such a casual way, but knowing that he had been this man’s friend had made her think differently about helping Edric. Suddenly his needs and her own seemed to be inextricably interwoven, and dragging him from a pit of despair was a challenge she could not ignore. ‘But this isn’t about Jack Starke; this is about your business, Captain Hamilton.’
He ran his hand through his untidy mass of hair. ‘Do you mean you’ll help me?’
‘I’d like to talk it over with you, but I might be interested.’
‘Why would a lady like you want to take on something like this?’
‘My father was a businessman, Captain.
Perhaps I’ve inherited some of the instincts that made him a success.’
‘With all due respect, I’m not sure about working with a woman, ma’am.’
‘I haven’t agreed to anything yet, but as I see it you haven’t got much choice. What does your wife think about all this?’ She encompassed the vessel with a wave of her hand.
‘She threw me out, Mrs Kettle. I’ve been living below deck for the past six months.’
‘I need to see the whole of the ship, Captain. And a report from a surveyor would be helpful. There’s no point putting money into the boat if it’s about to sink to the bottom of the river.’
Mirabel’s first mission, having inspected the vessel and arranged for a survey to be done, was to visit Edric’s wife. The family home was in Limehouse, close to the river, and the dwelling was, like the boat, in a state of disrepair. Tiles were missing from the roof and several of the windows were boarded up. Fronting directly onto the street, the house was sandwiched between a pawnbroker and a pub. It was not the most salubrious area even in broad daylight. She rapped on the knocker and somewhere inside a dog barked and a baby began to cry. The door was opened by a thin woman whose pale face was lined with fatigue, but vestiges of her youthful prettiness still lingered. She stared at Mirabel, looking her up and down without saying a word.
‘Mrs Hamilton, may I come in for a moment?’
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Mirabel Kettle.’
‘If you’re from the school board I don’t know where Jimmy is.’
‘I’m not from the school board. I’m here because I might be able to help your husband with his business, but I wanted to speak to you first.’
‘You’d better come in, then.’
Mirabel followed her into the dingy parlour where a baby lay in a wooden crib by the window while a toddler crawled round the floor, trying to pick up a cockroach. The walls were covered in faded prints of ships, and every available surface was littered with strange objects presumably brought back from foreign parts. The only furniture was a square pine table, several wooden stools and a rocking chair by the fire. The grate was empty and the air was thick with the smell of soot, rising damp and the odours creeping in from the river. ‘My husband’s sister-in-law didn’t send you, did she?’
