by Amy Corwin
He was going to prove, once and for all, that one could be intelligent and dress well, too. After all, one did not exclude the other. After looping his neckcloth around his neck a few times, he carelessly knotted it and thrust the ends through a buttonhole. He rather liked the effect of the well-tailored jacket and tan breeches coupled with the loose, informal neckcloth.
It also had the effect of making him seem less muscular than he was, and he rather liked that slight deception, too. If he needed strength, he preferred it to be a surprise to his opponent.
“Will that be all, sir?” His valet stared at William’s boots with half-closed eyes and a terminally bored expression.
“No. Catch one of those urchins always running about and send him—or her—to locate our Mr. Sanderson. It shouldn’t be too difficult. I want to know where he is working. The name of the firm, I believe, is Hawkins and Hawkins.”
“Hawkins and Hawkins, sir?”
“Yes. Bricklayers.”
His valet sniffed. He was not used to dealing with urchins and obviously didn’t intend to start now.
A profound silence settled around them.
Finally, William waved his hand in a shooing motion and said, “Now.”
The steely edge in his voice convinced his valet to comply without daring another comment.
William collected a pocket watch from his dresser and carefully arranged the chain across his waistcoat before slipping the timepiece into his pocket. No fobs. No other jewelry to interfere with the effect of his smooth waistcoat and carelessly elegant cravat. Nothing to get lost in a fight, should one regretfully ensue.
He was surprised to find he rather wished an altercation would ensue. In fact, he was less unsettled at the notion that Mr. Sanderson’s job might be a tad dangerous than he probably should have been. A small smile flickered across his face at the prospect.
The butler obtained a hackney for William, and by the ungodly hour of ten, he was on his way to Strand. The British Press, the Globe, the Courier and Morning Chronicle were all located along that street, as well as unnumbered other broad sheets. It was as good a place to start as any, although he wondered if he ought to buy a pair of cotton gloves along the way to avoid the embarrassment of inky fingerprints on his neckcloth or breeches.
When he arrived at the Globe, William strolled into the offices and leaned over the wooden counter. He eyed a slender, white-haired clerk who, in the dim light, might easily be mistaken for an elderly goblin. William almost expected to see cobwebs and small clouds of dust trailing from the clerk's frayed sleeves.
“Yes, sir?” the goblin asked, rubbing his gnarled nose.
“I wish to read any articles you may have concerning a fire—”
“A fire? Which fire, sir? We’ve many fires…” he interrupted irritably. He glanced back at his work and his frown deepened.
William smiled pleasantly. “The 1806 fire in Longmoor. It involved an estate called Elderwood, I believe.”
“Eighteen o’six?” He rubbed his red nose again, his rheumy blue eyes wandering over William’s jacket as if considering its worth.
With an even broader smile, William flipped a shilling onto the counter.
The old man leaned his bony elbows on the ancient wood and stared at the ceiling. William rolled two more shillings over to the first. When the clerk continued to contemplate the blackened plaster above his head, William reached over and tapped the coins.
“If you don’t want them,” he said, his tone as careless as his cravat, “I can certainly find someone who does.”
The clerk grabbed the coins, grunted, and wandered away through the cabinets behind him. There was a great deal of snorting and sneezing between the shelves, but eventually the clerk returned with several folded sheets.
“These are them.” He slapped the papers down in front of William.
William glanced around and raised his brows. “A table and chair?”
“Ha!” the goblin laughed. The sound ended abruptly in a watery snort that made William back up a step. “Read ’em on the counter or floor. Whichever you prefers.”
“Thank you,” William replied sweetly before gingerly unfolding the sheets.
There were several long articles about the Elderwood fire. All of them weeping with hysteria over the loss of the Marquess of Longmoor’s entire household, including the marquess, his wife, and two children on the night of March 17, 1806.
There was even a tearful description of a birthday party for the oldest child, a girl named Sarah, who turned eleven the very day of the tragedy. A cousin named Mary, apparently the same age as Sarah, had been visiting as well to join in the celebration. Little Mary and her two parents were also listed as victims of the fire. The entire family had perished in a few hours, leaving no survivors.
He read the article twice, looking for names of the servants who must also have perished. Unfortunately, they were deemed irrelevant in the initial tale of outraged horror.
There was a second article in a paper a few days later, however, that took gruesome delight in listing every known soul who perished. It listed twenty-three servants in the household, along with the cousins, Mr. and Mrs. John Archer, and their daughter, Mary. The Marquess of Longmoor, his wife Evelyn, and their two children, Sarah, age eleven, and Samuel, age nine, were again at the top of the list. After the immediate family, another visitor, the twenty-year-old daughter of the Duke of Rother, was also listed amongst the dead.
Interestingly, the author hinted that foul play was involved. Officials, those charmingly anonymous informers who seemed so fond of men who wrote for the broadsheets, apparently told the author that one or two slim wedges of wood had been found. They might—or might not—have been shoved between the doors and frames, effectively sealing them shut.
Or the slivers may have fallen from the wooden doors when hatchets were used to open them in futile attempts to assist those inside and to put out the blaze. In the confusion, it was difficult to determine the truth.
In any event, no one had escaped through the doors, even if they had been able to find them through the flames and smoke.
A vision of the star-shaped scar on Sanderson’s forehead hovered between the smudged print and William’s eyes. He read the article again, sympathy and anger tightening his stomach. Sanderson would have been…what? Nine, or ten at the most, given his youthful appearance now and slender build.
Who would have lit a fire, knowing children were present in the house?
William would gladly have lodged the end of his sword in whoever had done so. It sickened him just to consider the grotesque act.
If it had, indeed, been deliberately set.
Pushing away the thought, he concentrated on the sparse facts.
The son of the marquess was called Samuel. He had been nine at the time of the fire. Had he managed to escape and hide for thirteen years? Is that what Sanderson hadn’t told him last night? That he was really the Marquess of Longmoor, but was too afraid to step forward and claim his title?
“Were there any more?” William asked.
“Any more what?” the clerk replied.
“Articles, man. Any more articles?”
The clerk shrugged, laying his hand casually on the counter, palm upwards. William flipped a few more coins onto the counter, deliberately missing the goblin’s palm.
“Sorry, guv’. That’s it. Public lost interest, you might say, after that second piece.”
“Lost interest? In what might possibly have been the murder of a marquess and his entire family? Don’t be absurd.”
The goblin shrugged his bony shoulders. “Be that as it may, there was no more written after that second article. ’Cept the obituaries. They're in the back of that second paper yer resting yer hand on, there, sir.”
William scanned the obituaries but found no more information. Impatient to see what the other newspapers reported, he left the Globe and visited the British Press. Their articles were just as hysterical, decrying the pitiful deaths
of the three young children. That paper printed three articles. The last two speculated on the possibility that the fire had been deliberately set and doors jammed to prevent the inhabitants from escaping to safety.
The Observer had a correction a week after the event, indicating that Mr. and Mrs. John Archer survived the conflagration. The couple had been visiting nearby neighbors at the time of the tragedy. Their survival had not been noted in the initial articles. The couple had been too overcome with grief at the loss of their family to contact the editors. Sadly, their daughter, Mary, spending the night with her cousins at Elderwood, had indeed perished. There was no additional information, although William visited every newspaper establishment, including the Hue and Cry Police Gazette on Strand.
Stopping at a busy coffee shop nearby, he sipped a rich cup of coffee and picked at an apple tart while he considered what he had read. The survival of Mr. and Mrs. John Archer made him uncomfortable. They had apparently been away at the time of the fire.
How very convenient.
Had Major Pickering found this suspicious, as well? Had he found evidence to suggest Mr. Archer had had something to do with the fire that killed his brother-in-law, the marquess?
It would certainly account for Pickering’s sudden intimacy with a sharp knife. And it might explain Mr. Sanderson’s fears, as well. If John Archer knew that Mr. Sanderson was working in London as a bricklayer, Sanderson might well be the next target.
The more William considered the situation, the more likely it seemed that Mr. Sanderson was indeed the son of the Marquess of Longmoor. However, despite that notion, William could not make Sanderson’s gray eyes fit that role. Those curiously smooth cheeks beneath the layer of brick dust were not particularly masculine and neither was the ring of clear skin exposed around Sanderson’s soft mouth after eating.
Many men had light beards, though. William rubbed his own clean-shaven chin. He was fair, but by early evening, stubble would be bristling over his cheeks, darkening them with rough shadows.
His speculations made him uncomfortably aware of an unfamiliar need to protect his client, as well. He liked the young man even though he barely knew him. He looked forward to their next meeting. That sense of anticipation disturbed him.
He felt like he was missing something, some vital clue to Sanderson’s identity.
One of the serving girls poured him another cup of coffee. He sipped it, narrowing his eyes in contemplation. Somehow, he thought—or perhaps just hoped—that Mr. Samuel Sanderson might actually be Miss Sarah Sanderson. She would certainly be reluctant to step forward and claim whatever inheritance she might gain, particularly after living so many years as a man. And it made the situation a great deal more interesting. Not to mention awkward—for her.
On the other hand, it wasn’t like a woman to say as little as Sanderson had said last night, given the opportunity. So he was inclined—albeit reluctantly—to return to his original assumption. Mr. Samuel Sanderson was indeed a male and had perhaps suffered the loss of his manhood during his escape from the fire. Hence Sanderson’s smooth cheeks, soft mouth, and feminine eyes.
Finishing the coffee, he flipped a few extra coins onto the table and strolled out into the sunshine of a temperamental April afternoon. A blustery wind whistled through the alleys, stirring up bits of paper and rags. He hailed a passing hackney coach and gave it the address of Second Sons. With luck, Sotheby might have managed to find an enterprising urchin who could discover where Mr. Sanderson was employed. William wanted another word with his client.
“Wait here!” He ordered when the coach came to a standstill outside the townhouse.
He leapt down.
As he was climbing the stairs, Sotheby opened the door. “Mr. Trenchard,” he greeted him.
“Did you do as I ordered?”
“Yes, sir. I found a…child, sir, and sent it after your client. It appears the gentleman is working for a Mr. John Archer—“
“Archer!”
“Yes, sir. Mr. John Archer. In a residence near Leicester Square.” He gave the address in clipped, precise tones.
“John Archer? Are you sure?”
Sotheby paused for a moment, allowing William to remember that he had already said the name twice. “That is what the child reported, sir.”
William dashed back to the coach and repeated the address Sotheby had given him to the driver. What could possibly have possessed Sanderson to take a job for his uncle? No wonder this previously moribund affair seemed to be rising again, like a phoenix from the ashes.
John Archer may have recognized Sanderson— who apparently didn’t have enough sense to change his name. And now, Archer was trying to murder him. As he settled into the worn seat, he glanced outside. A man on foot walked briskly past the slow-moving coach.
“Hurry!” he bellowed through the window.
Good God, it's a wonder the lad is still alive. He hasn't a particle of sense behind those gray eyes.
The carriage moved sluggishly along, rattling over the cobbles. The streets around Portman Square thronged with men and woman who apparently had nothing better to do than impede the already tortoise-like progress of William’s hackney. A block away, his patience shattered.
“Stop!” He thumped his booted foot against the side of the carriage.
Climbing down, he tossed a sovereign to the driver, ignoring the coachman’s protests that the gold piece far exceeded the fare due him.
He made better progress on foot. He soon stopped opposite the staid, red brick townhouse purportedly inhabited by the Archers. The door was painted a brilliant red, trimmed with a black frame that matched the glossy black shutters adorning each window. Scanning the crowds, William didn’t see anyone unusual loitering about, except the usual gangs of urchins and merchants hoping to catch a coin dropped by the gentry.
Through the shadows of a narrow alley running between the right side of the Archer’s townhouse and the neighboring establishment, William could see movement. Glancing up to make sure no maid chose that moment to fling open a window and empty a chamber pot, William strode through the short passageway. He turned sharply left through an old iron gate into the area behind the townhouse.
A tangle of workmen labored over the construction of a brick wall. The half-built edifice encircled a square garden plot, already dotted with a few perennial herbs. William hurriedly scanned the men. He recognized Sanderson aligning a brick along the top of the wall.
William relaxed a bit and took a step forward, gazing around the small yard. There was the usual collection of outbuildings, including a carriage house and adjoining stable, shed for gardening implements, and a dovecot. He glanced uneasily at the windows overlooking the back. Not only did Archer’s house have several vantage points, but anyone could spy on the workmen from the townhouses on either side of Archers, or from the rear.
As he studied the situation, he noted several other gentlemen. They idly walked down the alley to view the work before sauntering away.
“Sir, can I be of assistance?” a large man asked as he dusted off his hands on his smock. He moved in front of William, blocking his view of Sanderson.
“No, just curious. Is this the work of the Hawkins and Hawkins firm?”
A broad smile grew across the man’s face. He stuck out a meaty hand and grabbed William’s hand, pumping it mightily. “Yes, sir. That we are, sir. You’ve heard of us, then?”
“Yes. Are you by any chance the owner? Mr. Hawkins?”
“That I am!” His doughy face turned pink with pleasure. He waved a hand toward the laborers building up the wall behind him. “Mr. Hawkins, at your service, sir. Have you an interest in brickwork, then?”
“Possibly.”
“And your name, sir? If I may be so bold?”
William transferred his gaze to Hawkins’s small black eyes. In less than two heartbeats, Hawkins glanced away.
“Never, mind, sir,” Hawkins sputtered, realizing the impertinence of his question. “It’s my pleasure to
meet you, sir. Watch as long as you wish. If you have any questions, I’d be glad to be of assistance, sir.”
“I was sure you would be,” William replied, watching Sanderson's clean profile as he—rather, she—worked. Some instinct within him had made at least one decision about his client. It was Sarah Sanderson who had survived, not her brother.
However, since her only safety seemed to be in her pretense of being a common laborer, he was obliged to keep her secret. And of course there was always the possibility that he was entirely wrong and that Sam was indeed Samuel Sanderson.
Sanderson flashed a quick glance in his direction but never paused in his task. He continued applying mortar and bricks, building up the wall in front of him with sure, confident movements. After two more bricks, he pulled off his floppy hat to mop his brow with his sleeve, never glancing toward William again.
“Good worker, that one,” William said, waving his hand negligently at Sam. “Wouldn’t think it to look at him, though. Narrow-shouldered.”
Hawkins laughed. “Regular bag o’bones he is. But he’s a bright lad. Reads and does his sums as well as any lord.”
William’s brows rose. “How did you happen to hire him? I should think he’d try for a clerk’s office if he can read and write.”
“Mayhap he might have, ’cept he came to me first when he was but a lad of nine or so. Sleeping in the stables he was, when I first laid eyes on him. Chased him out, but the fool wouldn’t stay away. Kept coming ’round the house looking for scraps to eat. So I finally sent him on an errand with a sixpence in hand, never expecting him to return. But return he did. So I tried a shilling, and again he did as he was bid and came back.” Hawkins laughed, his black eyes merry. “Presented me with the change, mind you, solemn as you please, saying as how I’d given him too much for a sack of apples.
“Well, I decided then-and-there that there were worse sorts. So I let him live above the stables, using him for errands and such. Followed me on jobs so I got used to using him there, too. When I found he could read and write with a fair hand, I set him to work as my apprentice. He’s been with me ever since. Thirteen years, now, to my reckoning.”
