by Sandra Byrd
My lungs tightened. “He said that Papa was, well, was under a cloud of suspicion of some kind.” I lifted my eyes to his. “Is it true?”
“It’s true he was under an internal investigation just before his death. I didn’t see any reason to trouble you with it, as it’s gone nowhere, now that he’s passed on.”
I nearly fainted. Confirmed, by someone who cared for him as a brother, and who would know!
I didn’t want to know but I had to know. “Of what was he suspected?”
“I don’t think the details will help, my dear. Crimes is all. I can’t say that it was true or not, not at this point, though it didn’t smell right. If so, the troubles died with him. All investigations into his crimes have been stopped, the case files are firmly closed and remain safely with me. There is, of course, no investigation into an accidental death. I’ve signed off on that myself.”
“Are these accusations why so few attended his funeral?” He would have felt so shamed. But maybe he’d deserved to be shamed! No, I refused to believe that.
Collingsworth softened his voice just a little. “He was a smart man, Miss Young, who made a foolish and unwise decision toward the end, perhaps driven by greed or”—he looked down—“avarice. But that will not overshadow his many years of faithful service. It shall not be spoken of again. I am the guardian of his reputation and will see that all remains quiet. I promise you that.”
Even if these “crimes” were not to be spoken of again, I was being told that they had occurred!
I needed to raise my other concern. “Sergeant Roberts mentioned that those who Papa might have been associated with could come for me.”
He drew himself to his full height. “I’ve put the word out here and on the street that you are my concern and my concern alone now.”
Then why hadn’t he called on me to ensure I was all right?
He continued. “If you need anything at all, if you find something out of the ordinary, have any concerns, or are contacted by anyone, you come directly to me and me alone.” He looked behind me and grinned. “Or to Francis, of course. In light of events, I’ve decided that it would be best if Francis looked after your interests. You’ll want someone to protect you.”
“Indeed. I’m always at your service,” Francis spoke up.
“I shouldn’t have a look around my house and see if there is anything of interest, of consideration to whatever Papa may have been . . . investigating?” I could not bring myself to say the crimes he was accused of being involved with. I did not, could not, believe that.
“Haven’t you already looked through your house?” His question pierced. Would he know if I lied? Almost certainly. At least I could try to keep some secrets concealed.
“I have,” I admitted. “I thoroughly searched and found love letters and novels from my girlhood. Papa’s desk drawers were empty.”
Collingsworth visibly relaxed. “It’s in your best interest, in your father’s best interest, in all our best interest, to let the dust settle. Let’s let the man rest in peace now, shall we? It’s the only right thing to do.”
It did seem best. Papa was gone now. But I pressed on. “It’s just, well, how could this be?”
He sighed and it was tinted with irritation. “My dear, if it will bring you some comfort, I will immediately tend to any new information that crosses my path.” His voice grew insistent. “As for you—files or notes found anywhere, including your home, belong to the police and I expect them to be handed over to me, promptly and privately.”
I gasped and a tear fell. I nodded. What was happening? Was he threatening me or insisting on upholding the integrity of his office?
He put a fatherly hand on mine. “The worst is behind you. You now realize that there are men in this world who think nothing at all of hurting a copper—or a lady, if she gets in their way. Do you understand? Let’s not give them the chance.”
He’d as good as admitted my father had been purposefully harmed.
The inspector turned to his son. “See her home now, will you? It’s dark, and a young woman should not be out alone, unescorted.”
Francis nodded, took me outside, and hired transport.
We passed a moment in silence in the moving carriage before Francis finally broke it. “I’m sorry about your father.”
“His death? Or his reported involvement in crime?” I added sharply. I still could not believe it.
“Both,” he said, quietly. He seemed embarrassed for me, and I repented of my tone. He was only trying to help.
“Francis . . .” I put my hand on his arm, as a friend might, and he looked at me oddly. “Do you know the exact place where the accident occurred? Where Papa . . . ?”
He nodded.
“I’d like to see it. I didn’t think I could face seeing it earlier, but now . . . now I think I’m ready to. Could you instruct the driver to take me there?”
Now he rested his hand over mine. “Gillian, I’m not sure—”
“Please,” I insisted. “It will bring me peace, I believe. I desperately, desperately need some peace.”
He hesitated for a moment, and then spoke with the driver. We ventured into a worried area of town. The narrow streets were busy; wet cobbles now slick with new rain and horse muck. The lamps spread yellow warmth through the blackish fog. Cockfighting progressed down the dark lanes and alleys. Crowing and jeering and gobbled death screeches pierced the air and my heart. I hoped we could drive away from them with all speed.
Finally, the driver pulled up at one of those narrow alleys. It was off a main road, and twisted from it a bit, like a broken wheel spoke. “There.” Francis pointed. “Against that far wall.”
It was much too dangerous and dark for me to get out. I reached my hand out toward the area for a moment, as if trying to reach through space to the place where his soul had departed his body. “Papa,” I whispered. I turned to Francis. “You’re certain that this is the place?”
“I’m certain.” He waited for a moment, and then ordered the driver to Cheyne Gardens. He rested his hand on mine again, and it was a comfort.
As the driver made his way out of the narrow artery I said, “To think of the poor who live here. I sorrow for them.”
He smiled gently. “Mother was always impressed by your mother’s kindness toward the poor,” he continued. “She’s running a bazaar this year, you know, to serve the parish poor. I believe your mother inspired her to charity work.”
That lifted my spirits. I thought on my recent visit to the Theatrical Mission. “I’m considering involvement with a charity myself,” I said. “It’s located on King Street. The Theatrical Mission, for the cast-off pantomime children.”
“It sounds like a wonderful match for you.” He leaned across the carriage aisle, bringing his face closer to mine as we arrived at Cheyne Gardens.
“Thank you for seeing me home,” I said. “It brings me great peace.”
“I’ve been thinking of late. If you wouldn’t mind, I should like to call on you in a more formal manner. If that would be pleasant for you.”
Had Francis always felt this way about me? I hadn’t thought so. He’d never seemed affectionate before.
“I’d very much appreciate a visit from you from time to time,” I replied.
He did not let go of my hand. “I meant on a more personal basis, once your mourning has passed. Do give it some thought.”
I could consider it. He was kind. I knew him well. Should there be more than that between a man and a woman before courting? I smiled, but did not answer him directly, and bid him a pleasant good night.
Later that night, I sat in the drawing room, sketching patterns for Cinderella to keep my mind on productive things. I could not sleep; I kept thinking of the dark alley where my beloved papa had lost his life. For variety, I drew Francis’s face. Pleasant, kind, soft, and boyish.
Before I could stop my hand, I sketched Lord Lockwood. First I sketched him not smiling. Solemn and strong, commanding. Then I sketche
d him smiling.
I stared at him admiringly; I admit it! He was, there was no other way to put it, magnificent when he smiled. His jaw was more angular than Francis’s was.
I played with those angles for a moment, and then, as I did, I thought, The angles in that alley are wrong.
I took a fresh sheet and sketched the alley as I remembered it, along with the dimensions of a typical cart. I well remembered how the road lay.
A cart could not have run away down that road and into that alley where it had supposedly hit and pinned Papa to death. The angles would not allow it. He had died there, I had seen no mistruth in Francis, I believed that. But his death had been no accident. No indeed.
CHAPTER SIX
Now that I suspected the cause of my father’s death, it troubled me night and day, but I did not see anything I could do to clarify the matter that I had not already done. Inspector Collingsworth had made it clear there was no investigation under way, nor would there ever be one. No one but the police had seen Papa die and they would remain silent. My house had been scoured, and any clues, other than the handful of items found in the cubbyhole, were gone—if, indeed, they had ever existed.
One mercy was that Mamma had not lived to see his death. Thinking upon this made me yearn for her anew, and the next Sunday I told Mrs. W, “I should like to accompany you to services this morning.” She looked at me in surprise. “Rather than my own services.”
“Certainly, of course,” she said. “Might I enquire why?”
“I do love my own church home, of course,” I said, “but I feel the need to be close to my mother in some way today.”
Mamma had always attended Sunday services at one or another of the missions throughout London led by the Cause, preferring their fiery speech, quick action, and, truth be told, regular women preachers. You won’t find them at your Anglican services, she’d teased Papa, and she was right. Papa allowed her to do as she would, but continued to attend the parish church nearby. After Mamma passed on, I attended with him and grew to love worship and service there, too.
Papa. I do not see what else I may do with the information at hand. But this I promise you: I will keep looking. And if something presents itself, a clue I might follow to clear your name, I will do so to the uttermost. I promise. Even if it means I may find out the worst.
Even if it risks your own life? I did not know where that thought came from.
The hackney cab could barely squeeze down the narrow brick alleyways; it reminded me of trying to assist actresses who had grown thick with bread and beer into costumes they’d fit a year earlier. With relief, we popped out onto a wide thoroughfare and in front of the hall used by the Cause for their meetings.
The Cause met all across London. Indeed, it had spread like a cure in the past decades. First drawn to helping the least of these, as Jesus might have, the ministers also now reached out to alcoholics, opium addicts, prostitutes, and . . . actresses. It did not matter if one had a never-trimmed beard or a lace-trimmed bonnet, one was welcomed at the Cause.
Mamma had told me that her father refused to speak of the matter, but Grandmamma had once, but only once, accompanied her to a meeting. She refused to look anyone in the eye lest they strike up a conversation, but on the way back to London had said, “That was lively, dear.” It had been her first and last word on the topic, and Grandfather had not allowed her to visit London again.
Soon after, Mamma died. We’d had her funeral held at one of the Cause meetinghouses. Grandmamma was too unwell to attend. Of course, Mamma was buried at the chapel in the village near Winton. Papa had even wanted it so. I’d then buried him next to her, as he would have wanted.
I sat on one of the hard benches and although the sermon was rousing, my mind wandered. It would not focus on the words being enthusiastically delivered but quietly centered on the phrase I’d seen above the Theatrical Mission. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
I had read that verse before in Saint Matthew, but it had never struck me as it did just then. I knew one should never accuse the Lord, especially in church. As Ruby’s stubbled skull passed through my mind I couldn’t help but remind Him, gently, I have hopes that they will have a kingdom in heaven, Lord, because You have not provided much to them in this kingdom here on earth.
There was no response but a forbearing silence.
I am grateful for Your forbearance and love, Lord. Please help me understand what to do and how to move forward to please You and to do good as my mother surely would have.
And, I added, my father, too. Why did I feel less confident in that?
I felt, suddenly, that God would show me, and I felt bathed in undeserved sunlight. Saint Matthew threaded through my heart and mind.
After the service I was greeted by many, including Mrs. Finley, who had been particularly inspirational to my mother as they’d worked together in the East End slums. “It’s good to see you, my dear,” she commented. “I often think of your dear mother.”
I was delighted to hear someone speak of Mamma. “As do I.”
“I know she had great ambitions for you,” she said.
“As a seamstress?” Mamma had always encouraged my designs, that was true.
“As a soldier,” Mrs. Finley responded. “Remember what General Booth has said, ‘All my best men are women.’ ” She giggled, and so did Mrs. W, and I caught their enthusiasm and laughed with them. Mrs. Finley took my face in her hands and kissed each cheek, softly, before we parted ways.
We walked home in silence, and I thought of the many good things the hundreds of missions throughout the city achieved. Like the Theatrical Mission, and my girls. Mother Rachel did what she could, but there was one of her and so many pantomime children who became too old to work.
What lay ahead for Ruby? She had no skills that were in demand, but there were certainly men of no conscience and low purpose who would take more of her person than just her hair if given the chance. I knew that.
Ruby can’t sew, I prayed in silence.
Is anything too hard for the Lord? came the response.
I knew the proper response was a trumpeted, faith-filled No, but the one I believed was, I hope not.
• • •
The next early afternoon I sat in the spring sunshine, taking a moment midway through the day to review some fashion magazines for inspiration. On the pile were some Christian publications, too. I paged through them, folding the corners of pieces I wanted to read later, and came to one speaking of the workhouses that had practically enslaved children some years back. Lord Shaftesbury, a man known for his charity as well as his title, was quoting Saint Matthew: “And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”
Saint Matthew had been whispered to me, and I’d taken note now twice. I felt the certainty of conviction. I set Bidwell to work and asked that he hire a man for the next day. We were going to make changes.
• • •
“What’s going on?” Mrs. W asked. Men lifted furniture up and down the stairs, jostling them here and there, biting back strong language as the narrow staircases impeded their progress. Louisa threw a look that implied she did not appreciate her coordinated routine being thrown off by the doings, but she said nothing. I paid her generously, an annual amount of twenty-five pounds, which was about the cost of a woman’s simple dress. But Louisa mainly worked for her room and board; if I dismissed her, she would have nowhere to go. I would never do that.
“I’m moving the household about,” I declared gently but firmly, and she sniffed but carried on. “I am expanding my sewing salon, in light of my new commission.”
The first step was to move everything from the third floor, where my sewing salon was currently situated, upstairs to the fourth. In a well-to-do household, the many maids would have slept on the fourth floor, but as we had only Louisa, I could now put the extra space to good u
se. The windows allowed in ample light, there were gaslights for long evenings, there was space to move about, and I could run a table along the length of one room. I would order two more treadle machines, on credit if need be, and place them in opposing corners.
Mrs. W rounded the corner with me, huffing up the narrow passage. “We can fit four or five of us in here, easily,” I said.
“All well and good,” she replied. “But there are not four or five who can sew.”
“Not yet.”
“If it’s all right with you, I’d like you to move into my chamber on the second floor, where you’ll have more space and privacy, and then I’ll move into Mamma and Papa’s room.” A dart of pain shot through me, but I knew they’d approve. Papa had had Mamma’s costumes stored at Winton Park some months earlier so I could have room for my salon.
I’d feel closer to them in their bedroom, too, as the comfort of their things might encourage me forward into a future without them.
“That’s fine, dear, but what do you mean to do here, then?”
“I mean to bring on a seamstress . . . and apprentices.”
“To live here?” She looked bewildered. “We had not discussed that.” Now I was too old for a guardian, she acted as chaperone and household manager. She often forgot she was not, in fact, the decision maker.
I nodded and reminded her about my new commission for the Cinderella gowns, which she had been very proud to hear about. “No need for discussion; I have decided. I cannot do all of this alone. Papa would approve.”
“Would he, now?” she asked, her lips tightened skeptically.
“He would,” I said. “Whatever do you mean?” She had, of late, been rather cool when Papa’s name was brought into discussion.
“I just meant you have Lady Tolfee’s gowns to sew,” Mrs. W sniffed. She did not like me “hiring myself out” to the titled.
No society lady ordered her gowns in advance, wanting to wait until the last possible minute not only to judge what was in current fashion but also to try, as best she might, to ascertain and then avoid anything that might look like another woman’s dresses. It was why they commissioned designers, after all.
