by Cheryl Bolen
“I’ve not yet read Annie’s book, so I cannot say.” He eyed Dot’s. “Why just the one volume of Gibbons?”
“Because I expect it will take quite some time to finish it. My father has the set in his library at Blandings.”
“As do I at Hawthorne Manor.”
“And you recommend it?”
“I found it fascinating reading. I’m just surprised that a . . . a woman would be interested in reading it.”
Dot bristled. “You offend me.”
“Yes, Timothy! Why should women not be permitted to read the same things men read?”
“They are permitted. It’s just that I thought—yourself excluded, Annie—most women were interested in nothing but flowery poetry and gothic novels.”
Annie glared at her brother. “Do not disparage flowery poetry!”
“There’s nothing wrong with flowery poetry,” Dot said.
Forrester held up his hands. “Forgive me. I can see I’m dealing with two exceptional young women who are possessed of most discerning taste in literature.”
The ladies looked at one another and burst out laughing.
Then the coach slowed in front of the house on Camden Crescent, and Annie left them.
Forrester then took Dot’s hand in his and pressed his lips to it. A quiver strummed through her. “I’ve instructed the coachman to take us to Ellie’s lodgings.”
His calling the dead girl by her Christian name made Dot even more aware that Ellie Macintosh had been a real person, a young woman who’d been full of life, a young woman Forrester had known, a young woman whose tragic death had saddened him.
* * *
While Ellie’s street, Lower Richard, was not inhabited by the upper classes or even the upper middle classes, Appleton thought it most respectable looking, with its stone façades not altogether different from that of the city’s more affluent addresses. Seeing a crested coach stop in front of Number 17 drew attention from the neighbors who were obviously unaccustomed to seeing such an occurrence in their neighborhood.
As he and Dot moved to the front door of Ellie’s lodgings, he was pleased that she had dressed modestly in her simple sprigged muslin. Nothing about her shouted of affluence.
An aproned, stooped-over woman answered his knock on the door, which needed a fresh coat of paint. He handed her his card. “Lord Appleton to speak to the proprietress.”
The old woman’s eyes widened. She stood there for a moment, pondering if she should leave him standing on the step or invite him in. Obviously, she was unaccustomed to being called upon by a viscount. “Please, my lord, do come in while I give yer card to me mistress.”
He signaled for Dot to enter first. The two of them awaited in the dark entry hall dominated by a narrow wooden staircase while the woman he assumed was the housekeeper entered a drawing room on the ground floor, shutting the door behind her.
She soon emerged from the chamber with a smile on her wrinkled face. “Mrs. Thorpe will see you now. Follow me, yer lordship, if you please.” She went back into the drawing room.
The cream-coloured chamber was lighted from a single tall casement which faced the street and had been covered in draperies made of heavy linen the shade of celery. They crossed the room’s bare wooden floors to face a middle-aged woman wearing a mob cap and sitting at a walnut writing table. She looked up to greet him. “Lord Appleton. Pray, do sit.”
There was no sofa in the sparsely furnished room, only an olive green settee and several side chairs clinging to the walls. He would never be so rude as to greet a woman from a seated position. “You are Mrs. Thorpe?” he asked.
“Indeed, my lord.” Her gaze flicked to Dot.
He nodded. “I should like to present you to Miss Dorothea Pankhurst.”
The older woman offered a weak smile and nodded as her guests lowered themselves into the settee facing her.
Mrs. Thorpe did not waste time on pleasantries. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit, my lord?”
“Miss Pankhurst and I are most distressed over the recent . . . murder of your lodger, Miss Macintosh.” A small prevarication, he decided, was needed. “She was our friend.” Even though Dot had not been acquainted with the gaming hostess, she was as upset over her death as a friend would have been.
Mrs. Thorpe sighed heavily. “Dreadful business. I don’t mind telling you I haven’t been able to sleep since it ’appened. There’s a murderer on the prowl, and he may come back. I keep my doors and windows locked day and night.”
“As you should,” he said. “You said he may come back. Does that mean that a man came here for Miss Macintosh the night she died?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I can’t say as Miss Macintosh ever had a man call ’ere for her. She was a good girl, she was. I don’t run that kind of establishment. My ladies are not permitted to bring men onto these premises.”
“We could tell you run a respectable establishment,” Dot reassured.
“Do you know if Miss Macintosh had a special man that she saw?” he asked.
Mrs. Thorpe shook her head. “I ’ad no knowledge of it. During the three years she lived ’ere, there never seemed to be any man in her life. She worked nights, you see. And you could ’ave set your clock by the time she got home each night. She never dallied with her patrons after hours.”
This visit wasn’t yielding a single piece of information.
“Her last night on earth,” Dot asked, “did she come home from work at the usual time?”
The landlady shook her head somberly, tears springing to her eyes. “She never came home that night. I learned from the newspaper she never even made it to work that night. I wonder if he waited for her ’ere.”
Dot spoke morosely. “It’s such a melancholy thing.”
“Indeed it is,” Mrs. Thorpe concurred.
“Tell me,” Dot continued, “did Miss Macintosh have female friends who called?”
“Oh, yes. You can’t expect a young person to spend all their time working and ’anging out in a bedchamber. One of the girls what worked with her would sometimes meet her ’ere, and they would go off for an outing. You see, the poor girl was an orphan. She didn’t ’ave no one else in the world.”
“Was it always the same girl who came here?” Dot asked.
Mrs. Thorpe thought for a moment. “Yes, I believe it was. A pretty little thing. Looked a lot like Miss Macintosh. About the same age and size, the only difference being her hair was ginger.”
Appleton knew which girl it was. There was only one redhead in the employ of Mrs. Starr: Maryann.
Dot stood. “Are Miss Macintosh’s possessions still here?”
Mrs. Thorpe clasped at her chest. “I ’aven’t ’ad the heart to go into that chamber.”
“We should like to see them.” Dot’s voice softened. “Perhaps it would be easier on you if we accompany you, my dear Mrs. Thorpe.”
The woman rose. “Indeed it would.” Her voice cracked.
She proceeded to lead them up two flights of stairs to a small bedchamber in the garret. She then withdrew a key from her pocket and opened the door to the low-ceilinged room.
For so small a room it was well lighted from a dormer window that faced the street. A small oaken table fit perfectly into the dormer, a modest wooden chair tucked under it. The only other furnishings were a slender bed covered in a well-worn counterpane, a nightstand holding an oil lamp, and a skinny linen press of primitively painted wood.
The room was so tidy it looked almost as if Ellie’s things had already been removed. Not a single wrinkle marred the bed covering, nor was even a piece of foolscap on the writing table. Only a pair of faded but pretty dresses hanging on wall hooks indicated that a young woman had occupied this chamber. Surprisingly, to him, not a single book could be seen. How did one live without the written word?
His hopes of finding letters that would reveal more about the dead woman and her circle of friends were dashed.
Dot opened the linen press that at one time
must have been lime green, now faded to a greenish gray. It revealed that Ellie wasn’t as neat as her room indicated. She must have been one of those persons who did not fancy observing clutter. Locked away in her linen press was what appeared to be her nightrail, her unmentionables, extra stockings and gloves, a summer hat, a Bible, and a small stack of correspondence.
It was difficult for him to suppress a smile.
Dot picked up the correspondence. Beneath it was a pouch that appeared to be coins. When Dot lifted it, it jingled. She dumped out its contents. It was a considerable sum.
Mrs. Thorp’s eyes widened.
“I wouldn’t have expected Miss Macintosh to have this much in her possession,” Dot said as she began to count.
Appleton’s head swayed from side to side almost as if he were in a daze. “Neither would I.” He could not remove his eyes from the generous heap of coins.
“I do declare! There are almost fifty guineas here,” Dot exclaimed. “Here, Mrs. Thorpe. Whatever money Miss Macintosh had should go to you.”
The older woman smiled broadly as she took the bulging pouch. “I ’ad no idea the poor girl managed to save this much money.”
“Do you think, Mrs. Thorpe, seeing as how we were Miss Macintosh’s friends and seeing that you’re now paid up on any rents owed, do you think Lord Appleton and I could take these letters and our dear friend’s Bible so we’d have something personal of hers, something to keep to remember her by? I doubt they’d be worth anything to anyone else.”
Mrs. Thorpe gripped the pouch greedily, a smile on her face. “I should be happy for you two to have those things what belonged to Miss Macintosh.”
Dot felt the pockets of the dead woman’s garments but found nothing. Appleton looked under the bed and under the mattress to the same result. There were no rugs on the floor or pictures on the wall under which something could have been hidden. There was nowhere else in the chamber where Ellie could have hidden anything.
He couldn’t help but wonder how in the devil Ellie had been able to get her hands on so much money. For one of her station, fifty guineas was a fortune. Even for a woman like Mrs. Thorpe, who owned a well-situated house, it was a lot of money.
As they made their way downstairs, he casually asked, “Do you know, Mrs. Thorpe, one of the seamstresses at Miss Pankhurst’s dressmaker’s was inquiring about lodgings. Do you object to telling us what a situation like Miss Macintosh’s would cost? We’d like to tell her about your house since she needs a respectable place to live.”
“Seven pounds a month with meals furnished.”
“And I’m certain the food here must be very good,” Dot said.
* * *
As soon as they were in the carriage, he thought aloud. “How in the devil did Ellie get her hands on that much money?”
“I don’t know if we’ll ever know, but it must have something to do with her death.”
He eyed Dot, thankful that if he had to spend the rest of his life with her, he wasn’t going to be tied down to a woman in want of brains. “Then you don’t think her murder was random?”
“It’s possible there’s a maniac running about Bath intent on killing young women, but now that we’ve seen the hoard of money she hid away I’m highly suspicious her murderer was someone she knew.”
“I am, too.” He’d instructed the coachman to take them to Camden Crescent where he and Dot could peruse Ellie’s papers in private. He only hoped Annie didn’t come barging in. For some peculiar reason, he did not want his sister to know what he and Dot were investigating—peculiar because he and Annie had always shared everything.
It wasn’t that Dot was usurping his sister. It was more that he felt he was already jeopardizing one woman he cared about. He did not want to put Annie in danger too.
After all, a homicidal sex maniac might be on the prowl in their city.
Dot shook Ellie’s Bible. A slip of paper fell from it. Their eyes met, and then she picked it up and read it, her brows forming a deep V.
“What’s it say?”
“Nothing. It’s your name.”
“Let me see.” On a small sheet of torn paper, written in a feminine hand, were the words Lord Appleton. He looked up at her. “I wish to God I knew what that means.”
“Were you being honest with me?” She drilled him with those almost-black eyes.
He gave her a puzzled look. “About not seeing Ellie away from Mrs. Starr’s?”
Dot nodded.
“I told you the truth. I can’t think why she would have written my name.”
“Perhaps she fancied you.” Dot smiled. “You are most dashing.”
He returned her smile. “Thank you, my love, but I assure you Miss Macintosh never favored me in any way. In fact, it was at her hands, whilst she was dealing, that I had the most lamentable night of my life.”
“Oh, dear, I am sorry for that.”
“That night cured me of a lifelong habit of gambling.”
“Many men swear off gambling, only to weaken.”
He stiffened. Their eyes locked. He could only barely control his anger. “I have never in my life gone back on my word.”
“It’s gratifying to know you’re a man of your word.” Her voice then softened. “I’m sorry if I sounded as if I don’t trust you, but remember we haven’t known each other very long.”
He nodded solemnly.
When they reached Appleton House, they quietly made their way to his library, closed the door, and sat beside one another at the writing table to look over Ellie’s papers.
The first piece of correspondence they read was a letter dated nearly four years earlier. Ellie would have been around sixteen. After reading a few paragraphs, Appleton realized it had been written by Ellie’s cruel stepmother shortly after Ellie’s father died.
The woman said now that Ellie was a woman she was expected to make her own way in the world, that this woman, whose name was Eliza, had no further use for her as she had her own children to feed. It was also hinted at that Ellie’s beauty—though the woman was too mean-spirited to compliment her—would prevent her own daughters from finding husbands.
It sickened him to think of Ellie having been thrown out alone in the world at so tender an age.
“How heartbreaking,” Dot said.
All he could do was nod solemnly as he met his fiancée’s watery gaze. It comforted him that Dot was possessed of tender feelings.
The next letter was from a parish priest in Devon giving the date of Ellie Macintosh’s baptism. Appleton’s heart fell. The poor girl must have carried this around in the hopes of needing it when she got married.
The last paper they unfolded was a piece of parchment upon which was printed the Ten Commandments. In script at the top, someone had written: Presented to Ellie Macintosh, for Highest Achievement in Recitation of Biblical Verse.
Curiously, in another hand at the bottom, was written, I am not worthy.
“What do you make of that?” she asked.
“I don’t know, but I believe she wrote that on the bottom recently. See, the ink has not faded in the least, not like the ink at the top.”
“I believe you’re right.”
He swallowed. “And I believe that guilt has something to do with her murder.”
She nodded solemnly. “We need to question Mrs. Thorpe’s neighbors. It’s possible someone saw Miss Macintosh with her killer.”
“Good idea. How about tomorrow?”
“We would need to wait until late in the day, owing to the fact it’s a working class neighborhood.”
“Yes,” he said with a nod. “If we hope to reach more the neighbors, coming later in the day would be more helpful.”
“And don’t forget, you must bring many of your calling cards. That will impress them.”
“Clever lady, you are.” Her father’s praise had not been tinged by parental pride. It was the bloody truth. “I shall see you late in the day tomorrow.”
Chapter 10
Laden wit
h packages, Sir Elvin was just returning home from an outing with his sisters when Appleton arrived at his house. It was but a brisk walk between their two houses, and it felt good to stretch his legs. Appleton disliked coach rides, especially in the eminently walkable city of Bath.
Sir Elvin gave him a mock glare. “So you’ve actually found time to call on your oldest friend?”
Appleton felt beastly that he’d offered for Dot and even told others at the musical without first telling his closest friend. That was partly why he’d come here this afternoon after escorting Dot home. He slapped Sir Elvin on the back. “I always have time for you, old fellow.”
“Can I interest you in a glass of Madera?”
“I’ll pour it myself while you finish up with your sisters.” Appleton went straight to Elvin’s library. The room looked vastly different than it had when Elvin’s twin still lived at home. Then, Melvin typically took over the chamber, and piles of books were stacked everywhere. Most of the books were now gone, Melvin having taken them to his bride’s home on the Royal Crescent. The Royal Crescent library had since become the book-filled study where Melvin spent at least twelve hours a day on books he researched and authored.
Appleton poured out two glasses and went to sit on a high-backed chair near the smoldering fire. As the day had warmed, the need for a fire had decreased.
When Sir Elvin entered the chamber, Appleton held out his port. “These women can exhaust one.”
“Indeed.” Sir Elvin came to sit in a chair identical to the one upon which Appleton sat. He took a long swig. “I’m rather out of charity with women at present. First, one stole my brother away, and now I’m losing you.”
Appleton shook his head. “It’s not like that at all. You’re one of those who told me I had to marry an heiress. I had no choice. I’m doing this for my family. You’d do the same.”
Elvin did not respond for a moment. “But I wouldn’t race off and offer for the heiress without telling you. After all, I’m closer to you than to anyone on earth—except my twin.”
“Forgive me. I realize I should have informed you of my decision.”
“Why such a bloody hurry?”
