by Holly West
“Do you know of any particular tricks that were used during the plague?”
Blanchard shook his head. “I wasn’t in business at that time. I began my apprenticeship in 1667.”
“Surely there were schemes, though?” I asked. “The city was in such turmoil it would’ve given less scrupulous men numerous opportunities to cheat the public.”
“I suppose so. But truly, it’s not a subject I feel comfortable speaking about. This is, after all, my trade, and I assure you it’s an honorable one.”
“As I said, I have personal reasons for my questions. I accepted Adam’s death long ago, having no choice in the matter. But I’ve recently come upon some information that makes me question what might’ve become of him. I know it’s a lot to ask, but if I’d appreciate it if you’d make some discreet inquiries amongst your colleagues who remained in London during the plague about Adam’s activities during that time.”
Blanchard appeared dubious. “I’m not certain I know what you mean.”
“I have reason to believe that someone might’ve defrauded my brother and Sir Richard. I can’t say it plainer than that.”
He nodded slowly. “I will make the necessary inquiries. But I must caution you, Lady Wilde. It’s possible you might learn something you’d prefer not knowing.”
“I assure you I’m prepared for whatever might come of this investigation.”
Chapter Eighteen
I left Blanchard’s shop and asked Elijah to take me to the Old Bailey. It was still a bit early in the day, but I hoped that Mr. Turpin had had sufficient time to search for the records I’d requested. Alas, when I arrived he uttered a tired sigh and shook his head.
“I’m very sorry, Lady Wilde, I’ve not had a moment to spare. Perhaps if you return tomorrow?”
I removed a crown coin from my purse and laid it upon his desk. He glanced up at me. “What’s this?”
“For your troubles, sir.”
“Your ladyship must know I’m not permitted to accept such a payment.”
Harrumph. He would be the only clerk in London who couldn’t be persuaded to take a bribe. I took it back with as much dignity as I could muster. “Very well then, Mr. Turpin, I shall return tomorrow. But in addition to Ann Sutton, I’d appreciate if you’d also check for information on three more convictions: Benjamin Stowe, Tom Clarke and—and Adam Barber.”
It saddened me to include my brother’s among these names, but it seemed that Turpin had only heard one of them anyway. He leveled his gaze at me and removed his spectacles. “I’ll do no such thing, Lady Wilde, at least with regards to Mr. Stowe. Are you insinuating that our Lord Mayor has engaged in unlawful activities?”
I sighed inwardly. Would I be thwarted in my quest for information every time Stowe’s name came up? I left knowing that the chances of learning anything further from Mr. Turpin were slim.
I went next to see Nathan Fitch, the man Margaret Winser had been betrothed to. According to Sir Richard, Fitch didn’t know what had really become of her—and I certainly didn’t plan on telling him—but I was curious to hear what he had to say about the incident.
I didn’t know if he would remember me. We’d only met on a few occasions, when he and his family visited Bingley House the Christmas before the plague descended. Even then, his infatuation with Margaret was obvious. He’d followed her around like one of the king’s faithful spaniels. I imagined that he’d been devastated by her death—or what he thought had been her death—he genuinely loved her.
I remembered him as a good-humored young man, quick to laugh and friendly to everyone, even the servants. But he was short and rather pudgy, and like most pretty young girls, Margaret dreamed of having a handsome husband. I’d countered her laments by pointing out that Nathan had a pleasant disposition—something not to be overlooked in any man, especially a husband.
Nathan now lived in one of the finest houses in Westminster. A tall, richly dressed male servant opened the door for me, and when I inquired about seeing Mr. Fitch, he saw me into an ornate drawing room. It was decorated with expensive French furnishings and lavish draperies, with grand portraits of the Fitch ancestors adorning the walls. The couch I sat on seemed as big as my entire drawing room.
“Some refreshment whilst you wait?” the servant asked.
“A glass of sherry, please,” I said.
After he left, I took a moment to admire my surroundings. What would Margaret’s life have been if she’d married Nathan? I wondered if she’d ever thought about that after she left Bingley House. Did she ever regret it? She’d grown up wealthy, and Adam would never have been able to provide for her like this. Nathan had inherited his money and Margaret would’ve had a comfortable life, if not a happy one.
A maidservant came in bearing a tray with a crystal flagon and a delicate glass cup. She smiled shyly at me as she poured. I thanked her, and she left me to wait. The sherry was of good quality and it warmed my insides. I’d nearly finished with it when Nathan Fitch, looking very much the way I remembered him, joined me.
“Good afternoon, Lady Wilde. I’m sorry for the delay. I had business that couldn’t wait.” Making his way over to a chair, he scrutinized my face. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting you.”
“Actually, we have. I lived with Sir Richard Winser and his family for a time. My name was Isabel Barber.”
He paused for a moment, and then broke into a reserved smile. “Why yes, of course. It’s been a very long time, hasn’t it?”
“Indeed, it has.” I motioned toward the portrait of a fashionably dressed woman hanging over the fireplace mantel. “Is that your wife?”
“It is.” He reached for the flagon and refilled my cup, then poured one for himself. “I don’t mean to be rude, Lady Wilde, but why are you here?”
I leaned back slightly, caught off guard by his abrupt question.
“After so many years,” he continued, “it seems odd that you’d have a sudden need to see me. I can’t help thinking that you’re here for a specific reason.”
I took no offense. My visit must be jarring to him, even if he’d long since forgotten me. “I confess you’re right. You might recall I had a brother named Adam. He died in 1665, but I wasn’t in the country at the time. I thought you might provide me with some information. May I ask you a few questions?”
He didn’t look happy about my query, but he said, “If you’d like.”
“It’s hard to know where to begin. I was told that Adam died in the summer of 1665, which was, coincidently, around the same time that Margaret died.”
“Who told you this?”
“Sir Richard did initially, but Adam’s landlady later confirmed it. I had no reason to doubt their word. But I’ve lately received information that conflicts with what I was told.”
“Yes, I imagine it does.” He gave a short laugh, but there was no real amusement behind it. “If you got this information from Sir Richard, then it’s almost certainly untrue.”
I sat forward in my chair. “Might you elaborate, sir?”
He took a pipe from his pocket and filled it with tobacco. He lit it and took a few puffs to get it going. The sweet smell of burning tobacco filled the air, and I found myself breathing in deeply. It was a comforting scent that reminded me of my father.
“For one thing,” he finally said, “Margaret didn’t die of consumption. She ran away from home. She loved your brother, did you know that? She left Bingley House because she wanted to marry him, not me.”
My heartbeat quickened. So my suspicions about Margaret and Adam had been true! “But Sir Richard told me—”
“He lied, of course. I might’ve lied about it myself had it been my daughter who shamed the family.”
“Why do you think she ran away if Sir Richard told you otherwise?”
�
��How stupid do you think I am, Lady Wilde?”
He was getting more agitated as he recalled the betrayal. “I don’t, Mr. Fitch,” I said.
“Only a stupid man would’ve believed Sir Richard’s fiction. Margaret was a healthy, robust woman and no one else in the household contracted the disease. It made no sense that she would’ve succumbed so suddenly.”
“But you never challenged him about it?”
“Of course I did. I loved her! Even if I had believed his story I would’ve asked questions—where was she buried? It wasn’t in the family plot. I checked.”
“What did he tell you?”
“He told me they buried Margaret in a secret location because they didn’t want the servants to know there’d been a death from consumption in the house. They were already so frightened by the plague and Sir Richard didn’t want them to run away.”
I couldn’t blame Fitch for not trusting Sir Richard. I wouldn’t have believed such an implausible story either.
“I bribed a footman,” he continued, “who told me that Margaret had run away two weeks earlier. I went to London at the beginning of August to find her. It took a considerable amount of trouble but I finally found her at the City pesthouse.”
My heart pounded. “Was she sick?”
“No. But your brother was. She went there to be with him.” He appeared defeated.
“Oh, Nathan,” I said, hoping that my informality wouldn’t offend. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” he said, his eyes suddenly alight with anger. “That doesn’t count for much now, does it? You had to have known about it.”
“I didn’t. I swear I had no idea.”
“Don’t lie to me. I remember how close you and Margaret were. I know she confided in you.”
“I’ll confess that Sir Richard only recently told me that Margaret didn’t die of consumption but instead ran away. But this was only a few days ago. I knew nothing of it before that.”
“So you came to my house, knowing of my humiliation, without telling me?”
“I didn’t know how much you’d guessed about her leaving and didn’t think it was my place to tell you.”
“I must say I’m astounded by the audacity you’ve displayed by coming here.”
“Perhaps it was a mistake,” I admitted. “I only came because I want to find out what really happened to my brother. I daresay you would’ve done the same thing.”
“Margaret Winser was with child,” he said, his voice bitter. “Did you know that?”
I put my hand to my mouth and shook my head.
“Yes. Her dim-witted servant admitted it to me when I threatened to expose her for helping her abscond.”
“Was it yours?”
Nathan gave another humorless laugh. “I never so much as kissed her. No, if you want my opinion on the matter, I’d say that Adam was the father. Margaret had shown herself to be little more than an ill-bred slut. I left her to die at the pesthouse along with that sorry excuse for a man.”
I hated hearing him talk of either of them that way but I couldn’t blame him for his anger. “And did they die?”
Nathan looked me squarely in the eye. “I can only assume that the pestilence took them both. It’s what they deserved.”
Chapter Nineteen
Before bidding goodbye to Nathan Fitch, I requested a piece of paper and a quill. He reluctantly obliged and I penned a hastily scrawled message to Lady Winser asking if I might come to Bingley House for a visit. I told Elijah to deliver it immediately, and Sam and I traveled home by hackney. Elijah returned that evening with an invitation to come to the house on the following day for supper and an overnight stay.
There’s that settled, I thought. Now to figure my next step.
As unpleasant as my conversation with Fitch had been, I was glad to have had it. Had Sir Richard known that Margaret was with child? If he did, I no longer trusted that he’d tell me the truth if I inquired. I remained unconvinced about Kitty Sutton being Adam’s daughter, but having Fitch confirm that Adam might’ve indeed had a child certainly renewed my desire to learn exactly who Kitty Sutton was.
I could pay a visit to Benjamin Stowe, as I’d planned. But I did have that appointment scheduled with him for Monday. I already suspected he’d be uncooperative—all the more so if I showed up at his house unannounced. No—better to wait until Monday, when at least he’d be expecting me. Tonight we would go to Alsatia to look for Tom Clarke and Kitty ourselves.
Predictably, Sam hated the idea. “Have you ever actually been there? ’Tis not a pleasant place. Let me go on my own. I’ll be as thorough as you would be, believe me.”
“You’ve already searched there, to no avail. I want to see for myself whether she’s in the Friars—I might notice something you didn’t. We’ll go together.”
To appease him, I outfitted myself as Mistress Ruby. I rarely ventured out in disguise except to go to Coal Yard Alley, but Sam suggested I’d be safer if I didn’t go as myself, and I agreed. I also thought it would enable me to get more information from Alsatia’s residents. I already knew them to be tight-lipped—there was no point in making it worse than by going as myself, a lady of the court.
The hackney driver flatly refused to take us there. “I’ll take you to the Temple, and no farther.”
Sam glanced at me for approval. The Temple was just west of Whitefriars. “That’ll do,” I said.
He let us off at Fetter Lane and from there it was a short walk to Ram Alley, the heart of Alsatia. From a distance, it was a loud and lively place, bright with the light streaming out from the taverns that lined the street. But a closer inspection revealed the squalor—children begging in darkened doorways, their limbs stick-thin, pawing at my skirts to gain my attention. “Spare a ha’penny, ma’am?” was their doleful cry. I searched their faces for Kitty Sutton but didn’t find her.
The stink of rancid meat hung in the air, causing me to gag as we crept deeper into the Friars. A glimpse through a few of the windows revealed a variety of sins being celebrated—from gambling to naked dancing women to bloody cockfights. No act of debauchery went overlooked here in Alsatia.
While it was true that Coal Yard Alley was one of the poorest areas of the city, its display of filth and desperation was far less than Ram Alley. Its inhabitants kept to themselves and, knowing that their neighbors had nothing to give, ventured abroad to wealthier parts of London to do their begging. Alsatia, on the other hand, was a world apart from the rest of the city. It had its own social structure and rules that bore only a passing resemblance to that of London as a whole.
Sam was also in disguise, for he was widely known as Lady Wilde’s manservant and it wouldn’t do for him to be seen as himself with Mistress Ruby. Once here, however, I wondered if it even mattered. Its proximity to Whitefriars Monastery afforded Alsatia sanctuary, and despite its obvious flaws, it felt like just that, a haven, albeit a hellish one, from the outside world.
We stopped at a tavern called the Hound and Master. “Shall we start here?” he asked. “I know the proprietor and he might be willing to part with some information.”
“It’s as good a place as any,” I said.
A host of distrustful eyes fell upon us as soon as we walked through the door. A hush rippled through the room. Two buxom women, both stripped naked to the waist and wearing men’s trousers, mauled each other on a small platform in one corner. I could see from the red streaks dripping from various body parts that blood had already been drawn. Drunken men tossed coins at them, shouting and spurring them on. But our entrance prompted them to pause, their thin arms wrapped around one another mid-tussle as though they were lovers. The spectators threw up an impatient cry and, a moment later, the women resumed their brawling.
The sense that we were unwelcome was palpable. But undaunted, we approached an empty tabl
e and sat. I tried not to be too obvious in my search for Tom Clarke. The patrons already distrusted us without suspecting we were on the hunt. Sam’s eyes darted around the room and I knew he was thinking the same thing. The faster we found Tom, the faster we could get out of this place.
Two men, one small and thin and the other big and strapping, ambled over to our table. The big one rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. There was no mistaking their intent—they wanted us out and would accomplish it by force if necessary. The tavern remained quiet as its customers awaited the confrontation.
“State your business, stranger,” the small one said to Sam.
“Cool your britches, Hornsby,” Sam whispered. “’Tis I, Sam Turner, your old friend.”
Hornsby seemed not to believe it at first, but upon closer inspection of Sam’s face, he appeared satisfied. He regarded me with suspicion. He lowered his own voice. “And she is?”
“The lady prefers to remain anonymous.”
“You shouldn’t have come here, Turner. Not in disguise. My patrons won’t have a stranger in their midst even if it is you. I’ll have to escort you out.”
“Understood,” Sam said. “We’ll leave just as soon as you tell me whether you’ve seen Tom Clarke of late.”
“I’ve not heard hide nor hair of him for at least ten years,” Hornsby said. “Thought he was dead, in fact.”
“I saw him just last week,” the bigger man said. “He’s got a room for himself at Percy Cantrell’s house.”
Hornsby leveled a glare at him, as though the admission was some sort of betrayal. “You’re sure about that, Casper?” Hornsby asked, testing.
“I could be mistaken,” Casper redacted.
“Did he have a little girl with him?” I asked.
“Now how could he have had a girl with him if we didn’t see him in the first place?” Hornsby said.
“Please, sir,” I said. “I’m looking for my daughter.”
