Murder in the East End

by Jennifer Ashley

  Miss Townsend answered in her gentle voice, “Consider that if she boasted how well you played the piano, you’d be called to demonstrate. Not many will demand you take out your basket and fall to embroidering while they watch.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past Auntie to suggest it.” Cynthia took another pull of tea, letting the beverage and Miss Townsend’s quiet teasing calm her.

  “I can’t tell you all of it,” Cynthia said, holding her teacup in a tight clasp. “Not at present. Later, perhaps. I’m overwhelmed by it all at the moment. A sea of children, all dressed alike. Made to sit quietly to eat, no laughing, no conversation. Little automatons shoveling in their Sunday dinner. The spectators filed past them, assessing this one or that one. Some came to gauge whether one would do for a scullery maid or bootboy, but others came to watch their favorites. Visit almost every Sunday, these last folks, taking note of what the children do, how they look.” Cynthia closed her hands around her cup so hard I feared the porcelain would break.

  “Unsavory,” Miss Townsend said, anger in her eyes.

  “Not much different than any workhouse,” Tess said as she mixed dough for tomorrow’s bread. “Or Bedlam. You can go watch the lunatics there for the enjoyment of it. Had a young man once who liked to do that. I told him he was barmy and he should join ’em in there.”

  “Unsavory is the word.” Cynthia shivered. “Thanos and I made the acquaintance of two couples who professed to be quite interested in the children. Suppose they or people like them pick out a child or two on their Sunday outings, and later the director sends them to these people, putting down a false address to make it look as though the kiddies are being fostered or employed. That would explain things neatly.”

  “It would,” I agreed.

  “Cor.” Tess stirred flour into the yeasty water with vigor. “Go and arrest these ladies and gents, then. And the director. I’ll tell Caleb, and he’ll tell his sergeant.”

  “I’m afraid it will not be so simple,” I said, watching Cynthia. I’d rarely seen her this anguished. “The director is a rather highborn man. A lord.”

  “Son of a peer,” Cynthia said. “Not the same as being a peer oneself, of course, but he’ll be protected. Lord Russell Hirst is the apple of his ducal father’s eye, I happen to know. What a benevolent gentleman to run the Foundling Hospital, everyone thinks.” She lifted her teacup again. “But truly, no more questions at present. I would enjoy getting roaring drunk.” She glanced at the tea and set it down. “Perhaps Bobby will accommodate me.”

  “She is not at home,” Miss Townsend announced. “She must occasionally make the obligatory stop at her family’s house to keep her allowance coming. She faced a Sunday dinner of her own today.”

  “Ooh,” Tess said, interested. “Do they make her wear a frock?”

  “I believe they’ve given that up,” Miss Townsend answered, amused. “Know it’s useless. But if Bobby turns up every so many Sundays, eats at the family table, and behaves herself, they leave her alone.”

  “If only my family would do the same.” Cynthia shoved aside the tea, which sloshed over the rim of the cup to its saucer. “But at least they aren’t eyeing children arrayed before them to decide which would make a delectable morsel.”

  My anger and distress surged. Another night was coming, and what would it bring for those children?

  “Go upstairs and have a rest,” I told Cynthia. I turned to the cupboard and removed the brandy I’d used for the walnut tart, poured her a glass, and set it in front of her. “To help you settle,” I said.

  Cynthia downed the brandy in one go, wrist stiff, then coughed. “Thank you, Mrs. H. Had you been there, I assure you, you’d be tempted to have a go at the whole bottle.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The next morning, Tess and I worked side by side until luncheon was served upstairs, and then I changed my frock for my half day out. I would meet Daniel and the others at Mr. Thanos’s flat first thing and then spend the rest of the afternoon with Grace.

  I decided to walk to Regent Street on my own. Lady Cynthia would also be attending the gathering, but I did not want Mrs. Bywater to look out her window and see us strolling chummily down the street, so I left without waiting for her.

  I set off north to Grosvenor Square and turned onto Grosvenor Street, intending to head east in a more or less straight line to Regent Street. I hadn’t reached the end of Grosvenor Street, however, when a hansom pulled beside me, containing Cynthia in her frock coat and tall hat.

  “Get in,” she commanded.

  “It isn’t far,” I pointed out.

  “Far enough, and I’m not beastly enough to make you walk while I pass you by. Get in.”

  Lady Cynthia was in a foul temper, I could see, and I obediently scrambled into the hansom. The cabbie at least waited until I’d seated myself before he careened the horse into traffic again.

  Cynthia gazed at me with bloodshot eyes, which told me she’d imbibed a bit more last night than the small glass of brandy I’d given her.

  “You were right to tell me to sleep, Mrs. H. Except for my blasted headache today, I am far less morose. Ready to take down so-called respectable ladies and gentlemen and shake Lord Russell Hirst until he lets loose the whereabouts of the young things.”

  “Well said.” I patted her arm. “We will prevail.”

  She gave me a nod. “I believe you will, anyway.”

  Mr. Thanos’s new digs were in a large building in Regent Street, near Hanover Square and across from Argyle Place. The ground floor of the house held two shops—one a bookshop with leather-bound tomes on its shelves, the other a store that sold lovely porcelain from the Orient.

  A fine address indeed. I wondered, as we descended from the hansom, about this patron from the Polytechnic, who could lend his lecturers such a regal place to live.

  A polished paneled door between the shops opened to stairs leading to the flats above. The landlady took us up and into a sumptuous front room with a high ceiling, tall windows, and an ornate fireplace left over from the turn of the last century. The fireplace had been fitted with a coal fender, where a fire burned merrily, the red and orange flames cheerful against the gray day.

  Mr. Thanos was taller and slimmer than Daniel, with dark hair he wore swept back from his forehead and warm dark eyes. He approached as his landlady departed, his smile wide as he held out a hand to me.

  “Only too glad, Mrs. Holloway. Is this flat not astonishing? A far cry from my two cramped rooms in Bloomsbury. So much more than a scholar can expect, but my benefactor is proving generous.”

  He babbled the words as he pumped my hand, avoiding looking at Cynthia.

  “I am glad to hear it, Mr. Thanos,” I said as he finally released me. I believed he deserved a mansion, one in proportion with his vast cleverness.

  “Of course, I have not yet begun my lectures, and perhaps when the students fall asleep or throw things at me, he might change his mind.”

  Mr. Thanos laughed breathily, and I smiled in response, though I doubted he need worry.

  “What will you lecture on?” I asked politely. Mathematics, I was certain, or an obscure puzzle in science I would not understand.

  “Maxwell’s demon,” Mr. Thanos answered. “No one can solve the problem, including me, though I have some ideas. But perhaps I can inspire the next great genius to do so.”

  “Demons?” Mr. Fielding’s voice sounded behind me. “I would have thought that my field of expertise.”

  He kept his tone light, but when I turned to him, I saw that Mr. Fielding’s face was drawn, the usual roguish look in his eyes absent. His lips were colorless, his stance rigid.

  “No, no,” Mr. Thanos said quickly. “Not a real demon, you understand. A thought experiment. To do with thermodynamics. You see there is a box, with two compartments and a little door—”

  “It wi
ll keep.” Daniel broke through his words. “Another time.”

  Mr. Thanos looked sheepish. “Ah yes. Of course. My apologies. I find it fascinating, is all.”

  “You can explain it to me later,” Cynthia said, taking his arm and leading him toward the fire. “I’m interested in all this mathematical thinking.”

  Mr. Fielding watched them go, but where he once might have made a quip, today, he only looked sad. I touched his arm.

  “Are you well, Mr. Fielding?”

  “Not really.” Behind the sorrow in his eyes lay vast fury. “But I will carry on. What else can I do?”

  I caught Daniel’s glance, and he shook his head, looking grim. It must have been no easy task breaking the news of Nurse Betts’s death to Mr. Fielding.

  “Miss Townsend might turn up,” Cynthia said as she allowed Mr. Thanos to usher her to a chair. “She is interested in our problem and would like to help. She knows ever so many people.”

  “The more the merrier,” Mr. Fielding said. He indicated a chair for me, a plush one that was more fitting for a lady than a cook, and hovered next to me until I sat in it. “Anything that will help me find the bastard who did over my Nell.”

  “We will find him.” I tried to sound confident.

  “And when we do,” Mr. Fielding told Daniel in a hard voice, “I get him.”

  “The police will have him,” I answered before Daniel could, but the dark anger in Mr. Fielding’s expression made my words trail off.

  “Mine,” Mr. Fielding said with finality.

  Daniel did not argue. He gestured to Mr. Thanos. “Elgin, may I introduce my brother, Errol Fielding, vicar of All Saints Church in Shadwell. Errol, Elgin Thanos, a close friend and a genius.”

  The two men shook hands, Mr. Fielding looking Elgin up and down. “A genius, eh? Don’t meet many of those. Vicars, now, a dime a dozen.”

  Mr. Thanos blinked at him. “Er. Quite. Whisky?”

  “Please.” Mr. Fielding dropped wearily into the nearest chair.

  Mr. Thanos poured out and carried him a glass. “Daniel told me what happened,” Mr. Thanos said in a quiet voice. “You have my deepest sympathy.”

  Mr. Fielding looked startled, then when he realized Mr. Thanos was sincere, gave him a grateful nod. He took the whisky and drank a large swallow.

  “Ladies?” Mr. Thanos turned to us. “I’m afraid I have no sherry . . .”

  “Thank God for that,” Cynthia said. “Oh, sorry, vicar. Coffee if you can scare it up, Thanos. I have a head.”

  “If there is only coffee I’ll have nothing,” I said when Mr. Thanos looked inquiringly at me. I did not care for the stuff. “Do not distress yourself. I have drunk plenty of tea this morning to keep me for the afternoon.”

  “I will inquire with my landlady,” Mr. Thanos said. “Won’t be a tick.”

  He all but ran out the door, which Daniel closed behind him.

  “Yes, indeed,” Mr. Fielding said with dour humor. “We have come to speak of dire events, including children being spirited away and a blameless young woman losing her life, but we must be so very civilized.”

  “It is no bad thing,” I said quickly. “A cup of something keeps one calm, so that a solution to the matter can be rationally discussed.”

  “Rational. Calm.” Mr. Fielding studied the ceiling. “That is the answer—except of course for the brutes who have left being rational and calm far behind.”

  My heart went out to him in his grief. “Please do not despair, Mr. Fielding.”

  Mr. Fielding gazed at me with flinty blue eyes, no more politeness in his demeanor. “Why not? What is the bloody use of reforming and taking up a life of virtue if it couldn’t save a person as good as Nell?” He drank deeply of whisky, then let his head drop back on the chair and closed his eyes.

  Mr. Thanos returned after a few moments, bearing a tray of cups and two pots. “I found Miss Townsend on the stairs,” he announced, standing aside to let her precede him. “Do you know everyone, Miss Townsend?” He glanced at Mr. Fielding.

  Mr. Fielding dragged himself from the chair and made a shallow bow to Miss Townsend. “Pleased to meet you.” His voice bordered on the ironic. “Now that we are all here, may we have our useless confab? Then I will go hunt a whoreson and gut him.”

  Miss Townsend did not even blink. “Of course, good sir. I do not blame you your rage. Cynthia and Mr. Thanos will tell us everything they discovered, and then I will help you find your whoreson if you like.”

  12

  Mr. Thanos looked taken aback by Mr. Fielding’s statements and Miss Townsend’s acceptance of them, but Cynthia and Daniel remained unsurprised. Mr. Fielding flicked his eyebrows up, assessing Miss Townsend with new interest.

  “Who the devil are you?” he asked.

  Cynthia answered for him. “A talented artist with amazing discretion.”

  “I lived for years among artists in Paris, gentlemen and ladies alike,” Miss Townsend said, gesturing for us to resume our seats. “Little shocks me.”

  Mr. Fielding only looked her up and down again before he sank back to his chair.

  I wondered at Miss Townsend’s interest in the problem—was it simple human compassion for those mistreated and threatened, or something more?

  Cynthia accepted a mug of coffee Mr. Thanos handed her. There was tea for me, which I waved him from and poured myself.

  “I could not speak of this yesterday,” Cynthia said. “My apologies, Mrs. Holloway, but it was too much on my mind. I couldn’t close my eyes but see the poor souls shoved into the same clothes, made to sit in silence. Not natural.”

  “Yes, it was quite moving.” Mr. Thanos seated himself in front of a desk covered with papers. He slid his spectacles from his pocket and looped them on before he sorted through sheets of foolscap. “I tried to write notes, but I made little progress.”

  “Begin with names,” Daniel suggested. “Who showed the most interest in the children?”

  Mr. Thanos skimmed his pages as though he’d find the answer there. Cynthia sank back in her chair and took a long sip of coffee.

  “It is not that simple,” she said. “Thanos and I joined a long queue of those winding through the Foundling Hospital. A chatty bunch, we found them. Many had come simply to see the place to which they’d donated money—to assure themselves the children were well-fed and cared for, and that it wasn’t a doss-house. Others were curious—ladies and gents wondering what it was like to be poor. Others . . .” She faltered.

  “Go on,” Daniel said. He alone did not sit but stood by a window, looking out. I noted he kept himself to one side of the window, so those below would not see him. “No need to tell us all if it upsets you, Lady Cynthia. Did you discover anything significant?”

  Mr. Thanos cleared his throat. “Yes, two parties we met showed much interest in the children, looking them over as though choosing items from a shop.”

  Mr. Fielding leaned his face on one hand, the picture of weariness. “Names.”

  “Give him a moment,” Daniel growled. “And keep in mind they might have nothing to do with this.”

  Mr. Fielding lifted his head and gave Daniel a baleful stare. “You know bloody well that most people have no good on their minds. Anyone who would cross London to gaze upon a building full of unfortunate children is already suspect.”

  “Including Lady Cynthia and me?” Mr. Thanos asked, brows rising.

  “Exactly. You were there for ulterior purposes. Why not the rest? Anyway, get on with it.”

  I broke in. “Perhaps, Mr. Fielding, you should not know the names. If you charge around, half-cocked, and bully them, you could undo everything. We are speaking of the safety of three children. Do not let Nurse Betts’s death have been in vain.”

  For a moment I thought Mr. Fielding would leap at me across the delicate table between us, and I abruptly understood wh
y Daniel called him a dangerous man.

  In the next instant, Mr. Fielding calmed himself. I watched him deliberately suppress anything violent and give me a forced smile.

  “Never fear, Mrs. Holloway. If I hunt up these people, I will be the unctuous vicar, oozing charm. They’ll tell me everything I want to know. Possibly many things I don’t want to know as well.”

  “I am sorry to say my brother has a point,” Daniel said. “A clergyman can gather information where others would find difficulty.”

  “Only too easily.” Mr. Fielding cast a disparaging gaze at Daniel. “I’m surprised you didn’t think of that yourself.”

  Daniel’s flush was slight, but I and Mr. Fielding caught it. Mr. Fielding laughed, a brittle sound. “Oh, so you have discovered the convenience of donning a collar and drinking whatever foul liquids are served you to draw out confidences. Only, I went to university and became the real thing, old boy.”

  “I prefer setting aside my disguises at the end of the day,” Daniel said quietly. “I agree you are well placed to help solve this. But you won’t be visiting these people alone. You’ll take a committee with you—Lady Cynthia, Mr. Thanos, and Miss Townsend.”

  All of us watched Mr. Fielding, waiting for his reaction.

  The flash of wildness I’d seen became even more suppressed. “Yes, I believe you are right. Did you not want to include Mrs. Holloway in our number? To round out our team of utter respectability?”

  I answered before Daniel could. “I would set the wrong tone. I am working-class and can be mistaken for no other.”

  “A working-class, pious soul, trusting the Lord to take her out of her drab existence, might be just the thing,” Mr. Fielding said.

  I met his gaze with a stern one. “Possibly, but I am not certain I could keep up the lie.”

  Mr. Fielding’s color rose, but his smile remained. “I think you could, with training.” The smile turned admiring, more than was proper. “You and I, dear lady, could swallow the world.”