by Anne Perry
Jack said something to her that she did not hear. She was busy watching Edom Talbot and Ailsa Kynaston, studying the way they moved together, who spoke and who listened, how often they met each other’s eyes, or smiled. Who was leading?
At first it seemed to be Talbot. He knew more people, and introduced them to her. She was gracious, but not eager. Nothing in their conversation seemed so very interesting. He clearly admired her striking appearance, but then so did at least half the men in the room, and the women both envied and resented it.
Emily had not been paying attention to her own duties. She gave Jack a dazzling smile and joined in the conversation.
It was over half an hour before she could watch Ailsa and Talbot again. Now Ailsa was leaning toward him, smiling. Then she spoke to someone else, and a moment later turned back to Talbot. He did not take his eyes from her, almost as if he could not. She was flirting with him, but so subtly only Emily, an expert at such things herself, was aware of it. Others walked by, made some passing observation, smiled, laughed, and moved on.
Talbot put his hand on Ailsa’s arm, high, near the shoulder, as if to pull her a little closer to him. It was an oddly proprietorial gesture, almost intimate. Her face was turned away from him as she had been speaking momentarily to someone else. But Emily saw the flash of something in her expression—more than distaste, it was almost hatred. Then deliberately Ailsa allowed herself to be drawn toward him before finding an excuse to move in a different direction.
Was she holding back because of the memory of Bennett, the lost husband she could never forget? Or something else entirely? Perhaps something she knew of Dudley Kynaston and the adopted family whose loyalty to her she was repaying with a kind of protection now?
But protection from what? Could it be the same knowledge that Kitty Ryder had run away from? Or was killed for?
Perhaps Emily had been completely wrong in her estimation of Ailsa. That was something she had to find out. She must force herself to know her better, in spite of her instinctive dislike of her. Emily knew scores of people, perhaps hundreds. At least two or three of them must know Ailsa. She would begin looking for the best way forward tomorrow.
CHAPTER
10
“YOU BRING ’ER BACK ’ere by ’alf past five, you ’ear me, young man? I don’t care ’oo you are, special police or not,” the cook said fiercely, staring at Stoker as if he were an errant bootboy.
Stoker smiled, but Maisie got the answer in before he could speak.
“Yes, Cook. Mr. Stoker’s a Special Branch policeman. ’E wouldn’t never do nothing wrong.” She lifted her chin up even higher and met Cook’s eyes directly, something she would not normally dare to do. But today she was in her best dress, the only one that she never used for work. The footman had polished her boots for her until the cat could see its face reflected in them. Mrs. Kynaston’s new lady’s maid had put her hair up so that it was tidy, even at the back where she couldn’t see it herself. She was going out to tea with Mr. Stoker, to be asked some important questions, so important they couldn’t be asked where other people might overhear them.
Stoker became serious again. “We shall have tea, and then I shall bring her back,” he promised.
Cook gave Maisie a stern warning. “You be’ave, Maisie. Don’t you go gettin’ ideas above yourself or givin’ no cheek, you understand? And if you go repeatin’ gossip what’s none o’ your business, you’ll find yourself out on the street with no place. You watch your tongue, and that imagination o’ yours.”
“Yes, Cook. I won’t say nothin’ at all but the truth.” Then, without waiting for the cook to add anything more, she turned and walked away, her chin high, her back as straight as if she had been carrying books on her head.
Suddenly Stoker wished he had had a daughter. An old love of his had wanted to marry and settle down. She had been pretty, with dark eyes like this odd little scullery maid’s. Stoker had been frightened by the idea of such responsibility. He had hesitated too long. By the time he had come back from the voyage, Mary had found someone else. It had hurt for a long time.
He caught up with Maisie and they walked together, he being careful not to outpace her. They went down Shooters Hill Road towards Blackheath until they came to the tea shop, where he had already reserved a table for them.
“This your table, then?” she asked as he pulled out the chair and she sat down, more than a little self-consciously arranging her skirts.
“For now it is,” he told her. “Would you like tea? And some cakes?”
She was too impressed to speak as the waitress stood ready to take their order. She had never been waited on before, or called “Miss.”
“Tea for two, and your best cakes, please,” Stoker requested. He was loath to admit it, but he was enjoying himself. However, time was short, and he had a lot to ask her. He could not afford to wait until they began tea.
“We found a hat up at the gravel pit we thought was Kitty’s,” he began. “But then we learned that it wasn’t. Some stupid man put it there on purpose, just to get himself noticed.”
Maisie frowned. “That’s wicked. ’E just wanted ter make us all scared and sad, so’s ’e’d be talked about? Is ’e daft, or summink?”
“I’d say so. But we found the receipt for the hat, and for the red feather, so we know it wasn’t hers.”
Her eyes were bright. “So mebbe she in’t dead, then?”
“I’m going to believe she isn’t,” he said firmly.
“But some poor cow is.” She bit her lip. “An’ yer still gotter find out ’oo she is, an’ ’oo done that to ’er?”
“If it isn’t Kitty, and isn’t anything to do with the Kynaston household, then it’s the police’s job to find out,” he replied.
“ ’Cos you’re special, right? And Mr. Kynaston’s special?”
He drew in breath to explain it a little less self-importantly but, seeing her bright face, changed his mind.
“Something like that,” he agreed awkwardly. “But I still want to find Kitty, and prove she’s alive.”
She put her head a little to one side. “Ter save Mr. Kynaston?”
He found himself slightly uncomfortable. Her eyes were bright, almost black, and both quick and innocent at the same time. He hesitated as to how he should answer her. He needed information from her, and yet if she caught him in any deception at all he would lose her trust, and therefore her honesty. He would also find that painful. He was getting soft.
“Mostly,” he agreed. “But I’d like to find Kitty just to know she’s all right as well.”
The tea came, with a whole plate full of little cakes and pastries. Maisie looked at them, then up at Stoker, then back at the plate.
“Which one would you like?” he asked.
“The chocolate one,” she said instantly, then blushed. “Course, if you like it, the one with the pink sugar on it’d be all right.”
He made a note not to take the one with the pink icing, which he rather liked the look of, too.
“I’ll take the apple tart,” he assured her. “You begin with the chocolate.” He considered asking her if she would pour the tea, then changed his mind. He did ask her how she liked hers, and then poured for each of them.
She ate the chocolate cake slowly, savoring each mouthful.
“To find Kitty, I need to know more about her,” he began. “I know a few things. She could sing really nicely. She liked the sea, and ships, and used to collect pictures of ships from all over the world—with different kinds of sails.”
Maisie nodded with her mouth full. As soon as she had swallowed she answered. “Real clever with ’er ’ands, she was. Course, bein’ a lady’s maid an’ all, she could sew real well, even mend lace when it got tore.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Please find ’er, mister. Tell us she’s all right … I mean … alive, an’ well …”
“I will,” he promised, and knew even as he was saying it how rash he was being.
Maisie sniffed. “D’y
er think she just went off wi’ that great dollop, ’Arry?” She looked at the last piece of chocolate cake on the plate. “But why couldn’t she ’ave told us? Why don’t she even write a letter, nor nothin’?”
“Are you sure she can write?” he asked.
“Yeah! She used ter write lists an’ things. She were teachin’ me.” She looked again at the chocolate cake.
“Why don’t you finish that, and then take the pink one?” he suggested. “I’m going to have that one with the raisins.”
She looked at him to make sure he meant it, then did as he said, taking a delicate sip of her tea in between.
He hid his smile. Perhaps he was going about this the wrong way. Maybe he should be looking not for where Kitty would go, but for where Harry Dobson would choose.
“What was he like, this … dollop?” he asked.
Maisie giggled at his use of her word. “ ’E were all right. Crazy about Kitty, ’e were. Thought as the sun shone out of ’er eyes. An’ I s’pose that’s worth summink, in’t it? She just smiled at ’im, an’ ’e were made.”
“But he wouldn’t suit you?” he concluded. “Why not?”
She looked down at the pink-iced cake, a little embarrassed. “I in’t never goin’ ter be pretty like ’er, but I want ter better meself, all the same. I’d want someone wi’ a bit o’ fire, like; someone as wouldn’t let me run rings around ’im.” She stopped, ashamed of her words. It was too self-revealing to say what she meant to somebody who didn’t know her—or any man at all, for that matter.
“You might have to work hard to find someone you couldn’t run rings around, Maisie,” Stoker warned. “But I heard that Kitty was ambitious, too. Was that wrong?”
Maisie sighed. “I s’pose when yer fall in love yer kind o’ lose yer wits. Least that’s wot they say.” She bit into the pink cake, then looked at it. “This ’as got cream in it, all squashy and sweet.”
“Don’t you like it?” he said quickly. “You don’t have to eat it. Choose another …”
She looked up at him. “Oh, I like it. It’s a bit like bein’ in love, though, in’t it? I s’pose yer don’t know it’s goin’ ter ’appen until yer already bit into it, eh?”
“Maisie, you are so clever sometimes you worry me. All these cakes are for us, so take as many as you like. Tell me more about Harry Dobson, and if you really think she liked him enough to have gone off with him … without telling anyone. She must have had a reason for that. What might it be?” He drank some of his tea and added a little more, to keep it hot. Then he took another cake, because he was sure she would not take another until after he had. He had seen her count them, and she was going to be scrupulously fair.
“Do you think he would have made her go secretly?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No! ’E wouldn’t ’a made Kitty do nothin’ as she didn’t want. I reckon she must ’a bin …” She hunched her shoulder a little and gave a tiny shiver, then she looked up at Stoker. “Mebbe she were scared? I used ter think as she knew one or two things as she’d sooner not a’ knowed about the mister an’ missus, like. Then I thought as it were just talk. But mebbe it weren’t? D’yer think?”
“I think that’s very possible,” he agreed, trying not to make too much of it and twist what she was going to say. “Any idea what she knew?”
She shook her head. “There are things as I don’t want ter know. Me ma always said that, told me not to see things or ’ear things as I shouldn’t. An’ if I did, ter forget it like it never ’appened.”
“Very wise indeed,” Stoker said gravely. “I am telling you exactly the same thing, and I mean it just as much as she did. Now tell me more about Harry Dobson. We’ve asked the regular police, but nobody seems able to find him. Did he do any special kind of carpentry work? Windows, doors, floors? Any particular builder he worked with?” He reached for the teapot. “And have some more tea. If you’d like more cakes, we’ll ask for them.”
She took a deep breath, scooped up all her courage, and asked for another chocolate cake.
“Kitty said as ’e were goin’ ter get a place ter work on ’is own, like,” she answered. “ ’E were good at doors. Wanted ter make fancy ones, carved, an’ all that. But ’e could ’a gone anywhere for that.”
“Where did he come from?” Stoker persisted. This looked more hopeful.
“Dunno,” Maisie admitted. “North o’ the river, I think.”
“Thank you. That’ll narrow the search quite a bit.”
She frowned. “Should I ’a said that before? Nobody asked. It were only wot ’e wanted. I dunno as ’e ever did it.”
He smiled at her. “Maybe he didn’t, but it’s worth a try.”
She sighed with relief and ate the cake.
STOKER HAD NATURALLY BEEN assigned to other cases since the failure to identify the body in the gravel pit and then the assumption that it was indeed that of Kitty Ryder. Those cases could not be ignored; they genuinely affected the security of the country. Therefore it was wiser that he continue to look for Harry Dobson in his own time. He did not relish trudging around the streets, in and out of public houses, music halls, taverns, but it was very possibly a task that he would gain little from doing at midday. He had learned a lot from Maisie that would narrow the search. He must forget the local area and go north of the river and at least try to find someone who specialized in good doors, ones with carving.
It took him four evenings walking in the late February rain, his sodden trouser legs flapping around his ankles, his boots letting in the water from puddles and overflowing gutters. He spoke to local builders from Stepney, Poplar, then headed east to Canning Town, then north to Woolwich before he finally found Harry Dobson.
Stoker stood in the sawdust of the carpenter’s workroom and faced a fair-haired young man with heavily muscled arms and mild eyes.
“You Harry Dobson?” Stoker asked. Could this be the young man Kitty Ryder had run off with, abandoning her position, and her warm, safe home on Shooters Hill? Stoker had expected to dislike him, to see in his face some evidence of the nature that would abuse a young woman who trusted him. He saw instead only a young man who was slow, careful. At the moment, he seemed a little sad, as if he had lost something and had no idea where to look to find it again.
“Yeah,” the carpenter said quietly. “You the feller with the warped doors?”
“No, actually I’m not.” Stoker felt like apologizing. He stood blocking the doorway, but there was another entrance behind Dobson, leading into a timber yard. “Sorry. I’m looking for the Harry Dobson who courted Kitty Ryder, who worked up on Shooters Hill.”
The color leached out of Dobson’s skin, leaving him almost white, his eyes dark hollows in his head.
Stoker tensed, expected him to turn and bolt out of the other door.
For seconds the two stood staring at each other.
Finally Dobson spoke. “You … you police?”
“Yes …” Stoker was rigid, all his muscles tight, expecting to have to chase this man, try to bring him down before he escaped. He was sick with misery at the thought, and also physically very aware of the other man’s strength. He was solidly built, muscular, and with powerful arms. Stoker was as tall, and wiry, but he had nothing like the sheer strength of Dobson. He would have to rely on speed, and years of experience in hard and dirty fighting.
Dobson took a deep breath. “You come to tell me they got ’er after all?”
Stoker was stunned. “Got who?”
“Kitty!” Dobson said desperately. “ ’Ave you come to tell me they killed ’er? I begged ’er not to go, but she wouldn’t listen to me.” He gasped as if someone were preventing him from breathing. “I promised I’d look after ’er, but she wouldn’t listen.” He shook his head. There were tears in his eyes, and he did not even seem to be aware of them.
“No!” Stoker said quickly. “No … I haven’t come to say that at all! I don’t know where she is. I’m looking for her.”
The color and th
e light came back into Dobson’s face. “You mean she could be all right?” He took a step forward eagerly. “She’s still alive?”
Stoker held up a hand. “I don’t know! The last I heard about her for sure was the night she ran away from Shooters Hill, way back in January.”
“She was with me then,” Dobson responded. “I promised to look after ’er, an’ I did. Then all of a sudden, about a week ago, she said she gotter go again, and there weren’t nothing I could do to stop ’er. I begged ’er, told ’er I didn’t want nothing except to keep ’er safe.” He shook his head. “But she wouldn’t listen …” A look of helplessness washed over him again, and Stoker was suddenly moved to an intense pity for him.
“She’s probably all right,” he said gently. A wave of relief went through him, that the body they had found was not Kitty’s after all. “And she maybe was right to go. If I could find you, so could others. I don’t suppose you have any idea where she went?”
“No …”
“Perhaps that’s wise, too,” Stoker conceded, difficult as it was. “I’m a policeman, and I haven’t heard of anyone finding her in the last week, dead or alive, so she’s probably fine for now. You did the right thing.”
“What about ’er?” Dobson pressed. “What if they find ’er, then?”
“We’ll do all we can to see that we catch them before they do.” Stoker made a wild promise. He knew perfectly well that he was being unprofessional about this. Pitt’s influence was rubbing off on him!
Dobson nodded slowly. He believed him. “Thank you, sir,” he said solemnly.
“But you have to help me,” Stoker resumed a more serious manner. “I can’t catch them without your help …” He remained vague, wanting to find out exactly what Dobson knew without betraying that he knew very little himself.
“Anything!” Dobson agreed eagerly.
“Why was she afraid of them? I need you to tell me what she believed.”
“She saw things and heard them,” Dobson answered straightaway. “She knew as there were something really bad going on in that house. I mean worse than just people pinching the odd thing ’ere and there, or messing around with other people’s wives, an’ such.”
