The Matchmaker's Lonely Heart

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  They left the train, and as she stepped down, Amelie gasped at the sudden gust of cold wind. She turned her collar up and was glad she had worn her warm boots. Michael angled his hat against the wind, and then offered her his arm.

  They stopped at a line of carriages and, upon finding an omnibus headed for the center of town, climbed aboard. People chattered and laughed, and Amelie knew that for many, a day away from London’s congestion was a treat. As a few more people climbed up, those seated scooted to make room. Michael moved closer to Amelie so that a gentleman could sit beside him, and she gratefully nestled her shoulder behind his, relishing the warmth.

  He glanced down at her, but she couldn’t read his expression.

  “Apologies, dear brother,” she whispered, “but I am cold.”

  He raised a brow and whispered, “I am not complaining.”

  Her cheeks warmed, and she smiled before turning her face to the open-air window.

  The omnibus finally began moving, and the mile drive into town proved an interesting one. They passed a section of homes that had clearly seen better days, and several children ran outside in clothing not nearly suitable for the temperature. She frowned and chewed on her lip, feeling the same strands of sympathy and hopelessness she’d encountered in Whitechapel.

  As they neared the village center, shops and cafes became visible. On the hillside, stood a large building. It bore the look of a distinguished, if gloomy, mansion, complete with gothic turrets and ornamentation.

  Michael pointed at it. “I believe that is the boys’ home.”

  She grimaced. “It looks rather fearsome.”

  Michael ducked closer to the window for a longer look as the bus continued forward. “Likely considered necessary to encourage discipline,” he murmured.

  The scent of his cologne was subtle and might have been no more than shaving soap, but it left her with a profound desire to nuzzle his neck with her nose. She closed her eyes, mortified, and patiently waited for him to move away. The gentleman next to Michael said something, and Michael responded, but the exchange was completely lost on Amelie, who wanted to sink through the floor and slither away down the road. What on earth would he think of her if he knew what had crossed her mind?

  The bus stopped in front of an old inn that boasted a dining room serving the “best tea westward of India.” Michael looked at the sign and grinned at Amelie. “We must have a cup of that tea,” he said, and she smiled but truly had no idea what he was saying, because he was still close to her.

  “Are you ready?” He stood and offered his hand.

  She blinked and took it, wishing they could simply remain on the omnibus all day, driving around the village and smelling wonderful.

  After the bus pulled away, Michael took a deep breath. “Now, then,” he said. “What was the first item on your list of things to do today?”

  She looked around at the shops and eateries, each one charming and decorated for the village’s autumn celebrations. “I hadn’t truly thought so far ahead,” she admitted, looking up at him. “The boys’ home, I suppose; I wish to speak with Reverend Flannery.”

  He smiled and offered his arm, and he led her to the sidewalk. “Were you planning to simply march up the front steps and request an audience?”

  She lifted her shoulder. “I suppose when verbalized it seems rather absurd.” She frowned as they walked. “If he were available, I imagine he would speak with me, if for no other reason than to satisfy his curiosity. Additionally,” she said as they walked around a couple who strolled with a dog on a lead, “the tone of his letter to Mr. Stern seemed very pleasant.”

  The big house on the hill was visible intermittently through trees and buildings placed along the street. “What did the detective say when he returned to London after investigating here?” she asked.

  Michael shook his head. “Not much. He said the Father was amiable enough but claimed to have no knowledge of the matter we were investigating or the parties associated with it.”

  Amelie’s reader-brain imagined multiple scenarios. “The detective came here while you were away and I was at home for the week?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?” he said.

  “I wonder if a certain someone visited the Father before the detective did and warned him to claim ignorance.”

  “Possible.” Michael nodded. “To what end? Hide any connection between himself and Mr. Prospero?”

  “Yes. Perhaps threatened him.” She wrinkled her forehead. “Threatened him with what, though? Something substantial enough to convince a man of the cloth to lie to a man of the law.”

  He gave her his half-smile. “Shall we walk up there, or would you rather take a cab?”

  “I’d rather walk. It isn’t far.”

  He stepped behind her as the sidewalk became crowded, and followed with his hand under her elbow.

  When they’d threaded through the people, he came alongside her again and pulled her hand through his arm. She felt protected, and safe. She’d not realized until that moment how often she’d looked over her shoulder since the attack at Whitechapel. On some level deep inside, she knew she had been trying to prove to herself that she was fine, that she wasn’t afraid. The pursuit of that proof had led her to attempt today’s journey even though no one had been free to join her.

  A few meandering attempts to find the correct road finally led them to the long path to the boys’ home. Amelie was a brisk walker, which was to her benefit in matching Michael’s longer stride. To his credit, he didn’t rush them; but as they neared the big building, her nerves had her wanting to sprint in order to be done with the encounter altogether.

  As they neared the wide staircase, Amelie paused, looking at Michael. “You do not believe this is necessary, do you? You’re humoring me?”

  “I am not humoring you. It crossed my mind yesterday that the detective who visited last week is nearing retirement, and he is, shall we say, eager to be finished. I do not know how intently he pursed his line of inquiry. This is necessary, but I admit I do not like you anywhere near it.”

  “I’ll not interfere,” she said, feeling foolish at having pushed her way so aggressively into an investigation that was not hers to pursue. “I’ll be silent.”

  He must have read the embarrassment. He placed a finger under her chin and tipped her face up to meet his eyes. “The reason I do not want you near this thing has nothing to do with a concern you will ‘be in the way.’ You are perceptive, and in no way do I feel you are unequal to the task. I believe you could coax a response from almost anybody.” He paused. “I simply do not want you hurt again.”

  She swallowed and nodded as he dropped his hand and nudged her toward the stairs. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  “Yes.” She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders as he lifted the heavy ornamental door knocker.

  Simple Christian duty demands an embrace of the orphan and waif. We must care for him as if he were Christ, Himself.

  —Thoughts on Care and Keeping of the Unfortunate

  by Pastor Ralph Gladston

  Michael lifted the monstrous door knocker a third time and let it fall loudly, wondering if either the home’s inhabitants were on some sort of educational venture or if they’d simply been instructed to ignore all visitors. He was prepared to turn and take Amelie far from the place; the very air held a threatening element that made him uneasy. The door finally cracked open, and a young man peered out at them.

  “We are here to see Reverend Flannery. I am Detective Michael Baker, and this is my associate, Deputy Hampton. Shall we await the reverend here on the porch or inside?”

  The boy had a guarded look that Michael recognized. He’d seen it on more orphans and street urchins than he could count.

  “Come inside,” the boy finally said. He opened the door wider, and Michael kept Amelie close to him as they entered the la
rge foyer. The building consisted of the finest in early Victorian design, but for all its ornate flourishes, it was dark and cold.

  “Please have a seat here.” The boy indicated a bench beside a door that was probably initially a parlor. “I shall see if the reverend is available.”

  “What is your name?” Michael asked as the boy turned away.

  “Gabriel Grant, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Grant.”

  The boy walked down the long front hallway, and Michael indicated the bench for Amelie. She sat, silent, but her eyes were large as she examined the foyer, taking in every detail. As an afterthought, he pulled his notebook and pen from his pocket and handed them to her. “Write down everything,” he said. “Deputy.”

  She smiled, looking equal parts sheepish and delighted, but took the materials and sobered quickly. She flipped open the notebook, uncapped the pen, and stood. She slowly wandered around the room, pen scribbling quickly, its occasional scratching providing the only sound in the cavernous hall aside from the ticking of an enormous grandfather clock. If her last effort as his “scribe” were any indication, he would have a detailed description and account of the experience in his hands by morning.

  Before long, the echo of footsteps sounded from down the hall, and a tall man emerged from the shadows wearing the clerical garb of his station. He was of late middle age, with thinning hair and slightly stooped shoulders. As he neared the front hall, he smiled politely and extended his hand.

  “Detective Baker, is it? How may I be of assistance today?”

  “Reverend Flannery, thank you for meeting with us. I wonder if you might answer some questions about a former resident of the Wickelston Boys’ Home. Jacob Stern?”

  The reverend tilted his head. “The Yard has already sent a detective with questions about this.”

  Michael nodded. “We are broadening the investigation and reinterviewing persons who may have knowledge of the case.”

  Amelie joined him, studying the cleric closely. When the man glanced at her, she smiled politely but remained quiet.

  Reverend Flannery nodded somberly. “I remember Jacob Stern,” he said. “Would you join me in my office?” He opened the door by the bench and gestured.

  They joined him in a room populated with bookshelves that held matched sets of leather-bound volumes, a desk, and three chairs. Michael and Amelie sat opposite the desk, and the reverend sat behind it, folding his hands on the polished surface.

  “You are still investigating Jacob’s horrible death?” he asked.

  “We are.” Michael nodded. “He was working as an entertainer in Town, and we attended his last performance. He called himself ‘The Great Prospero’ and provided fortune-telling to guests at a party.”

  The reverend smiled faintly. “He was always an entertainer. When he left us for London, he had grand ambitions of the theatre. I fear he did not achieve great heights.” He paused. “One can never be certain what life holds for those who suffer ill fortune. I have not communicated with Jacob for years; to hear of his death was a great shock.”

  There was the man’s first lie; Michael had the letter Amelie retrieved from the flat, the letter that Reverend Flannery had written to Jacob Stern.

  “We are also seeking information on another former resident. He goes by the name of Harold Radcliffe.”

  The reverend’s forehead wrinkled. “I do not know that name.”

  Amelie pulled something from her reticule and handed it to Michael. It was a photograph of Radcliffe, posed grandly and taken at a studio. It was the sort of item one might give a woman along with a calling card—a woman who was perhaps more than an object of passing interest. Michael’s nostrils flared, but otherwise he kept his expression neutral and slid the photograph across the desk.

  The reverend’s eyes flickered in recognition.

  Before he could deny it, Michael said, “You do recognize him, I see.”

  The reverend hesitated and then smiled. “I do not usually discuss what I know of past residents; I made an exception with poor Jacob Stern, given the circumstances.” He opened his hands. “You are insightful, Detective.” He tapped the photograph. “I do know him.”

  Michael watched for signs of reservation or fear, but realized as the man pulled the photograph closer, he was studying it with pride. He glanced at Amelie, who also watched the reverend carefully, and she flicked her eyes to Michael with a subtle twitch of an eyebrow.

  “‘Harold Smith’ is the name he was given here. I do not know him as ‘Radcliffe,’ so you understand my confusion.”

  Amelie stirred, and Michael looked at her. She clearly wanted to ask the man something, and Michael nodded.

  “Sir, you said ‘Harold Smith is the name he was given here.’ Was he raised by this institution from infancy?”

  The reverend nodded. “Perhaps because he benefited from a lifetime of tutelage with us from the cradle, he was one of the few who reached a loftier status. He is a solicitor at the Chancery, you know.”

  “He never knew his parents, siblings?” Amelie persisted.

  “Regrettably, no. But perhaps it is for the best; he was abandoned at the hospital with no record of his mother. Better to flourish under God’s watchful eye than as a bastard child living in squalor.”

  Amelie fell silent.

  Michael continued. “Do you know if Jacob Stern and Harold Smith had contact in London?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Reverend Flannery answered. “Once our boys leave home, I rarely hear of them.”

  There was a second lie. Jacob Stern had apparently written to the man, telling him he’d seen someone in a London coffee shop who might have been “Harold Smith.”

  Michael nodded but let the silence hang for a moment.

  The reverend did not fidget, did not move so much as a finger, until he finally smiled. “Have you any further questions for me?” he asked.

  “I do have one,” Amelie interrupted. “How were Jacob and Harold and other boys regarded by the local villagers? Were they welcome in town?”

  If the reverend thought it an odd question, he didn’t show it. “The villagers mostly keep to themselves, as do the boys. Residents of a small town can wield judgment harshly and do not always behave toward the less fortunate with the Christian benevolence one would expect. It does not impact us here at the boys’ home unduly; our days here are quite full.”

  He stood, indicating a clear end to the discussion. He picked up the photograph and returned it to Amelie, saying, “This is yours, my dear? ’Tis a fortunate woman who receives such a boon from an important, educated, and wealthy man.”

  Amelie smiled tightly and took the photograph. She stood and was on her way to the door before Michael could react. He thanked the reverend for his time and shook his cold, bony hand once again. “Should you be interested in continued information about Jacob Stern’s murder case, I will gladly provide it to you. As you practically raised the young man, I am certain you would appreciate it.”

  “Oh, we did not raise Jacob so much as provide a place for him to live the last two years before his age of majority. His mother passed, he was in need of a roof overhead, and we were happy to provide it. Short though his tenure was, he was one of ours. I would appreciate any news of the investigation, though, and I am grateful to see such dedication applied to it.”

  Michael touched the brim of his hat and followed Amelie to the foyer. She clutched his notebook and pen in one hand and tugged on the heavy front door with the other. He reached around her and turned the lock, sliding the bolt back. She looked over her shoulder at him in chagrin as she turned the handle, this time pulling the door open.

  “Thank you again for your time,” he said to the reverend, who stood at the door and watched them descend the front steps.

  “My pleasure, of course,” the reverend called after them.

  He had a
n uneasy feeling that the image of the man silhouetted in the doorway of a dark house full of shadows, even before the clock had struck noon, would remain with him for some time.

  It has been said that love sometimes catches one by surprise; this writer imagines that someone surprised by such a momentous state of affairs must be abysmally unobservant.

  —From “Essays on Eternal Bliss” by Miss A. Hampton,

  The Marriage Gazette

  “Mr. Radcliffe lied about absolutely everything,” Amelie fumed as she and Michael neared the road leading back into town. “His name. His past. Everything! He played me for a fool, and while I may be naive, I do not appreciate that.” She had held her composure until they were well out of sight of the house, but then lost her temper completely. “He is a wretched, awful liar who kills people!”

  “Not so loud, Deputy, if you please. We are nearing civilization.” He guided her into the maze of streets they’d traveled on their way to the boys’ home. They reached a secluded stretch of road that was full of trees with leaves turning to rich yellows, oranges, and reds, and she was unable to even appreciate the beauty.

  She cursed the emotions that were always so close to the surface. When she was angry, she was teary. When she was afraid, she was teary. When she was touched by a kindness, she was teary. She did not, however, want to shed a tear over Harold Smith. “Michael, he is a bad man.”

  “I am glad we finally agree.” He smiled at her, and she tried to relax.

  “When my brother teased me as a child, the worst part of the experience was feeling foolish.” She looked away, grateful for the cold gust of wind that gave her eyes a reason to water. “Humiliation is an awful thing to feel, and knowing Mr. Smith perpetrated his lies in order to curry some kind of favor or to use me to gain access to Aunt Sally and her money—I did not see it. Although Charlotte did after eavesdropping on one conversation.”

  Michael stopped and took her hands. Rather, he took one hand and held the other wrist, because she still clutched his notebook and pen with a death grip. “He has perfected his deception to a fine art. You have done nothing wrong.”