Death Below Stairs

by Jennifer Ashley

  “But how did you?” I imagined Daniel had asked him all this yesterday, but I could not hold my tongue. “How did you manage to reach home in such a state?”

  “I know blokes what drive carts around Mayfair,” Timmons answered readily. “I persuaded one of them to take me as far as Regent’s Park, and I asked for rides after that. A carter was kind enough to drop me at the end of my road.”

  He wet his lips again, his gaze darting to Daniel. Daniel, imperceptibly, nodded at him.

  I caught the nod, to my irritation. It informed me that Daniel had rehearsed with Timmons what the man would tell me and perhaps anyone who asked him. I turned a frown on Daniel, but he didn’t seem to note my disapprobation.

  Mr. Timmons was clearly ill and not feigning. His wife looked anxious, and Timmons was obviously well tended by her. I had observed when we’d found him that he must have someone to look after his clothing, and indeed she appeared to be a most solicitous wife.

  I stepped to the outer room when it was clear Timmons was fading to sleep, and gave Mrs. Timmons a remedy I had for pain—chamomile steeped in boiling water with a scraping of fresh ginger. It was good for aches and also settled the digestion.

  After a few more sympathetic words to Mrs. Timmons, Daniel and I left them alone.

  “A waste of an outing,” I declared as we walked along the lane, back toward Drummond Street. “I might have saved a journey if you’d told me what you told him to say.”

  Daniel’s expression wasn’t as guilt-ridden as I’d hoped. He expressed no surprise I’d tumbled to his subterfuge and no shame either. “I ought to have known I couldn’t deceive you. But I wanted you to see Timmons, to put your mind at rest that he was home, cared for, and could not possibly have lifted a marble bowl and struck a young, robust girl with it. You would not have taken my word for it, would you?”

  Very likely not. “No,” I conceded, but stiffly.

  “Come on, then. I’ll buy you a coffee before we journey back.”

  “Stopping at a market along the way,” I reminded him as I fell into step with him. “I truly do need things for supper.”

  He laughed at that. He was always laughing, was Daniel. At one time in my life I had loved laughter.

  Vendors lined the roads near Euston Station, the station itself with its Greek pediment and Doric columns proclaiming it an edifice as important as an ancient temple. Daniel led me to a vendor and asked for two cups of tea—I explained to him that I didn’t much care for coffee. The tea, served in chipped mugs, was strong and rather fierce, but in the cold wind, after the chill of Mr. Timmons’s rooms, I welcomed it.

  The wind held, very faintly, a gentler note, a promise of spring to come. That was still a way off though, it warned. I stepped to the lee side of the vendor’s cart to avoid it, and Daniel followed me. In the relative privacy we sipped tea.

  “My apologies for not escorting you to a more agreeable place,” Daniel said. “I don’t believe I’d be let into a tea shop, not one you would approve of anyway, not in my present attire.”

  He indicated his work clothes with his thick gloves, his boots muddy and splotched from muck on the roads. His cap was pulled down over his eyes, anchored against the wind.

  “I do not mind,” I said. “I have no inclination to linger over tea and cakes today.”

  Truth to tell, I enjoyed tea shops, where I could sit still while someone else brought me refreshment, and gossip with a companion without worry. I hadn’t had much time for such things lately.

  “One day, I’ll dress up fine and take you to a restaurant,” Daniel proclaimed before he took a long slurp of tea.

  I raised my brows. “Oh, you will, will you?” I had a brief vision of myself sailing into an elegant dining room on Daniel’s arm, he in his well-tailored suit, me in . . . Hmm, I’d have to find a new frock for the occasion. “Absurd,” I said. “If you walked into a restaurant with a cook on your arm, they’d likely send me to the kitchens to help with the meals.”

  “We wouldn’t mention that you were a cook, of course. We would be Daniel and Kat—Mr. McAdam and Mrs. Holloway—enjoying a supper.”

  I sent him a pitying look. “My dear Daniel, no matter what fine feathers I put on, everyone would know me for a domestic. That is what we are.”

  Daniel swept his gaze from the top of my prim bonnet to the toes of my sensible shoes. He lifted his cup to his lips again. “That depends on the feathers.”

  His scrutiny over the rim of his mug made my cheeks heat. “Now you are becoming unseemly,” I said hastily, trying to retain my dignity. “One cup of tea does not mean you can take liberties, Mr. McAdam.”

  Daniel’s grin flashed. “I’d never dream of taking liberties with you, Kat. You’d send me off with your rolling pin fast enough. Or one of your very sharp knives.”

  “And that is a joke in poor taste.” The tea rested heavily in my stomach. I’d once had to fend off a gentleman in my kitchen with a carving knife, with dire consequences for both of us. Daniel knew it, drat him.

  Daniel lost his smile. “My apologies. You are right—I should not make fun of horrible things. Enjoy your tea, my dear, and I shall leave you alone.”

  “No, indeed, you’ll not get off that easily.” I took another sip of the awful tea. “Why did you instruct Mr. Timmons to say what he did? Why was he in Mayfair that day anyway? Surely it is a bit far for him to make his deliveries, or whatever he was doing.”

  “Not necessarily. Carters go all over London, up and down, to every corner, wherever they’re sent. They know London like no others, unless it’s the cabbies.”

  “Is that why you are a deliveryman most of the time?” I asked. “So you can go up and down London and see every corner?”

  Daniel acknowledged this with a nod. “I find jobs for a day, or a week, whatever I need, and leave when I’m finished.”

  “An itinerant deliveryman. How interesting.” I knew he’d never tell me his real purpose for flitting all over London, so I didn’t bother asking. “We are straying from the topic. Why should Timmons come to Mayfair? Why should he be so far from home at the precise moment Lady Cynthia ran him down?”

  “Unless Lady Cynthia meant to.” Daniel took a long draught of tea. “And then she grew remorseful and ran to you for help.”

  I stared at him. “Why on earth should Lady Cynthia run down Mr. Timmons? She didn’t even know him.” I watched Daniel’s unchanging expression and sighed. “A moment—you are saying she knew exactly who he was and deliberately struck him.”

  “Possibly,” Daniel said, something dark flickering in his eyes. “Once again, I am blaming myself for another taking hurt, and I’m not wrong. Timmons was at Mount Street because I asked him to be there.” He leaned to me, his breath warm from the tea. “I’ve been watching Rankin’s house, as I told you. Mr. Timmons was handy and needed extra work, so I asked him to help me keep an eye out.”

  My temper mounted but thoughts clicked into place. “I see. That is why you and your son were so conveniently about that morning. You came to confer with Mr. Timmons, or some such thing. Please, tell me, Daniel, if Lord Rankin is a man to attract your suspicions, why did you not warn me off taking the post?”

  Daniel gave me an exasperated look. “Because I could not find you, bothersome woman. You had left your post in Richmond by the time I was— By the time I began observing Rankin, and I had no idea where you were. You changed your boardinghouse from the last one I knew of. Your agency turned me away with a flea in my ear when I went to ask after you.”

  “As they should,” I returned. “They’re a very good agency, and likely they guessed you had no intention of employing me. I moved to a boardinghouse in Tottenham Court Road because the landlady in King Street closed her house to stay with her sister, who’d become very ill.”

  I wondered what Daniel had stopped himself from saying. By the time I was— What? Keep
ing an eye on Lord Rankin? Back from wherever he’d disappeared to before that?

  “The agency refused even to send a message to you,” Daniel said, frowning. “Which was maddening, because I knew Lady Rankin was seeking a cook and would pay for the best. So by the time I could warn you, you were already ensconced in Rankin’s household. I did encourage you to leave the post last night, if you recall.”

  “And I ignored you,” I reminded him. “I need the wages, plain and simple. You offered to find me another post once, a long time ago.”

  “Which you refused point-blank.” Amusement crept back into Daniel’s expression. “I vividly recall you doing so. That post is filled, but I’m certain I can find another for you.”

  I readily believed that Daniel could do anything he wanted, so I remained silent. No doubt he’d find a position for me in a house tucked away in a dull corner of London where nothing ever happened. I’d knead, stir, chop, and baste with tiresome repetition until I crawled off to weary retirement.

  “I will weather Lord Rankin for the moment,” I said. “As long as you assure me he did not kill Sinead.”

  “I don’t believe he did. Certainty is elusive. He is dangerous, Kat, I will tell you that.” Daniel let out a breath. “Though he would be most dangerous to you if you had large amounts of money invested through his firm.”

  I blinked at him. “Good heavens, are you saying he is a swindler? Oh dear, his poor wife. And Lady Cynthia.”

  If Lord Rankin used his position to swindle from gentlemen, he would ruin not only himself but his entire family. Lady Rankin and Lady Cynthia would never be able to hold up their heads among their society friends—many of whom might be investors with him. If Lord Rankin lost all the money, Lady Cynthia and her sister would be destitute. From what Mr. Davis had told me, their own family had no money, in spite of its lofty title, so it wasn’t likely a dowry or widow’s portion would help Lady Rankin. Lady Cynthia would have nothing at all and be left to the charity of her parents.

  “I often pity the upper classes,” I reflected, cradling my mug of cooling tea. “I have the option to take a job to keep myself fed, no matter how menial that position might be. Lady Cynthia has no prospects unless she marries and no inheritance unless some benefactor provides it for her. She must beg for room and board from her friends and family, be the poor relation, the spinster no one wants. No wonder she puts on trousers and behaves boorishly. I might do the same.”

  “Your philosophy is sometimes frightening, Kat.” Daniel gave me a fond look, pried the teacup out of my hand, and returned it to the vendor.

  He took my arm and led me away, hopefully to find a cab—I did not wish to ride the train through tunnels again.

  As Daniel helped me cross a noisome puddle in front of the grand portico of Euston Station, he bumped into a well-dressed young man with a tall hat, who was hurrying from a coach, probably running for a train. Several young men in similar dress followed him, upper-class gents off on some journey.

  As the young man snarled at Daniel, Daniel touched his hat and took on his South London accent. “Beg pardon, sir.”

  The young man gave him a glare. “Watch where you’re going, you lout.”

  Daniel doffed his cap as the young man fell into step with his friends and they strode toward the station, backs covered with black cashmere greatcoats of well-tailored expense.

  “And a fine good morning to you, sir,” Daniel called after them cheerfully.

  The first man turned back, and his friends did as well once they’d realized he’d stopped. They were all young—in their twenties it looked like, wearing the latest in waistcoats, trousers creased as smartly as their valets could make them, boots polished with care. The valets in question continued to the station where they would settle the tickets and wait for their masters to finish their business.

  Their business at the moment was to surround Daniel. I was shoved aside, not rudely—they barely noticed I was there.

  “What did you say?” the first young man demanded in such a highbred voice I could barely make out the words.

  Daniel now had his cap in his hands. “I wished you good day, sir.” He gave the men surrounding him his most personable smile. “Wherever you are destined. Good day for it. Traveling.”

  For the first time since I’d met him, I did not observe Daniel’s overt friendliness melting those it was directed to. Perhaps the young men were drunk, or hungover, or simply coldhearted and very taken with themselves.

  “How dare you even speak to me,” the first man said. He had a pale face, hair just as colorless, a thin body, and blue eyes that were red-rimmed—hungover, yes. For all his frail appearance, his expression held the belligerence of a pugilist in his final match.

  Daniel retained his smile, though his eyes had cooled. “Beg pardon, sir,” he repeated.

  He was doing this all wrong, I could have told him. A day laborer should bow his head, shuffle away, and say nothing more, satisfying himself by muttering his anger to the next laborer he passed.

  I tried to save Daniel by starting forward. “Come along, you,” I commanded in ringing tones. “I have many more errands today.”

  I pretended to not notice the toffs, since I should never think to speak to them if they did not address me first. I conveyed with my words, voice, and demeanor that I was impatient with my hired help and would take him out of their way as soon as I was able.

  Ignoring me, the first young man swung out a kid-gloved fist and cuffed Daniel on the side of the head.

  Daniel rocked back, then he snapped his neck straight again, a hard look in his eyes.

  All would have been well if the young gentleman had satisfied himself that he’d taught Daniel a lesson and moved on, but his blue eyes grew colder still, and he struck Daniel again.

  “Insolence,” he spat. “Go tell your master to beat you.”

  Daniel at last took a step back, realizing he needed to end this encounter, but apparently he didn’t move deferentially enough. The young man came for Daniel again, backhanding him. Then, his eyes narrowing, he began striking Daniel again and again, his face red, his lips pulled back into a snarl.

  His friends only watched, nonplussed, until Daniel brought his own fists up to defend himself. Then, gleefully, they pounced on him.

  Four men against one, they surrounded Daniel and began pounding him until he fell to the pavement. They planted their polished boots into his ribs, thighs, and back, over and over again. Daniel could only shield his face with his arms and roll into a ball to avoid the worst of the blows.

  This had gone beyond gentlemen berating an impudent workman. These young lads who’d spent the previous night drunk and had nothing better to do today were taking out their pique on Daniel. Large fists in expensive gloves rose and fell, boots of best calf leather slammed into Daniel’s ribs and hips.

  “Help!” I shouted at the passersby. They were happy to stop and gape, but no one moved to assist. “Useless pillocks!” I shrieked at them, then flung myself at Daniel’s assailants.

  10

  I seized the elbow of one of the gentlemen with both hands and yanked him backward. I was not as tall as he was, but laboring in a kitchen—lifting roasting pans, cleaving meat, wrestling with iron stoves—had made me strong. The young man lost his balance and stumbled into me.

  “For shame!” I yelled into his face. “Shame on you!” I pushed him away with my empty basket.

  The young man gazed down at me blearily, then to my surprise, he straightened up, looking like a chastised schoolboy. In his hazy state, he must have confused me with his nanny.

  He shook free of me but grabbed his nearest friend. “Leave off,” he growled. “We have a train to catch.”

  The next man straightened up, wiping his nose, which was dripping, though not with blood. “Come on,” he said to the others. “That’s taught him a lesson,” he went on, running h
is gloved hand under his nose again. “Leave it, Minty,” he called to the gentleman who’d begun the beating and who was still kicking Daniel. “Someone will shout for the police, and if you get yourself banged up again, your dad will cut off your balls.”

  Minty, whoever he was, reached down and punched Daniel three more times, then straightened up, snatched a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his face of blood.

  “I’ll have him up before a magistrate,” he snarled, dabbing at his cut forehead. “See him hanged.”

  The one I’d scolded rolled his eyes. “We don’t have time. We’ll barely make the train as it is, because you’re such a layabout. He’s not worth it.”

  “He hit me, the bastard,” Minty returned. His hands were shaking, a strange light of hatred in his eyes. “He’s a dead man.”

  “Minty.” The word from the man I’d scolded was stern, and Minty jerked around. His friend pointed a stiff finger to the columns of the station. “Go. You can whinge about it on the way.”

  He must be the leader of this tribe, not Minty, because Minty, after shooting a glare at me, obediently turned and made for the station. He shoved people out of the way, but they only sidestepped him and drifted over to enjoy the entertainment of me falling to my knees at Daniel’s side.

  I put my hand under Daniel’s head, and as I did so, he uncurled himself and sat up, blood all over his face.

  The passersby suddenly became solicitous. A woman with a basket filled with greens crouched down beside us. “All right, love?”

  Daniel started to touch his face, but I grabbed his wrist to prevent him from brushing his wounds with his dirty gloves. The entire left side of his face was swollen, cuts slicing both cheeks and forehead, and blood ran from under his hair.

  “Ee, that’s nasty,” the woman said, studying him. She shook out a large handkerchief and handed it to me. “Use this, love.”