Death Below Stairs

by Jennifer Ashley

  Daniel’s eyes danced. “Fair dues. But I had in mind that you’d return to London tomorrow morning with Thanos and Lady Cynthia.”

  He spoke firmly, but if he thought I’d meekly agree and rush off to bed, he was much mistaken. “Not a bit of it. You are neither my father nor brother, nor husband, not even a cousin, and I do not have to answer to you.” I lifted my chin as he regarded me in surprise. “Being alone in the world has the one benefit of allowing me to decide for myself what I will and will not do. I’ll remain here until I choose to return to London—and if I have to move from the very large room you procured for me to a broom closet near the kitchen and purchase my own third-class ticket back to Town, then so be it.”

  Daniel studied me with an expression that had gone flinty. “I’ve dealt with Fenians and men like them—they’re unpredictable, violent, desperate. They’ve seen terrible things, and they’re not averse to doing terrible things in return, even to women.”

  I took his point, but the dratted man was maddening me. “My dear Daniel, if I come across a Fenian with a store of dynamite, I do not plan to wrestle him to the ground. I will prudently send for the police—and you. I’m a sensible woman.”

  “I know,” Daniel muttered. “That’s what concerns me.”

  I ignored him. “Besides, I have not heard that you will join us on this morning journey to London. All the more reason I should stay. How would I face James if anything happened to you? How could I tell him I left you on your own when I should have been looking after you?”

  Emotions chased themselves across Daniel’s face—anger, resolve, guilt, irritation, and finally, resignation.

  He let out a long breath. “Well, then,” he said. “Let us hope the Queen is more reasonable than you and postpones her journey. Good night, Kat.”

  “Good night, Daniel.”

  We both stood still, neither wishing to give way first. I broke the impasse by sending him a faint smile and walking out of the room ahead of him, but I waited at the foot of the stairs to make certain he came out behind me.

  He did, gesturing that I should precede him up the stairs. I made my way quietly upward, and Daniel came after me, his tread heavy. We parted at the top of the staircase, where I whispered another good night. Daniel pointedly waited until I’d entered my chamber and shut the door, but I opened it a crack again to watch until he went into the bedchamber he shared with Mr. Thanos.

  I closed the door all the way and turned the key in the lock, but I returned to my chair to sit until I heard Daniel’s boots hit the floor and a creak of a bedstead. Only then did I rise, don my nightclothes, and slide into bed.

  • • •

  The Queen was not reasonable—she refused to put off her trip to Cornwall, and would travel on Sunday as planned.

  I knew this because I rose very early—not wanting Daniel to slip away somewhere—and watched him walk to the train station to collect the morning’s telegrams. I could see the station at the top of the hill through the downstairs sitting room window, in spite of the continuing rain, and knew when Daniel went into the station and when he came out.

  I sipped a cup of tea the landlady, Mrs. Rigby, brought me and chewed on an indifferent buttered muffin, but both were warm and welcome in the cold. As blustery as it was, however, I admitted it was nice to be out of London’s smoke. One could breathe here, even if the air smelled of fish. I should like to bring Grace to stay in this cozy inn and show her the river, the hills, the bridge.

  “Is this usual weather?” I asked Mrs. Rigby as she refilled my teapot from a steaming kettle, a towel wrapped around its handle.

  “Aye.” Mrs. Rigby poured the water as I held the teapot’s lid out of the way, steam billowing pleasantly around us. “This time of year there’s always much rain. We have a few fine days in the summer, and so many come through from London for the sea bathing then, you wouldn’t believe it, dear. But in early spring, the weather’s blustery. I hear it will be worse tonight, and a big storm coming in tomorrow.”

  Well, perhaps the weather would keep the Queen away if nothing else would.

  But we could not count on that, so I began to chat to Mrs. Rigby, conversationally, not about much of anything. I learned that she and her husband had two daughters who’d married fishermen in Plymouth but who still came home to help when the inn was full.

  I satisfied her curiosity by telling her I worked for Lady Cynthia—more or less true—and that Mr. Thanos was Cynthia’s stepbrother—a complete fabrication, but I did not like to sully Lady Cynthia’s reputation. I put it that Daniel was Mr. Thanos’s friend, again the truth, though not all of it.

  Mrs. Rigby seemed happy with my answers and at last bustled away to continue her work. I watched Daniel come down the road from the station and rose to meet him at the front door.

  He did not look at all surprised to see me awake and dressed, and let me herd him back into the sitting room, where I closed the door and demanded he tell me all.

  Daniel threw himself into a chair and scrubbed his hands through his hair, scraping it with the telegrams he clutched.

  “Bloody woman won’t listen to anyone,” he growled. “She refuses to change a thing. My contacts say she’ll leave London at ten o’clock this evening and travel overnight to reach the coast tomorrow morning. She’ll be through here about six in the morning—the exact time Thanos calculated she’d be riding over that bridge.”

  “By ‘bloody woman,’ I take it you mean Her Majesty,” I said, placing myself calmly in front of him. “I imagine those plotting against her will count on her stubbornness, unfortunately.”

  “She refuses to show that she is afraid of these people. Won’t cringe in cowardice, were apparently her very words.” Daniel raked his hair again, the papers crackling.

  “I cannot blame her, you know,” I told him. “It’s best not to give way. If she does—even once—they will have won a victory. The anarchists will believe that all they have to do is threaten, and everyone will capitulate. And they’ll be right.”

  “I know.” Daniel lowered his hands and regarded me glumly. “Her Unyielding Majesty will expect the rest of us to take care of the problem so she won’t be endangered.” He heaved a sigh that came from the bottom of his boots. “I suppose that is what we are for.”

  I wondered very much whom he meant by we. He might be speaking about British subjects in general, or perhaps he had some sort of direct connection to the Queen and her court, which would explain some of his secrecy and his ability to make gentlemen like Lord Rankin obey his commands. Not a satisfactory explanation, but I was not likely to get a better one soon.

  “What will you do?” I asked.

  Daniel let out another breath. “I will meet with the police here and comb every inch of space on and around that bridge.” He pointed a blunt finger at me. “You will return to London with Lady Cynthia and Thanos.”

  “I believe we had this conversation last night.” I lifted my teacup from the side table where I’d left it and took a sip. “Best you get at it. If I discover anything important, I will seek you out.”

  Daniel scowled, curling his fists and tensing like coiled spring. I half expected him to leap from the chair and carry me off over his shoulder up the hill to throw me onto a passing train.

  He did nothing so dramatic. Daniel only shook his head, cast a despairing look out the window, and rose to his feet.

  “I don’t have time to fight you, Kat,” he said as I took another calm sip of tea. “But you stay away from that bloody bridge. I don’t care if the whole damn thing falls down, as long as you are nowhere near it.”

  His eyes were hard as he glared at me, though I knew he exaggerated. He did care if it fell down—he wanted to prevent the Queen and her entourage from coming to tragedy. His whole body quivered with it.

  “You take care,” I returned. “I have a bit more sense of caution than you do,
Daniel, that is certain. I will be well.”

  Daniel continued to regard me in vexation; then he put his hands on my shoulders and gave me a swift kiss on the lips before he released me and strode out of the room without another word.

  I lifted my cup again, my hand shaking. “Daft man,” I muttered as I tried to catch my breath. “He nearly spilled my tea.”

  21

  Lady Cynthia did not want to obediently return to London and neither did Mr. Thanos. I heard the arguments as I slipped out to the kitchen, which had been built onto the back of the inn, to seek Mrs. Rigby. The kitchen had obviously once been a separate building and was now connected to the main house by a narrow, chilly passage.

  I paused to listen before I went down this passage—Daniel was busy getting ’round Lady Cynthia by telling her she needed to take urgent messages to Lord Rankin and give that man further instruction. Lady Cynthia perked up at that.

  “Chivvy Rankin?” she said, her voice ringing. “It would be my pleasure.”

  I heard her pound up the stairs again, leaving Daniel with Mr. Thanos. “I need you to keep an eye on her,” Daniel said to Elgin. “Look after her—help her stand on Rankin until he stops that flow of money. What I do here only patches the gaps. The finances is where we’ll truly hurt them.”

  “They’ll only find another source, you know,” Elgin warned.

  “True, but Rankin can assist with that as well. He knows to whom they’re likely to turn if Rankin becomes a wall. Also make a nuisance of yourself with Lord Chalminster. Put the fear of God into him—or at least the fear of me. I’ll be home to deal with him and his son on Monday.”

  “Chalminster?” Elgin sounded thoughtful. “I see.”

  Daniel gave him a few more names of men to visit, then I heard Elgin retreat upstairs, his step buoyant.

  I could not help feeling a bit of admiration—Daniel had turned both of them to his side with a few well-chosen sentences. But he’d not get around me, I decided, no matter how many times he tried to kiss me.

  My lips tingled when I thought of the kiss, and I touched my fingers to them. Then I told myself not to be so silly and hastened the rest of the way to the kitchen. Daniel might suppose he held the world in the palm of his hand, but the kitchen was my demesne, and Daniel, no matter how many aristocrats he had influence over, would never rule there.

  Mrs. Rigby welcomed my help, and the two of us set about making meat pies—beef and kidney as well as pork. I showed her how I used a combination of drippings and butter to make my pastry light and yet robust as well as a dribble of gravy inside the crust to make the entire pie moist and hot.

  We also made custard pastries and bread rolls. I mixed up a batch of my brioche and showed Mrs. Rigby how to make little cake pans full of the sweet buttery bread, each topped with a small ball of dough.

  All the while I kept my eyes and ears open. One wall in the kitchen had plentiful windows, unusual because most kitchens are enclosed and dark. But perhaps whoever had laid in the passage between house and kitchen had been forward-thinking enough to add windows.

  Through them I could see most of the town and out to the river and the bridge. Not long after we began baking, I spied uniformed constables flowing down to the flat riverbank under the tall bridge, walking in a slow, careful way, heads down. More constables moved up the hill along the train tracks.

  Mrs. Rigby saw my interest and peered out with me. “Quite a lot of policemen about, aren’t there? Must be to do with Her Majesty coming through in the morning.”

  “Most like,” I agreed, as though I had only passing curiosity. “Not a thing that happens often, I suppose.”

  Mrs. Rigby, her plump face red from the heat of the two ovens stoked high, returned to rolling out pastry. “You must see her all the time up in London.”

  I heard a mixture of wistfulness and disapproval in her voice. She’d already made clear she had no idea why anyone would live in the Smoke, but at the same time envied me my place there.

  “No indeed,” I answered. “The Queen keeps herself to herself when she’s at her palace in London. She stays most often in Scotland these days, in any case.”

  “Well, a woman ought to stay indoors and not make a spectacle of herself,” Mrs. Rigby said as she vigorously scrubbed her rolling pin over a large lump of dough. “Though it’s different for a queen, I suppose.”

  We agreed, and continued our baking. Inwardly, my heart was thumping. The rain came down and the number of constables increased. Would they find a threat? Or frighten off the villains? The fact that Mrs. Rigby had not been surprised by the policemen and knew exactly when the Queen would be coming through meant the Queen’s journey was not the secret she’d likely wanted it to be. The world watched her, and news spread.

  Mrs. Rigby and I made extra rolls and cakes after we’d finished those for the guests, intended for Mrs. Coombe, her nearest neighbor, who was poorly, Mrs. Rigby said. Having eleven children was part of the reason of her decline, in Mrs. Rigby’s opinion, and I could not disagree.

  We piled the baked goods into baskets, covered them with cloth, and proceeded to take our treats next door.

  I had been correct when I’d told Daniel that a cook or a maid could find out more things than a policeman. Mrs. Rigby’s frail neighbor, Mrs. Coombe, had nothing to do but recline on a sofa in the front room while her daughters saw to her, bringing in the gossip of the village. The maid of the house mingled with them, gossiping as much as they did.

  Mrs. Coombe and her daughters asked me many questions about London, and as I answered them, I asked questions in return about life in this edge of Cornwall. They were not entirely cut off from the world here, because just across the river was Plymouth, a port city with plenty of comings and goings, and the sea itself was not far away.

  I learned much about Saltash—who lived where and who was related to whom, and even who was having it off with a chap across the river, rowing herself over in the dead of night. I ask you, Mrs. Coombe finished. Another neighbor came to call, bringing her maid and yet more tales.

  They were delighted to have someone new to speak to, a person who didn’t know all the local stories, and one who listened avidly. I imagined I’d been their best audience in a long while. Tourists stayed at Mrs. Rigby’s inn, of course, but very few had any interest in the local inhabitants, according to her.

  When Mrs. Coombe began to tire, Mrs. Rigby and I departed and strolled back to the inn. There, I bundled up some tea cakes and buns and walked out to look for Daniel.

  The rain had lightened while I’d visited with Mrs. Coombe and her neighbors, but now it began to stream down, the wind rising to send it into me as I huddled in my coat and a big shawl.

  I found Daniel at the railway station up the hill, standing in a snug, dry office with the signalman and several uniformed police. Daniel looked up quickly as I came in but did not admonish me. One of the police sergeants began to do it for him, but broke off when I displayed the baked goods in my basket. The constables crowded around in eagerness, and I decided that the poor things must not have eaten this well in a good while.

  Daniel came to usher me out. He behaved as though he merely escorted a well-meaning woman away from men’s business, but he led me to a tiny private room across the station’s large passageway. The kettle on the small stove inside told me this was where the signalmen and ticket sellers brewed up their tea. Daniel shut the door, closing us into a stuffy chamber that smelled of tobacco, coffee, and burned tea leaves.

  “Well,” I said before Daniel could begin, “have you found any incendiary devices, or the men trying to lay them?”

  “No.” He looked frustrated. “Though we are still searching. That bridge has many nooks and crannies, not to mention the pillars beneath.”

  “Surely it would take a great lot of dynamite to even dent it,” I said. “It is quite solid.”

  Daniel shook h
is head. “Bridges are all about balance. How much weight and tension can the trusses or beams take before they fail? If the correct section is knocked out, the entire thing can tumble down.”

  “As happened at the Tay Bridge,” I said.

  “Exactly.” His tone was somber. “One weakness in the wrong place . . .” He rubbed his forehead. “Well, we can only continue to look. Thank you for the cakes. It was thoughtful of you.”

  “An excellent excuse to hunt you down,” I corrected him. “I have been having a chat with our innkeepers’ neighbors. They know everything that goes on in this village, as I said.” I folded my hands, now empty of the basket, which the policemen and signalman had happily taken from me, and regarded Daniel with some satisfaction. “There is a house at the end of those that line the river. According to the biggest gossip in the village, Mrs. Coombe, the woman who lives in it was recently blessed by a visit from several members of her family, all big strapping young men. Nephews, Mrs. Coombe says, all Irish, all come for a visit. But not from Ireland. From America.”

  “Bloody hell,” Daniel said softly.

  The Fenian movement, from what I understood, had begun in America, in the eastern part of that nation, by Irishmen who had emigrated there. American Irish, it seemed, were happy to provide money and men to help in the efforts to remove Ireland from British rule.

  I myself was appalled at some of the terrible things the Irish people had to endure in their country—dire poverty and downright starvation, landlords who beggared their tenants while living in luxury, harsh punishments for any perceived crime, the violence born of frustration that inflicted harm on innocent Irish inhabitants.

  On the other hand, I certainly did not approve of people gathering in yet another country to make plans to hurt those in mine who were simply going about their day-to-day lives. Their target this time might be the Queen, but there would be plenty of other people on the journey with her, including the working men who operated the train and this railway line and the women who attended the Queen, who were Lady Cynthia’s friends. Not to mention anyone in the village who happened to be hurt by the disaster, and of course the police constables, most of whom couldn’t be more than twenty, lads who were risking their lives to find explosive devices that might have been laid on the bridge.