by M. J. Tjia
“Drink up,” she says. “You must be famished.” She holds the cup below Amah’s nose but Amah turns her head away.
“Are you afraid we’ve poisoned it with something?” she asks. “Joshua, she’s afraid we’ve poisoned it. Here, watch, foolish woman.”
Amah glances up to watch her sip from the cup. She slides the cup back onto the table and shrugs. “Suit yourself. I’ll leave it here in case you want some later.” She tilts her head, her eyes goggling at Amah. “Have you changed your mind about the letter, though?”
“Of course not.” Amah is adamant. Nobody knows about that time in her life. Not even Heloise. She certainly won’t be sharing her secrets with these two.
The woman shrugs. “Suit yourself. But the longer you take to write that letter, the longer you’ll be trapped in this delightful cellar.” She turns on her heel and leaves the room, closely followed by Joshua. He closes the door behind them, and Amah hears the lock click into place.
Amah’s hand trembles so much when she picks up the cup, some of the water slops over the sides. She downs the water in three long swallows and fills the cup again. The second cup she sips more slowly, conscious of a pang high in her stomach from guzzling so fast. She slumps back into her chair. Closing her eyes, she wonders how she will get herself out of this mess. Maybe she will just have to write that letter, admitting to her connecion with John. A little of the cold anger seeps back into her soul. Perhaps it would serve him right, to see this terrible pair wield whatever mischief they had in mind.
But she’s better than that. Revenge has never been part of her armour. It’s as useless as regret. She reaches over and picks up a sandwich. Cold beef and mustard. She tears off a corner with her teeth.
CHAPTER 21
I’m feeling pretty cranky as I find my way back to the lodging house. Cranky and foolish.
The sun has decided to make an appearance, banishing the grey clouds. I pause at the end of Green’s Court and gaze down its length. If the note I found on the body of that man in the Parisian cemetery had nothing to do with the occupant of number eight, or with Ernst, then who here is responsible? My eyes linger over the barber’s, the tobacconist’s, the shop filled with odds and ends. What excuse would I find for entering the barber’s, for goodness sake? I peer further towards the grocer down the other end of the court. A small crowd of people have gathered outside number eight, no doubt agog to find out why the place is swarming with police. But my eyes rest on the Modestos’ house. The organ grinder stands by the front door, the monkey crawling from one shoulder to the other. I’m used to his presence now, but I’m surprised to see Mrs Modesto leaning towards him, giving him a hessian bag of something or other. It’s the first time I’ve seen her outside the house, and her skin is luminous in the weak sunlight, pale as a pearl. How very interesting. What is she handing over to the organ grinder? I take a step towards them when I hear someone call my name.
Turning, I see Mrs White staring at me through the window of a stately, black carriage. “Step inside, would you?” she says.
I’m hard put to not cast my eyes to the sky. I’m going to have to account for myself. Hauling myself into the carriage with the help of a footman, I take a seat opposite her.
“What have you found out?” she asks me.
“Well, I’ve found out that the Prussian has nothing to do with any planned attack,” I say, rather tartly. I describe my morning to her. When I finish, she nods slowly, a frown puckering the papery skin of her forehead.
“Our information is not always reliable, unfortunately.” She watches a buggy clop by, filled to the brim with children. A man leads a very large dog from the veterinarian’s. Three lads stroll past the carriage, the closest one leering cheekily in at the window, which seems to break Mrs White from her reverie. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”
I slump back into the cushioned seat. “Have you considered the local factory workers? The ones I wrote to you about?”
She nods. “Yes. These labour movements can certainly become volatile. As can the Irish.”
“And the American? Have you found out anything more of him?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I don’t think we need worry about the Yank.”
I’m not so sure. I think of his lazy demeanour that is offset by the keen gleam in his eye. He appears to be relaxed, friendly, yet I sense a constant watchfulness about him. “But he was in Paris and he is here now. This sounds nonsensical, but I am almost sure that it was him who tried to do away with me in Paris.”
Mrs White’s brows lift infinitesimally, but enough to make me feel fanciful indeed.
“We too have been doing a little investigating here, Mrs Chancey. One of our men went through Green’s Court, pretending to be from the gas company. I can tell you that apart from number eight and your boarding house and a slender building that houses two young families, the rest are housed by the staff of the shops to be found at street level.”
“Nothing suspicious?”
She shakes her head. “It would seem that they all keep such long hours in the company of each other that it would be very difficult indeed for any of them to concoct some diabolical plan or build an incendiary device.”
“Which leaves…”
“The people who live with you at the Modestos’. Tell me more of them.”
But, of course, there is not much more I can tell her, that I have not related in my letters.
She frowns out the window. “Now that I think about it, there has been much turmoil in the country where they are from. It’s the seat of anarchy, after all, and as there is no rhyme or reason to these bomb attacks in London… Perhaps you should keep a very sharp eye on them, Mrs Chancey.”
I think of the boarding house. I have not had a good look around it – my focus was too much fastened on number eight, damn it – but perhaps Modesto has a secret room he disappears to during the day.
“And keep an eye on the Miss, too. What did you say her name was?”
It takes me a moment to think of who she could mean. “Miss Haven?”
Mrs White nods. “Yes. She seems to keep company with an interesting lot. Disgruntled, Irish factory workers. Sounds very much like the type who might be behind these attacks. They’re also the type to be silly enough to call themselves the Red Brethren.” She looks contemptuous.
I prepare to depart the carriage when her fingers press my wrist.
“And you must hurry, Mrs Chancey. You only have today to find out what they have planned for tomorrow.”
I change into a dry, fresh gown, thinking of Mrs White’s last words to me, telling me of the timeline being compiled of all the more important events and appointments to be held on the morrow; of how they would add further security to the Queen’s circle and ministers. I asked her if they could just cancel all state activities, but she shook her head, said they were not in the business of alarming the citizens of London. Struggling to button up my bodice, I think of how she’s not too bloody shy to alarm me, though, and I wonder if I am just one small cog in an unwieldy machine, its tentacles snaking through both back-alley slums and the more noble households of this gargantuan city. I hope so. I really do hope so. The responsibility of discovering what deadly plan is afoot jangles my nerves, leaving me feeling a little nauseous.
On my way downstairs to visit Mrs Modesto in her sitting room I am intercepted by Miss Haven.
“Miss Charters, I am so relieved you are in. I tried your room this morning, but you had already stepped out, much to my disappointment.” Her little mouse face looks eagerly up at me.
“Can I assist you with something, Miss Haven?” I have to work hard to keep an impatient note from my voice. I really do not have any time to waste.
“Oh, I do hope you will,” she says, wringing her hands together. “Patrick – I do mean, Mr Connelly – has invited us to a picnic this afternoon, should the weather hold true. It will hold, won’t it, Miss Charters? The skies seemed positively blue when I looked out just this
moment.”
I concede that the day seems to have brightened.
“It’s just that, dear Miss Charters, Mr Connolly has invited the two of us to accompany him and some of his closest friends on a picnic. And I really do feel… I really do feel that perhaps it would be more… more discreet if we were to act as escort or companion for each other.”
The poor dear. If only she knew she was asking the notorious Heloise Chancey to lend her some decorum. “I’d be delighted to join you at this picnic, Miss Haven. I was just going to ask you when I might be able to attend one of those rallies again that you kindly took me to the other day.”
Miss Haven clasps her hands together and beams. The rosy blush of her cheeks seeps into her ears. “Thank you, kindly, Miss Charters.”
She races up the stairs, no doubt to rummage through whatever ribbons, flounces and powders she owns, while I continue on my way to Mrs Modesto’s sitting room where I find her seated, knitting her interminable stockings and bonnets. The blow to her cheek and eye has deepened in colour, taking on the shade of an aubergine.
“May I join you, Mrs Modesto?”
“Of course, Miss Charters,” she murmurs.
I glance out the window at number eight and my eyes narrow with resentment as two men leave the premises, paper bags tucked under their arms. A constable stands guard by the front door. The ogling crowd has thinned down to two bedraggled women and a number of children.
“What is afoot across the way?” I ask.
“I am not sure, Miss Charters,” she says. “No doubt the charwoman will inform us when she returns later today.” Her indifference is so complete she doesn’t even look up.
She opens her Bible to a certain page, runs her fingertip down its length, and murmurs a word to herself. She then turns back to her knitting, changing the wool from black to a length of green. I pick up a finished stocking from the basket, my eyes taking in the uneven rows. It’s inordinately long. Surely too long for an orphan child. Her basket is positively overflowing with skeins of wool. Why such irregular patterns and colours?
“I was surprised to see you earlier with that organ grinder. I’ve seen him about here quite often. Does he come from your part of the world?”
Mrs Modesto’s needles pause. When she resumes, the clack of the needles seems less sure, less fluid, yet her voice is quite level when she explains that the organ grinder takes the woollen clothing to Clerkenwell for her. “There is a… what do you call it?… a mission there; it can send my socks and bonnets to orphans in Venetia.” She finishes the line she is working on and lets the knitting rest in her lap, but doesn’t look at me again.
Miss Haven’s heels clack across the timber floors above us and the housemaid hurries past the doorway, carrying a broom and pan. I take a seat in my usual armchair and puzzle over Mrs Modesto’s quite awful creations. The way she alternates briefly between her Bible and the stockings reminds me of a bank clerk, cross-referencing numbers in ledgers. It’s almost as though… as though her knitting is guided by the book. My eyes follow the rhythm of her hands: the slide of the needle, the loop of the wool, the stitch slipping into place.
A book as a guide. A book as a guide? Didn’t Mrs White mention something when she pointed out the numbers along the edge of the message I found in the dead man’s fingers?
A code. Could Mrs Modesto be using the Bible as the key to a code?
I stare as she again turns to the Bible, and it feels as though an icy draught rushes against the back of my neck, forcing me to arch my back.
“Are you comfortable, Miss Charters?” Mrs Modesto’s dark eyes find mine.
I squirm a little further into my chair, pretending to change position. “Quite comfortable, thank you.”
She leans over her knitting again, a red stripe this time. Her lips are pale, chapped, and her brown hair, oily with specks of dandruff, retains the rows left by the teeth of her comb.
Could it be possible that this woman, who is beaten by her husband and who never seems to leave the house, is a part of some terrible conspiracy? It doesn’t seem likely at all. Although, perhaps it is at her husband’s instigation.
“May I have a look at this book of yours, Mrs Modesto?” I ask, reaching for it before she can reply. I close the cover over so I can have a good look – the title, the colour – but before I can, she places the palm of her hand upon the cover and presses it back to the table.
“Please, Miss Charters, it is very precious to me. Perhaps leave it.”
“Of course. I totally understand. I too have a Bible that is of great value to me, not because of its monetary worth, you understand, but because it was my grandfather’s. Has your Bible been in your family long?”
“Mr Modesto. He gave it to me when we married.”
“Oh, what a charming gift.” That man just gets worse and worse in my eyes. “And where is he today?” I ask.
Mrs Modesto drops a stitch. Bites her lip as she retrieves it. “I am not sure, Miss Charters. Most days he is either in his study writing to friends back home, or he is out. I do not know where.”
The maid carries a tray into the sitting room, knocking it against the doorjamb so that the bottom of the tray is aswim with spilt tea by the time she bangs it down on the side-table. She titters a little but leaves without mopping it up.
“You will join me, Miss Charters?”
I see my chance to poke around while she is preoccupied with her tea. “No, I think I’ll have a little rest in my room before I venture out with Miss Haven.”
I climb the stairs to the next floor. My room is to the right and to the left I can hear Miss Haven humming as she prepares for her afternoon outing. The stairs creak beneath my tread as I make my way to the third floor where I assume Mr Beveridge and the Modestos’ reside. If I am to come across either of the men, I will act flummoxed, as though I am searching out Miss Haven.
I cannot be sure which door leads to the Modestos’ rooms. I know from Miss Haven that Mr Beveridge is out of the house, driving his bus, strictly between the hours of 8 a.m. and 7 p.m. every day except Saturday.
I press my ear against the first door. Nothing. I try the handle, but it is locked. Crossing the cramped landing, I listen at the next door, which I think must be the Modestos’ as it seems to traverse the front of the house. I knock very lightly, but there is no response. Pushing the door open a crack, I peep in at a bedroom. Pushing a little further, I step over the threshold, glancing once behind me, to make sure nobody follows. The room smells of musty sheets and clothing in sore need of laundering. The bed is made, but only in the sense that the top cover has been pulled roughly up over the pillows. The dresser’s surface is positively cluttered with bric-a-brac – dusty lavender poking out from the top of a chipped vase; an assortment of pipes, two broken, one still stuffed with tobacco; cheap cufflinks; one potato, sprouting; a haggard ball of navy wool; one brown glove – absolutely nothing of interest.
I move a little further into the bedroom. I hesitate, check the staircase over my shoulder again, make sure nobody sees me. Peering into the small side room, I see that there is a desk and chair, not unlike in my rooms, yet this desk is much larger, made from handsome oak. The desk is strewn with paper and bottles of ink, two pens left carelessly to the side. I tiptoe closer, my heartbeat quite tripping over itself. The spidery scrawl upon the paper is in another language. I take up the uppermost page, however, and quickly fold it. Shoving it down the front of my bodice, I skedaddle.
CHAPTER 22
AMAH
Perhaps it is just the damp of the cellar closing in on Amah, moving up through the soles of her shoes, leaching into her bones. Her throat feels tight and she shivers uncontrollably. Another wave of nausea rolls through her body and she hacks into the bucket Joshua has left her in place of a water closet. She pants, resting her head back against the stone wall. Stares across at the bowl that held the soup she ate for supper. After the sandwich Amah had felt an uncomfortable cramping, but only after eating the barley s
oup had she vomited.
That wicked woman is poisoning her. Arsenic probably. Amah has read in the newspapers of its lack of taste, how simple it is to procure. To what end, though? Were they trying to break her? Scare her into writing that letter? And all for an earring? Amah is afraid that if she doesn’t capitulate soon, she won’t survive this ordeal. But if she does write the letter, who’s to say they will allow her to crawl from this hellish cellar alive?
CHAPTER 23
Miss Haven tries to cover her impatience with a tight smile as I dart into the shop to send my letter to Mrs White. I have written to her of Mrs Modesto’s Bible and how I think it might just be the key to a code of some sort. I also enclosed Modesto’s page with mine; she should know of someone who can decipher his scribble.
When I come back out onto the court, the day seems positively bright compared to the fustiness of the shop. I follow Miss Haven to the corner. Although the weather is quite mild, she wears a woollen stole thrown about her shoulders, which has a trim of rather moth-eaten fur. Perhaps she imagines her little mouse face is nicely framed by the… What is it? Cat fur? Rabbit?
“Oh, there they are,” she says, pointing across the road to where Mr Connolly buys pork pies from a street vendor.
Next to him stands the dratted American. Ripley. Tipping his blasted hat at me. Mrs White said he need not be any concern of mine, but I am not so certain. It’s suspicious indeed how he seems to pop up at every turn.
“That’s a dapper hat you have there,” I say, when we reach them. I smile but can’t keep the sour note from my voice.
“Newfangled, these are. Like them cavalry hats back home,” he says, taking his place next to me as we walk.