She pulled her fichu up from her bodice and over her head, then followed his instructions. She felt him lie down beside her and pull the tarp up to conceal them.
“Are you sure you saw something?”
“No one came out the gate.”
“No one passed us neither.”
“I saw someone. I’m sure of it.”
“Are they in the pit?”
“Can’t tell. Nothing but dark down there.”
“We’ll give them a bit o’help, if they are.”
The retaining boards made a wrenching sound, and the earth came crushing down. Clive pulled her against his chest, sheltering her between his body and the side of the grave. The weight of the dirt was heavy, terrifyingly so. What if they sent more dirt down—would it bury them alive? She thought of the skull lying in the dirt, and she started to press against the tarp.
Clive breathed the word “quiet” into her hair, and she forced herself to be calm. Another rain of dirt fell down.
“That’s enough. Anyone down there much longer won’t be telling what they saw.”
Lena, to distract herself from the stench and the weight of the dirt, tried to listen to the men’s accents.
“We should take what bodies we have now, then come back. With tomorrow’s burials, we should be in better stead with . . .” The voices grew distant.
Lena and Clive waited, unmoving.
The smell of decay surrounded them, and she tested how her body felt against Ophelia’s symptoms of gas poisoning. She wasn’t yet faint or bilious. To control her anxiety, she focused on the rise and fall of Clive’s chest against hers and his even breathing. How could he be so calm when the circumstances were so threatening?
They waited a long time, bodies pressed close, the weight of the dirt bearing down on them, listening for any sign of danger.
After what seemed like an eternity, Clive whispered into her hair, “I think they are gone.” He pressed against the weight of the dirt, pushing the tarp down from above their heads. Dirt fell down between them. Above them, the boards on the sides of the pit hung down. Luckily, the men could only loosen the slats at the top of the trench, leaving the lower wall still in place. If more than the upper wall had collapsed, Lena and Clive would have been buried, perhaps permanently. As it was, they could still make their way free.
Clive used the tarp to push back the dirt, then pulled himself free. She let him pull her out, then tried to shake the muck from her skirts.
“How do you anticipate getting out?” Lena stood beside him examining the walls.
“I hadn’t fully considered that. I simply realized this was our only escape. Perhaps you could stand on my shoulders and pull yourself out? If that fails, I am counting on your ingenuity.”
“On your shoulders. Like a circus act?” Lena looked at him, then at the side of the pit.
“I assumed you would prefer to be on top.” Clive’s voice was matter-of-fact, but his eyes danced. A long silence drew out between them at his double entendre. She thought of his kisses and of the weight of his body next to hers under the tarp.
When she finally spoke, she kept her voice level. “I suppose I would prefer that.”
“Then we should try to escape.” Clive knelt before her, and she used his knee to try to climb up on his shoulders. But he couldn’t see through her skirts. She took off her skirts down to her Turkish pantaloons.
They tried again. This time Clive could see, but she couldn’t get her balance, and he caught her as she fell. He held her against his chest, both breathing heavily from the exertion. They stared into each other’s eyes.
“How long do you think we have to get out?” Lena wrapped her arms around his neck.
“What do you mean?”
“Before we succumb to the vapors.”
“The dirt was dry and crumbling, so I risked that it had already aired sufficiently.” He looked abashed. “Had it not, we would be dead already.”
“Well, that’s a comfort.” She signaled he should put her down. “I suppose you thought of that before hiding here.”
“I decided we would prefer dying by vapors than by the hands of grave robbers who attack rather than run.” He set her on her feet.
“That seems reasonable, given your investigations. Should we try again?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“If you make a cradle with your hands, I’ll run toward you, like the circus vaulters at Sadler’s Wells. Then if you can throw me far enough up, I might be able to catch the palings they pushed down and pull myself out. But you’ll need to catch me if I fall.”
“Always.” His voice was like chocolate again, urging her to trust him fully.
The next few moments were more like a farce at the theater than a real escape. Lena would run, leap, then slide down the dirt wall, or fall against Clive’s strong chest. She preferred his chest.
On the fifth try, the plan somehow worked. Lena dug her feet in above one of the fallen palings, and from there, she worked her way slowly up the wall.
It took what felt like forever. Her hands, still wounded, struggled to make handholds in the packed soil.
At the top, she pulled herself up over the edge. She lay on her stomach, watching for the men. Once she was convinced she and Clive were the only living bodies in the cemetery, she allowed herself to lie on her back, panting and looking for a way to help Clive escape. Luckily, a wagon with a variety of ropes and tools was not far off. She tied one end of a long rope to the wagon and lowered it to Clive. Soon after, Clive pulled himself out of the pit.
Relieved, she pressed herself against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her. They stood alone in the churchyard, holding each other, their clothes torn, covered in mud and muck.
After a few moments, they parted, and Lena tried to repair her clothing. “These clothes will have to be burned—there’s no hope of getting the stench out.”
“If we aren’t careful, someone will think we’ve risen from the dead,” Clive joked, brushing the worst of the mud from his trousers.
“If we aren’t careful, someone will think we are grave robbers and call the magistrate,” Lena countered. “If you agree, I’d prefer to collect the box from my studio later. I don’t know what I’m wearing, but I want it off me as soon as possible.”
Clive had asked the carriage to wait for them at the cemetery’s address. But when the pair of them arrived, dirty and foul smelling, the driver clearly wished he hadn’t. Lena had thought he would refuse to transport them, but Clive’s promise of an additional reward from the Duke of Forster eased the driver’s qualms, and they set out for the duke’s residence without any further delay.
Chapter Sixteen
“If Dan had done his job, we wouldn’t be in this trouble.” Sparks looked around the Blue Heron for eavesdroppers. An old drunk sprawled facedown across the next table periodically twitched and mumbled like a dog having a bad dream. No one else sat near enough to overhear.
“I don’t know why you’re mad at me.” Dan, a strongly built man, leaned forward over the tavern table. “You gave me the key and told me to kill her.”
“Her meant Calder’s partner, not the landlady’s cousin.” Sparks punctuated the her with a finger.
“The cousin was in the room, keys in hand, rummaging in the wardrobe,” Dan growled back. “How was I to know she was thieving?”
“Should Dan have asked her name before he bashed her head in?” a third man, taciturn and normally silent, spoke up.
“Henry’s right.” Dan nodded. “If I’d hesitated, I might have ended up like Jim.”
“Jim was a fool.” Sparks looked around the room again.
“A dead fool now.” Henry calculated how much more beer was left in his tankard.
“He thought he could bribe Calder . . . gain us some time.” Sparks shook his head ruefully.
“Bribe him with a pistol? Calder was already suspicious.” Henry refused the explanation.
“I paid Abbott plenty
for that key.” Sparks shook his head in frustration. “She’ll want more now that Dan’s killed her cousin. And we don’t have any more money.”
“We should sell the body,” Dan suggested.
“The magistrate has already had it removed,” Sparks countered.
“The cousin, yes, but not Jim. His body is still in Calder’s room, waiting to be found—or sold.” Henry took another swig of his beer. “We could splash him with liquor to manage any smell, then carry Jim out between us as if he were drunk. No one will be the wiser.”
“A big man like Jim, healthy—except for being dead—we’ll get prime rates,” Dan added. “But we’d have to act today.”
“I still don’t know how it went wrong. Jim is—was—twice Calder’s size.” Sparks shook his head mournfully.
“Calder may know what we did in Edinburgh and here. But as Mr. Georges told us, the law needs bodies to pursue the crime.”
“I’m not afraid of the law. I’m afraid of Georges. He won’t like it if we’ve brought the eye of the law, and he won’t care about bodies or trials. He’ll simply slit our throats. . . .”
“If we’re lucky,” Dan interjected.
“And feed us to some pigs.” Henry waited for Sparks’s response. Getting none, he continued. “We should leave. Manchester, Liverpool, even back to Scotland. Start over. New place, new bodies.”
“And Calder?”
“Do you think the woman in the cemetary was Calder’s partner? Killing her would send Calder a message, wherever he is.”
“Too bad we won’t know until tomorrow if she and the man went into that pit.”
Sparks rose, drinking his remaining beer in one gulp. “There’s plenty of light left. I say we collect our last set of bodies for Georges, so we’re even with him. Make sure Calder didn’t leave any other messages. Then we leave town before anyone’s the wiser, particularly Georges and Charters.”
The other men rose, following his lead. “I wouldn’t even drink here if it weren’t for the discount Flute always gives us.”
The trio left, and shortly after, the drunk, mumbling to himself, stumbled out into the night.
* * *
Sometime well after midnight Flute bolted the door to the bar and climbed the stairs to his apartment. As he expected, Charters was sitting before the fire, whiskey in hand.
“Did Midshipman Timpson enjoy his evening?”
“I’ve never understood men who discuss their sins in a public house.” Charters, out of any costume, looked like a half-befuddled aristocrat, cravat badly tied, waistcoat years out of date. “Henceforth, anytime we are interviewing additional help, we will first ply them with discounted drinks at the Blue Heron and see who can hold their tongues.”
“What did you learn?”
“That Sparks and his crew have a great many secrets. But more importantly, they mentioned the name Calder, and I remembered this.” Charters held out a letter. “The writer contacted us on the recommendation of one of our clients.”
“Clients.” Flute snorted, then read over the letter’s first page. “Let’s see: stepmother wants us to find a missing stepdaughter. The inheritance is tied up, waiting for the girl’s reappearance. Ah, I remember now, the stepmother wanted us to confirm the girl’s dead, but too much time had passed to be worth our while.”
“True, but read the last sentence on the second page.”
Flute read the last sentence aloud. “‘A Mr. Calder told my husband he’d found my stepdaughter and would bring her home, but I have heard nothing since my husband’s death.’ So?”
“The proprietor of the Rotunda in Leicester Square is named Calder, and his assistant is a young woman the same age as the missing stepdaughter.”
“That changes things, doesn’t it?” Flute whistled through his teeth.
“It certainly does. I believe we need to investigate this assistant on our own.”
Flute poured himself a glass of whiskey and settled before the fire. “What character will you play?”
Chapter Seventeen
At the duke’s residence, Clive called for baths and new clothes, and within the hour, the pair was back in a carriage, headed to the Rotunda.
“Do you want to predict what the crew will have accomplished in your absence?” Clive asked as they walked down the long hallway onto the Rotunda’s stage.
“I’m afraid to have expectations.” Lena didn’t resist when Clive took her hand.
On the stage, several women clustered around her plans, none of them noticing that she or Clive had arrived. Lena examined the gutter. Everything was unpacked and was placed beautifully, just as she’d imagined it. Instead of losing a day, she might even be ahead of schedule. Strangely, however, the women had left one narrow portion of scaffold partially intact, its height level to the exhibition floor.
“Ariel, did your group finish making space in the storage room for the extra stage sets?” Lady Judith’s voice rose above the group.
“Yes, they are already moved there.”
“Kate? What about the area for the musicians?”
“It’s cleared, and we’ve already set up the chairs, according to the diagram. But we can’t find the music stands.”
Lena dropped Clive’s hand and stepped forward. “The music stands will be delivered on the day of the gala. I’m renting them, and we had to work around the Royal Opera’s own performances. Of course it helped that I hired most of their musicians.”
“Miss Frost, we have had a delightful time.” Lady Judith motioned to the plans she had been marking in pencil. “I believe we’ve put you ahead by a day.”
The women parted for Lena to see her plans. “But how? I don’t have enough workers to do this much in a single day.”
“Since the duke insisted that most of his footmen and postilions accompany us as guards, I saw no reason for them not to help.”
Lena felt stricken. Lady Wilmot’s advance provided just enough money to pay her own crews, and not a penny more. “How much do I owe them—you?”
“Oh, no, Miss Frost! These are the duke’s men. Months ago, after Lady Wilmot began the Muses’ Salon, the duke asked if any of his servants would be interested in ‘an occasional day’s levity.’ Those who volunteered have become our staff. But we kept your curtain in place, so the subject of your painting remains secure.”
“As for us, we enjoy being useful,” Ophelia interjected. “It’s our purpose in the Muses’ Salon to act as a support and inspiration to those who might need our help. It would defeat that purpose to expect payment.”
Lena looked at her plans, noting each one of Lady Judith’s decisive ticks. “You appear to have gained me more than a day.”
“We had hoped as much.” Lady Judith paused, nodding to the other women who withdrew to the opposite side of the large exhibition platform. Lady Judith placed her hand on Lena’s shoulder. “But I’m afraid the exhibition has also experienced a setback.”
“Is it Horatio?” Her throat closed around the words.
“Oh, no, dear, we have no news of your partner.” Lady Judith met her eyes and held her gaze. “Your painting has suffered some vandalism.” Lena turned toward the shortened scaffold. “Your man Louis discovered it this afternoon.”
Kate returned to their side. “All the men are outside, and Louis is ready to lower the curtain.”
Lena, still staring at the scaffold, nodded yes.
In a few moments, a portion of the curtain behind the short scaffold lowered to the floor. As the damage became visible, Ophelia gasped, and her sisters, Kate and Ariel, made exclamations of horror and dismay.
Someone had smeared paint over half a dozen faces, then cut the canvas in angry swaths, slicing most of the damaged faces. Clive stood beside her, waiting to offer whatever comfort she would accept. Another setback in a series that included the disappearance of her partner, her own accident, and the deaths of her men. Did someone want the panorama to fail? And were the murders tied to that aim and not some larger scheme?
Clive watched Lena’s response to the ruined canvas. He expected her to rage and rail against the destruction. But she did none of those things. Instead, she stood silently, every muscle preternaturally still, the only movement the rise and fall of her breath. For a single moment, her shoulders fell slightly, but then she straightened her back. Only her strength of will seemed to hold despair at bay.
“What will you do now?” Kate whispered.
“Repair it, then paint.” Lena, her jaw set sternly, sounded calm and practical.
“How can you repair the cuts?” Ariel, always interested in how things worked, asked.
“I’ll bond a piece of linen to the back of the canvas with melted beeswax.” Lena’s eyes narrowed as she examined the damage. “I can’t use gesso over paint, but I can fill the repair lines with lead white, sand it, and paint again. Since none of the damaged portions will be viewed at an angle, the repair shouldn’t show. As for the painting itself, it’s the temperature that matters. As it is now, the repairs could stay tacky for a week or more. If I am to repair this before the gala, I have to do it today.”
Behind Lena, Judith motioned that the other women should go, and Clive nodded his approval. Judith stepped to Lena’s side. “Miss Frost, we are happy to remain and help you, but I fear that since none of us are painters, we will prove more of an impediment than a help.”
Lena tore her gaze from the painting to face Judith. “You have already helped a great deal—more than I can say.”
“Then we will take our leave. I promised my wards, the Halletts, a game of hopscotch in the nursery.” Judith placed a reassuring hand on Lena’s arm. “If you need help tomorrow or any other day, the Muses are at your service.”
Each of the women took their leave, and Louis, who had joined them after he raised the curtain, led them out. “The ladies have left, and I’ve locked the door tight behind them. But can we trust the locks?”
“I suppose we must. Go home to your wife. There’s no reason for you to stay.” Lena stared at the painting.
Louis raised an eyebrow at Clive, asking without words if Clive intended to stay with Lena, and Clive nodded agreement.
Reckless in Red Page 20