by Joyce Alec
“Come, then,” Lord Blackridge said as the carriage door opened. “Quickly, if you please.”
It took another half hour before the hackney finally arrived at the boarding house. Peter had instructed the driver to take his time in reaching their destination, so that he might be sure that no one was following them. By the time they reached the place, he was more than satisfied that they were quite alone.
“Here we are,” he said grandly, opening the door and jumping to the ground before offering his hand to Miss Grey. “Let us go inside with all haste.” Instructing the driver to wait for them and throwing him a guinea by way of a promise that he would pay the man handsomely, Peter urged the other three inside, ignoring the urchins that ran past them as they did so. The street was rather dirty and the boarding house itself did not appear to be particularly clean. He suppressed a shudder, knowing precisely why he had been brought here by the man responsible. It was a place where no one would be willing to speak of what they had seen. A place where men had to remain hidden and silent, for fear that opening their mouths would earn them grave consequences. Money held great sway over the people who lived here. It kept them quiet. It kept them from speaking the truth. It bound their tongues and allowed dark deeds to escape unnoticed.
Peter’s stomach tightened as he walked into the boarding house, wrinkling his nose at the damp smell that assailed his nostrils. The front door opened directly onto a large, open space which had nothing more than a few chairs and a large table, where a man sat with a book open in front of him and a pencil in his hand. To the man’s left there was an open door that, if Peter recalled correctly, led to the rooms where patrons could stay.
“Good afternoon,” he stated, walking towards the man and recognizing him as the proprietor. “You might remember me?” He saw the man’s brows furrow but held his gaze steadily, knowing that his very presence should force the proprietor to show him some begrudging respect.
The man looked him over and then grunted. “You didn’t look like that when I saw you last.”
Peter shrugged. “I suppose I was a little worse for wear,” he admitted, knowing that he certainly had not looked his very best that morning. “But that is not of any importance. What is important is that I inspect the room I found myself in and that you give me as much detail as possible about the fellow that brought me here in the first place.” He narrowed his eyes as the man frowned. “I know full well that I cannot have walked into this place myself and climbed the stairs to the attic rooms, so you need not pretend that it was so.”
The man’s angry glare held no respect whatsoever, begrudging or otherwise. “You didn’t pay me what you owe.”
“If Lord Marchmont did not come here of his own accord and was, instead, brought by another gentleman, then why is it his responsibility to pay what is owed?” Miss Grey stepped forward, her hands in front of her clasped together as she looked at the proprietor. “That does not seem particularly fair now, does it?”
The man said nothing for some moments, his gaze running down over Miss Grey’s form and then back up again. Peter felt something within him flare with anger, to the point that he had to fight the urge to lean across the table and plant the man a facer.
“Once you are finished regarding me, might you be able to find a tongue in your head?” Miss Grey asked, her tone a good deal sharper as she narrowed her eyes. Much to Peter’s relief, the man flushed dark red and looked away, stammering something incomprehensible.
“You shall give me the description of the fellow that brought Lord Marchmont here that night whilst Lord Marchmont himself searches the attic room.”
The proprietor opened his mouth in protest, but Miss Grey held up her hand almost at once, silencing him.
“You need not ask why Lord Marchmont is required to do so, for it is not for you to know. Now, the key to the room, if you please, and thereafter, draw up a chair for myself and Miss Smallwood so that we may seat ourselves whilst we talk to you.” She gave the man a small smile which did not warm her eyes. “And some tea would not go amiss.”
The effect Miss Grey seemed to have on the man was incredible to witness. The proprietor seemed to deflate in his chair, sinking back into it as his red face began to turn a little more pink. He stared at Miss Grey for a full minute before nodding to himself, getting up with some difficulty from his chair, and lumbering over to a chest of drawers that sat close to the window at the back of the room. The sound of keys being jangled reached Peter’s ears and he looked at Miss Grey, who had a triumphant smile on her face.
He wanted to pull her tight into his embrace out of sheer joy and relief that she had been able to do something he was certain he would not have managed. The look in her eyes when she directed her smile towards him told Peter that Miss Grey was just as pleased as he, although the smile disappeared from her face the moment the proprietor walked back towards them.
“What is your name?” Peter asked as the man handed him the key.
“Marks,” the man replied gruffly, not looking at Peter. “Do be quick, if you please. I have someone coming to stay in that room tonight.”
Peter, remembering the thin mattress he had seen, winced inwardly, grasped the key, and hurried from the room with Lord Blackridge by his side.
“Do you think Miss Grey and Miss Smallwood will be quite all right with Mr. Marks?” Lord Blackridge asked, looking concerned. “He appears quite brusque.”
Peter snorted, grinning at his friend. “You need not worry on Miss Grey’s account, Blackridge,” he told him. “She is more than capable of not only securing the answers we need from Marks, but ensuring that they are both treated with nothing but respect. By the time we return, I expect they shall both be sipping tea out of Marks’ very best china cups and have him waiting on them should they require anything further.” His grin slipped as he looked up at the staircase that led towards the attic rooms. His memories of descending it were not pleasant ones. “Someone with a good deal of strength must have helped me up these stairs,” he muttered, beginning to climb them. “Either that or I walked up here willingly of my own accord, and he struck me hard once I was within the room.”
“You have no memory of being here other than when you awoke?” Lord Blackridge asked, making Peter shake his head.
“None,” he replied darkly. “The last thing I recall was being at some ball or other and enjoying a few glasses of ratafia—nothing more.” He shook his head, the absence of memory frustrating him. “If I could recall anything more, then mayhap I would be able to understand who has done this.”
“It is all very strange,” Lord Blackridge commented as they walked along a short hallway towards the final set of stairs that would lead them to the attic. “It is not as though there is any purpose or benefit to anyone in you marrying.”
Peter remained silent, although he agreed entirely. Prior to coming here, the four of them had considered who might benefit from either his or Miss Grey’s marriage—but they had not been able to think of even a single name.
“Do you recall who might have been drinking with you that evening?” Lord Blackridge asked as Peter took the key and pushed it into the locked door of the attic room. “Anyone who might have been able to put something into your drink that would render you either easily pliable or encouraged towards sleep?”
Again, Peter could not recall even a single thing and so shook his head. “No, I do not,” he muttered, feeling embarrassed that he did not remember anything that would be of use to them. “If I could, then it would be a great help, I know.” He sighed and pushed the door open. “You think, then, that I imbibed something as opposed to being knocked unconscious?”
Lord Blackridge shrugged as Peter walked into the room, the dry, musty smell of the room making him wrinkle his nose. “I think, Marchmont, that if you were hit on the head and knocked unconscious, it would not have been done in public. It would have drawn attention, would it not? Therefore, if you can only recall the ball that you attended and nothing more thereafte
r, then I would suggest that laudanum, or some such thing, was put in your ratafia without you being aware of it.”
Peter, seeing the sense in this remark, nodded slowly as Lord Blackridge walked into the room behind him. “I do not recall anyone of significance, however,” he replied, his frustration growing steadily. “I cannot even think of who might have put something such as that into my glass of ratafia.” He shook his head and sighed, running one hand through his hair as he wandered to the window, recalling just how painful his head had become when he had pulled the curtain back to reveal the daylight. “Perhaps this entire situation is nothing more than foolish. The proprietor is certain to have cleaned this room since I was in it.”
Lord Blackridge chortled. “I hardly think so, given the state of this place!” he replied with a chuckle. “The dust lies thickly in certain corners and the mattress does not look particularly clean.”
Wincing, Peter turned around. “No wonder my mouth felt as though it were filled with dirt when I first awoke,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Although I found myself lying on the floor instead of the mattress, which may, in fact, have been something of a blessing.”
Another chuckle came from Lord Blackridge, lightening the tension Peter felt somewhat. “Indeed. Although there is a small wooden box here—” he paused. “It does not seem to hold anything of significance.”
Peter turned sharply, cursing himself under his breath for never once thinking about returning to the boarding house to pick up the wooden box and bring it back with him. Lord Blackridge’s eyes widened as he saw Peter’s immediate response, realizing quickly that this box was the one that had contained the note.
“It does not appear to have any markings or the like,” Lord Blackridge said hastily, handing the box to Peter. “I fear there is nothing that will catch your eye.”
Peter swallowed hard and accepted the box from Lord Blackridge’s hand, turning it over and over as though he might be able to find something—anything—if he just looked hard enough. It was fairly small, but appeared to be beautifully made. The hinges did not squeak when the box was opened and the box itself shone with a brilliance that told Peter it had been buffed and smoothed to perfection. It was as though the box itself was unfinished, as though it had been intended for some ornate decoration but had been removed from that purpose by someone unknown. Disappointment seeped into his bones as he saw that what Lord Blackridge had said was correct, for the box seemed to be entirely without embellishment. It had no markings, no carvings, and nothing of note that might give him a clue as to where it had come from. Frustrated, Peter closed his eyes and let the box drop from his hands, hearing it clatter on the floor.
“Marchmont, look!”
Lord Blackridge’s voice was filled with a sudden excitement, making Peter turn at once to look down at the broken box. The box was in two separate pieces on the floor, and as Peter dropped to his haunches to look at what Lord Blackridge was pointing at, he saw a distinct mark on one of the pieces.
“It is an initial, I think,” Lord Blackridge said quickly, gesturing to the black ink mark which had been hidden from Peter’s eyes. “No, two. Look, there. R.H.”
Peter narrowed his eyes and picked up one half of the box, realizing that the initials had been written on the underside of the top half of the box, where it would join with the lower. The initials were written right next to the hinges, so that they would not be seen unless someone searched for them carefully. Was this the maker’s initials? Was this someone he could find, in the hope that they might be able to tell him who had owned this box?
“It is something at least,” he breathed, feeling a sudden surge of hope rise in his chest. “R.H.” He frowned. “I do not know any merchant with those initials.”
“But we can search,” Lord Blackridge said, sounding much more enthusiastic now that they had found something of note. “Take the box with you, Marchmont. It is necessary for what we are to do next.”
Peter nodded and rose to his feet, picking up both pieces of the box. He cast an eye over the rest of the room, not seeing anything else of significance.
“I will go over everything,” he said, feeling a good deal more decisive. “Just in case there is something else that has been hidden and is just waiting for me to seek it out. And then, we shall return to Miss Grey and Miss Smallwood and see what it is they have discovered.”
Lord Blackridge nodded his agreement, although his broad grin told Peter that he was utterly delighted that they had found something. It would have been quite disheartening, Peter knew, to have discovered nothing of consequence. At least, with this box, they would have another trail to follow.
Some minutes later, Peter and Lord Blackridge walked from the room with a feeling of satisfaction in both their hearts. They had not found anything more, aside from the mark of blood on the floor which Peter knew had been from his head, but the fact that they had found the box and the initials therein brought them both a good deal of happiness.
“Miss Grey,” Peter smiled, walking towards the lady and seeing that, as he had thought, both she and Miss Smallwood were drinking tea from delicate china cups, whilst Marks, the proprietor, stood a little to one side eyeing them warily. “We have returned.”
Miss Grey smiled at him, although there was something in her eyes that told him she had something important to tell him. His heart quickened.
“Might we depart, then, Lord Marchmont?” she enquired, as her friend, Miss Smallwood, rose from her chair. “I am growing quite weary, I confess, and should be glad to return home.”
“But of course.” He bowed quickly, then offered her his hand which she took without hesitation, rising to her feet as she held his hand for just a moment too long. His mouth went dry.
“Thank you, Marks.”
Miss Grey looked away quickly, dropping his hand as though she had realized what she had unintentionally done.
“I am certain we shall have no need to return,” Peter commented, looking at the proprietor, who was gazing at Miss Grey with a slightly wary eye. “Thank you for your willingness to be of aid. If you will send my bill here, then I shall ensure you are paid fully.” He dropped his card on the table and saw Marks nod, although he did not insist that the money be paid immediately, as Peter had feared. With nothing more to be said, Peter offered Ophelia his arm and within a few moments, the four of them were seated once again in the hackney.
“I can tell by your expression that you have discovered something of note, Miss Grey,” Peter said at once, seeing the way Miss Grey smiled at him. “Pray, what is it?”
Miss Grey’s smile was gentle. “It may not give you the answers you seek, Lord Marchmont, but we did discover that the man who brought you here was a gentleman.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
Miss Grey threw a quick glance towards Miss Smallwood, who nodded in an encouraging fashion as though Miss Grey needed to be cajoled into speaking the truth.
“Marks was not completely willing to speak to us initially, but I soon encouraged him to do so,” Miss Grey began, a little slowly. “He stated that he has no knowledge of who it was that brought you here, Lord Marchmont.”
“Oh.” Peter felt himself sag with disappointment, but Miss Grey, it seemed, was not finished.
“However,” she continued, holding up one hand to stem any words of disappointment from his lips, “he did state that it was a gentleman who organized everything, for whilst he did not come inside himself, he had multiple footmen who came into the boarding house to do his bidding. One talked to Marks and told him what was required and produced a coin or two in order to secure the attic room without any further questions—although he did state that the footman said, very clearly, that you yourself would be paying any outstanding debts, Peter.”
Now a little more interested and feeling a tad more hopeful, Peter leaned forward in his seat so that he would not miss a word. “I do not care about such a trifle.”
Miss Grey nodded. “Of course.”
“So, I was brought into the boarding house by the footmen?”
“You were,” Miss Smallwood said quietly. “You were carried in, Marks said, as though you were completely in your cups and could not stand any longer.”
“Except he noticed that your head was in something of a state, with what appeared to be a cloth pressed to it,” Miss Grey added with a slight wince. “You must have sustained the injury to your head prior to being taken into the boarding house.”
Lord Blackridge cleared his throat, looking thoughtful. “Mayhap to ensure that you were completely unconscious and unable to pay any attention to where you were and what was occurring around you.”
“Mayhap,” Peter agreed, looking back at Miss Grey. “Is there anything else of importance? Whilst I am truly grateful for what you have discovered, it does not give us any further clues as to who has done this.”
Miss Grey held his gaze for a moment and then let a small smile creep across her face. “Indeed, it would be rather disappointing if there was nothing more,” she stated, whilst Miss Smallwood also began to smile. “But, thankfully, there is one thing more.”
Peter held his breath, seeing the glint in Miss Grey’s eyes. “Yes?”
She tugged something from her pocket and handed it to him, making him jerk back in surprise and shock when he saw the blood-stained handkerchief.
“It is quite dry,” Miss Grey stated, as though this was all that should concern him. “Marks found it in the room once you had departed. It was pressed to your head when you first arrived.”
A slow, creeping nausea climbed up Peter’s throat. “I see.”