The Heart of a Bluestocking

by Renée Dahlia

  ‘Just the overview, please, Wedsley,’ he said. Wedsley flicked a glance at his superior officer Hepelthwaite, who dipped his chin in an almost nod.

  ‘He almost got away with it. If it wasn’t for an error in the printed results which caught the beady eyes of bookmakers, the whole scam would have gone unnoticed. You do have to admire the cleverness of the plot, and that’s why we knew it had to be a man of substance who planned it.’

  ‘The evidence, if you will,’ said Ravi.

  ‘Two newspapers, the Sporting Man’s Times and the Racing Guide, both received notice that the Swainright Hunt Club would hold a race meeting on the first Monday in August. The date is, of course, the Bank Holiday. So many sporting events happen that day, I assume the point was that the Swainright Hunt Club meeting would get minimal attention.’ Officer Wedsley paused, a dramatic drawn-out pause that made Ravi want to thump the desk. He clenched his fist against his thigh rather than let his impatience show on his face.

  ‘Continue,’ said Hepelthwaite. Wedsley flicked an annoyed glance at his superior officer that made Ravi ponder their relationship.

  ‘The papers were sent the race day fields a week before, and they dutifully published them. Bookmakers took bets on the races, and the same source sent the results to the paper along with the prices that the winners paid. The bookmakers paid out, as per a normal race day, and no-one thought anything of it. Until one of the bookmakers, a Mr Hickman, queried the price on the winner of the hurdle. The simply named Roy won at 5-1, at least according to the notice in the Sporting Man’s Times, but paid 5-2 in the Racing Guide. Hickman asked the two papers to query their source for the correct price, and the scheme came undone when no-one responded. It didn’t take much digging for everyone to realise that Swainright Hunt Club didn’t exist. The other bookmakers who had paid out on the results wanted their funds back, and the Hunt—’ Wedsley guffawed at his own joke, ‘—was on.’

  ‘Can you explain how you connected this to my client?’ asked Ravi.

  ‘The news-sheets were sent letters by the Swainright Hunt Club. We traced the source of the paper they used to the Carlingford residence,’ said Wedsley.

  ‘Surely many residences use the same type of paper,’ said Ravi in a tone that suggested Wedsley needed to reveal more information.

  ‘Perhaps, but the real key was there on the page in front of us. Here.’ Wedsley handed Ravi a folded newssheet with the race meeting open at the top. One race had a large circle of blue ink around the list of horse names. Ravi ran his eye over the field quickly.

  11 runners

  1.Cox’s Mare

  2.Angel Rose

  3.Roy

  4.Le Dasher

  5.Into the Wings

  6.Never Rains

  7.Great Scot

  8.Fred’s Favourite

  9.Occy’s Trap

  10.Racing Styles

  11.Dreaming of Eclipse

  Without the inked circle, he wouldn’t have seen it.

  ‘Either Mr Carlingford is incredibly egotistical, or this is—as he says—a set-up. No man in his right mind would put his own name into a scam,’ said Ravi, keeping his gaze firmly on Wedsley’s superior. Wedsley made a small choking sound.

  ‘The evidence that you have presented is flimsy. None of it points directly to Carlingford. I suggest that it only tells you that someone wants you to assume Carlingford is involved.’ Ravi breathed out to create a deliberate pause. ‘Please release my client until you have more concrete proof.’

  ‘But, but …’ started Wedsley. Officer Hepelthwaite waved his hand and Wedsley sensibly shut his mouth.

  ‘The CID takes gambling crime seriously,’ said Hepelthwaite.

  Ravi waited. Hepelthwaite’s obvious response required no reply. Given their history, the statement was unsurprising, and he pounced on it.

  ‘In this case, I humbly suggest that your enthusiasm has created a situation where your department has overstepped the mark and prematurely arrested the wrong person,’ said Ravi. Wedsley’s face reddened, his fashionable black moustache twitching. Ravi catalogued his reaction. He would have to tread carefully around Wedsley in the future. ‘However, my client will fully cooperate with the next stage of your investigation. Mr Carlingford is motivated to discover the source of this threat to him and his business.’

  ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself, Howick. We haven’t agreed to let him out yet,’ said Wedsley.

  ‘I don’t see any other course of action. Your evidence doesn’t stack up. At best, you have proved that someone in the Carlingford household either did this scam, or has been made to appear as though they did this scam. You can’t pin that on Mr Carlingford when many others share his abode.’ Ravi bit back a smile as Hepelthwaite nodded his agreement, while Wedsley coughed again.

  Ravi paused before he showed his best card. ‘Besides, Hepelthwaite, I believe we have a mutual interest in cooperating over this, and other, issues.’ Hepelthwaite’s nostrils flared, and Ravi clamped back the urge to rub the back of his neck. Had he overstepped by invoking his brother’s support? Using the peerage was a bad habit, grown over years of working for Woodleyville.

  ‘Wedsley—’ Blast. He had. No good could come of Hepelthwaite addressing his officer, rather than him. ‘I believe Mr Howick has the right of it.’ Ravi let out a slow breath between his teeth, one that almost whistled. No wonder it was a habit, it continually worked.

  ‘But—’ started Wedsley.

  Hepelthwaite shook his head. ‘We will release Mr Carlingford. However, he remains our key suspect. As Mr Carlingford’s lawyer, I must insist that you do your utmost to assist Officer Wedsley and the CID with their investigation,’ said Hepelthwaite.

  ‘Mr Carlingford will cooperate fully in your investigation,’ said Ravi. Yes. The tightness in his chest turned into a slight puff as the simplicity of achieving something real sunk home. He had to win this case, his future goal of his own practice rested on it.

  Twenty minutes later, Ravi followed Mr Carlingford and Officer Hepelthwaite into the front office of the Yard building. Dr Carlingford stood up and raced over with her hands outstretched. She stopped a few steps before the group, and Ravi smiled inside at the way she compiled her emotions and stood before her father composed and elegant.

  ‘Father.’

  ‘Nice job on the selection of Mr Howick. A few clever words and this ridiculous drama is over.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘I suggest we invite Mr Howick for the evening meal tonight, and we can go over the conclusion,’ said Mr Carlingford. Dr Carlingford blinked once, and her tiny reaction intrigued him because she managed to give the impression that she was averse to the idea. He wanted to know if it was his presence she reacted to, or the idea of running over the details of the case with her father.

  ‘You are most welcome,’ she said with a nod in his direction. ‘I have a patient I need to see, so I will meet you there.’ She glanced over at her footman, and for the first time Ravi noticed that he carried a large black satchel.

  ‘And I must get back to business. I will see you at dinner,’ said Mr Carlingford. He nodded briefly in their direction, then paced out of the Yard.

  ‘You are most welcome to use the company carriage,’ said Ravi.

  ‘For my patient visits?’ she asked. A slight flush lingered on her cheeks. His glasses pressed against the wrinkle in his nose. She raised one eyebrow slowly, and the flush deepened. After a pause, a sly smile chased the corner of her lips, and he found himself leaning towards her so he wouldn’t miss what she said next.

  ‘I will take your offer. You might find the process quite instructive.’ She spun elegantly and walked away towards the exit. Her footman followed her, which left Ravi no choice but to join the parade.

  Chapter 4

  Claire gave the driver of Mr Howick’s growler hackney an address in South Kensington, one of the new middle-class suburbs to grow out of London’s large estate blocks, and climbed into the carriage with impatient ste
ps, not bothering to look back for Higgins. He would do his job and follow her, leaving her to pace out her frustration. She hated waiting. Her brain had spent the whole time regurgitating every word she’d spoken with Mr Howick today, and of course, had come to the worst conclusions. What a bossy, bigoted fool he must think her. She was determined to take him to see a patient to demonstrate her open-minded nature.

  ‘I take it waiting doesn’t suit you?’ he said. Annoyance flashed, but she blinked quickly to ensure he didn’t see her reaction.

  ‘One must recall,’ she stated in the most bored voice she could affect, ‘that society believes that women have a place and they must remain there. My delicate nature wouldn’t cope with any involvement in Father’s case, therefore I must wait.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean you have to like it.’

  She blinked once, slow and sarcastic, then stared at him. ‘I didn’t say I liked it. I didn’t make any statement about my personal preferences. Only what society expects,’ she said.

  An awkward pause grew between them. The hackney rattled on the streets with an odd cacophony of city sounds rumbling into their silence. Suddenly, they lurched to a halt, and she slipped off the seat, landing on the floor with an oomph. A shout from outside, then they moved on. Mr Howick held out his hand to assist her.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she barked. She pushed away his hand as it hung in the air, stuck in the task of reaching for her. A jolt of energy stung her palm, right through her gloves, and she snatched her hand away. She glared at the door. Anything but look at him.

  ‘Allow me,’ said Higgins. Her footman held out his hands, and she grasped them and let him pull her to her feet. Once she stood, he let go and stepped away. She fussed with her skirts, plumping them out before she sat down. Thankfully, the padding on her fashionable bustle and petticoats would prevent a bruise on her nether regions.

  ‘My apologies for the carelessness of my driver,’ said Mr Howick. His polite tones sounded as bored as she had attempted.

  ‘I don’t blame you for a simple traffic incident.’ She closed her eyes and breathed a few deep breaths. The words were true, but she heard the irritation in her voice and knew that he’d heard it too. Normally, the way society treated her didn’t bother her this much. She couldn’t change the world if she spent all her time irritated. Was it just his presence that made everything seem more unfair than usual? A cold shiver raced over her skin as a headache started to form. She pressed her fingers to her temple.

  ‘Thank you. I know it’s impolite to ask, but you appear to be unwell. Did the incident cause you an injury?’ he asked.

  She coughed into her glove, opened her eyes and shook her head. Damn it, she couldn’t afford to get sick. ‘I never get ill. It’s probably just the coal dust in the air. Don’t worry about me,’ she said. She licked her lips and tucked her hands into her lap. He nodded, a hesitant nod. ‘I do owe you an apology, however,’ she continued.

  ‘I don’t believe that is necessary,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. It is. I made some assumptions about you in your office, and I should have had the grace to keep those initial thoughts to myself until I had more information. I’m terribly sorry if I caused you distress.’

  ‘Are you referring to—?’

  ‘Yes. It was terribly rude of me to ask you what you were doing there at Woodleyville’s office. My sincere apologies.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you sat in the waiting room at the Yard and thought about our conversation until you had it all out of context?’ he said.

  She’d hunted through her satchel for a novel, but hadn’t replaced the one she’d finished yesterday. With nothing to read, she’d had to focus her attention away from her father’s situation to avoid getting emotional in front of all those people.

  ‘I should know better than to make rude assumptions. At Carlingford Enterprises, we employ all manner of people with a vast range of backgrounds. I believe in judging someone on their talents, not on their appearance. I’m so sorry I didn’t do that,’ she said.

  From the corner of her eye, Higgins nodded. He had been a poor Irish child selected from an orphanage and trained for this job. It was why she could trust him, and her other footmen who had similar stories of disadvantage. They understood the opportunity in this job.

  ‘Forget about it. I’d rather have heard your thoughts. And besides, it was nothing compared to what others have said.’ His shoulder shifted in a tiny shrug, and her eyes widened.

  ‘How can you dismiss that?’ she asked.

  ‘You said it yourself. Society sees what they want, and when you don’t fit their expectations …’ He waved his hands in front of him. ‘You don’t need to apologise. Or obsess about a throw-away comment.’

  ‘What else is a brain to do while bored, but to go over all the conversations of the past?’ she said, as she stared at the floor.

  ‘It’s not much use if you come to the wrong conclusions,’ he said. He paused, and again the silence stretched between them. She wished she could read him better, but he had a way of hiding behind those glasses. ‘Apology accepted,’ he said, finally.

  She lifted her head and stared at him as though he’d suddenly sprouted onions from his hair. Did she deserve his forgiveness? Or was she still overthinking the whole matter?

  The hackney came to a halt. Mr Howick opened the door and waved for her to exit. She wobbled slightly as she stood up with a light head. A hot flush prickled her cheeks, so she straightened her back and stepped out with her doctor’s satchel in her hand. She wouldn’t get sick. She had too much to do. A neat row of new whitewashed terraced houses lined the street. She glanced back over her shoulder.

  ‘Number twelve,’ she said, and walked steadily towards the small front steps of the narrow house. His words to the driver murmured in the air behind her, then faded. His boots rang out, perhaps too loud, on the path as he stepped past her and held open the small gate for her. She walked in with a worried crinkle between her eyebrows. He paused, so she knocked on the front door. A moment later, the door opened to reveal a petite older lady with long black hair streaked with grey tied in a loose bun. The colourful cloth she wore contrasted strongly against the grey London day. A baby’s cry pierced the air.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Ghoshal,’ she said.

  The older lady nodded and stepped to the side to wave her inside. ‘Come.’

  ‘Thank you. I have a guest with me. Do you mind?’ She waved briefly in Mr Howick’s direction, and Mrs Ghoshal nodded quickly. The baby continued to squall as she marched into the house, leaving her patient’s mother-in-law to deal with her guest. The younger Mrs Ghoshal was pacing around the small drawing room with the baby in her arms and his tiny head resting on her shoulder. His bellows filled the room. The young mother’s hand rubbed the noisy infant’s back to soothe him, but to no avail.

  ‘How long have you been doing this?’ she asked without introduction, but also with much sympathy for her exhausted patient. The baby was only a couple of weeks old, and he was very unsettled. Mrs Ghoshal had deep shadows under her eyes, and her face was quite drawn. Another cold shiver raced through her skull. She pulled out a napkin and tied it over her nose and mouth. Best take precautions around such a tiny, fragile person.

  ‘Here. Pass him to me, and have a rest for a moment,’ she said. She reached for the tiny human with his screwed up face. The poor wee lad. She lay him across her forearm, with his stomach down, and his head cradled in her hand. With gentle rocking and long soothing strokes down his back, he soon burped and ceased his wailing. She grinned at Mrs Ghoshal, and returned the infant to her.

  ‘Aside from that, how is he doing?’ she asked.

  Mrs Ghoshal shifted her head side to side. ‘I am unsure.’

  ‘How often is he feeding? Does he scream like that after every feed? Are his nappies full?’

  ‘All the time. Yes and yes.’

  ‘Oh, you poor thing. The first baby is always so difficult. Everyone has to adjust. Let me grab my notebook,
and we will measure him,’ she said. Higgins anticipated her statement and handed her notebook to her.

  ***

  Ravi leaned against the wall in the small room, and watched Dr Carlingford efficiently measure the baby. The house smelled of garam masala and other spices that reminded him of his mother’s favourite dishes. He couldn’t help but wonder if Dr Carlingford had brought him here on purpose. He’d assumed she would have the same bold, slightly gruff manner with her patient, but instead she gave the impression of calm competence. The community of immigrants from India was growing in London, as many people tried their luck here. To build a fortune at home was near on impossible. Ravi ground his back teeth. Years of English rule had stripped his mother’s homeland of wealth, and matters had come to a head in the year of his conception, 1857, with the Indian Uprising. The thirty years since his birth had only brought more suffering and poverty with the rigid new laws imposed on the local population. No wonder his mother had eagerly come here with his father. With one young son and another on the way, it must have been a scary time. He shook his head and looked up from the floor. Dr Carlingford wrote a few notes in her book, handed it back to her loyal footman, and smiled at her patient. She sat beside her and leaned in close for a whispered conversation. A whisper of silk made him look sideways to see the older lady. She stood in front of him, between him and Dr Carlingford. She berated him in a language, and he shook his head.

  ‘Bengali,’ she said. Blast. He didn’t know that language at all.

  ‘I’m sorry. Only Hindi,’ he said. Her lips pinched and she waved the back of her hand at him to leave the room. She must think him an intruder, so he nodded and walked back into the short entrance hallway. The older lady followed him.

  ‘You stay here. It is not your business.’ She spoke in Hindi and he nodded his agreement. After waiting several minutes, with only the plain painted walls of the front entrance hall for company, he smiled as Dr Carlingford poked her head into the hallway.