A Gentlewoman's Guide to Murder

by Victoria Hamilton

  Fidelity sighed, and Emmeline smiled. The maid would come back at some point to announce them; it was a matter of patience. She returned to reflecting on the past: how Lady Sherringdon, because of her many kindnesses, was the first woman she had thought of when the idea for their group came to her. Their meeting was ostensibly a late-afternoon gathering of ladies to discuss their program of good works. If society chose to assume their “good works” involved providing Bibles to heathens and relief for the poor list, that was their error. In truth, their cause was a mission that Emmeline had begun out of a frustrated sense of the iniquity of some men who were supposed to, with their greater wisdom and strength, protect the females under their governance. She had suffered from injustice in her own life; the laws of the land favored the male sex over the female in almost every way. That could not fail to irritate her, since she believed herself to be much more level-headed than the men she knew, if she was sometimes more impulsive. She had used lessons learned from Lady Sherringdon to wrest control of her life from her older brother, but it was not a formal arrangement and could be rescinded at any time.

  To combat injustice, she and Addy had recently formed a society of women dedicated to righting the wrongs inflicted on girls and women of all stations, from the lowliest scullery maid to a royal princess, if such should be in need of rescue. In the last year, she and Adelaide had gathered like-minded ladies to her cause, women who had suffered injustice at the hands of men: fathers, sons, and, in Emmeline’s case, a father and brother. Though they conferred and observed, agreeing on suitable candidates for their group, Lady Sherringdon in general took the lead in making the approach. As a widow, she was freer and less vulnerable to criticism should anyone discover their secret mission.

  Most, though not all, of their rescues were of young servants in abusive situations. They had so far relocated six mistreated scullery maids and one climbing boy, who had been beaten daily by his execrable master. The girls had been given new jobs in safe homes. As for the boy, Tommy Jones, his apprenticeship had been paid off, his freedom, in effect, purchased, and his master threatened that he would be turned over to the magistrate should the maltreatment of his apprentices continue.

  Last night’s mission, saving Molly from the loathsome Sir Henry Claybourne, had been a turning point, an indication of how important their work could become, given the situation in which Emmeline had found her. However, recently murmurings of alarm had evolved into a chorus among society’s leaders, bleating about how dangerous it was that a woman, the so-called Avengeress, should be stealing children, regardless of those children’s situations. Emmeline frankly reveled in it; never had she, as a woman, so affected people’s emotions. She had oft wondered what there was to life beyond afternoon visits, opera in the evening, and balls in the Season, and now she knew. What did it say about her that the finest aspects of her life were hidden from friends and family?

  Lady Adelaide Sherringdon bustled out of the sitting room. “You’re here! Why didn’t Tillie announce you?” She clasped Emmeline’s hand and sought her eyes; the younger woman nodded, and her ladyship sighed, her hands trembling. “Thank goodness! Come in, join us!” she said, waving toward the sitting room.

  Emmeline would enjoy relating the tale of how she had caught Sir Henry in the act and made him bleed. She had transported Molly to the agreed-upon location, from whence she would be sent to her new employer, the home of a gentle spinster in need of a companion and maid. Then, the rapid change in the dark interior of her coach as she jostled through city streets and home to Chelsea, from a “Bible reading,” as she told her butler.

  “You will find only friends inside,” Lady Sherringdon said. “All eager to hear—”

  She was interrupted by the door; someone employed the knocker with vigor. Tillie, who had finally returned from disposing of the cloaks, trotted toward it and Adelaide stayed behind to welcome her next guest as Fidelity and Emmeline entered the parlor and greeted the others. Emmeline could hear, in the hall behind them, echoing chatter, several voices competing for attention.

  She glanced around at the ladies in the sitting room. Miss Dorcas Harvey sat by a window eating plums; she was alone, for once, without her bosom friend Mrs. Martha Adair. Miss Juliette Espanson leaned forward in deep conversation with Lady Clara Langdon, who glanced up as the most recent arrivals entered.

  Emmeline hugged her companion’s arm to her and whispered, “I’m so anxious to tell them all! If I don’t unburden myself soon, I’ll jump out of my skin.”

  Fidelity squeezed back. “Calm, Emmeline. You would think at your age you would have learned composure.”

  A lady was composed and gracious at all times, even when in a state of high excitation or expectation. A lady did not reveal her enthusiasm, did not walk too swiftly, neither did she lag behind. Emmeline conformed as best she could, the better to revel in her secret life, and so composed her expression as she greeted the others with a nod and pleasant word.

  The voices from the entry hall were getting louder, accompanied by a shrill titter of youthful laughter. Adelaide glided into the sitting room followed by three ladies, only one of whom belonged. Mrs. Martha Adair, a plump, elegant lady in her forties, entered, flanked by two younger women, both fashionably gowned.

  This was beyond annoying. There should be no strangers in attendance at this meeting. With them present, Emmeline could not tell the thrilling story of the previous night’s rescue. Her attention was caught by the sly looks the two young women exchanged, and she felt a tingle of apprehension. In their group, Martha was the weak link, an inveterate gossip. Emmeline was not easy with her knowing all she knew, but there was no way to keep it from her.

  Martha took her seat by Fidelity, folding her hands over her embroidered reticule. She glanced over at Dorcas, who looked annoyed, her thick brows drawn together, then glanced around at the rest. “Ladies, this is Misses Pamela and Honoria Schaeffer, my nieces,” she said. “I was about to leave the house when they arrived unexpectedly from school. They attend Miss Woodhew’s Academy in Richmond. I could not leave them behind, and so brought them.”

  Both young ladies were pert and pretty, no more than a year apart and looking very much the same, with dark hair and dark eyes and in modest pale gowns suiting their age. Martha and her nieces sat and the ladies chatted while Emmeline devised a scheme to meet the next day. During a brief lull in the general chatter, Emmeline looked around at her friends. “I hear that Gunter’s has a new flavor of Italian ice. Would some of you care to partake with me tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Gunter’s?” one of the young girls said, brow arched in derision. “So exploded.”

  “Not fashionable,” the other said with a nod. “No one of style goes to Gunter’s anymore.”

  “Honoria,” Martha said sharply. “That was impolite.”

  Miss Honoria Schaeffer ignored her. She leaned forward and scanned the other ladies. “You must have heard the vastly important news, did you not?”

  Dorcas, her cheeks red with tamped-down frustration—she was protective of both their group’s privacy and Martha’s company—mumbled, “What, new fashion in hats? Puff sleeves still in?”

  Miss Pamela Schaeffer cast the older woman a look of disgust. “As if you would be able to wear puff sleeves anyway,” she said, obliquely referencing Dorcas’s heavy, bosomy figure and ignoring the hiss of indrawn breaths at her rudeness. “No, something truly shocking! Our uncle owns a newspaper, so we hear everything in advance of others.”

  Emmeline’s attention sharpened. “What newspaper, pray tell?”

  Honoria eyed her and apparently found her fashionable gown and slim figure worthy of approval, for she spoke politely enough. “Our uncle is Sir James Schaeffer. He owns The London Guardian Standard,” she replied.

  “The Standard ? They’ve been very harsh in their reporting on Sir Francis Burdett’s attempt to reform the House.” Emmeline’s tone was sharp
er than she intended.

  “And so they should be! That man would have everything dear about England change in an instant,” Miss Honoria Schaeffer, apparently the elder of the sisters, retorted.

  “Everything dear? Like children starving in Seven Dials, or corruption and bribery in our houses of parliament, or—”

  Fidelity put a hand on Emmeline’s and squeezed. Reminded that these two young ladies were strangers, and that she must not reveal her radical politics, Emmeline forced a smile, took a deep breath, and nodded. The Misses Schaeffer stared at her, wide-eyed.

  In a milder tone, she said, “I must agree with you, though, Miss Schaeffer. Our nation has so much to be proud of. Did we not abolish the slave trade? Not completely, of course … slaves are still necessary in the colonies. We must not move too swiftly. Child labor, for example; we cannot afford to abolish that! Seven years of age is more than old enough to stop school and haul coal in the mines.”

  Miss Schaeffer eyed her with suspicion, but then nodded. “Too true, Miss St. Germaine. What good is an education if the child will end up working in the mines anyway?”

  Emmeline bit the inside of her cheek and tasted blood as Fidelity squeezed her hand more tightly. The younger Miss Schaeffer impatiently said, “Honoria, that is not the news, that our uncle owns a paper.” Miss Pamela sent Emmeline an unfriendly look and one of censure at her older sister. “The news is that a horrible crime has taken place!”

  Her ghoulish enjoyment, dark eyes wide, mouth pulled in a grin, was interesting; as a genteel young lady, she should be recoiling if the crime was as ghastly as she said. “What has happened?” Emmeline asked her.

  Martha sent Emmeline an agonized look of uneasiness. She stared back at her friend with incomprehension, not able to decipher what the expression meant.

  Miss Pamela was about to reply, but Honoria leaned forward, eyes wide, and hurriedly said, “The brewer Sir Henry Claybourne was murdered last night, slit from throat to bowel, slaughtered like a hog.”

  There was a collective gasp, both at the dreadful vulgarity of her words and the news they relayed. Dizziness washed over Emmeline as she tried to comprehend.

  Miss Pamela added, “There was a masked intruder earlier, a woman of all things, that Avengeress we’ve all been hearing about! Also, a scullery maid, just one month hired, absconded the same night, stealing all the jewels and silver! It is thought they were working together to slaughter Sir Henry and steal the household goods.”

  Ringing in her ears almost deafened Emmeline as the other women chattered, asking questions and demanding answers of the two sisters, who appeared slightly taken aback at the questioning and didn’t answer right away. Fidelity’s hand clamped tightly on Emmeline’s arm, her fingernails digging into the tender flesh. The pain brought Emmeline back to herself, and the dizziness ebbed, horror flowing in to take its place. How was this possible? Was it even true?

  “Such an awful tale,” Fidelity finally said, her voice quavering, releasing her grip on Emmeline’s arm. “But nobody relies on newspapers for the truth, do they?” Her tone was deliberately light as air.

  She was giving Emmeline time to recover, as were Lady Clara, Lady Adelaide, and Miss Espanson, who drew the young Misses Schaeffers’ attention by amplifying Fidelity’s voiced skepticism, asking multiple questions all at once. They all knew of Emmeline’s incursion into Sir Henry Claybourne’s residence the evening before, but only Martha and Dorcas stared at her with dual expressions of unease. Neither had the social grace the others exhibited in ignoring Emmeline’s discomfiture. At any moment, the Misses Schaeffer could notice the two ladies’ focus on Emmeline, and she must present a calm face. She took a deep, shuddering breath, clasped her trembling hands together in her lap, and focused on the conversation.

  “Our uncle’s paper is most particular about printing only the truth!” Miss Schaeffer protested against the wave of disbelief.

  Lady Clara Langdon, daughter of the Earl of Langdon, glanced over at Miss Juliette Espanson and then back to Honoria. “Your loyalty does you credit, Miss Schaeffer, but newspapers are terribly unreliable.” She tilted her head in a haughty manner and gazed serenely at the two younger ladies. “Just last month The Prattler printed a monstrous lie about Princess Amelia, you know.”

  “The Prattler is a rag,” the elder sister protested vehemently. “Our uncle’s paper is a serious newspaper.” Both young ladies were becoming agitated, but the conflict had served to sweep the murder and the masked intruder from the conversation and give Emmeline time to recover her equilibrium. It was kindly done. Emmeline mouthed “thank you” to Lady Clara, who nodded.

  The young Schaeffer ladies had nothing more of substance to add to their tale, but neither did they seem inclined to leave Lady Sherringdon’s. There was no possibility of speaking openly to the others about what had happened. Fidelity pleaded a terrible headache and they rose to leave. Lady Sherringdon, ever the good hostess, followed them to the entry hall and summoned her maid to fetch their wraps.

  “I don’t understand,” Emmeline whispered, turning to their hostess and clutching her arm. “When I departed the house with Molly, Sir Henry was red-faced but quite alive, I assure you.”

  Adelaide tugged them toward the door. “Of course, my dear. This is shocking! But of course you are not involved. Go. I’ll try to find out what I can from those two little idiots.”

  “I’ll send you word if I learn anything,” Emmeline muttered as the maid brought their wraps. “Perhaps we can meet tomorrow. I’ll send a note.”

  They departed the house. Emmeline climbed into the St. Germaine coach. “Josephs, take the Comtesse home.” Employing Josephs as the family coachman might seem a luxury in a city household, but it was a necessity to have a driver given their home was in Chelsea, out of the city proper. “After that, let me out at Carpenter’s Coffee House.”

  Josephs inhaled sharply, but then nodded and shut the door, latching it securely. They felt his weight as he jumped up and the carriage lurched into movement.

  “Emmeline, you will not go there,” Fidelity said, her voice low and trembling. She reached over and grasped her charge’s gloved hand. “What are you thinking? Please consider your reputation!”

  “Fiddy, I must see Simeon.” Simeon Kauffman was publisher of The Prattler, a radical newspaper. “He takes his coffee every evening at this time at Carpenter’s. He’ll know about this awful thing, if it’s true, and what people are saying. I need to know. He’s the only one I can trust to tell me the truth of what’s going on.”

  “I understand, my dear, but you cannot go into that place. I beseech you, think!”

  Fidelity was right, of course, and Emmeline nodded. Carpenter’s Coffee House was a notorious meeting place in Covent Garden, where actors, writers, theater folk, and prostitutes mingled freely. Beyond that, it was said to be infested with vermin, both human and animal. Though Simeon frequented a more staid coffeehouse most of the day, in the late afternoon and early evening he had his usual booth at Carpenter’s. There he saw what happened to society, he said, when hope was lost.

  “I’ll accompany you,” Fidelity said. “We’ll send Josephs in to find Simeon, and he can speak with us in the carriage.”

  It was a risk, even so. If they were recognized … Emmeline took a deep breath, glancing over at her companion’s worried face in the dimness. “You’re right, of course, Fiddy. Thank goodness for your sense. My feelings run away with me.”

  She knocked on the roof of the carriage, gave her new instructions to the coachman, and then closed the door again. As the carriage lurched back into movement, she stared down at the twisted gloves in her hands; in her agitation, she had pulled them off. “It must be true, Fiddy, that Sir Henry is dead. But what of that nonsense, that Molly absconded with silver and jewels? Who would tell such monstrous lies?”

  Fidelity shivered. “I don’t know, Emmie. But it has a whiff of d
evious plots and stratagems!”

  At their destination, Emmeline waited with Fidelity while Josephs retrieved Simeon from inside the coffee shop. She peeked out the curtain, watching as a lamplighter whistled a merry tune as he raised his ladder to the post and lit the wick, then moved on to the next. A shadowy figure slipped out of the coffeehouse, so Emmeline let the curtain fall. There was a murmured word, one sharp rap on the carriage, and Simeon flung the door open, glanced over his shoulder, and clambered inside. He bowed over Fidelity’s hand and bumped his head on the roof when he tried to straighten. That bump disarranged his kippah, the skull cap that denoted his race and religious observance. Josephs, apparently on Simeon’s instructions, set into motion, pulling away from the infamous purveyor of coffee and scandalous behavior.

  “What are you doing here?” the publisher asked. “This is most improvident, to arrive so and have your coachman ask for me so openly. What if someone were to recognize his livery? You know as well as anyone that there are prying eyes everywhere, and information is money to these poor folk. Madame Comtesse,” he said, turning to Fidelity, “Miss St. Germaine is reckless, but I would expect you, at least, to have better sense.”

  “Mr. Kauffman, I tried to tell her, but you know our dear Emmeline.”

  “Simeon, don’t chide me. Something horrible has happened and I need your help.” Pleading was not Emmeline’s natural manner, but she was badly shaken by what she had learned and what it meant.

  “Calm yourself, my friend,” he said, his tone softer, his thick brows drawing down over his dark, deep-set eyes. He was a handsome man, but careless of his appearance most of the time, preferring to spend his time with his writing and study of humanity. “This is unlike you, so naturally self-possessed and calm most of the time. I apologize for my irritation, but your reputation is inviolate. If anyone should learn your secrets …” He shook his head. “I apologize to you as well, Madame Comtesse, for my discourtesy,” he said as he turned to Fidelity once more. “How are you this evening, madam? You appear well.” The carriage drew to a halt; they had apparently just gone around the corner.