“That woman! I will not dignify her by calling her a lady,” Mr. Wilkins said, his florid face sheened with warmth from the fire that Sir Jacob had built in deference to the ladies, Fidelity and Miss Purley in particular, who complained of the cold. “Damned shame what happened to Sir Henry. He was a fine man and a finer brewer, a solid man of business. Knighted by our most glorious king. That murdering harridan must be caught, or we are none of us safe!”
“Sir Henry was a fine man?” Emmeline said, stung into speech by his rant against her other self. “How did you know him, Mr. Wilkins?”
“He was a member of my club. Played a fine hand of whist and could hold his liquor better than most.”
“And that is the length and breadth of his accomplishments?”
“Not at all. He was a fine businessman, and most generous.”
“Generous?” Miss Gottschalk said. “What do you call generous? I am curious. I hear men lauded for generosity, but seldom hear what they have done to earn such praise.”
The barrister’s face, already red, deepened in color. He glanced across the room to Sir Jacob, who was now enjoying a game of casino with Lady Quisenberry, Fidelity, and Miss Purley. “He did not confess his good deeds, and I would rather honor his reticence since he did not choose to speak of his charity.”
Emmeline doubted there was any charity. “Was he an investor in this canal business of which you and my uncle speak?”
Wilkins gave her a sharp look. “I’m surprised to hear a young lady speak of business,” he retorted. “It is no one’s affair, certainly not mine, to speak of his investments.”
“So we are to assume that he was a good businessman and a charitable soul, though on no evidence.” Emmeline smiled to take the sting from her words, but then said, “What about what that columnist said, that … the Rogue, I think he is called? He suggested that Sir Henry raped little scullery maids.”
Miss Gottschalk sputtered and set her sherry aside as Wilkins, red-faced, stared at Emmeline in horror. “I think this is not a fit subject for a lady,” he said, his face bleached, for once, of color.
“I agree,” Woodforde added, with a look of warning at Emmeline. “I think I shall deal a fresh hand.”
“Mr. Woodforde,” Miss Gottschalk said, “I notice you leaning on a stick tonight. I don’t believe you normally use one. How did that come about?”
Woodforde told an amusing story about a fencing lesson that got out of hand—he had a slash across the wrist and a hobbled ankle to show for it—and they all politely chuckled as he said he thought he would engage in some new sport, something less dangerous, like boxing, with his friend Monsieur Alain Clocharde.
The evening broke up early, and they all escaped Sir Jacob’s overheated townhouse into the chill of late October, scattering in different directions. Fog drifted in from the river as Emmeline and Fidelity left the city proper on their way to Chelsea. Fidelity was weary and silent on the way home, and Emmeline was grateful. She had much to think of, and before repose she needed to pen another Rogue column, something that would perhaps relax the magistrate’s suspicion of the writer as having anything to do with the murder of Sir Henry Claybourne. It was time for a collection of items, of general scandalous interest, cobbled hodgepodge into a Rogue column.
October 27th, 1810, Edition of The Prattler
By: The Rogue
Death of a Stonemason & Other Sundry Matters
Oh, how are the Mighty fallen? Or rather, as in most Common Things, how are those who SERVE the Mighty fallen? To wit, your Rogue informs you that even a Stony Likeness of our poor old King causes Death and Destruction. A month or so ago, a stonemason named John Wilson, in a gallant attempt to affix said Stony Likeness of our Jubileed King to the top of a Pillar once used as a sort of Land Lighthouse to guide imbibers to a tavern—and now out of commission, as the lanthorn tumbled to the ground two years ago—did likewise Tumble to the Earth and so Lose his Life. It is said his Friends are raising money now for a Tribute to their Fallen Hero.
In other items, your Rogue-ish Scallywag has witnessed a most Amusing Romance between an Impoverished Peer and a Wealthy Widow. It has become apparent that a Title is worth as much as Gold Ducats. An Impecunious Gentleman like young Lord F____ N___ has found favor with a certain Mrs. H___ B___. It seems Flattery and Coronets are worth Shillings and Crowns these days.
In more Salacious News, your Rogue has it on good authority (one of his Lady Friends) that the Marquis of C___ is, among other things, a Gent who satisfies the Most Discriminating Lady with his Lingua Talenta. He is also, the Lady states, in possession of a most Interesting and Titillating Collection of French Postcards suggesting Creative Positions for the Amorously Inclined.
But now your Rogue must bid you Adieu, until Whispers again encourage him to Share All that is Most Wicked among Society!
Ten
Morning dawned gloomy and cold, a blanket of gray concealing any rays of the timid sun. Emmeline shivered as she sat at her desk finishing up business from the day before. She dashed off a note to Miss Hargreaves, stating that she had heard of her lessons for young ladies and that afternoon at three, if t’was convenient, she would be bringing two girls to her to enquire about tutoring in French and embroidery. Emmeline was confident she could override any doubts Martha might have when she visited her today. She also sent to Simeon, under usual cover, her Rogue column, filled with a mélange of scandalous tittle-tattle. Some had come from the rich mine of Viscount Nearley, who dearly loved to gossip, and some from other sources.
The Rogue must appear as he always was—a devil-may-care, scandal-loving roué and man-about-town, sarcastic and marginally witty—to deflect any suspicion that arose from his knowledge of Sir Henry’s disgraceful proclivities. In that larger context, his observations on the knight would appear to simply be more gossip. Emmeline certainly couldn’t use in her column much of the information she had received, especially that gleaned from her conversation with Dr. Woodforde. It wouldn’t do to pique the doctor’s curiosity as to where the Rogue had come by such accurate information about the state of Sir Henry’s body.
Over buttered toast dipped in chocolate, her favorite breakfast, she read the early papers. Her stomach clutched; Sir Henry Claybourne’s missing scullery maid had become the object of an intense search. The magistrate’s men were mostly searching brothels, where they would not find her, but despite how obvious it seemed that the men who beat the watch had been escaping after killing Sir Henry, the outcry against Emmeline in her secret Avengeress guise was heightening. She who had raided the Claybourne house and taken Molly away for “a wicked debauch” was alternately scorned as less than a woman or vividly portrayed as “an unnatural, unsex’d, and wicked female.”
The reporting was almost salivating in its excessive imagination. The papers seemed divided on whether the scullery maid was the victim of a wayward woman or a co-conspirator in murdering the master of the house and stealing his possessions. Emmeline snorted in disgust and threw the paper from her, then gathered it again to finish. Poor frightened men, she thought. Readers of the newspapers were usually men; most wives weren’t allowed to read anything but the gossip and scandal columns. The articles about the murder certainly pandered to male fears that there was more going on in their households, below the placid surface of their female servants’ expressionless faces, than was thought.
One journalist had waylaid and browbeaten the Claybournes’ new scullery maid for information (Emmeline read between the lines and figured that much out), but she could tell him nothing. The housekeeper wasn’t speaking, but the cook was a known tippler and had been cornered at the local tavern. She would only say that Molly had seemed like a good lass. The writer, though, claimed that not only was Molly suspected of being in league with the woman who stole her away, but both were suspected of being members of a vicious gang of thieves, who had, with the two females’ help, stolen the household�
�s silver.
It mattered little whether Emmeline was thought to have worked alone or in conspiracy with a gang of marauders; both the murder and the theft were hanging offenses. How telling it was that she had so little faith in the courts of man that she feared persecution for something she did not do.
She pushed aside her half-eaten toast, a memory souring her appetite. In June, determined to know the truth about crime and punishment in their country, she had attended, with Gillies, the execution of a young woman found guilty of theft. Melinda Mapson, thirty years old, a married servant, had been tried and convicted of theft from her employer’s house in February the previous year. Her hanging outside of Newgate, alongside a male convict, was brief and brutal and had given Emmeline nightmares for a week.
She buried her face in her hands, scrubbing her eyes. She would not think of it again, not see the twisting, writhing figure, hooded in a white night cap. She would not! But … try as she might to expunge it from her mind’s eye, she still saw it in her nightmares: a young woman’s life ended for the theft of a few sovereigns’ worth of household goods. She uncovered her eyes and stared out the window at the silver river slipping past her home. What were a few sovereigns to that poor woman’s life? The noose had robbed her forever of the chance for redemption.
The country’s system of justice was deeply flawed, and something had to change. As a woman she had no say, no power, no control. But as the Avengeress she had all of that and more. She had seized it for herself, wrenching it from the cold grip of men. That was what troubled so deeply the men who wrote and published the papers. She would save herself and poor young Molly; they were both being accused, with no reason, of the murder of that perverted, disgusting knight.
She pleated the newspaper page in her fingers. There must be a way to figure out who had killed Sir Henry. Though they had performed such rescues in the past, this time the Crones’ luck had run out. Someone had either been lucky in the night they chose to rob the house, or had known it was to take place and used the opportunity to rob the house and kill the master. It had to be the second; surely the timing of the murder could not be just chance. Perhaps they had been naïve to not realize their potential to be so abused. It very possibly had started in Sir Henry’s own home; maybe Molly would know something, or Sally, with whom she would speak. There had to be a way to find out who had killed the knight and bring the guilty party to the magistrate’s attention before the Crones’ secrets—and her own—were exposed.
There was another possibility. The murder could have been personal, brought down upon the knight by something he had done or said in the hours after her raid.
Gillies attended her. Fidelity was having a nice long morning nap, she said, and would be closeted with Mrs. Bramage later to plan next week’s literary event in honor of the late Anna Seward, whose writing Fidelity greatly admired. Fidelity and Emmeline both belonged to a group of devotees of literature and writers; they met on occasion, though they had no formal schedule. As Gillies styled her mistress’s hair for the day, she complained about Birk’s snooping. He had been adamant about looking over the outgoing mail before she could hand it to Josephs to deliver. This was not exactly something new, but it was worrisome nonetheless.
“You know that if he ever finds out about the Rogue or our work with the Crones, he’ll tell Leopold. My brother would never countenance either of my activities,” Emmeline fretted. “It would be back to Malincourt for me,” she said, referring to the St. Germaine family estate where Leopold resided with his second wife and growing family. “Or confinement in Bedlam.”
Gillies twisted a curl into place and tucked a stray tendril under the ribbon band that constrained Emmeline’s unruly hair. She then picked up a gold silk capote to pin it in place, as a wind was beginning to toss the trees and Emmeline would be out for most of the day. “Dinna borrow trouble, as me granny used to say.” The maid pinned the bonnet in place. “Your brother isn’t the brightest spark, miss.”
“But Birk is cunning as a rat. He would be very detailed with his evidence if he discovered what I am hiding. I wish I could sack him.”
Gillies ducked down to meet Emmeline’s gaze past the deep brim of the capote. “P’raps you’ll have the chance at Christmas, when we’re at Malincourt, to pairsuade Mrs. St. Germaine that Birk isn’t needed when it’s just us here all the year long?”
“Convince Rose to take a stand against my brother?” Emmeline shook her head and regarded herself in the mirror, straightening the brim that shadowed her eyes. “That poor girl is heavy with child yet again and I won’t bring her into my quarrel with my brother. If Emily had not died …” She trailed off. Emily, Leopold’s first wife, had been an intelligent and determined woman. Her death seven years before had been a heavy blow to both Emmeline and Maria, and then Maria had died a year later. Where once Emmeline had felt that her brothers were her allies, the rift among them now was wide and growing wider. Leopold, the eldest and master of Malincourt; Samuel, next oldest and now vicar of the local parish; and even Thomas, her younger brother, supposedly still pursuing an education at Oxford, though more often gambling, whoring, and carousing: all were scattered, Emily and Maria the twin losses that had unbound the ties of family.
“Och, I understand about family, miss, and loss.”
Emmeline put her hand on her servant’s, where it rested on her shoulder. “Look who I’m talking to: you, who have suffered the greatest loss there can be, of husband and child.” She took in a deep breath. “Birk doesn’t matter. I’ll manage him somehow. We have work to do, Gillies; important work. If we can save children from hell, I’ll consider my life well lived.”
“Aye miss. About Clerkenwell … you will be careful what you say in those parts? I had a fair bad feeling there. And there were a man skulking around; I meant to tell you. I think he were a writer. Looked like one, anyway … fair greasy, he was, and watching Sir Henry’s house like a hawk watching a wee mousie.”
“You’d better not come with me to Clerkenwell, then,” Emmeline said, standing and turning for Gillies to help her with her purple silk pelisse. “I wouldn’t want you recognized and tied to me; it would look suspicious after your foray there yesterday.”
“Nay, miss, I’m cooming, never fear. I’ll keep my eyes skinned for the skulker.”
“All right. On to Mrs. Adair’s home to see poor Sally, then.”
Chelsea to Cheapside was a long drive by any route. Josephs crossed the uncomfortably narrow Battersea Bridge, preferring to approach the city from the south. They then crossed Blackfriars Bridge, Josephs patiently steering the cattle through traffic to Cheapside, where Martha and her husband, Mr. Douglas Adair, resided.
The front of their home—one of a row of townhomes—was clean, white-painted stone with a glossy black double door centered between faux pillars. The maid who answered Josephs’ knock was a tidy, country-fresh girl with pink cheeks and a modest white dress topped by a white pinafore apron. Her red hair was restrained in a white muslin cap, with no nonsensical curls to distract from her perfectly tidy appearance. Male servants were highly taxed, so Martha’s husband, being a thrifty sort, allowed no footmen or butlers in their home; they had a housekeeper and maids. The girl, named Ellen she said, in answer to Emmeline’s question, curtseyed and guided her into the parlor while Gillies sat on a chair at the entrance to await her mistress’s return. Josephs drove the carriage away; he would come back in a half hour.
Martha in her own home was a different creature than Martha among the Crones. She was almost dour, though still nervous and a little flighty. “Good morning, Miss St. Germaine,” she said as Emmeline took a seat.
“Good morning, Mrs. Adair. How are you?”
The maid exited, closing the door behind her.
“I’m very fine.” Once the door closed and the maid’s footsteps receded, Martha Adair exhaled a sigh of relief. “I have been in such a state! What if Mr. Adair shoul
d find out that you have been here and questioning the scullery maid? My husband has a suspicious mind. There was a terrible to-do when he caught Ellen whispering and gossiping with my housekeeper’s niece, Biddy, who was visiting one day; he practically ordered the poor girl out.” She wrung her hands. “I’ve been so turned about I haven’t known what to do or where to look.”
“I have come to see how you order your household and nothing more, correct?” Emmeline offered. “I wish to see how a well-ordered house runs, to further my domestic education from a matron I respect. That is all your husband need know.”
“Shall we go and speak with Sally?”
“Why don’t you have her brought here? I would not want your staff listening in.”
Martha nodded and went to fetch the child herself.
Sally was tall for thirteen, but slight. She was dressed in a dark blue dress with a white apron. Her flaxen hair was neatly coiled, almost invisible under her white cap. She stood before Emmeline nervously, twisting her hands together while Martha gave her an encouraging smile.
“Sally, do you like your position here?” Emmeline asked.
She nodded.
“You can speak, Sally,” Martha said.
“Very much, miss,” she said in answer to Emmeline’s question. Her expression and tone were almost sullen.
“What about your last position, with Sir Henry Claybourne? How was that?”
The girl’s eyes widened in panic and she trembled. Her throat convulsed and she looked ready to flee.
“Sally, please don’t worry,” Emmeline said, reaching out to touch the girl’s shoulder. “You’re not going back there. In fact, have you not heard? Sir Henry is dead.”
The maid’s mouth slackened and lips quivered as her body shuddered. Emmeline tamped down the fury that welled upward from her gut to her throat, an anger as pure and visceral as it was the moment she’d seen the knight abusing Molly. Pressing a fist against her stomach, she asked, “Sally, can you tell me about the Claybourne household?”
A Gentlewoman's Guide to Murder Page 9