A Gentlewoman's Guide to Murder

by Victoria Hamilton

  “Aye, miss.”

  Because of the tourist cart and the bottleneck resulting, which included several carts with cabbage and milk cans and one pungently carrying horse dung out of the city, they could not move, even as Josephs started yelling at the tour guide to move along. The lout gave a rude gesture and, following the wishes of the braver in his group, helped some to climb down and creep into the alley. One man strode down, his tread in heavy boots echoing on the cobbles, and gestured to his lady to join him. She tiptoed, cringing and wailing, lifting her skirts and quaking as she crept through the brick arch to the alleyway as if the murderer would leap out at her from behind it.

  It was a ridiculous scene, but to top it, at that moment the Claybourne housekeeper, armed with a broom, stormed into the alley from the townhome courtyard. She shrieked at them to leave. When the bold fellow retorted, she beat him about his shoulders, chasing him to the brick arch as the other women screamed in dismay. The gawker was not having it, though, and, snatching the broom out of her hands, he swung it at the housekeeper, knocking her to the pavement.

  Josephs leaped down from his perch and raced through the arch. “Fie, man, have ye no conscience,” he shouted, wresting the broom from the fellow. “To beat a woman that way? And you!” he continued, yelling back over his shoulder to the man running the tour. “This is no theater, this be folks’ lives!”

  Benjamin Hargreaves and another man came running, drawn by the commotion. The housekeeper took back her broom. The man who had hit her and the group guide slunk back to the cart as locals gathered and began to shout at them. It looked dangerous for a moment, but the guide helped the ladies back up and got the cart moving. The crowd dispersed as Josephs kept a watchful eye out. All was settled, and the woman in the alley, her face red, said something to Josephs. Emmeline didn’t dare draw attention to herself. Though she didn’t think the housekeeper would know her, she wasn’t about to take a chance.

  The two spoke for a moment and Josephs returned, able to move now that the traffic had cleared. Emmeline needed to get a frightened Nancy and Charlotte, who was agog and excited by all she had heard, home. Once there, she spoke with Martha to reassure her: no matter what the girls said, there was no danger. It had been a misunderstanding among some servants, and her groom, Josephs, had taken care of it.

  As shocked as Martha was, she would make sure no word of the misadventure got back to her husband. Of that Emmeline was certain.

  Thirteen

  Emmeline and Gillies headed home. “I had no opportunity to ask earlier,” Emmeline said as they drove. “What did Sally say about who had made her pregnant?”

  “She no more knew how it happened than a tabby.” Gillies looked up, tears glittering in her eyes. “T’was at the orphanage. Where else would it be? Dark of night and someone roughly took her maidenhead, and then got at her again, more times than she remembers, poor wee lass! I dinna know if it t’were one of the boys or a warder, or both. That about broke her, miss, t’tell me all that.”

  A wave of revulsion washed through Emmeline that a little girl should be subjected to such brutality in the place meant to shield her from harm. It was inhuman. “What orphanage, Gillies?” she asked, sitting forward. “Does she know?”

  Gillies frowned down at her work, barely visible in the dim light of the carriage. “Can’t read, poor thing, and no one called it by name. But the warder’s name was Dunstable.”

  It was a start, Emmeline thought. She was merely clawing her way through the dark, making patterns out of random pieces of information as if they were bits of colored glass she hoped would form a picture once put together. The girls had come from orphanages, and had been brought to the Claybourne home by a man named Ratter. If she could find an orphanage in or near London with a warder named Dunstable, she’d have a beginning.

  Fidelity was awake but still in her room, reclining in her intricately carved chaise longue by the window, reading poetry. The view out the window, past the chimneys of the other townhouses in their row, was of the square spire of All Saints pointed to heaven. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t up to going out today, dearest,” she said as Emmeline stopped at her door. “Have a nice afternoon?”

  “Perfectly fine,” Emmeline said, leaning against the door frame, aware, as always, of Birk’s shadow in the hall at the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll just remove my hat and come talk to you. Gillies, can you ring for tea and have it brought to the Comtesse’s room?”

  A half hour later, after ravenously devouring a plate of scones with the delicious black currant preserves sent down to the London house by the cook at Malincourt, Emmeline drank the rest of her tea, sent the tray away, and closed the door to the hallway, returning to her low chair by the chaise.

  Fidelity, who had continued reading her poetry while Emmeline ate, set her book aside and regarded her with a worried frown. “I know you well; you’re only truly this hungry when something has upset you deeply.”

  Emmeline sat and stared into the minuscule marble-edged fireplace, where red embers split and fell under the ornamented grate with a soothing pop and snap. Darkness enclosed the city so early this time of year. The curtains in Fidelity’s room were now drawn, but she could hear the muffled clang of a boat bell from the Thames. It was foggy and the river treacherous. Emmeline shivered and put her hands out to the fire.

  “What is it, dearest?” Fidelity said softly.

  The feeling of dread that had overtaken Emmeline was still strong. She told her companion what they had witnessed, the man who had taken a gruesome and horrible murder and turned it into entertainment.

  “Is it any different than Macbeth?” Fidelity asked, her tone mild. “Is it the class of those taking in the entertainment that bothers you? The pits at a melodrama are full of such folk, and yet you don’t rail at that.”

  Emmeline shook her head, willing away the gloom, but it wouldn’t work. “You didn’t see his performance. It was ghastly. This was a real murder by a real villain, not playacting on the stage. And he blamed me for the murder. Not by name, of course, but I am the horrible unsexed female of whom he spoke. He sang that awful verse from the broadsheet.”

  Fidelity was silent.

  “I keep wondering …” Emmeline said, frowning. “Was it mere coincidence that the murder happened the very night I rescued Molly?”

  “What are you saying?”

  She looked up at her companion, searching her pale eyes, the gray-blue of the sea on a cloudy day. “Could one of our group be responsible, directly or indirectly? I keep coming back to that. They all knew I was going there.”

  “Our group? You mean one of the ladies?” Fidelity started up out of her reclining position, put her slippered feet on the carpeted floor, and stared at Emmeline in horror. “Think what you’re saying, dearest heart!”

  “I am. I’m thinking of it very seriously. Could one of them have told someone, and that person passed the word on to someone else?”

  Out, damned spot! The spot of blood on Lady Clara’s glove. Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? So much blood … rivers of crimson, according to the gruesome guide. Could Lady Clara have done this? Surely not! Woman were capable of great cruelty, but in general they inspired others to murder, encouraging, goading, torturing men until they … until they what? Gave in and did what they wanted anyway? Could any man be moved to murder if it was not already in his heart?

  So easy to blame the “unsexed female,” the unwomanly creature who would wish someone dead. Women were supposed to be gentle, meek, loving, nurturing souls incapable of violence. When a woman did slay, poison was the usual weapon, not a knife. Reading the Proceedings, the official record of criminal cases at the Old Bailey, attested to that; a sly dose of arsenic in a bitter tisane, so simple and the death swift, the cause a mystery. Or not a mystery when they were caught.

  How she had wished for a packet of the poisonous powder
at times in her life!

  “Emmie, where have you gone?” Fidelity’s gentle voice brought her back.

  “I was remembering the bad old days, Fiddy, of my powerless youth, after Mama died and Aunt Conroy came to manage the household and torment Maria and me.” She took a deep breath. There were thoughts—violent, murderous thoughts—that she’d had back then that she’d told no one about, not even Fidelity. She would not have killed for herself, but she may well have for Maria. She shook herself. “I’m being ridiculous. Lady Clara didn’t do this any more than I did.”

  “Lady Clara?” Fidelity exclaimed. “Surely you’re not saying—”

  “I know, I know,” Emmeline said wearily, waving her hand. “Impossible. But unless the magistrate discovers who did do it, he will continue looking for the masked female intruder. I wish I could figure out how to expose the killer.”

  “If anyone can do that, my dearest, you can,” Fiddy said, her tone fond. “You have discovered more secrets as the Rogue than I ever would have thought possible.”

  That was true. And Emmeline knew more than she ever told in her column. She knew which peers drank smuggled brandy and untaxed tea. She had uncovered scandal, pain, and illegal activity: children not sired by their legal father, affairs, scandalous behavior hushed up for propriety’s sake. She even knew some darker secrets that she kept for the sake of the victims who would be doubly victimized if it were known. If there were innocent parties involved who would suffer, she paid them homage by staying silent.

  But never had she uncovered a murder. No matter the provocation for the deed, she would never stay silent in such a case. Desperation was no justification for the taking of a life. If she had given in to her own desperation so many years ago and committed the dark deed that tempted her, she well knew how the crime would have poisoned her soul, a black spot that would have crept outward. It was inevitable. Her father’s timely death had released her from temptation.

  Enough of these dark thoughts of the past. “I’ve been wandering through this as if I would stumble on the truth, but I need to be methodical,” she said, as much to herself as Fidelity. “If I don’t, the magistrate will just keep searching for me, I suppose, until he finds me, or doesn’t, and lets whoever killed Sir Henry escape justice.” She told her companion what Gillies had discovered from Sally about her treatment at the orphanage.

  Fidelity was horrified, but her reaction was muted. Emmeline thought she looked tired; her friend and companion suffered mental anguish, and it wore her down. She stood, bent over, and kissed the top of Fidelity’s head. “We are promised to Sir Jacob’s theater box this evening.”

  “Will Dr. Woodforde be there?” Fiddy eyed her from behind her poetry book, which she had picked back up.

  “I suppose. He has suddenly become a stubborn barnacle on Uncle’s convivial ship.” Emmeline knew her tone was acerbic, but Fiddy had to stop imagining a romance between her and Woodforde. She was not for him, and he was most definitely not for her.

  In her room, she took out paper and a pencil to make some notes about what she knew and how she could find out more. Gillies had already enlisted Tommy Jones to discover what he could; boys like Tommy were everywhere and saw much that no one else ever could. Gillies would see him again to discover what he had found out.

  She had questions aplenty. It seemed odd to her that Aloisia Hargreaves would visit with Lady Claybourne. She needed to find out more about the knight’s widow, though it was likely true that she was either a secret drinker or numbed by laudanum. Tommy’s information, that the cook slipped out to the tavern and enjoyed her tipple, could lead to a source, for a tongue loosened by libation might wag with many a secret. Instead of lounging with the other drivers while they were in the theater, Josephs could head to Clerkenwell—close to the theater, fortunately—and lounge at the Bridge and Bezel to find out if the tippler cook, Mrs. Partridge, was there lifting a pint. He was charming when he wanted to be, and having helped the Claybournes’ housekeeper that afternoon, he could flatter the cook out of information.

  But perhaps there was another route, one that would supply information about Sir Henry away from his household. It was unfortunate that she was a woman; if she were a man, she could freely walk into his brewery, pretending to be a customer. But perhaps there was a way after all. She jotted some notes; she would look into it on the morrow.

  Gillies entered, and Emmeline looked up and sighed. “I suppose I must get ready for the theater.”

  “Dinna sound so forlorn, miss! It’s no’ a hangin’ party.”

  Emmeline dressed, then submitted to her maid’s hairdressing skills, closing her eyes and thinking of ways to discover who killed Sir Henry. Finally Gillies patted her shoulder. She stood and eyed herself in the full-length cheval mirror.

  She wore her favorite gown: gold silk sarcenet, with crimson, gold, and deep green ribbons, and scarlet ribbon-roses over the bodice. She wore a garnet-set-in-gold parure inherited from her mother; it consisted of a collar necklace, hanging earrings, bracelet, and hair comb ornamenting her glistening chestnut hair, intricately dressed with looping braids and curling tendrils near her high, smooth forehead. She pinched her cheeks to bring up color as Gillies dabbed her neck with scent. She held out her hands and Gillies slid on gold silk gloves, buttoning them at the wrists, then bringing the cream lace cuffs of her sleeves back down to her wrists.

  “I must go help Madame Bernadotte with her finishing touches, miss,” Gillies said.

  “Tell her I’ll await her downstairs in the salon.”

  She descended and sat by the window overlooking the street. Fidelity was perpetually late, and sometimes even at the last minute could not bear the thought of going out, with all the attendant hustle and bustle. But tonight she would go because she would not disappoint Emmeline, knowing her cousin was looking forward to the performance.

  Sir Jacob was an enthusiastic lover of all theater venues and kept boxes at many. Tonight it was opera ballet—scenes from The Marriage of Figaro—at the Dionysus, a small theater near Drury Lane, and featured a young ballerina who had risen from the chorus in the part of Susanna, Figaro’s bride-to-be. Emmeline’s uncle wanted her opinion of the actress’s ability. Emmeline, like Sir Jacob, generally enjoyed opera and ballet more than dramatic plays.

  Birk entered the salon and bowed. “A package came for you, Miss St. Germaine, from your acquaintance Miss Kinsman.” He held it out to her.

  Emmeline eyed him and nodded. “Will you have it taken to my room? I’ll open it later.” She paused, watching him closely. “Unless you’ve already opened it?”

  His patrician face, porcine and self-important—he worked hard to model himself after Leopold, whom he much admired; Emmeline’s brother was also portly and pompous—stretched into an expression of stunned distress. “Miss St. Germaine, I would never do such a thing. I hope you know that.”

  “Of course.” Still she watched his face, not convinced that her assertion had upset him. He was too sure of himself, always. As she stared, his gaze flicked away to the wrought iron fireplace fender. “Miss Kinsman is easily amused and follows the most gruesome events with relish. I imagine it is broadsheets on the latest murder.”

  He nodded and bowed, and appeared ready to back out of the room.

  “Wait,” she said, and held out her gloved hand. “I suppose I’ll open it now. Who knows how long Madame Bernadotte will be?”

  He handed her the package, wrapped in paper and tied with a ribbon knotted so securely she’d know if it had been tampered with. Simeon did that purposely, knowing of Birk’s proclivity for prying. She waited for the butler to leave, which he did slowly and reluctantly, checking for dust motes and smudges on glass as he went. She set the package down on the settee and took out her chatelaine, which she was never without, even in the evening when she should leave it behind. She separated the tiny silver scissors from the other tools and cut the rib
bon.

  As she expected, it was a package of broadsheets and papers Simeon knew the St. Germaine household would not receive. Taking a deep breath, she dived into the lot, using paper to protect her gold gloves from the smudge of newsprint. As she read the titles of articles, her hands started shaking and heat rose in her cheeks.

  Beware The Murdering Wench!

  Masked Mystery Lady Slaughtered Knight

  And worst of all …

  Betrayed; Sir Henry’s Murderous Mistress?

  Fourteen

  As she feared, the titillating prospect of a lady murderess was proving too rich a vein for journalists to ignore. Simeon had not included a note this time, just the broadsheets with their joyful denunciation of the female felon, the Murderous Masked Medusa, as one styled her.

  The Avengeress. One writer had already picked up her Rogue habit of calling her other half by that name.

  Shaking, Emmeline clumsily retied the bundle of papers. She could hardly blame writers, who were only following the path of least resistance, the one that would sell the most broadsheets and newspapers. A scrap of paper fell out from among the sheets. In Simeon’s hand was written a few words: Tonight; Dionysus Theater. Thank goodness; she was grateful that she had provided her publisher with her itinerary of social dates and grateful, too, that she had opened the parcel. She wasn’t sure how she would meet with Simeon and speak with him, but she must.

  Gillies descended with Fidelity and took charge of the bundle of broadsheets. Tonight was a rare evening when Gillies would not accompany them. They would return directly from the theater with no supper after, so the maid’s services were not required.

  It was full darkness when they left, trundling through the dim streets of Chelsea toward London and the theater district. Fidelity was quiet, contemplating the joy of a performance to come, perhaps, but Emmeline, tense and worried, could not rest. She rapped on the roof of the carriage as they got well away from Chelsea. Josephs drew the horses to a halt and came down to the door to speak with her.