She leaned forward and met his eyes in the dim light cast by the carriage lanthorn. “Josephs, what did the Claybourne housekeeper say to you today?”
“Thanked me in a frosty way, miss, an’ told me to be on m’way.”
“Hmm. She likely is not amenable to flattery, but there is another way. You know Clerkenwell quite well. There is a tavern called the Bridge and Bezel; do you know it?”
“Aye.”
“I’ve been told that the Claybourne cook is a tippler and spends occasional evenings in the tavern. Her name is Partridge. Would you be up for a drink while we enjoy the theater?”
“Aye, miss,” he said as she handed him coins. “I’ll see what I can learn about the household.”
“Discreetly!”
He touched his forelock and disappeared into the twilight. The carriage rocked as he took his place, and they continued their journey, finally arriving at the Dionysus Theater. He helped Emmeline and Fidelity descend, then got back up and departed. Arm in arm the two ladies approached the steps, where a crowd was gathered. Dr. Woodforde had been waiting for them and limped forward, bowing.
“Madame Bernadotte, how good to see you again. I missed speaking with you at Sir Jacob’s dinner party, but once a party is broke up for card games, general conversation becomes impossible.”
“We shall remedy that missed opportunity soon, I’m sure, Dr. Woodforde.”
“Are you well?”
“Moderately, Doctor. For an old lady.”
He bowed over her hand and said, as she knew he would, “Madam, you are as willowy as a girl and twice as pretty.” He turned to Emmeline. “You look lovely tonight, Miss St. Germaine. Your uncle and his party have already gone in. I said I would wait and escort you.”
“Thank you, Woodforde, but it wasn’t necessary. We are capable of walking up stairs without aid.”
“Don’t mind her, Doctor; you know our Emmie is prickly as can be,” Fidelity said, giving Emmeline a look of censure as she took Woodforde’s arm. “I would be grateful of your support through the crowd.”
Emmeline kept her own counsel. The last thing she needed that evening was to have Giles Woodforde stuck to her like a bloodletting leech; the thought distracted her. That was not a very good metaphor for his stubborn refusal to take offence and his willingness to forgive even her most egregious examples of bad temper and insult. A leech clung without regard to its host and gorged on its life-giving blood until sated, but then dropped away. Woodforde gently reminded her that he would be there to support and challenge her always. It annoyed Emmeline most because if he knew who she really was, Rogue and Crone … if he ever truly understood her, he would recoil in horror from her unfeminine views and ambitions.
But she had learned well, as every women must, how to dissemble. And she did want a favor from him, after all. She smiled and took his other offered arm for support—though it required him to tuck his walking stick under his arm to do so—as they mounted the steps. “Thank you, Woodforde,” she said gently, “for your thoughtfulness.”
He glanced sideways at her and did not reply.
As always, the Dionysus, owned and managed by Emmeline’s acquaintance and a member of the same literary group, a gentleman named Mr. Lessington, was full, even at such a season as this when all the supposed “best” of society had retreated to country homes and estates. There were more than enough bankers and merchants, lawyers and judges, doctors and brewers to fill the space. Sir Jacob’s box was on the second tier in the center. As they slowly made their way along dark red paneled halls and stairways, through the crowd, which would not disperse until the trumpet sounded for the opening of the opera ballet, Emmeline listened in on conversations, a stream of gossip through which they forded, little snippets barely audible in a roar of chatter.
“She’s just waiting for John to die,” one woman muttered to her friend as Emmeline stood close by, trapped by the crowd. “She has a second husband in her sights, a younger one more—how shall I say this delicately?—capable of making her happy.”
“How shocking!” her friend said as she tittered behind her fan, then employed it to waft a slight breeze to her damp forehead in the increasing heat of the throng. “But to be expected; if he will not die swiftly, mayhap she will help him along?”
“You are terrible!” the other woman said, giggling and hitting her friend with her folded fan.
John, John … Emmeline covertly examined the two; she recognized them and knew their social circle enough to be sure that “John” was Sir John Hackford, who had been ill with a wasting disease that left him bedridden. So his wife had a lover? Interesting tidbit for the Rogue to expound upon. Surely their talk of poison was just malice? Or not. T’would not be the first time a soul was helped along on his journey to Saint Peter at the pearly gates for taking too long to die. A barely concealed hint in her column would, mayhap, save the fellow’s life, such as it was.
The jam of attendees was momentarily loosened and the three of them surged ahead. Woodforde bent his head to listen to Fidelity as she spoke softly to him. Emmeline pricked up her ears to catch more gossip and scandal.
“It’s shocking,” a gentleman said to his wife as he opened the door to their box. “I do not hold with men marrying the nanny, you know. And he a widower of just a month!” His wife, a woman with a thin bitter mouth, said, “He had to marry her and quickly, or face the gossip that would ensue six or seven months hence.”
Emmeline’s eyes widened but she did not recognize the two, and so had no way of figuring out who had hastily married his enceinte nanny. If Gillies had accompanied them she would have employed her maid to discover the couple in question.
They were almost to her uncle’s box when she heard her name called and turned. Lady Clara, on the arm of a very brown, tall gentleman dressed impeccably in russet, smiled brightly and summoned her over.
“Excuse me, Woodforde,” Emmeline said, removing her arm from the crook of his and moving toward her fellow Crone through a noisy stream of patrons, nodding and smiling to those she recognized. “Good evening, Lady Clara. How are you?”
“I’m well.” Clara indicated the man beside her with a negligent wave of her fan. “Miss Emmeline St. Germaine, this is Mr. Elijah Jeffcock.”
“Mr. Jeffcock,” Emmeline said with a cool nod, holding out her hand. He took her fingers and bowed over them.
An older woman joined them that moment but ignored Emmeline. She took Clara’s arm and tugged, then said, “We must go, child. Mr. Jeffcock, come along.”
“I’d like to speak with my friend,” Lady Clara said, pulling her arm from the woman’s grasp.
“Clara, no nonsense, not when we’ve got everything settled. You behave, if you please.”
“Yes, Aunt,” she said and turned to Emmeline, her eyes shining, moisture welling in them that belied the brittle smile on her lovely face. “My aunt is terribly worried that I will act up, Miss St. Germaine,” she said with an arch rise to her brow. “She will not wish a scandal, particularly not before my engagement is announced in the papers two days hence.”
Emmeline gasped. “Your … your engagement?”
“Yes. Mr. Jeffcock came here all the way from Jamaica to impose upon my family how much he wishes to marry me,” she said with a forced brightness of tone, her voice brittle and shrill with tension. Her aunt watched her closely, as did Mr. Jeffcock. “And they have agreed. Mr. Jeffcock owns sugar plantations with a thousand slaves! Men, women, children, even … and he owns them all.”
“Now, Clara, I do not own a thousand,” the gentleman demurred.
But Lady Clara went on as if he had not spoken, her eyes glittering with a hectic gleam. Two spots of high color on her cheeks had no artificial source. “Is it not a brilliant match?” She stared at Emmeline, her stance rigid, her gloved fingers clutching into the fabric of her fiancé’s jacket sleeve as she fluttered h
er feather fan with her free hand. “He is very wealthy; is that not true, Mr. Jeffcock? You’ve certainly told me of your vast holdings often enough, and have I not seen them myself? In person? Alone?”
“I’ll leave you to speak with your friend, Clara,” he murmured, and released his fiancée. He bowed to Emmeline. “Miss St. Germaine, your servant.”
“What’s going on?” Emmeline asked her, watching her colleague’s fiancé and aunt together, whispering. “Is he the one … Addy said …” She didn’t have words. “Didn’t he …?”
“Yes and yes,” Lady Clara said, her voice trembling. “But I don’t have a choice, don’t you see?” Her tone was laced with a high, keening thread of desperation. “My father has made it clear. This was inevitable, and what I want matters not a bit. Like Juliette Espanson, I either marry the husband of his and my aunt’s choice or retire to the country to live out my life in splendid solitude.”
Emmeline felt sympathy for her; she had been in a similar position herself, but her father’s death had prevented that fate. Leopold was easier to manipulate since he truly did not care what she did as long as she didn’t disgrace the family, and he safeguarded that by having a respectable widow at her side and a snoop of a butler in his employ.
“Wouldn’t that be better than a life sentence of marriage?” she asked. “You don’t know what may happen tomorrow, or the day after, if you hold out.”
With a flicker of knowledge in her eyes, Lady Clara’s lips twisted in a wry half-mile. “My father’s death would hand me over to some male equally as difficult. There is no evading this fate; I must marry, and it doesn’t much signify who the man is. Jeffcock is capable of making me miserable married or unmarried, for he will pursue and haunt and badger me. If we marry, I hope to bore him so deeply that he will leave me in peace. He has promised I may stay in England, at least.” Her chin went up. “I will have it in the marriage settlement. I will not immure myself in some country estate nunnery or go back to Jamaica. Why should I give up my whole life to retain what little is left of my dignity?” Her voice was thick with emotion. “At least this way I can bury myself in dissipation and good works.”
But the cost! Emmeline thought. And there was no way Jeffcock would leave her alone until she had borne him children. She was about to protest, but Lady Clara put up one gloved hand. “No. Enough about me! I may be supremely fortune; Jeffcock may die. He is bilious enough. I have information, and I have a problem. We need to talk at more length than this place will allow. What church do you attend?”
“All Saints in Chelsea on the Cheyne Walk, steps away from my home.”
“Is there anything there of historic interest?”
Emmeline watched her eyes, the moisture still glinting in the light from the candle sconce, and nodded. “Yes, very much. There are some historic books of importance, and it was the parish church of Sir Thomas More.”
“That’s enough for me to justify a Sabbath visit. Jeffcock approves of old churches as a destination for me, but will not go with us so far, as English history bores him. He is interested only in commerce. Meet me at the service tomorrow.” Clara smiled brightly, waved to her fiancé, and left Emmeline staring after her, wondering what was going on.
Woodforde had escorted Fidelity to her seat in the box and returned, waiting some distance away for Emmeline to finish with Lady Clara. He came to her, bowed, and offered her his arm. “Your friend seems troubled.”
“She is newly engaged.”
“A cause for celebration.”
“Not always, Dr. Woodforde. Not always.”
He gave her a concerned look.
The theater party awaiting her in Sir Jacob’s box included some of the people who had been present at his dinner party. Mr. Wilkins rose as she entered, leaning heavily on his cane. Miss Gottschalk smiled and nodded. Her uncle nodded, but as Mr. Wilkins went right back to speaking to him earnestly in a loud whisper, Emmeline did not approach. Dr. Woodforde had already helped Fidelity find a seat near the corner of the box, away from the men, where she could enjoy the play undisturbed by the chatter. Woodforde’s kindness was beyond question, and Emmeline appreciated his courtesy to her friend and companion, who was sensitive and sometimes fragile. He had reserved for her a seat where she could best see the occupants of the other boxes and those in the pits below. How well the good doctor knew her! She thanked him and sat, opening her fan, a useful tool not only for air but also for concealing a conversation or an object of inspection.
She brightly looked around, nodding to those she knew, letting her attention apparently rove. A box on the same tier as theirs was occupied by a lovely woman, soberly gowned in dark blue, with little in the way of adornment but her richly curled hair, which gleamed in the lamplight. There were several men, and Emmeline’s eyes finally sorted from the pack a familiar face: Simeon!
After meeting his gaze and almost imperceptibly nodding, she examined those seated with him. The lovely lady to his left was his wife, she thought, and others were Jewish associates and acquaintances. Simeon was active in his community, which did the best it could to protect their Hebrew brethren, and advocated for more freedoms for people of their religion. Jewish emancipation in England seemed a distant dream, but one toward which Simeon worked as fervently as the Roman Catholics of the nation worked toward theirs.
Meeting Simeon had changed Emmeline’s life. Learning that he was the owner of The Prattler, taking the chance to trust him and propose to him her column as the Rogue, and finding so many intersections between his radical beliefs and her own had opened to her a world of secret opposition. Emmeline’s mission in life was to aid the disenfranchised, and since that numbered the whole of the population but for wealthy, landowning Englishmen, she knew it would be a lifelong undertaking.
“Who are those people?” Woodforde murmured.
“I beg your pardon? What people?” Emmeline asked, startled by how close Woodforde was.
“The ones in the box; the ones you were watching. The lady in the blue and the gentlemen with her.”
“I don’t know them. I thought I recognized the lady, but I was wrong. In truth, you catch me absently staring and planning my literary soiree.” She smiled at him. “What time is it?”
Woodforde pulled a pocket watch out of his waistcoat. “Eight.”
“I’m eager for the performance. My uncle says the dancer is extraordinary—quite the rage—and I long to see her.”
Two chairs away, Miss Gottschalk was speaking with the newly arrived Mrs. Yarbrough, whose husband took the seat beyond her and joined in the conversation with Wilkins and Sir Jacob. The young German lady said loudly, “I find the notion of a female killer extraordinary, that is all. I’ve heard that all of Clerkenwell is on alert for this supposed female murderess.”
Emmeline’s mouth went dry. Mrs. Yarbrough murmured something, to which Miss Gottschalk derisively replied, “I don’t believe for a moment that a woman slit him from one end to the other. It is not possible.”
“I beg your pardon—do you speak of the tragedy in Clerkenwell?” Emmeline asked, knowing that she must appear as normally curious as she always did about such notorious events, or Woodforde would wonder.
Miss Gottschalk turned. “What else is on the tongues of the people?”
“I, too, have heard that the murderer was some masked, cloaked woman,” Emmeline replied. “There are even drawings said to be from descriptions of the housekeeper, or the cook … something like that?”
The younger lady made a noise behind her teeth. “Ach, yes, the Avengeress or some such nonsense.”
“But there are witnesses to a female being in the house and threatening the gentleman earlier that evening, is that not true?”
“Of course, but because there was a woman there earlier, and the gentleman was murdered later, does not imply that the woman murdered the man.”
Emmeline lauded such exquis
ite reasoning. She examined Miss Gottschalk with some interest. She had dismissed her as vapid, but now thought that perhaps the lady did not talk if she had nothing to say, a refreshing change from those who spoke incessantly about nothing. “Woodforde and I were speaking of the crime at Sir Jacob’s last night. I tend to agree with you that the killer was not likely the female from earlier. It is lazy reasoning to think so.”
“Nonsense,” boomed a male voice. It was Wilkins. He rapped his cane on the box railing between them. “Perfectly good reasoning. Someone threatens a man and he turns up dead—the one who threatened did it.”
“I’m sure most of society would agree with you,” Emmeline replied, watching his fiancée’s face. The young woman had stiffened and once again her expression blanked. She pushed away the cane, which appeared to have lost its cap, exposing the battered wood that attested to his rough usage of it. If he wasn’t careful it would catch on the delicate fabric of his fiancée’s gown.
“It entirely makes sense! You ladies just don’t want a woman to be blamed. Can’t have it both ways, you know; can’t be considered a whole human but not capable of murder.”
“I don’t believe I said a woman was incapable of murder,” Emmeline said sharply. “In fact—”
“The fellow was a fine upstanding citizen and business man,” Wilkins bellowed. “Know his brewery well; his partner was my father’s childhood friend.”
“You did happen to mention at my uncle’s dinner that he was a member of your club, and now the partner of a childhood friend. How coincidental,” Emmeline said stiffly.
“I know most everyone in London, some way or another. Take our canal company. How do you think we brought our fellow investors together?” he said, winking at Emmeline’s uncle. “Businessmen with the same habits and likes and dislikes. That not so, Sir Jacob?”
Sir Jacob wore an expression of distaste on his florid face. Emmeline knew him well enough to believe that he was embarrassed by the brashness of his associate, who had clearly not been raised as a gentleman. “What habits would those be?” she asked, her tone frigid.
A Gentlewoman's Guide to Murder Page 13