A Gentlewoman's Guide to Murder

by Victoria Hamilton

  But the answer, unimportant given the subject, was lost in the blare of trumpets announcing the performance was to begin. The conversation had started Emmeline thinking; a man like Claybourne, in a highly competitive business and with a personal life fraught with horrible secrets, was bound to have enemies who would, perhaps, take advantage of the threat to him that evening to do away with him. If they had heard about it, of course, which offered two possible lines of investigation: she had already wondered who in the brewing industry might hate him, but also, who could learn of the threat to him so swiftly? That was necessarily a small group, surely, and there were likely no people who fit in both groups. The more useful line of inquiry was to ask who among his personal circle hated him. It was possible the two groups intersected; his partner at the brewery was possibly both colleague and friend.

  The painted backdrop of the opening act was pastoral, a dreamy vision of an idyllic meadow of wildflowers, and the music, when it started, was lighthearted. A singer fluted through an impassioned French ballad, a trio of female dancers followed with folk music from the Iberian peninsula, and then there was a brief break as a new backdrop was wheeled out. It, too, was pastoral, in dreamy tints and with a distant misty mountain in purples and mauves.

  “This is her, Beatrice de Montignac,” Sir Jacob whispered, leaning forward from his chair, behind and to the left of Emmeline’s. “Remember to tell me what you think. I find her enchanting.”

  And she was. Her light, delicate skirts belled and tossed, with froths of lace like seafoam underneath. She almost paused on her tiptoes, and her leaps were spectacular. When her male partner arrived it was anticlimactic. Once the performance was over, there was a break, and movement in the boxes was general.

  “What did you think?” Sir Jacob asked. “Shall I invest in a new protégé?” His eyes twinkled.

  Woodforde moved uncomfortably, and Emmeline concealed a smile; her physician friend was ill at ease with the implications that Sir Jacob was asking his niece if he should take Miss de Montignac as his mistress. “Uncle, you must do exactly what you wish,” she replied. “She is exquisite, I will grant you, and talented, too. But excuse me; I am going to see if my friend Lady Clara Langdon is about. I wish to speak to her about our literary salon next week.”

  “I will accompany you,” Woodforde said, rising in his seat.

  “Oh, Doctor,” Fidelity said after a swift look from Emmeline, “I was so hoping I could impose upon you to obtain refreshments. I am parched, but you know I do not like a crush.”

  Gracious as always, Woodforde bowed and sat down by her to discover what she wished. Emmeline escaped. From a distance she saw Simeon but was at a loss how to speak with him without drawing notice from her group.

  He solved her dilemma by swiftly walking past her and getting his cuff button “caught” on the lace of her sleeve. “I beg your pardon, miss. Let me untangle this button,” he said loudly.

  “Why, thank you, sir!” she answered, then muttered, “What’s going on?”

  “The magistrate himself came to the newspaper office today while I was absent for Shabbat. My best fellow, a gentile who looks after things on the Sabbath, sent me a note. I put them off, but will speak to them tomorrow. I must, for it seems they will keep coming back until I convince them I know nothing.”

  “What do you think they want? You’ve already said you will not tell them who the Rogue is,” Emmeline said. As a gentleman came too close, looking askance, she said in her loudest, snippiest tone, “This is so tangled, sir! Please be careful. The lace is best Mechlin, very fragile.”

  “I will endeavor not to tear it, miss; such an unfortunate happening.” Simeon lowered his voice, bent over the lace at her wrist, and said, “I know, I know. But they appear intent on forcing me to comply. They told my fellow that I must let them know who the Rogue is, for he seems to have information about Sir Henry. And now a visit from the magistrate himself, not just his men.”

  “What can we do?”

  “I don’t know. Fortunately, no one at the newspaper knows your identity. I won’t tell them your name, dear Miss St. Germaine, no matter what I have to do to avoid it.”

  “Simeon, there is so much I need to discover, but I have none of the contacts that you do. Listen.” Emmeline spoke in a low tone, but rapidly. “Find out whatever you can about a man called Ratter, who was seen in the area several times; he has a little dog with him always. He was seen arguing with Sir Henry that night. Also, anything you can discover on the haberdasher and his sister, Mr. Benjamin and Miss Aloisia Hargreaves. Their business is on Samuel Street, and their back courtyard is opposite Sir Henry’s. They are, I think, the source of information on that night to the magistrate and some of the writers, maybe even your own, but I’m uncertain. Miss Hargreaves claims that Sir Henry insulted her, but she lied at first about where. She was visiting Lady Claybourne, and I’m not convinced she is telling the truth about why.”

  “I will write you a note and keep you informed.” Simeon straightened and said in a louder voice, “We are untangled, miss. My deepest apologies!” He bowed and walked back to his family group. His wife looked down the long expanse toward her, curiosity in her expression evident even from such a distance.

  “What was that about, my dear?” Sir Jacob, carrying two frosty glasses of cold wine, joined her.

  She told him the fiction, about the tangled cuff button and her lace.

  “It doesn’t appear that the lace was hurt by it,” her uncle said, with a glance at her wrist.

  “No, and that is what took so long,” Emmeline replied, hoping he didn’t notice the tremor in her voice. “He was exceedingly careful.”

  “He looks familiar. Who is he?”

  “I didn’t catch his name. Is that glass for me? Shall we return to our box?”

  Sir Jacob was watching her face, holding the glass away, a worried frown twisting his lips. “Emmeline, my dear niece, I know you far too well. I hope you are not getting into any trouble?”

  “Of course not, dear Uncle. What trouble could I possibly get into at the theater? I do hope that wine is for me because I am perishing of thirst. I don’t see Lady Clara. Let’s return to the box. I don’t want to miss the second act.”

  “Certainly. How odd, though, that the fellow was heading this way, but after disentangling from your lace he just went back to his group.”

  She shrugged and reentered Sir Jacob’s box.

  Fifteen

  Josephs hunkered down in his chair at the Bridge and Bezel, letting the chatter and smoke swirl around him. Miss St. Germaine knew so little about taverns. She had assumed it would be a simple matter for him to slide in, drink a tankard of ale, and chat, but he was a newcomer. Newcomers were suspect.

  He had spread it around, by way of the landlord, that he was waiting while his mistress was at a local theater and had happened upon this tavern because it was close by and not crowded. One or two toughs had eyed him, watching his level of inebriation, no doubt, and assessing the fullness of his purse, but they lost interest once it was clear he was a temperate drinker with a few coins to spend on a pint or two.

  After an hour or so, a stout, bosomy woman entered, sweeping in on a wave of cool air, and was hailed familiarly by the landlord, a tankard plopped down at what must have been her habitual seat by a window overlooking the narrow, dark street. She was florid, her sleeves pushed up over strong forearms even on this chilly October evening. She was a working woman, likely a cook or a washerwoman judging by her strength, which was gained by punching down dough or handling heavy, wet clothes.

  A couple of ribald exchanges with locals later and he knew that she was in fact the Claybourne cook. She drank deep and gustily. Josephs became bolder and watched with open admiration, catching her eye and nodding; the first, most gentle overture to a woman, he had always found. He hailed the landlord and ordered for her a pitcher of his finest ale, which
coincidentally came from the Clerkenwell brewing house co-owned by Sir Henry Claybourne.

  After she’d downed a couple of tankards, Josephs sat down opposite her and introduced himself, chatting about his day. He had brought his sightseeing mistress to view the horrible site where the infamous murder had taken place. He casually mentioned that he was the driver who had chased off the fellow who was hitting the Claybourne housekeeper with her own broom. He drank deeply, wiped the ale foam from his lips, and pronounced it the best ale he’d had for quite some time.

  “That there be from the dead man, Sir ’Enry’s brewery, yer know. ’E were my master. I ’eard about what you did from Mrs. Young, the ’ousekeeper,” she said.

  “You don’t say! ’Ow about that.” Josephs clinked his tankard against hers. “’Ere’s to yer! An’ yer master, God rest ’is soul.”

  “God won’t rest ’is soul … more like old Satan, ’is chum,” she snarled, her lips twisted.

  He gave her a surprised look.

  She was in the right state of drunkenness when lips were loosened, but she still made sense. “’E were wicked … liked to tup little girls. T’were why that masked woman coom t’take away the little scullery maid.” She told him of Molly’s rescue, describing the masked woman’s gleaming bloodshot eyes and horrid talons.

  “I ’ear she coom back then, th’masked lady, t’kill Sir ’Enry?” Josephs said, scrubbing the beginning growth of whiskers on his chin.

  The cook took another long draught. She shook her head. “Nah!”

  “But any woman capable of kidnapping a child—”

  The woman, her breath yeasty from an ale belch, leaned across the table. “Struth, dontcher listen? She were takin’ the mort to pertect ’er.”

  Three pints of ale and she had spilled the tale; that’s all it had taken. How long before the magistrate was told about the Avengeress and her mission to protect scullery maids? How long before Miss St. Germaine’s group was exposed? “Mebbe it ain’t a good idear ter tell no one else about it?” he said. Though maybe the man being a foul rapist had led someone else to kill him, and the magistrate needed to know about Claybourne’s sins. P’raps he should keep his big trap shut and try to find out what the mistress wanted to know. As the cook looked befuddled, Josephs added, “Nay, lass, never mind. Drink up. ’Oo do you figger kill’t yer master?”

  “The devil hisself,” she said, nodding wisely. “Feller as come to th’door bringin’ that poor wee lassie, mayhap.”

  Gillies had told him all about the man named Ratter, but Josephs couldn’t seem to know too much or even in her befuddled state she might wonder. “What d’yer mean?” he asked.

  “Ere, listen; t’were us as fixed it, yer see.” She and the housekeeper had heard that there was someone who would steal Molly away to safety and so had arranged it, she told Josephs. After the masked woman left with Molly, Sir Henry appeared to suspect her and the housekeeper of being in league with the Avengeress, but they denied it. “T’were a awful scene!” Partridge said. “’E was red as a boiled lobster and shriekin’ like!”

  Josephs narrowed his eyes and watched the drunken cook. Did Sir Henry’s suspicion of them cause one of them to lash out and kill him? The housekeeper was strong and had a temper. Maybe. Maybe not. “’Ow’d you get in tooch with th’masked woman in the first place?”

  She shrugged. “Carn’t ’member.” She took another long draught and slipped sideways, sagging drunkenly. “Might’ve bin the maid next door ’oo knew someone, ’oo knew someone, y’know what I mean? But ’ere … that never coom from me!”

  Laboriously, Josephs pulled more of the story out of her about the evening after Miss Emmeline’s departure. Sir Henry had not called the magistrate right away. Instead he had sent little Noah, the potboy, out with two notes, but to whom she didn’t know. She had retired for the evening and the housekeeper had done the same. She knew no more until the ruckus the next morning, when Sir Henry’s body was discovered. She did know from the potboy himself that he had come back and was sent to the attic to sleep rather than in the kitchen by the fire, as was usual.

  “Who sent ’im to the attic?”

  “T’marster, o’ course,” the cook said, trying to sit up straight. She yawned hugely.

  Sir Henry didn’t want witnesses to something or someone, but to what, Josephs didn’t know. By then the cook was so deep in her cups that she was making no more sense. The housekeeper, Mrs. Young, harsh-featured and scowling, came to the tavern door and glanced around. She marched over, tugged the cook up to her feet, and gave Josephs a squinty look. She recognized him from the skirmish but said not a word, hauling the woman away.

  It was time to return to the theater for Miss St. Germaine and the Comtesse. Josephs headed to the livery, tipped the groom, and made his way back to the Dionysus Theater through moonlit streets, deep in thought.

  When Josephs arrived at the theater to convey them home, he gave Emmeline a significant look and a nod, but as Woodforde was there to hand her into the carriage, she could not question him. It would wait until the morrow. She had used the time she had at the theater well, and Woodforde was secured as an escort for Monday afternoon. She wished to investigate a brewery, she had told him, as an investment for a portion of her inheritance if Leopold should agree.

  A restless night, followed by more horrible morning headlines referring to the murderous female, left her with a headache, but Emmeline knew she must go to church. Lady Clara’s bleak face remained vivid in her memory. Whatever was troubling her, Emmeline could not fail her. It must be gravely important.

  November was almost upon them. The open river provided passage for more than just water; a cold wind often swept down it, rippling the water with tiny wavelets. Even on a Sunday, boats plied their trade, ferries crossing back and forth. That would change, perhaps, when the new Vauxhall Bridge was built, but although it was designed and approved, construction was not scheduled to begin for some time. It was a gentle walk to All Saints, long enough that she could have asked for the carriage if Fidelity was accompanying her. But her companion, after the night at the theater, was weary. Emmeline, wrapped in a warm cloak against the chill, walked with Gillies, who had spoken to Josephs and was able to relay to her mistress all he had discovered.

  Listening to the tale, Emmeline was horrified at the amount the cook had divulged to a stranger about her own and the housekeeper’s actions. It would be far too easy for the magistrate to get the same tale from the woman, and if they questioned long enough, it was possible they would uncover a trail the led directly back to the Crones, and so to Emmeline. In the newspapers there was a common cry; men of standing demanded answers. The unnatural woman who raided homes and stole away scullery maids must be found and punished. Most assumed she was also guilty of Sir Henry’s murder. Poor Sir Henry had been threatened in his own home, and then murdered. It stood to reason the Avengeress was guilty.

  She could understand the neatness of that surmise. If she didn’t know better, perhaps she would be arguing the same conclusion. The simplest answer was so often the correct answer.

  But not this time.

  When Gillies had relayed everything, Emmeline said, “Sir Henry expected someone to be coming, clearly, as a result of the notes he sent, and he didn’t want the potboy underfoot to hear what was said, so he sent him up to the attic to sleep. But why not go off somewhere with his visitors to talk? He was master of the house, not a servant, and he could do whatever he wanted.”

  “P’raps he didnae trust them,” Gillies offered.

  “That makes sense. But why bring the people to his home, then? And why that night? He must have been very alarmed by my visit.” A breeze blew stiffer, wafting the ineffable scent of effluent and fish, and then was then scrubbed clean as a stronger wind started tossing the trees on the riverbank. Clouds overhead sped inland. “He must have wanted to speak with them privately,” Emmeline mused. �
��Perhaps he had a task for them. Or wished information, though he couldn’t know what to ask until he saw them in person. It could be that he asked the men to come to his home to give them an assignment, even to find me.” She shivered and drew her cloak closer. “Or he suspected I had been sent by someone he knew, as a warning to him. Who knew of his proclivities besides the servants?”

  “His ladywife, surely, miss.”

  “Perhaps. Though Sally, the scullery maid previous to Molly, says that Lady Claybourne was indisposed most of the time, with laudanum or spirits.” She paused and stood, gazing with unseeing eyes out over the river, which was churned to a muddy gray-brown and rippled by the intensifying wind. “I am operating blind, feeling my way through a mystery that endangers me, in ways I cannot know, from the law and the villains both. Who is this man, Ratter, the one with the little dog? Did Sir Henry send for him? And who else did he send for, if he sent two notes that night? We know Ratter came alone, and that there were two other men who also arrived and argued with Sir Henry. Either party could have killed him.”

  “Aye, miss. One more thing: the cook told Josephs perhaps they first lairned how to contact the group of ladies to rescue Molly through the next door neighbor’s maid, but she didnae say naught else.”

  The blocky tower of All Saints, with its square cupola, was in view above the rooftops. Lady Clara, with her maid, was awaiting Emmeline. They entered together into the lovely old chapel, the whispers of the congregation echoing and floating like fall leaves, and took their place in the St. Germaine family pew. Gillies and her ladyship’s maid, a sensible-looking girl of about twenty, sat together as Emmeline and her fellow Crone took the less prominent seats at the far end, where they could talk in confidence.

  “What did you wish to speak of?” Emmeline asked.