A Gentlewoman's Guide to Murder
Page 17
Fidelity, it turned out, simply wanted to be rescued from a particularly tiresome member of the literary society. Mr. Lessington then followed Emmeline and sat down next to Fidelity for a good long coze over hot, black Congou; Miss Juliette Espanson and Lady Sherringdon joined them. Fidelity seemed more at ease once surrounded by friends. Emmeline, however, was disturbed by her conversation with the theater owner and could not relax for the rest of the afternoon.
She learned a lot of gossip, but given that it was at an event in her own home, she knew the Rogue would not be able to use it. Lady Sherringdon took the opportunity to whisper of another scullery maid she had found who needed rescuing. But Adelaide had her own method to take care of it, and already had a place for the child to go to.
The only other spot of interest was when Juliette Espanson slipped a note into her hand and whispered that it was from Miss Dorcas Harvey. The suggestion it contained was so exactly what Emmeline needed and wanted that it seemed impossible, and yet there it was: on the morrow, Emmeline had an entrée into the Claybourne home accompanying Dorcas’s employer and posing as Dorcas. It was risky, but nothing would be gained without risk, she had decided when she began as the Avengeress.
Emmeline lay abed the next morning, making a list in her mind of possible suspects in the brutal murder of Sir Henry Claybourne. She must suspect Lady Claybourne and every member of Sir Henry’s household staff. The only one of his household she could unequivocally say did not kill him was Molly, who had been on her way to her new situation at the time of the knight’s death. The case against all of the serving staff and his wife was that Sir Henry was a loathsome man with despicable habits, and who knew that better than his family and servants?
Then there was Mr. Wright, his brewery business partner, as well as his other, more mysterious business partners. Mr. Wright had said that Sir Henry was caught up in business with new, higher-toned partners, a venture that had him ignoring the brewery. Perhaps Mr. Wilkins, who had admitted to knowing Sir Henry, would know what else the brewer may have been involved in. It was tricky to imagine how she would mine Mr. Wilkins for such information, though.
There was also Mr. Benjamin Hargreaves and his sister, Aloisia. Miss Hargreaves had supposedly been insulted, and Mr. Hargreaves was angry about that. In addition, she was concealing something about her visits to Lady Claybourne’s bedside. Weak, but interesting.
And then there were the Crones. Emmeline knew she didn’t do it, but had a Crone—perhaps Lady Clara Langdon—set her up to appear guilty while she dispatched the man? She worried at the idea; there was slim evidence Lady Clara had had anything to do with it, but for a bloody glove and a coolly vicious response to Sir Henry’s death. She appeared to be trying to help in Emmeline’s pursuit of the murdering wretch, but still … there was something not quite right about the lady, though that didn’t make her a killer.
Last but most certainly not least, there were, she hoped, the most likely villains: Ratter, perhaps in cooperation with the two men with whom the knight had argued after Emmeline’s raid of his home. Had he summoned them? Who would know? The potboy had been dispatched with notes, but to whom were the notes sent?
She must not become committed to the notion that Ratter, alone or in collusion with the two unknown men, had committed the bloody murder. She would follow her plan to visit the orphanage Lady Clara had mentioned; it seemed likely that Ratter had gotten Molly, and Sally before her, from an orphanage to satisfy Sir Henry’s disgusting desires. Perhaps it had stopped there, and with the client dead, there would be no more children maltreated.
Gillies came in carrying a tray. She set it down on the dressing table and drew back the curtains, letting in a drift of misty light. The tray held a cup of hot black tea and the morning’s post. There was, Emmeline was pleased to see, a long, gossipy letter from “Miss S. Kinsman”—Simeon—with cleverly phrased answers to her muttered requests at the theater. They had, since she had begun writing the Rogue column, drafted a kind of shorthand, code words that enabled them to correspond on subjects not otherwise suitable for two young ladies.
Simeon wrote: That new haberdasher has a pet, a big and vicious dog, that he is deeply concerned about. His sister, Miss A, is worried too, so much so that she has taken to selling off her possessions to look after it! But where does a young lady like that get a ruby brooch? One asks oneself.
How interesting, Emmeline thought, taking a long sip of tea. She shared what it meant with Gillies, who was bustling around arranging the necessary clothing and accessories for the day. “Simeon says that Mr. Hargreaves is in an enormous amount of debt—rhymes with pet, you see—and is deeply worried. His sister is concerned about it too—I have noted how threadbare their living accommodations—and has pawned a ruby brooch. Simeon wonders where someone so impoverished would acquire a ruby brooch.”
Gillies frowned as she laid out a pair of green calf gloves. “Mayhap a family heirloom?”
“Perhaps. Or a gift from a grateful Sir Henry, if they were having an affair?” Emmeline shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense. He didn’t seem the type to give gifts to young ladies. He had other interests.”
“This haberdasher’s sister were in the Claybourne house?” Gillies asked. Emmeline nodded. “P’raps she snatched the bauble from Lady Claybourne’s nightstand, or some such if she visited the lady in her chambers?”
“Good thought, Gillies. Maybe she lifted it and pawned it to help her brother. If Sir Henry found out and threatened her, it would give the Hargreaves a motive to kill him rather than risk the noose or transportation.” She shook her head. “Just so much supposition so far.”
“I can mayhap track down Tommy again. Or the little gairl, Fanny, what works for the Hargreaves. She’s their only servant, and I’d lay a wager knows more than they suspect.”
Emmeline drank the rest of her cold tea and swung her feet over the edge of her bed, ready to face the day. “If you can find anything out, I’d welcome the information, but I won’t have Tommy in danger. And that girl, Fanny … she seemed a frightened little thing. Is it wise to ask her questions she may relay back to her mistress?”
“Dinna fash yourself, Miss Emmeline. I know how to go on. What d’ye have planned for the day?”
“I have a surprise quest, first thing, and I must hurry,” she said. She retrieved Dorcas Harvey’s note from her Bible on the nightstand and unfolded it. “I’m taken aback, but Miss Harvey, who is companion to an elderly dragon of an aunt, I understand, has managed to engage her employer’s aid to get me into Lady Claybourne’s home, posing as Dorcas.”
Gillies gasped and whirled. “Miss, is that not dangerous? What did she confide in the lady that made this possible?”
“I don’t know the whole story yet, but I’m alarmed as well. Since the plan has been set in motion, I have little choice but to see it through, at least to meeting the elderly woman in Clerkenwell.”
“But what makes her think she’ll be admitted to Lady Claybourne’s house?”
“The lady is related to Sir Henry.” Emmeline smiled grimly and sighed. “Odd how things work. I do want an opportunity to judge if any one of the inhabitants killed the man. Afterwards, Josephs will drive me north, to Camden Town. I am to visit an orphanage there supported by Lady Clara Langdon. The wardress may have information on Ratter, and she also may know of other orphanages at which to inquire.”
“I can ride with you—tell Mr. Birk we’re goin’ shopping, or to visit—an’ you can let me off near Sir Henry’s, then get me when you coom back that way from Camden Town.”
“I couldn’t possibly—”
“Miss, please!” Gillies turned from her tidying work, her lined face twisted in grief. “Every day I think of all the bairns in London an’ beyond, all the wee ones abused and battered. Poor wee Tommy, black wi’ soot, who we saved from that frightful man, and all the other dear little ones. No one cares a scrap for them, but
I pray every night for their salvation, miss. Let me do my part.”
Emmeline examined the woman’s face, the welling moisture in her eyes, the pain of loss still tormenting her soul. “Gillies, by investigating, I hope to bring whomever killed Sir Henry to the noose. And yet Sir Henry was one of those who abused the children you care for.”
“Aye, but I have a dread feeling in me bones, miss.” Gillies put one worn hand on her muslin-covered chest. “The man was murdered for something he were involved in, an’ it could be something to do with the wee lassies he mistreated.” She sat down on the chair in front of the dressing table. “P’raps by finding the truth, we can save more o’ the gairls. I crave to help, miss.”
Emmeline swallowed hard as she gazed over at Gillies, so much more than a lady’s maid to her. Gillies had goals of her own to achieve. As her mistress, it was in Emmeline’s power to help or hinder, and she would not deny the woman her request. “All right. I don’t need to warn you to be careful. It will be a long day, though.”
“Aye. An’ the same to you, miss. Now, let’s get you dressed for a day of travel.”
Eighteen
Gillies, on the lookout for Tommy, departed the carriage on Samuel Street. Josephs turned onto Chandler Lane, where the antiquated and rarely used carriage of Miss Philberta Honeychurch, as described in the note from Dorcas, was pulled close to the edge of the narrow lane by the open green space. The driver leaped down gracefully and stood by the carriage door. With Josephs’ aid, Emmeline climbed down from her carriage, gathered her cloak around her, and approached the other coach, evading a laundress carrying a stack of linens on her shoulder.
The driver ignored her, staring straight ahead, so she rapped smartly on the door. It was flung open from within. Dorcas grabbed her arm and hauled her into the cracked and worn dark leather interior. Her fellow Crone appeared disheveled, red-faced, and unnerved. She mumbled introductions and Emmeline turned to regard Miss Honeychurch, not sure what to expect.
The woman was indubitably well into her eighties, as Dorcas had once confided in a Crones meeting. Her face was wizened, and her mouth drawn together into a meager, wrinkle-circled gash. Her teeth had all been pulled out many years ago, Emmeline supposed. Her eyes were dark, like currants set in folds of pale flesh, but they glittered with awareness.
“Go away, Dorcas, to the tea shop and get yourself a bun,” the woman said, her voice creaky, like an unoiled door hinge. “Miss
St. Germaine and I have much to discuss.”
“I’d rather you stayed, Dorcas, and—”
“Afraid of me, girl?” the woman said, and cackled, a croak that ended on a wheeze. Her wig and cap slid sideways. Dorcas righted it and then retreated toward the door, watching them, her eyes narrowed.
Looking at Miss Honeychurch, Emmeline was vividly reminded of a rude image that had been printed ten or so years earlier, entitled Old Maids Leading Apes. It depicted several old maids in that endeavor, the central one with a nose arching down and a chin arching up, and referred to the old proverb stating that an unmarried woman’s fate was to lead apes to hell.
“I’m not afraid of you, ma’am,” she replied calmly. “You can go, Dorcas, if you like, but not on my account.”
“She’ll do as she’s told,” the woman said coldly. Dorcas scuttled out, the carriage rocking, and slammed the door behind her.
“Henry Claybourne was my nephew, you know … or what is called a great nephew, I suppose, the son of my niece. She was a stupid girl with stupid children, who have all gotten killed in one ridiculous way or another,” Miss Honeychurch said, her tone sour. “Why would you wish to find his murderer when the fellow did our country a great favor by removing him? Probably did his widow a favor too, given what I know of the gibbous dunce.”
Emmeline burst into laughter, somewhat relieved. “Ma’am, I thought you wished to join me out of an outraged sense of justice, so that your nephew’s murderer would swing from the gibbet.”
“I’d be more likely to shake his hand.” The woman was dressed in black and wore a powdered wig many years old with a black hat pinned to it. Her face was a pale oval illuminated only duskily by the faint light let in through a slit between the door blind and the carriage wall, and she smelled of camphor, lavender powder, and strong vinegar from an ornate vinaigrette she held in one gloved hand. “Dorcas tells me you have a group that rescues girls who are being mistreated, and that she belongs to it. She says you arranged to have the scullery maid removed from Henry’s house. Is that true?”
“Yes,” Emmeline replied. All along, she had been worried about Martha Adair’s loose tongue, but it seemed it was Dorcas she should have been concerned about.
“I suspect that you, then, are the thief who made off with the child and the silver?”
“No silver, ma’am,” she said. “The girl, yes. She was in danger.”
“I’m surprised you let Dorcas be a part of the scheme, as she has the discretion of a penny strumpet, but that is the topic of another conversation. Shall I tell you what I know of Sir Henry Claybourne?” She then related how she, Philberta Honeychurch, had stayed in Sir Henry’s family home when she was a thirty-year-old spinster. Her father had died, and so had her brother, or else he would have been left in control of Philberta’s inheritance. Her niece, Anne, was married and had children, and her niece’s husband, Sir Henry’s father—also named Henry—was the one left in control of Philberta’s money; her father had believed that women should never control their inheritance. It was a tangled tale, but Emmeline understood it. It meant that Philberta Honeychurch, unmarried but wealthy, was at the elder Henry Claybourne’s mercy, in a sense, and had to live in his home.
Philberta had disliked Henry Junior even then, when he was a lad of fifteen or sixteen, and only grew to detest him more. “I suspect that he tumbled a little girl in the household,” she said, revulsion threading in tendrils through her desiccated voice. “There was quite a commotion about a maid, but it was hushed up. The girl was disposed of somehow and Henry was sent away to school. Should have gone years before, but he had been coddled and kept home by my idiot niece because he was delicate. I told her he wasn’t delicate, he was twisted, but she wouldn’t listen. No one would listen.”
“So he was like that even then.”
Miss Honeychurch grunted in the affirmative. “All these years … I wonder how many little girls he has destroyed? I wish I could have prevented it, but I had no right, nor any say in his punishment, such as it was.”
They were both silent for a long minute. “Why, then, do you wish to help find his killer?” Emmeline asked. “For that is my aim, you understand.”
“I don’t care if they never find out who killed him. But I do care that the wrong person does not suffer by being wrongfully accused of putting him down like the festering, rabid, and dangerous dog he was,” she said, with more force than one would have thought possible for one so wizened and weak.
“And who do you think that ‘wrong person’ is?”
“I have no idea who didn’t do it. How could I? But who did do it? That I have ideas about. You, perhaps? Though I don’t suppose so. You have the look of a moralistic prig about you. Could be Dorcas, for all I know; she’s certainly strong enough. Though again, I doubt it. Dorcas’s heart is bigger than her brain; I don’t suppose she’d even have the nerve to throttle a chicken for dinner. And she’s from an entirely different branch of my family. In any case, I don’t think she gives a fig about your causes. I suspect the only reason she stays with your group is because she is in love with Martha Adair.”
Emmeline gasped.
“Did you not know?”
“I suspected, but I wasn’t sure.”
“When you are my age, Miss St. Germaine, you will have little to do but to observe and surmise. It is my only entertainment.”
Discomfited, Emmeline stared at the woman. “And you don’t … I m
ean—”
“Disapprove? I may as well disapprove that my pug chews my shoes, or that the moon rises each night. How can Dorcas help it? It is an incontrovertible fact. Men—and women, too—have moralized that we are in control of our emotions and should not give love where it is improper. That is hogwash. We cannot control love, we can only control what we do about it. There have been women who loved other women, and men who loved other men, since man and woman were created, I expect, and any one of the Lord’s creations is good enough for me.” She chuckled. “Did you never wonder why Dorcas was let go from the school where she taught?”
“It never came up.”
“She fell in love with one of the other teachers, who was sorely offended, so that bitch, rather than admit what upset her, told the headmistress Dorcas was corrupting the young girls.”
“Oh.”
“She hadn’t done a single thing with any child. Dorcas’s tastes run to matronly middle-aged ladies. But she is my kin, and I could not let her suffer. She’s a terrible companion to me, but she tries her best and when I am cruel, she suffers it well. I wish I could say I will be kinder in future, but I am often in pain and it makes me lash out at the dumb creature who I know will bear it.” She paused to catch her breath, wheezing in discomfort. “Now, are we going in, or do I have to go home without enjoying the fact that Henry is dead?”
Emmeline was torn. Miss Honeychurch was an unknown and likely unknowable entity. Would she cause more problems than she solved? And could Emmeline herself remain disguised as Miss Dorcas Harvey when both the cook and housekeeper had seen a portion of the Avengeress’s face? She made a rapid decision. There was no path to finding the truth without risk. “I’m ready.”