A Gentlewoman's Guide to Murder

by Victoria Hamilton

  A hard-looking woman with a grim scowl opened the door and stared at Emmeline, no word of greeting.

  “Hello. I’d like to speak to Mrs. Miller.”

  “I’m ’er.” The woman still stared at her.

  Emmeline wore costly garments, but no external appearance of wealthy or propriety seemed enough to pass the doorway unchallenged. That was as it should be. “I am Miss Emmeline St. Germaine, a friend of Lady Clara Langdon’s. She told me of your work. I’d like to help.”

  At the magic mention of Lady Clara’s name, the woman’s dour expression relaxed into mere solemnity. “We can use any ’elp we get.”

  Emmeline signaled down the lane for Josephs to wait and entered a dark but clean passageway that smelled of sweat, cabbage, and floor polish. With so many children in residence, it was surprising it did not smell of worse.

  “I must work as we talk, if you don’t mind, miss. Follow me.” Mrs. Miller led the way to a room near the back, small and dark but comfortably furnished with shabby chairs centered on a worn Turkey rug in front of a modern iron fire grate where coals glowed and popped.

  “I’m surprised you were so swift to answer the bell,” Emmeline commented.

  “I ’eard a shout from one of the boys,” the wardress said, indicating some chairs by the hearth. “They let me know when a stranger approaches.”

  Emmeline strolled past the seating arrangement to the window and looked out. The room overlooked a small back garden enclosure where some girls were sitting on benches with books and dolls. An older girl, maybe eleven, was reading to some of them. There was a pulley system that ran through the hall to the back and a bell there, so it could be rung even from the back garden.

  “You separate the girls and boys for play?”

  Mrs. Miller offered her tea, which Emmeline declined, and then sat down in a chair, taking up a workbasket piled with black stockings. She took a couple out, laid them over her chair arm, set the basket back down, and, taking up a needle and wool, pushed her raw knuckled hand into it and began darning the heel. “I did not always do so, but a man who came asking about girls alarmed me. I’ve ’eard of girls disappearin’. Since then I’ve ’ad the girls playing in the enclosed gardens with one of the bigger girls to watch.”

  “Lady Clara told me about the incident and how it upset you. She said a man with a small dog came asking about girls, in particular, to supply London houses with scullery maids?”

  The woman nodded in acknowledgement of the description. “I’ve lived a long life, Miss St. Germaine. My ’usband, God rest ’is soul—’e were a good man, but rough—was a soldier, sergeant to a Major near the end. I travelled with ’em as laundress an’ saw action in Ireland, Switzerland, Italy … we were stationed for a time on Malta. With that much action, you’d think my ’usband would be in mortal danger. But in the end my Arthur’s death came not in battle, but from dysentery. Filthy water in a canteen got ’im. I told ’im, I said, don’t drink the water. Men never listen.”

  Emmeline shifted anxiously, wondering if the woman would get to some point or answer her question.

  Mrs. Miller finished off the sock, folded it, and picked up another. “Children are ’ell on socks—pardon the expression, miss. Tearin’ ’oles, wearin’ out ’eels. I never ’ad no children. None that survived, anyway. Had five, all dead.” She paused and looked at her guest. “In all those years wiv the army, miss, I learned a thing or two about men. Filthy buggers, some of ’em. But then some women, especially them as follers the troops, is dirty ’ores.”

  Emmeline should have been shocked by the woman’s rough speech, but she was rather entertained. She appreciated that Lady Clara kept so strong and blunt a woman as wardress. She had a sense the woman was going to answer her question, in her own way in her own time. “I have heard tales,” she murmured. “Of camp followers.”

  “I started out sheltered; me pa were careful wiv ’is girls. But being with my Arthur and the army, I soon got canny. Started to take note of the men who were the worst. Got a feeling right ’ere,” she said, hand over her stomach, meeting Emmeline’s gaze. “They abused them foreign girls; said as she weren’t English, it didn’t matter. An’ the higher-ups didn’t care. Most of ’em, anyway. Thought as ’ow the men were garbage and expected no better. Men’ll live up—or down—to what is thought of ’em.” Mrs. Miller frowned at the sock she was darning. “It were always the same men doing the worst. I listen to that feelin’ now. When that feller showed up ’ere with ’is doggie that got the little ones all excited, I knew ’e were a wrong ’un. Burning in my gut told me.”

  Emmeline sat forward, her curiosity sharpened. She was about to ask about the man, but a neatly dressed young woman came to the sitting room door.

  “Mrs. Miller, the fishlad says ’e’s owed tuppence.”

  The wardress took a pocket out of a slit in her dress, counted tuppence, and handed it to the girl. When the young maid exited, Mrs. Miller watched Emmeline carefully. “So, not to be rude, miss, but what did you come ’ere for? Most of the ladies as want to donate crave to see the children. You don’t seem mortal interested in the little ones, begging yer pardon, miss.”

  There was no point in being anything but blunt with so canny a woman. “You’re right, Mrs. Miller. I’m not here to donate, though I will. I’m here to find out more about that man, the one with the dog.”

  The wardress, her hard gray eyes underlined with weariness and a world of sorrow, nodded. “I take it ’e’s gotten other orphan asylums to give ’im girls?”

  “I think so, but I’m not sure. I know that he took a girl to a man’s home where she was abused.” She didn’t elaborate, nor did she raise Sir Henry’s name. “What do you do with your girls and boys, once they are of an age to work?”

  “I ’ave me sources. Thirty years wiv the army give me a lot of names, and I’ve got a good mem’ry,” she said, tapping her forehead. “I remember tales of those ’oo had a good family an’ those that didn’t. Boys go out to apprentice, but none o’ the danger trades. No chimney sweepin’ fer my boys, an’ they learn to read an’ write afore they leave me, an’ that ain’t until they’re twelve. Lady Clara buys some of ’em apprenticeships. They go to brick layers, stone masons, printers an’ the like, good honest work. Girls go to scullery or sewing, or nursery undermaid; they read an’ write afore they go, too, an’ only go to ’omes where they’ll be workin’ under a good woman.”

  “Are there orphan asylums that aren’t so careful?”

  The woman’s lined face, gray in the dull, weak light from the window, held an expression of sorrow. “Aye, I’ve ’eard tell that there’r those that take a premium for ’anding over girls to the London market.”

  “What are you saying, Mrs. Miller?”

  “You know what I mean; I can see it on yer face.” She reddened and dropped her darning to her lap, putting her hands over her face for a moment, then folding them together, composing herself. “I’ve bin to London. I’ve seen those girls, some no older than those little ones,” she said, motioning out the window to the children playing with dolls in the garden. “Paradin’ in the streets near Haymarket, lookin’ for randy gents oo’ll give ’em tuppence an’ a nip of gin. If I could take in every one of ’em, I would, but I’m one woman. Makes me ill, but in truth, most of ’em ’ave mothers, just not one ’oo cares a fig about ’em.”

  “How could a mother allow that?”

  “You’ve never bin poor, miss. You don’t know ’ow the ’opelessness … it seeps into yer bones, an’ any relief, even that of the gin bottle, seems a blessin’. I’m not makin’ excuses, but it grinds some women down till they don’t care about nothing but …” She shrugged. “They don’t care about nothin’.”

  On impulse, Emmeline put her hand over Mrs. Miller’s. “I am doing my best to keep other little girls from falling into unsavory hands. To do so, I need to find out who is handing the chil
dren over to those who traffic in human flesh. Who else could I ask about the man with the dog?”

  “I’ll write names down, miss, but don’t tell ’em it were me as told you. A couple of ’em … I don’t trust ’em, an’ they got higher friends than me, ones ’at could put me away.”

  “I won’t breathe a world. And note which ones you especially don’t trust.”

  Gillies wished to speak with Tommy Jones, but she had other tasks in mind too, and considered them as she dodged foot traffic along Samuel street. She had given a lot of thought to her mistress’s account of the night of the murder. It was impossible to think that even in the dark of night, no one saw anything. The watch—those who were younger and able to do their job properly, anyway—would be out and about doing their route every hour. One had been beaten by the two men, she understood, but there had to have been another that night, one who could tell her if anything had been amiss before he was summoned by the fishlad who’d found Sir Henry. Could she find out who the watch was that night?

  There certainly had been others about on legitimate business in the darkness, and of course some pursuing trades not quite so lawful. Many folk gave no thought to all those who worked for their living by the light of the moon. Lamplighters had to work well past nightfall lighting lamps, and had to start extinguishing them well before daybreak. The work of the night soil men took them into the back gardens of townhomes up and down every street, in every part of town, though they didn’t do every convenience every night, of course.

  She saw that Tommy was at his usual post on Samuel Street, sweeping, but it was a slow day; the weather was dry and the traffic light. So the boy was at the chandler shop peering into the window of his former employment, his hands cupped around his eyes. He stuck his tongue out and then raced away when the man inside rushed to the door. Gillies, a full basket over her arm, grabbed his arm as he darted past. “Tommy!”

  “Miz Gillies!” he cried, a look of joy on his narrow, dirty face. “You coom back!”

  She pulled him to one side of the walkway. Though the street was not too busy, foot traffic was as active as always: a milkmaid carried a pail of fresh milk into a tavern for the cook; a servant with a tray of loaves hurried them home to his master’s kitchen; other servants bustled into the chandler’s and the haberdasher’s, among other shops along Samuel. There was a costermonger, too, with his barrow brimming with onions, cabbages, apples, and carrots, which he wheeled along as he called out his wares, and the usual pieman stood on the corner with his cart. Gillies bought Tommy a mutton pie and they ambled to the green area by Chandler Lane. She laid her shawl out on the grass and made him sit, cross-legged, while he ate. There was precious little mutton in the pie, but the filling of vegetables and meat fat gravy was no doubt tasty. It was a chilly day, with a lively wind. The sky was clear and the air dry.

  It was a pleasure to watch the lad eat, his eyes screwed up closed at the delight of the hot pasty. When he had finished the pie and sighed, opening his eyes, his mouth turning down at the wretchedness of it being done, she pulled out of her basket a surprise, one of Cook’s Banbury cakes. Mrs. Riddle was from Oxfordshire originally, and prided herself on a strict adherence to the recipe made famous in books of receipts like The English Huswife; the pastry was stuffed with sugared peel, currants, and nutmeg, and sanded with clumps of sugar. Tommy’s eyes widened, and he took it from her with reverence. She let the boy enjoy it in its entirety, knowing he wouldn’t have something so good for a twelve month or more. He ate it slowly, savoring every mouthful before swallowing.

  Finally sated, he lay back and looked up at the sky. “This be a good day, Miz Gillies.”

  “It’s good to see a lad get his fill. I ’ave another for ye to take for your tea, and I got some knit stockings to keep your feet warm.” She took the items out of her basket.

  Tommy sat up and tugged at the lapels of his jacket, looking serious. He was a businessman, and his merchandise was news. “So, yer wanna know what I figgered out?”

  “I know it hasnae been long, but—”

  “I got plenty, missus!” The boy rhymed off names: of the watchman who was beaten, although the fellow did not get a good look at the men who had done it to him. And the other watch, who had been called by the fishlad, and of others whose employment had taken them close to the alleyway that fateful night. Gillies, whose memory was excellent, stored the facts away, but Tommy had already been snooping enough to know what they had to say. Being so close to a crime like that, the men and boys had told the magistrate what they knew and were now dining out on it at the tavern, telling the tale to anyone who might stand them a drink, including news writers. She trusted his total recall of conversations.

  But he had also spoken to the potboy from Sir Henry’s own household, whose information was not likely dispensed in the local tavern. “’E’s mortal feared fer ’is life. ’E said as ’ow the gent—Sir ’Enry, that is—arter the masked lady skeered ’im proper as ’e was tuppin’ Molly—sent ’im to a coupla places wiv notes.”

  “What did the notes say? Does he know?” Gillies asked.

  “’E don’t read,” Tommy said, with the contempt of one literate.

  “Where did he take the notes?”

  One had been sent to Ratter, the fellow with the dog, Tommy said. The potboy had had to venture into St. Giles, the sordid area of the city known as the Rookery, with that one. Gillies quailed at the thought of a child alone in such a place; conditions were terrible, existence there so bleak that the only quest was for the next sip of gin or a scrap of food to keep body and soul together. Life was cheap, and violence against each other for the smallest of prizes brutal.

  “And the other note?”

  “’E said as ’ow it were to some place in St. James. Hadda go all over the city. ’E were so tired, ’e ’bout fell asleep, poor little feller.” Tommy, at the ancient age of twelve, a man earning his own wage with no master and able to read and write his own name, viewed the ten-year-old potboy with sympathy. “When ’e got back, ’e were sent up ta sleep in th’attic.”

  That was confirmation of what they already knew. Potboys generally slept on a pallet under the work table in the kitchen; not so bad a place, as it was warmer than the attic three seasons of the year and there were food scraps to forage, if one could wrest them away from the rats.

  “I ’membered summat about the two gents as visited Sir ’Enry’s back door that night.”

  “Fellows who visited the knight’s back door? I dinna ken who y’mean, Tommy.”

  “You know, the ones ’e were argying wiv.”

  “Ah, I dinna think we knew they had come there first.”

  Tommy’s eyes were wide and his cheeks ruddy from the freshening wind. “Feller banged on t’wrong door first, an’ I ’eard ’im. ’E had a Frenchy accent. Second feller, ’e ’ad a funny walk.”

  “A funny walk? What d’ya mean?”

  “Swayed, loike.”

  A limp, perhaps. “Did ya find aught else, Tommy?”

  “Aye. Nightsoil men two nights arter were muckin’ out th’cesspit at Sir ’Enry’s an’ found a big knoife. Showed it ’round to everyone afore the magistrate’s man took it.”

  Twenty

  Emmeline visited a few more orphan asylums and workhouses that day, but at them she was more circumspect, not openly asking questions as she had of Mrs. Miller. Two had similar stories: they could not identify the man, though they described him. Emmeline had one more place to visit, an orphan home in Pentonville, north of Clerkenwell. She could go there and then return to Clerkenwell to pick up Gillies at the agreed-upon time and place.

  It had been disheartening, after the excellent accommodations at St. Pancras, to visit the others, which had been in varying degrees cold, damp, depressing, and dismal. The odors, the sounds, the attitudes of the warders and wardresses, which ranged from angry and hostile to cold and impersonal; al
l had combined to leave her in low spirits. The children were either slaveys or necessary nuisances to justify the existence of the asylum, commodities to earn a penny.

  When she remembered her own boisterous youth, running from Malincourt House to the pond, catching frogs and chasing Maria and Thomas with them, then running home to a loving mother who always smelled of lavender mint, she was chastened. She was wont to bemoan the loss of her mother at a young age and the hasty degradation of her happy youth into emotional turmoil, which had culminated in teenage seduction, loss of innocence, and humiliation. But she had had a home, food to eat, and a bed to sleep in. The situations of these young children who had done nothing but be born to the wrong parents were horrible to contemplate, and presaged an early death from overwork or a life (if they were fortunate and lived past childhood) of deprivation and insecurity.

  If she believed in God, of course, she might have been able to put it all on His shoulders: he decided who would be born poor and who wealthy, who would become sick and who stay well. But it had been many years since she’d lost her religion after her mother died. She could not believe in a divine spirit who would offer some people every creature comfort known in the world and others nothing but a lifetime of deprivation and suffering. She was left feeling it was a vast lottery, and she a fortunate holder of a winning ticket.

  Though she went to church every Sunday and on saint days, mouthing the prayers and platitudes, Emmeline did it for form and society, spending her time during silent prayer contemplating and planning her next mission. If there was no God, then there was no salvation, and if there was no salvation, then it was up to each and every fortunate member of society to help lift up the unfortunate so their lives on earth would be made tolerable. Convincing the fortunate of this necessity, however, was never simple. Leopold felt he did enough with his tithe and support of the poor box; even Sir Jacob believed that if you did too much for the poor, it made them weak and dependent, luxuriating in charity rather than striving to better their lot.