A Gentlewoman's Guide to Murder

by Victoria Hamilton

  And now her uncle, the very one whose furtive habits she was about to expose, held her secret identity in the palm of his hand. She had trusted him when she told him, not yet knowing what he was. Exposing him could destroy them both, or … she could hide the truth about him, keeping both herself and him safe. She felt no urge to save him, even if it should end in her own ruin.

  “Emmie?” Fidelity called, tapping on her door. “Are you awake?”

  Emmeline set aside her pen, corking the ink bottle and sanding the letter to Amelia. She now had to face something she dreaded. She loved her uncle and was devastated by his feet of clay. How was her companion, who had loved him since her own childhood and depended on his kindness and friendship, going to take his disgrace? “Come in!”

  Fidelity entered and crossed the room swiftly. “My dearest Emmeline, I hear you are feeling under the weather! I sympathize; I have been chilled all day. There is a storm coming.” She wrapped her soft woolen shawl tightly around her shoulders and crossed to the window, staring out over the smokestacks of the townhomes of Chelsea. “It’s so gloomy. Winter approaches. How I wish I were somewhere warm!”

  “Fiddy, dearest, please sit. We need to talk.” This was not going to be easy. Emmeline ordered more tea.

  It was every bit as hard as she had imagined, and worse. Emmeline laid out every instance, even about the Maidenhead Canal Company, Sir Jacob’s involvement in it, and her suspicions of his abuse of Maria. Fidelity simply didn’t believe her. Against every argument, every example, even her insistence that Sir Jacob had as good as confessed his behavior, Fidelity saw it as a misunderstanding that would be cleared up on the morrow. She retreated to her bedroom.

  Though Woodforde had been planning to visit that evening so Emmeline could tell him about the canal company, he was called away to a patient. He sent a note, asking her to let him know when it was convenient for her to see him. She wasn’t sure and didn’t respond immediately, grateful she didn’t have to talk about it after all.

  Gillies returned with fabric and information. Sally was, indeed, apprenticed at the dressmaker’s. “And who is one of their most valuable customers?” the maid asked.

  Emmeline waited.

  “None other than Lady Claybourne herself.”

  It had been an odd progression of events that led Emmeline to Sir Henry’s to rescue Molly. That Martha had confused the description of the person who had told her about the abuse in the Claybourne home wasn’t surprising, given that Martha was prone to confusion, but whether she had been merely confused, forgotten things, or been manipulated was unclear to Emmeline. Martha did lack the ability to think clearly at times.

  Perhaps it was a minor tangle, but Emmeline wanted a clear understanding of how it had all gone so wrong, so she pieced it together, writing it down as she had begun to understand it through various channels: Martha’s housekeeper, Mrs. Dunleavy, had a niece, Biddy, who was in service at the Farnsworth residence at number 74 Blithestone, next door to the Claybournes. Biddy was good friends with Sybil, the Claybourne maid; the two young women seemed, from her own observation, to be close friends and confidantes, as was natural.

  And … Biddy also visited the Adair household on occasion to see her aunt. Martha had mentioned that her husband was upset with their maid for gossiping with Biddy one day when the girl was visiting. That would be Ellen; Emmeline remembered her as a red-haired, fresh-cheeked, pleasant girl. So it was likely Ellen, not Mrs. Dunleavy, who could have overheard Mrs. Adair talking about “rescuing scullery maids” and passed the gossip to Biddy, who then talked to Sybil in the Claybourne home. Back and forth flowed information and gossip, and so had come word that poor little Sally, scullery maid to the Claybournes, needed rescuing.

  Martha, happening to need a scullery maid right then and inspired by her work with the Crones, thought she’d do a little rescuing of her own. And so she got word to Sally by way of Sybil that she could come work at the Adair home. Sally had agreed and snuck out of the Claybourne home, making her way to Martha’s. Rather intrepid, given the poor girl’s history, but that appeared to be how it occurred. From that time to this, though, Sally had not repaid Martha’s charity with steady work. Given her past abuse and that she had been with child when she’d arrived, who could blame the girl?

  But what if Martha’s true source of the information about Sally’s predicament was Lady Claybourne? Emmeline had used the chain of gossip herself on occasion, and though it was unreliable, it never, ever stopped. It was, at the very least, clear who had now helped Sally attain a valuable apprenticeship. Perhaps a guilty conscience prompted Lady Claybourne to help the child. Otherwise, why do such a thing?

  Unless … Emmeline paused and stared with unseeing eyes out the window. Had the Crones been manipulated from the very start?

  Emmeline did not attend church with Fiddy the next morning. Arbor, their new upstairs maid, a compassionate and intelligent girl, accompanied her. When they returned, Emmeline went to her room. Fidelity sat on her bed, a lost look in her eyes, her face drawn and gray with anguish.

  “Are you going to be all right?”

  “Children lie, Emmie. I won’t believe it. I can’t believe it. Not Jacob.”

  “I know how difficult this has been for you to accept, but it’s true; your cousin, as much as you love him, has spent his life abusing girls, my beloved Maria among them. If you had seen his expression, you’d know I’m right. Please don’t visit him, though. Give me time and I’ll gather all the proof you need.”

  Her companion didn’t answer. Emmeline hugged her, then clutched her shoulders and said, “Wait until I find out more before you judge me for what I told you.”

  Fidelity, tears welling in her eyes, searched Emmeline’s face. “You don’t think he had anything to do with Sir Henry Claybourne’s death, do you?”

  “Claybourne is on that list of Maidenhead investors. I don’t know. Lord Quisenberry, Fulmer, Wilkins … they’re all on the list. The description of the two men who were arguing with Sir Henry that night sounds like Wilkins, and …” She trailed off. The Frenchmen then would likely be her uncle’s valet, Pierre LaLoux. The description also fit the two men, out of place in the dirty warren of St. Giles, who were implicated in Ratter’s murder. Wilkins would most definitely have known the area, since by his own admission he owned buildings in that den of iniquity.

  She jumped up. “Rest, my dearest. Read a book. I need Gillies with me, but Arbor will bring you tea and look after you. Don’t do anything until I return.”

  Cheapside again; squeezed in between a coal merchant’s office and a larger home was the townhome of the former Claybourne employee’s daughter and estimable son-in-law. A young maid-of-all-work answered the door and led Emmeline and Gillies through a dark, narrow passage to a small sitting room that looked out over the busy street.

  Mrs. Winwright was a tiny, wizened apple dumpling of a woman, settled in a deep chair near the fire, placed so she could see the street through the bow window. The maid brought a tea tray and then was sent away with a “shoo, girl!”

  Emmeline wanted whatever information the woman had. What remained to be seen was the worth of it and the price. But Mrs. Winwright was in no hurry and insisted on telling them her story. She had worked for Sir Henry’s family first as a housemaid and then as cook, and had known him since he was born.

  “’E were pretty when ’e was young, wiv blonde curls over ’is for’ead. But ’e ’ad an evil eye an’ started young. Joost ten ’e was when ’e started pinchin’ bums. Ev’ry chance ’e’d get, ’e’d corner a maid.”

  It was a pattern, it appeared, from what Miss Honeychurch had also revealed. “Didn’t his parents teach him not to abuse the servants?”

  “The master weren’t gonna interfere when ’e was busy havin’ it off wiv any maid as would let ’im.”

  “Like father like son,” Emmeline said.

  “When �
��e got ta be sixteen—”

  “Wasn’t he sent to school by that age?”

  “’E were delicate, ’is mama said, and the master didn’t care. Anyways, when ’e were sixteen or so ’e cornered a little scullery maid and ’ad ’is way wiv her. More ’n once, I think, lookin’ back. She were a dark little thing; not pretty but smart enough. She started to show, an’—”

  “She became pregnant?”

  “Aye.”

  “Didn’t you tell the mistress?”

  The woman gave her a withering glance, full of contempt. “’Ow d’ye think that little chat woulda gone? ‘Ey, mistress, yer son’s bin tupping the scullery maid against ’er will.’ What good would itta done ’er fer me to be let go?” She blinked back some water in her eyes and her tone shifted to remorse. “I woulda helped if I could, but I was in the family way meself, an’ lucky t’marry the groom an’ keep me post.”

  Emmeline was chastened, and silent.

  “Anyway, ’Enry kept at ’er and got caught by the mistress finally in the act; she saw the state the girl was in—poor child looked like she was carryin’ a puddin’ basin under ’er pinafore—and turned ’er away. Girl was an orphan. No place to go, no character, nothing.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “What d’ye think ’appened?”

  “Did she die?” Emmeline asked, fearful.

  “Nup, but the babe did, I ’eard. Was born in a spongin’ ’ouse an’ died after takin’ a first breath. Girl was sent away as soon as she could walk, an’ did what girls like that hafta do.”

  “Turned to prostitution.” Emmeline sighed. “But what does this have to do with the news you wish to share?”

  The woman eyed her, squinting. “It’s worth yer ’earin’ about, lemme tell ya. Worth a pretty penny, too.”

  Emmeline gazed at her steadily. “You wrote to the paper that you worked in Sir Henry’s current household?”

  “Became cook there after Sir ’Enry’s mother died. Worked fer Sir ’Enry and Lady Claybourne up till two years ago.”

  “And he was still up to his old tricks with the scullery maids.”

  “Didn’t know at first; ’e’s gotten a mite carefuller.”

  “Does any of this have to do with Sir Henry’s death?”

  “Might do,” she said. “But I’ll see the color o’ yer money first, miss.”

  The negotiation was quick. They settled on a price and Emmeline paid, counting out the coins. “So, tell me.”

  “I was cook when th’last ’ousekeeper left Sir Henry’s employ an’ Lady Claybourne interviewed for a new one. Didn’t interview many; coom upon one she couldn’t refuse. Turned out t’be someone ’oo knew Sir ’Enry pretty well. It’s ’oo that little scullery maid from th’past becoom that’s important, y’see. Took a new name when she went back into service.”

  “What is her name now?”

  “Sir ’Enry never knew ’oo she was, but I reconnized ’er. Same look in them dark eyes. Mrs. Young, she calls ’erself nouw. Lady Claybourne ’ired her as ’ousekeeper.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Mrs. Winwright had more to say, including that she had told her ladyship what Sir Henry was up to with the little scullery maids, and that she didn’t think it was a surprise to her employer.

  Back in the carriage, Gillies asked, “Do you think Lady Claybourne knew who Mrs. Young was when she hired her?”

  Numb with shock, Emmeline shook her head. “How would she?”

  “Not unless the housekeeper wanted her to know, I s’pose.”

  Why, Emmeline wondered, had Mrs. Young come to work for Sir Henry Claybourne? It was soon after Mrs. Winwright told Lady Claybourne what Sir Henry was up to that Mrs. Young was hired and the cook given an annuity to retire; whether that was a reward for long service or a bribe to not spread the word of what her employer was doing, Emmeline did not know.

  “I wonder if Sir Henry ever discovered who Mrs. Young was,” she said. “The innocent explanation for it all is that Mrs. Young sought out the position so she could keep Sir Henry from abusing scullery maids.”

  “Do you believe the innocent explanation?”

  Emmeline shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  They followed a carriage to their Cheyne Walk townhome and pulled to the curb behind it. As Josephs gave Emmeline a hand down, from the carriage ahead stumbled a disheveled Fidelity, her hair sticking out all over, a bonnet askew on her head.

  “Fiddy, where have you been?” Emmeline cried, picking up her skirts and chasing her companion up the walk.

  Fidelity flung out one hand and hurried past Birk into the house, ripping her bonnet from her head and throwing it aside, drifting hairs still attached to pins, and headed up the stairs. Emmeline exchanged a look with Gillies, who distracted Birk by asking him to tip the carriage driver, who awaited payment.

  She followed Fidelity to her room, closed the door behind her, and went to her companion, who had flung herself on the bed in a storm of weeping more typical for a young miss in the throes of a passion. She sat on the bed beside her and touched her shoulder. “Fiddy, what has happened?”

  Her sobs were heartbreaking, but finally subsided. Fidelity sat up, deep grooves under her red-rimmed eyes, her thin skin drawn into wrinkles that lined her forehead and bracketed her mouth. “I went to see Jacob,” she sobbed.

  “I asked you not to do anything. I pleaded!”

  “I had to know,” she replied, her tone dead, her tears still streaming from her swollen eyes. “All these years,” she whispered, her voice catching. “I thought I was the only one.”

  “What are you saying?” Dread growing into horror, Emmeline grabbed handfuls of bedclothes in her fists and twisted.

  “I thought I was the only one,” Fidelity repeated. “All these years, he said that it was because I was so enticing as a girl. That I tempted him with my pretty ways, and he had to show me how much he loved me.” Her words were bitter, stinging drops of venom. “I was adorable, and though he could never marry me—I had very little dowry, after all—we could have those moments when he would show me how beautiful I was. That’s how men did it, how they showed love, he said. It was special, a secret between us.”

  She swallowed, and her hand formed into a fist she pressed to her mouth, then dropped like a stone to her lap. “But to know what he did to Maria … I should have seen the signs and stopped it. I failed her. I failed that precious child, and how many since? When I grew up and realized what he did to me was wrong, I thought it was me, that I made him into who he is, but in truth he’s … he’s just evil.”

  “My poor darling,” Emmeline cried as realization sank in. “You seemed to love him so!” How could she love the man who was abusing her?

  “God help me, I did … I do.” Fidelity shook her head. “Or … or do I? I don’t know what I feel. All these years … I’m numb.”

  Emmeline pulled her into her arms and held her close for a long time as shuddering sobs wracked her. Gillies crept in, but Emmeline shook her head and sent her away. Finally, as shadows crept across the far wall, long and gray, Fidelity was spent. Emmeline helped her undress and climb under the soft, heavy covers of her bed, her heart aching with sorrow and anger. She didn’t leave the room until she knew her cousin, friend, and companion was asleep.

  Gillies was pacing outside the door. “I have news, miss, news you need to lairn straight away.”

  “Let’s go to my room. I need tea, Gillies, and I want Arbor to sit with the Comtesse while she sleeps. She must not be left alone, do you understand? No matter where I am, she must have company. Now … go do as I say, then come back to me and tell me what you will. I have dreadful news too.”

  Gillies spoke to Mrs. Bramage, who told Arbor to sit with Fidelity for the afternoon and also ordered tea and luncheon for Miss St. Germaine. A half hour later, closeted with her maid, Emmeline
drank her tea in one long draught and sat back, sighing. “You said you have news, Gillies; what is it?”

  “While you were with the Comtesse, Josephs spoke to the other carriage driver. Th’magistrates were at Sir Jacob’s house, miss; they questioned your uncle and took away his valet, Pierre LaLoux, on suspicion of murder. They’re lookin’ for Mr. Wilkins now. They think he has fled London.”

  “How did they discover the truth?”

  “An anonymous letter, miss.”

  “I suspected them, but maybe one of the Claybourne servants knew something, or …” Emmeline paused, her brow furrowing. There were other possible sources within the Claybourne household and among the investors. “If those two did kill Sir Henry, maybe one of them will confess.”

  Or her uncle could be implicated. Wilkins would not go down without a nasty fight, and he’d have no compunction in taking Sir Jacob down with him. Emmeline then told Gillies about Fidelity’s secret. Her maid was as saddened and angered as Emmeline about her uncle’s disgusting predation.

  “I know a little of my cousin’s youth. Fidelity was alone, orphaned at a young age, and stayed with my parents often. Uncle Jacob, my mother’s favorite brother and Fidelity’s cousin, also stayed at Malincourt often. The opportunity was there, and he took it.” Anger seethed though her. “She adored him, and he abused her trust.”

  If she only did one thing in this whole affair, exposing the Maidenhead Canal Company for what it was must be her task. Emmeline took up her quill and wrote down every scrap of information, every bit she could recall, from her earliest suspicions to her certainty now: Sir Henry’s abuse of scullery maids; Ratter’s procurement of children from Dunstable’s orphanage and others; the company formed to benefit financially from the sordid appetites of other like-minded men; and the probable murder of Ratter, as the man was about to tell all to the magistrate. She could not spare her uncle; his crimes were his own, and he must deal with the exposure of them as best he could.