The Hidden Legacy

by Julie Roberts

  ‘Git yer hands off what’s mine. I found ’im first and I’ll be the one to give ’im a good time.’ Sal was back on her feet in a flash and charged towards her.

  Adam Fox stepped between them. ‘Please, girlies. I know the Irish ’ave the leprechaun magic, but Sal, sweetheart, I’ll be back tomoro’. You can show me your charms then.’ He took a coin from his pocket, slipped it inside her bodice, and gave her a wink.

  She straightened her dress and picked up the tray. ‘’Til tomoro’, laddie.’ She swaggered triumphantly away to tend her other customers.

  ‘Sit down, Merry. Drink some ale and then smile and put your arms round my neck. Those who were curious enough to pay attention to that little scene will think it strange if you don’t play up to me.’

  Meredith picked up the mug and sipped, sipped some more, and more and more to delay her next move. Finally she put it down, turned her head and smiled at him.

  ‘Ohhhhh, Dello! Yer don’t want that gutter gal, when yer can ’ave pretty me.’

  She put her arms around Mr Fox’s neck and pulled him close, aware of his warm skin, the rank odour of the clothes. His eyes were as black as the darkest night and his lips were parted. She moved her head just enough to let her lips touch his. They were soft and she felt the desire to press harder, just a little harder to make it into a kiss … His hands drew her even closer, his lips responding to hers. When he drew away, his voice was low, wistful, ‘Oh, Merry, me girl, you have a wicked streak of an actress in you.’ Play-acting, it may have been, but she would have liked to try it again.

  He lifted his tankard from the table. ‘We must wait for a diversion before we can go below, which won’t be long. There seems to be some heated words between those two men over by the door.’

  Meredith looked across the room to where he nodded. One man was big and burly, with hair that had once been black and was now streaked with grey. His voice was loud and he was leaning forward with his hands on the table.

  ‘You owe me a guinea, Piper. Them chairs was perfect when I delivered ’em to yer. Pay up, man, or I’ll take it from yer with me fists.’

  The man named Piper stood up. He was a small man: a caricature of a squirrel in clothing. Dark ginger hair ran from his head down his face into a pointed beard, his dark eyes darted from side to side. He was no match for the big man, who grasped a handful of his crimson jacket and lifted him off his feet. The two antagonists glared at each other as roars of, ‘Pay him, pay him,’ filled the tavern room.

  Mr Fox stood up. This was the distraction they needed. Meredith followed him to a door with the word CELLAR scotched into the wood. It opened with ease and he stepped inside onto a landing. A faint glow of light showed a flight of stone steps. He beckoned her in and closed the door.

  ‘Follow me down. Be careful, the steps look well worn.’

  At the bottom three arched pillars supported a narrow corridor. A single lighted lantern revealed moss growing on the brick walls, and the floor smelt of damp earth. There were several doors; one had a chalked six at the top.

  Meredith delved into her pocket and gave him the key. ‘Be mindful, sir, we don’t know what is in this room.’

  ‘I am grateful for your concern, Miss Sanders, but I do not expect to find Frederick Sanders’ ghost.’ He unlocked the door and pushed it open. The room beyond was nothing more than a gaping black hole. He unhooked the lantern hanging from the first arched pillar and went into the room.

  In the circle of light Meredith could see a table with a single candlestick. Mr Fox was lighting the wick from a taper. ‘I’ll put the lantern back before it’s missed. We don’t want to attract undue attention.’ A minute later, he closed and locked the door.

  ‘Now we can see what is going on here.’ He raised the candlestick above his head and sniffed. ‘There is a smell of paint,’ he sniffed again, ‘also an underlying whiff of linseed.’

  He put his hand under her elbow and guided her round the room. The walls were bare, the only sign of an artists’ studio was a wooden easel.

  ‘Unfortunately, this is not what we expected, Miss Sanders. There is no painting, real or false. But there is something strange; the smell of paint lingers far too fresh, someone has been using this room recently. I am thinking that this is, perhaps, a communal studio. In which case, we are in danger of being discovered at any moment.’

  ‘You make it sound frightening, Mr Fox. We are here, after all, to find the painting, or at least a clue as to its whereabouts. I cannot go until we find some evidence to follow up.’ All her hopes had been here, in this room. Where else could she look?

  ‘We have established the room exists and that it’s used as a studio. Now I am going to take you back to Ludgate Hill, and the safety of your bedchamber.’

  ‘No! Time is running out. I need to find the painting. Don’t you understand the seriousness? A Turner painting! Not just an unknown like me. A masterpiece! It is known by all his associates and followers at the Royal Academy. The minute they discover it is missing, the Bow Street men will be summoned.’

  Mr Fox’s lips set in a firm line. ‘I understand how you feel. My own expectations were high that this room would clear up all your troubles. But it does not, and this is no place for you. I will have no argument.’

  ‘Sir, I am the one who is in charge here. I am –’

  He pulled her to him and kissed her fair and square on the lips. Not a lingering passionate kiss; but hard and demanding. When he released her his voice held the command of a general. ‘No, Meredith. I am in charge while you are with me.’

  The determination in his eyes flared her temper. ‘You’re a despicable man. You have no right to kiss me as if I am a common tavern wench. I should not have told you about Frederick; I should have come here alone.’

  A battle of words was forestalled by the sound of voices in the corridor. Mr Fox raised his hand for silence. A door opened and closed.

  ‘It is definitely time to go.’

  Meredith stood close to Mr Fox as he unlocked the street door.

  ‘Thank you for coming with me tonight. The Grapes Inn was not a place I could have gone on my own.’

  ‘Umph! Is that an apology, Miss Sanders?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is. We don’t seem to have achieved much, except finding the room and the smell of paint. I don’t know where to go from here.’

  ‘I have a few ideas, but before I mention them, I need to make some enquiries. Will you stay tomorrow, after Sarah’s sitting?’

  ‘There is so little time left to find the painting. Eating pasties with your aunt will take an hour that I could spend searching.’

  ‘And where will you search?’ His words had an underlying sigh of impatience.

  Meredith didn’t know. She had been so sure of finding the painting in the tavern room. ‘Very well, I will stay and wait to hear your findings.’

  He had been right about everything. He was a man who knew the ways of London, knew how to protect her. Tonight would have been a disaster without his help. In the darkness she felt vulnerable, but not alone anymore.

  ‘Good. Now creep in and get some sleep.’

  She slipped into the hallway and relocked the door. Without a lighted candle the stairway was frightening and endless. When she climbed the second flight the top tread creaked. Not daring to breathe she stared at Clemmie’s door waiting for it to open – it did not – and she hurried into her own bedchamber. Only when she locked her door and took off the ‘tavern girl’ clothes did she breath freely again. Ignoring the smell, she hid the dress and shawl at the back of a drawer.

  Filling the wash bowl with cold water, Meredith scrubbed her face and neck with a rough cloth. She wanted to cleanse herself of the Aldgate smell and the clinging, sickly ale. A feeling of inner dirtiness rose up inside her and she stripped off her underclothes, scrubbed her body until it tingled, her only thought to wash away her past. But memories of Blackfriars flooded their way into her mind: the bas
ement room, her family, the dank smell and the darkness. All so like The Grapes Inn. She hadn’t seen or heard any, but she knew there were rats down there.

  Slipping on her nightgown she got into bed, pulled the covers over her head to escape her memories. In their place, Dello Murphy merged into Mr Fox. He had played his part so well, had excited her; his devilish face and dark eyebrows transforming him into a rogue, a man of the streets and alleys. Was that where he was now, following up his ideas? She should have gone with him, not let him bring her back like a timid maiden. Tomorrow she would tell him so; any more ideas and she would be going too.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Meredith admired her young subject as she stroked her brush of white oil paint into highlights in the fair hair on her canvas.

  ‘A few more minutes, Miss Weston, then we can go into the garden.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Sanders; my neck is really hurting now. I hope Papa comes home soon so I don’t have to sit for another painting. Well, not for a long time.’

  ‘Do you get letters from your papa?’

  ‘No. Uncle Adam does and he tells me what he says. He always sends his love to me.’

  Meredith thought how sad that Sarah’s father didn’t send a separate note to his daughter. Maybe he didn’t realise she was growing up; that she could read and write now.

  ‘And that love is a very precious gift, Sarah. You could keep your sketch book as a special present for him.’

  Meredith watched her expression. Real pleasure lit up Sarah’s eyes and a smile parted her lips. It was the look Meredith had been longing to see to bring her portrait to life and she quickly changed her brush and added that happiness.

  ‘I am finished for today. You may go down into the garden now.’

  The child needed no second bidding as she ran through the door, her footsteps echoing back from the stairs.

  As Meredith cleaned her brushes her thoughts returned to Sarah. She seemed to have an ideal life, but buried under that lay the solitude of an only child – loved dearly by Mr Fox and her great-aunt, but ignored by her father. She could understand his grief, but not to write even an occasional personal note? She now left the canvas on the easel since she had started painting knowing it could be viewed by anyone if they came into the room, but that was unlikely since a plaque had been put on the door, Miss Sanders’ Studio. Only one person could have given that instruction, Mr Fox, and she appreciated this thoughtfulness for her privacy. Was this getting her too close to the Fox family? It so, this would not do. She needed Mr Fox’s help but it must not go beyond that.

  Meredith found Sarah sitting on the stone seat absorbed in making a flower-chain in colours of white, ruby and amethyst. This part of the garden had become their favourite place. Meredith waited, studying the movement of Sarah’s fingernail as she slit the stem and carefully threaded a new flower through. These little personal moments could be used to improve her portrait. Often, Sarah’s bored expression did little to give inspiration at her sittings.

  Meredith waited while Miss Fox sampled the soup.

  ‘Very nice, but tell Cook just a few more herbs next time.’ The footman murmured a reply and left the dining room.

  The chair that she had hoped would be occupied by Mr Fox remained empty. Where was he? Meredith couldn’t ask, it would be impolite, but the frustration of not knowing was like an itch that wouldn’t go away. Every minute she sat eating, she could be searching.

  Miss Fox’s voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘How is the portrait coming along? Have you progressed enough for me to have a look yet?’

  Meredith’s heart missed a beat. She had not thought anyone would ask to see her uncompleted work. ‘No!’ Her sharp reply caused Miss Fox to raise her eyebrows. ‘I beg your pardon, but it is much too early for that. Miss Weston is only a child and long sittings are not advisable. I do not wish it viewed until I have finished.’ Her answer was prim and ungracious, but she was not sure how she would respond to criticism. With every brush stroke she wondered if she had taken on a too-ambitious task.

  ‘As you wish, Miss Sanders, I hope I am still breathing when it is finished.’

  Miss Fox’s remark was also sharp and could have a double meaning. Did she think her too slow or that she expected to die within the next few weeks?

  ‘I’m sure you will be here to see not only this portrait of Miss Weston, but her coming-out one as well. You are a picture of health.’

  Miss Fox halted the spoon to her lips and laughed. ‘You have the right social graces, Miss Sanders, I like you more each time I see you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ After their moment of discord the compliment was unexpected.

  By the time Meredith had finished eating, the empty chair had become an instrument of torture. Her head ached and the tension in her neck and shoulders were excruciating. He had promised – well, almost – to be here. What had gone wrong? Was he lying injured somewhere? The tavern woman had said there was much danger in asking questions. The door opened and her moment of relief turned instantly to disappointment, as the footman announced the carriage was waiting to take her home.

  Meredith paced the length of the gallery, only the missing Turner filling her mind. The door opened and this time her disappointment turned to anger. Instead of Mr Fox, a girl dressed in the grey clothes of a maid curtsied and said, ‘Miss Sanders, this is for you.’ She handed over a note and left.

  Breaking the seal Meredith opened the sheet. There were two words – Eight Days – there was no need for more. The dark-skinned woman knew how to put fear into her. Violence wasn’t necessary; she could do it so subtly by her presence, the dirty man, and now two words.

  Where was Mr Fox? She couldn’t wait for him. She must go back to The Grapes Inn and that cellar room. There must be something they had missed. She locked the street door. At the top of the stairs she listened to Clemmie snoring in her kitchen chair. She had taken to having a little nap in the afternoon since coming to London. Again, Meredith wondered about the wisdom of bringing Clemmie to the city.

  She hurried into the sitting room and wrote a note saying she had gone out to buy new brushes and propped it against a vase on the dining table.

  The second-hand dress smelt so foul she couldn’t wear it. She searched amongst her gowns and took out the work dress she wore when helping Clemmie with household chores. The dyed cotton was definitely the sort of thing a servant would wear and be in keeping with the inn. She put on the shoes from last night and loosened her hair. The person in the mirror was a halfway representation of Merry, the riverfront girl, and she hid her disguise under a lightweight cloak. The key, several coins, and half-used candles she put into a drawstring bag.

  Meredith crept down the stairs; Clemmie’s snores and whistles came and went in regular breaths. As she escaped into the bustle of people and carriages in Ludgate Hill, she stopped to collect her thoughts. They told her she didn’t know how to get to The Grapes Inn.

  A passenger alighted from a hackney carriage at the Belle Sauvage and she hurried across the road and smiled confidently at the coachman. ‘To The Grapes Inn, Aldgate, please.’

  ‘To Aldgate, miss? Are you sure? Ain’t no place for the likes of you.’

  The bravado in her bedchamber began to wane. And she got in before she changed her mind. ‘Yes. Please take me there.’ The ride was slower than last night, the roads now busy with traders, barrow boys and horse-drawn carts. But she didn’t feel threatened; this area was from her past, she was well aware how these people lived and survived. Nevertheless, she shivered as the hackney halted in front of the inn.

  The tavern room still smelt of ale and tobacco, but now the only noise came from a group of men sat drinking at a table. There was no sign of the serving woman or the other ‘ladies’. One of the men stood up and staggered towards her, swayed against a chair which he threw aside. His slurred words were directed at her. ‘Lookin’ for someone, dearie? Will I do?’

  ‘Come back ’ere, fool.
She ain’t your sort,’ called one of his companions.

  ‘I’m anyone’s sort, even the hoity ones. They likes a bit of rough, like me.’ He was drunk and Meredith backed away, but he kept coming towards her.

  ‘I’m here to meet someone, sir. Please return to your friends. Is the innkeeper here?’ Her breath, coming in quick gasps, matched the beat of her heart. The man stopped within two steps of her; she could smell the ale on his breath, see his rotten teeth.

  ‘He’s out the back. Come an’ have a drink.’

  Meredith stood her ground. ‘Then I’ll wait.’

  A draft of air touched her face and Sal came in. She put a basket on the counter and turned. ‘Sit down, Hawk. I know what yer thinking. Connie will be ’ere soon.’ He didn’t move. ‘Jack Tar, come an’ git Hawk before he falls down.’

  Sal pushed Meredith. ‘Git out. This ain’t a place for ladies’ maids.’

  What had she been thinking? She had seen last night what this tavern was. But she managed to say, ‘Thank you,’ to Sal and fled. Outside she ran round the side of the inn and leant against the wall. She was trembling so much her legs couldn’t hold her up and she slithered down the rough bricks onto the dirt road – she was back to her beginnings. Except she’d run away from all this and had no intention of letting the likes of Hawk turn her from the reason she had come here. The inn must have a back entrance and looking along the wall she saw a door set into the brickwork.

  She got up and tried the rusty latch which lifted easily. Inside was a yard, stacked three high with casks of ale and an entrance door was open. She hurried through into a passage and on her right was a flight of steps leading down to the cellar. After two treads the steps angled left and daylight was lost, but as last night, a single lantern glowed in the corridor. Unfortunately, she could not reach it to light her candles.

  Meredith unlocked the door to room six and walked into the blackness holding her hands forward, searching for the table. When she bumped against it she stepped back, rubbing her thigh. The flint box proved tiresome, but she got the candle lit and closed the door. She emptied the candle stumps out of her bag and set about taking the flame to them. The added light didn’t reveal any new clues. The smell of linseed still lingered, but this was impossible if there was no paint. It didn’t make any sense. She picked up the single candlestick and walked slowly around. When she reached the back wall a draft of air fanned the flame and she moved the candle closer, tracing the flickering light as she lifted the candlestick higher. She stepped further along and felt a second draft – this must surely be an opening – where was the handle? Was this the clue she was looking for?