The Hidden Legacy

by Julie Roberts

  ‘I’m sorry I never told you my story. I think in the beginning I was frightened my father would come looking for me. Then as you both accepted me as part of the household, I didn’t want anything to spoil it.’

  ‘What has made you think of it now?’

  ‘Coming back here; to this part of London, near to Blackfriars. Oh, Clemmie, I went there yesterday, to find my mother, and she is … oh, how could I have been so wicked? Now she is dead. Frederick is dead. I am so alone …’ She couldn’t stop the tears now. They ran down her face and she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and covered her face.

  ‘Oh, Meredith.’ Clemmie moved closer and pulled her into the circle of her arms. ‘You have me and I have you.’

  ‘There’s more. I need to tell you why I ran away.’

  Clemmie frowned. Her eyes took on a troubled look. ‘Very well, dear, I’m listening.’

  ‘That day I was twelve …’ Meredith relived it as though it were yesterday. ‘My father was in the debtors’ cells at Newgate prison. We all lived in one basement room. My mother washed and ironed for the dock men and sailors. I scrubbed tavern floors and my brothers mucked out horse stalls. The rent took most of our money each week, so we could never save enough to release my father.’

  Meredith paused; the next part was so painful she didn’t want to recall it.

  ‘Mid-summer day was my twelfth birthday. My father had struck a bargain with Warder Snipes – marriage to me for his debt payment and release money from Newgate. I had always been an obedient daughter, but this was asking too much of me. So I ran away. I walked all day until the sun was low in the sky. I saw a barn and inside I met Frederick.’

  Meredith’s heart was hammering and her throat seemed to close up. ‘May I have another cup of tea, please, Clemmie?’ Without a word being spoken she was given her tea.

  ‘I was very frightened of him. Especially when he took a knife from his bag; but he was only going to cut me a piece of bread and cheese. The next morning he offered me a home, saying he had a housekeeper and I could be his longed-for daughter. And here we are now … I never meant to hurt my mother but I had to make a choice – marriage and drudgery to a man older than my father or freedom.’ As she finished, her hands were shaking.

  The old lady took them into her warm ones and rubbed them until they were still. ‘Oh, Meredith, it is all such a tragedy. Do you feel better for telling me?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ She had bared her soul to Clemmie, and whispered, ‘Thank you for taking me into your life and heart.’

  ‘You were there from the moment I set eyes on you, poor little waif that you were. Do you know, from that day, I came alive? You filled the part of my heart that I had saved for a daughter. But I was never blessed with one. So you see, Meredith, we both had a role to play in each other’s lives.’

  Meredith smiled, a fleeting memory crossing her mind. ‘Do you remember our baking lessons? Those flat puddings I made and how Frederick pretended to love them?’

  ‘Yes, I do, dear. Those little memories often come to me when I’m in the kitchen.’

  ‘Clemmie, I have to do something for Tilly. I cannot leave her there, in that basement. I must bring her here. I can turn the attic into a bedchamber. She could help you, as I did at Appleton. Yes, and Tilly could run the errands so you don’t get so tired.’ After the shock of hearing her mother was dead, Meredith had not considered how she could help Tilly escape from Blackfriars. ‘You wouldn’t mind her here, would you?’

  Mrs Clements patted her hand. ‘No, I wouldn’t mind. But you just can’t snatch the poor mite from her home.’

  ‘Why not? I am not rich, but I can provide better for her here in Ludgate Hill.’ Meredith stood up, feeling betrayed; surely Clemmie was not defending her father?

  ‘This has all been so upsetting for you. But, think this through, Meredith. Your sister doesn’t even remember you. Your father must, after all these years, think you are gone forever. And, of course, Tilly may refuse your offer. You cannot consider such a proposal until you, yourself, make a decision on whether you wish to acknowledge your family again.’

  The words spoken seemed harsh to Meredith, but Clemmie was right. She wanted Tilly to do what she had done – run away – and whether she agreed or not, Clemmie saw the dilemma more clearly.

  ‘Yes. I need to think this through. But I want to give Tilly the chance to leave Blackfriars.’

  ‘Are you happy here, in London, Meredith?’

  That question had crossed her mind several times, but Meredith squared her shoulders and replied, ‘I am being overly anxious. Frederick left me a home so that I can become recognised. I know I’m a woman, but whatever the outcome, I must try. There, I have finally told you everything and I feel so much better.’

  ‘Is that all that’s worrying you? I will be frank, since your association with Mr Fox you have not been quite yourself.’

  Adam Fox was not the reason she was having nightmares. Madame Lightfoot was the one who loomed large and menacing in her dreams. And no miracle was about to happen, unless Frederick told her where to look from his grave.

  To pacify Clemmie, she answered, ‘It is a little unnerving, and strange, to be responsible for a commission. But I have great faith in what I’m doing. Miss Weston is the perfect subject.’

  As a cue to end her confessions a loud knock sounded on the front door.

  Meredith had a flutter of butterflies. ‘That may be a client! I’ll go down immediately.’ She patted Clemmie’s hand. ‘You sit here and finish your tea and have that lonely biscuit, because if I sell a painting, we shall have more than enough money for our needs.’

  It was not a client, only the maid of her adversary who curtsied, handed over another note, and left.

  Meredith opened the sheet and read: I have some good news. Meet me at St Paul’s steps at three o’clock. Had Madame Lightfoot found it? Then why not come here and tell her? Why the mysterious meeting at St Paul’s? But as long as the Turner had been found, did it matter?

  Full of optimism, Meredith hurried back upstairs. She would tell Clemmie a maid had delivered a note requesting she attend a client, at her home, with a portfolio of her paintings.

  Ludgate Hill was a cacophony of people, carriages, coaches, and gentlemen on horseback. They filled every bit of vacant space and trader’s voices shouted out their wares. And above all this was the jangling of horse harnesses as a stagecoach thundered out of the inn’s courtyard. Amongst this mayhem, Meredith walked towards St Paul’s a few minutes before three o’clock. It still puzzled her why Madame Lightfoot wanted to meet in such a public place.

  She stopped when she reached the church and glanced around; was she to wait at the bottom or top steps? The note had not said … A hand gripped her elbow and she smelt that unforgettable breath. She tried to turn but he stood just to her right and behind.

  ‘Pity we’re before the holy church.’ His rasping voice was close to her ear. ‘Maybe another time; I know where to come.’

  Meredith didn’t understand why this man was here, why he was leading her away from the steps towards a coach.

  ‘The Madame, she doesn’t like being kept waiting.’ He opened the door and as she went to climb in he pushed her; only a large strong hand saved her from falling to the floor.

  ‘Get in, Cuba John; you’ve the manners of a pig,’ hissed Lightfoot’s voice from inside.

  Meredith saw in the daylight the man who had invaded her bedchamber. Now she had a name to put to him, Cuba John. He was smaller than she had thought him that night in the dark; he was certainly skeletal. His skull was almost bald with wisps of hair hanging like black string to his shoulders. His eyes were his most fearsome feature, the lids drooping over pale grey irises in pools of blood.

  The coach moved off and Meredith sat on the seat opposite the dark-skinned woman. She was not dressed in her finery today. Her gown was grey cotton under a black cloak, her hat matronly with a small brim and grey r
ibbons. To restore some sort of decorum, Meredith pulled her dress back into order and challenged her opponent, saying, ‘This is an unusual occasion. Could you not have just come to the gallery to tell me you have found the Turner?’

  ‘It is not found.’ Her tone was harsh, her face like stone with not a hint of welcome in her eyes. ‘Your time has run out. Give me the Turner or …’

  The unspoken threat hammered into Meredith. ‘I don’t have it; I don’t know where it is. It’s in a hiding place that has gone with Frederick to his grave. That is the truth.’

  ‘Truth, Miss Sanders! You are his successor! Don’t try and tell me otherwise. Why would he bother with a girl, if you were not exceptional? We are not permitted, not even encouraged to enter the world of artists. We are expected to embroider, paint in our little books the flowers of the garden, the birds in the trees.’ She was shouting at Meredith, but amongst the weaving coaches and thudding hooves no one could hear. ‘I will make you pay for this.’ She laughed, her mouth wide, the inside of her thick lips showing pink. ‘Who knows, maybe you will be joining Frederick sooner than you expect. Then he can tell you his secret.’

  Meredith stared at her. She really had gone mad. Then a sack was put over her head.

  The sack was gone. Meredith lay on a dirt floor and couldn’t move with her hands tied behind her back; her ankles too. A draft cut across her cheek and she could smell paint. There were the sounds of voices, distant and muffled. She was lying on her side with her arm trapped under her and every part of her body hurt.

  The pain in her arm worsened. She pulled her knees up but it didn’t help. There was only one thing to do. She shouted, ‘Help. Can you hear me? Help me, please. I’m in here.’ How stupid she sounded, when she didn’t know where. But that didn’t stop her shouting again.

  Nothing happened. Then a noise and the door slid sideways. She was in the hidden room at The Grapes Inn.

  Cuba John came in and picked her up. She cringed from him and he laughed. ‘Not the great lady now.’

  ‘Put her on the chair, but don’t untie her.’ The voice was Madame Lightfoot’s and it still held that harsh, angry tone.

  Sitting up was less painful, but with her hands behind her back, she couldn’t sit comfortably and had to lean forward. ‘May I have a drink?’ Her voice was as harsh as Lightfoot’s.

  ‘Go and get a pitcher, Cuba, and a tankard of his best ale for me. Don’t go getting anything for yourself. You understand?’ Cuba John scowled, but said nothing. He unlocked the door and left.

  Meredith looked at her captor standing in front of the easel. She could see the painting – the Turner forgery.

  ‘If it wasn’t that the deal is done, I could put this back into the Academy. But the Monk is not a man to be crossed. I fear the habit disguise suits his needs; underneath he is a ruthless rogue.’

  ‘What are you going to do with me? Your man … you wouldn’t let him …’ Meredith couldn’t get the words out. She prayed the dark woman had some pity in her soul.

  Pity did not seem to be one of Madame Lightfoot’s traits. ‘If he asks me for you, he can have you. But under all that bravado, he is a weakling. I doubt he has the courage to touch someone like you.’

  The door opened and the dirty, smelly Cuba John came back in carrying a tray.

  ‘Untie her hands, but not her feet. Give her some ale.’ She picked up her tankard and drank thirstily, each swallow making her throat move.

  Meredith was not so quick. With the release of the cord her numb hands couldn’t pick up the mug. She rubbed them, but when the pins and needles started they were so painful she doubled over, cradling them, but nothing helped until it slowly eased. Lifting the mug with trembling fingers she drank, but little passed her lips, most splashed down her bodice.

  ‘Please, tell me what you’re going to do with me?’ Meredith glanced at Cuba John. She feared him more than she had Warder Snipes.

  ‘I have a surprise, which will take you far away from here. You’ve become a problem. The magistrate might find you an easy witness to get the truth from. Your resistance to me and Cuba is one thing, but the Bow Street men are not particularly fussy how they obtain their proof. I’ve had a good business in London. It’s time to move on, as Mama used to say.’

  Meredith looked into the hidden room and saw the walls were now bare. ‘Have you sold the other paintings?’

  ‘Answers will not help you, Miss Sanders. It’s time to go. Cuba, untie her feet, we must be away.’

  Madame Lightfoot slipped a canvas bag over the forged Turner and lifted it from the easel. ‘Carry this with the greatest of care. Even the slightest damage, Cuba, and your coins of gold will be thrown into the river.’

  Instead of turning to the door, Cuba went into the hidden room. Seconds later, the sound of another grinding mechanism revealed a dark passage. Lightfoot pinched out the flame of a candle waxed to the table. She picked up the other lighted candlestick and beckoned Meredith forward.

  The hackney coach stopped and Adam paid off the coachman. The street door was not locked and he went into the gallery. The room was empty and so was the studio. Where was Meredith? Why hadn’t she locked the studio door? In fact, the whole house was an open opportunity to a thief. He stood by the window, looking out at the crowd and a moment of uneasiness ran through him. He caught the sound of movement above and hurried up the stairs. In the kitchen, Mrs Clements was unpacking her basket. He tapped lightly on the half-open door and pushed it wider.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Clements. I apologise for coming to your private rooms unannounced, but the gallery is unattended.’

  ‘Goodness me, you’ve given me such a fright, Mr Fox. Unattended! Miss Meredith must be in her room. Please, come into the parlour. I will call her at once.’

  He walked round the room and admired again the warm tones that reflected Meredith’s nature. His musing was broken by the hurried footsteps coming down from the upper floor, but it wasn’t Meredith who came through the doorway, but a flustered Mrs Clements.

  ‘She’s not there, sir. When I left for the market, Miss Meredith was preparing to go to a client’s house. But surely, she should be back by now. Are you certain she’s not in the gallery?’

  ‘I am more than certain, Mrs Clements. Who is this client?’

  ‘I don’t know. She had a note delivered by a maid.’

  ‘This is a strange arrangement. Why didn’t she take you? Surely she must know that it’s not proper to go alone.’ His frustration was rising again; what was she doing now! He only had to let her out of his sight for a few hours and she was off … but where? ‘Will you look for the note up here and I will go down to the gallery.’

  Adam searched the desk top – nothing – he pulled open the drawer and his worry was momentarily wiped away by a sketch of his own face looking back at him. She had captured his eyes, mouth, and hair with a likeness which brought a burning flush to his cheeks. Is this how she saw him? Had she drawn him with only the curiosity of an artist or from a flutter in her heart? Did it mean that there was a little love there too? A desire, deep inside him, hoped this was true, because he too had feelings for her beyond friendship. But where was she? He lifted the drawing and saw the note. It wasn’t about a commission for a painting, but an instruction to meet at three o’clock and it could only be from Madame Lightfoot. And that could only mean Meredith was in danger.

  He called to Mrs Clements from the bottom of the stairs. ‘I have found the note. I will go at once to look for her.’ He didn’t wait to hear a reply, but ran out of the door looking for a hackney. Why ask to meet at St Paul’s to conduct negotiations about the Turner? There was something drastically wrong. The only common ground he could think of was The Grapes Inn. He prayed that’s where she would be.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The tunnel door closed. Meredith was now at the mercy of Madame Lightfoot. What was she going to do with her? Murder her? Throw her body in the river? Or give her to a brothel? T
he word alone horrified her, but to be sold into one … her skin tingled and she shuddered … to be owned and forced to … Meredith couldn’t think beyond that. She was in the hands of not only an art thief but a monster with no morals.

  The lie she had told Clemmie meant no one knew where to find her. She should have sent a message to Adam, but there hadn’t been time; the note had said three o’clock. She was on her own and it was her responsibility to find a way of escape.

  Her eyes adjusted to the dim candlelight. In front of her the dark woman led the way through an arched brick tunnel the height of a grown man, with an unpleasant smell rising from the dry mud floor. Behind her, Cuba John carried the painting.

  ‘Where does this come out?’ Meredith could feel the ground sloping downwards and from the candlelight the tunnel was cut straight as an arrow.

  ‘It matters little to you where it ends. You’re my,’ she paused and her laughter filled the space around them, ‘… my guest?

  ‘You can’t do this. I would give you the Turner, but I don’t know where it is. That’s the truth. Why won’t you believe me?’

  ‘Perhaps I do now. But you’ve become a threat to me.’

  Meredith could now see a wetness coating the walls and beneath her feet the ground had become soft. It slowed their pace and she began to wonder who had built the tunnel? It must be hundreds of years old. Obviously, the innkeeper was unaware of its existence. She tried to judge the distance from the inn, but couldn’t.

  Fear held her nerve. Screaming hysterics would only enrage Madame Lightfoot. And the thought of Cuba John’s hands on her kept her running to keep up with the candlelight.

  Water started to drip from the roof, wetting her hair. Slimy green fungi appeared on the walls. How much further were they going? If the woman in front of her succeeded in her plans … she was disappearing without any clues left behind.