by CJ Archer
***
Jack left in the carriage with Olsen driving. I found it difficult to settle to any task, but considering most of the tasks available to me involved needlework, it wasn't surprising. When I couldn't focus on a sensation novel that I'd borrowed from Sylvia, I decided it was time to get out of the house. I suggested a walk, but she had other ideas.
"We could go into the village," she said. "Mrs. Moore said the smoky smell won't come out of some of our clothes. I'm sure Uncle will give us money for new garments."
"He's probably in need of some himself. Most of his personal belongings would have been destroyed."
"Bollard has already been into the village on his behalf."
"He's very devoted to your uncle."
"Very."
"Do you know how long they've known each other?"
"A very long time." She pulled a face. "Let's not talk about Bollard. He's so dreary." She put her embroidery back in her sewing basket and grasped my hand. "Let's go this minute."
"But Jack has the carriage and Olsen."
"Tommy will drive us in the brougham. It's smaller than the clarence, but it'll suffice for the short journey."
We sent Tommy to give word to Langley that we were going shopping in Harborough then asked him to prepare the brougham, Langley's second carriage. Fifteen minutes later, we were about to climb into the cabin when a rickety farmer's cart pulled by an old nag lumbered up the drive.
"Who could that be?" Sylvia asked, squinting into the sunlight.
Tommy greeted the farmer and patted the horse's nose as two young lads hopped off the back of the cart. "Bloody hell!" Tommy said. "What are you doing here?"
One of the lads dropped a coin into the farmer's palm. The farmer nodded at Sylvia and me, then turned his nag around and plodded off the way he'd come.
The two newcomers looked up at Frakingham, holding their caps to their heads as they leaned backward to take it all in. They were a grimy couple. Dirt seemed to have set up residence in the creases of their hands and faces, and their filthy clothes were covered in patches. The taller lad's toes stuck out of the end of his boots and his sleeves reached halfway up his arms. The shorter boy sniffed incessantly. I recognized him as the one who'd peered out of the window of the house where Jack had met Patrick in London. Whatever was he doing here? Where was Patrick?
Oh no. Dear lord no. Horror twisted my gut, and I was glad when Sylvia hooked her arm through mine. I clasped her tightly and shushed her with a raise of my finger when she began to speak.
Tommy bent down to the sniffly lad's level. "What's happened?" he asked.
"'E's dead," said the boy, his bottom lip wobbling.
My stomach dove. I gripped Sylvia tighter and she sidled closer. Tommy swore, a sure sign that he was deeply affected. He took his footman duties very seriously, and swearing in the presence of Sylvia and me was a serious offense in his own mind, if not in mine.
"Paddy knew somefing was going to 'appen to 'im," the lad said. "That night Jack came, Paddy told us to come to Freak 'Ouse if the worst 'appened. 'E told us 'ow to get 'ere and gave us money for the journey. 'E said you'd take care o' us, Tommy. You and Jack."
"Of course we will," Tommy said. "You'll be safe here. But what about the others?"
"They're still in Plum Alley."
"Who's taking care of them?"
"Huh?"
"Is there someone in charge now that Patrick is gone?"
"No," the taller lad said. "We got no one else."
"What about Miss Charity?"
"No one's seen 'er for months."
Tommy shook his head. "Do the children have enough food for a few days?"
Silence as the two boys looked down at their boots.
"Why not? Jack sent money to Patrick regularly. He was supposed to use it to care for you all."
"'E did," said Sniffles.
"'E didn't," the other boy protested. "'E bought the worst food, the stuff that's gone rotted. Sometimes it stank like old feet, or it 'ad somefing crawling in it."
Tommy clicked his tongue. "And I can see from your clothing that he didn't buy you anything new or warm like Jack instructed."
"Paddy bought 'imself good clobber," the second lad said. "For 'is woman too."
Tommy swore then apologized to Sylvia and me.
"How did Patrick die?" I asked the boys.
Sniffles wiped his nose with his sleeve. "We woke up two days ago and 'e was lying on the ground. Blood everywhere."
"Smashed 'is 'ead in, they did," the other lad said. "Right mess, it were." He spoke with more detachment than Sniffles, as if he took such violence for granted.
"Oh, my," Sylvia whispered, turning her face away.
"Right then, lads," Tommy said, standing. "You'll be taken care of here and we'll see to the welfare of the others. Come with me and we'll speak to Mrs. Moore. She'll find you somewhere to sleep and maybe some clean clothes. You can stay until Jack gets back, but not forever." He glared at the house as he said it, as if he knew it was futile to ask Langley.
"Should we go to the others in London?" Sylvia asked me as Tommy walked off with the boys. "Something must be done to help them, or they'll end up thieving. Jack and Tommy would be terribly upset if one of them were caught. They'd be jailed for certain."
I nodded absently. I was concerned for the children, but there was something more pressing to consider. "Patrick must have been murdered by Reuben Tate," I said. "And Jack has gone to see him."
Sylvia gasped. "You truly think Tate did it?"
"I think it likely. Patrick was afraid to tell Jack who paid him to steal the papers. He said his life would be in danger if he did. I don't think Jack quite believed him."
"Then Jack doesn't know how dangerous Tate is. Oh dear lord."
"We have to warn him, Sylvia. We have to leave today. Right now."
CHAPTER 13