Death Comes to the Nursery

by Catherine Lloyd

  “Then perhaps she should have stayed and trusted that I would take care of her.”

  “Perhaps she felt you would not believe her concerns.” Robert countered.

  “She was an actress, Sir Robert; she often elaborated her misfortunes. Her whole life was based on dramatic notions and silly fantasies.”

  “I’ll wager she did tell you she was afraid, and you chose not to believe her. She ran away to save herself and ended up dead in a ditch anyway.”

  His companion shrugged. “I suppose you might put it that way.”

  Robert was way past being pleasant now. “Or it might even be simpler. She was afraid of you, ran away, and you had her hunted down and killed.”

  The viscount gave a slow smile. “Now who is dealing in silly fantasies?” He nodded toward the door. “I suggest that as you have asked your impudent questions and heard my answers, then you will leave quietly before I call for assistance.”

  Robert studied the old man for a long moment before he took a step away from the bed.

  “I see it was a mistake to assume you would be concerned about the fate of the woman you bought and paid for.”

  “Surely objects that allow themselves to be sold are hardly worth your anger or your attention, Sir Robert?” The viscount pushed the breakfast tray away from him. “Are you going to ask me for money to pay for her funeral next? The jewelry I lavished on her should easily pay for the most extravagant of funerals.”

  Robert inclined his head an icy inch. “I wouldn’t think to bother you with such niceties, my lord. Before her death, Flora worked in my house and is, therefore, my responsibility. Good day to you.”

  “And to you.”

  Robert had almost reached the door before the viscount spoke once more.

  “If you appear on my doorstep again, Sir Robert, I will instruct my butler not to let you in the house.”

  Robert looked over his shoulder. “I doubt I will ever have reason to seek you out again, my lord. In truth, if I saw you in the street, I would probably cross it to avoid having to acknowledge your existence.”

  To his chagrin, the viscount smiled again. “As I am near death, your scorn does not bother me in the slightest. When you reach my age, sir, you too might be willing to close your eyes and do whatever is necessary to avoid such . . . a minor storm in your continued existence.”

  “As I would never consider the murder of anyone a ‘minor inconvenience,’ my lord, I’ll beg to differ.”

  Robert yanked open the door with some force, startling Trevor Gravely, who was leaning against the wall in the corridor outside.

  “Thank you for allowing me to speak to your father.” Robert set off down the stairs, Trevor in pursuit. “You have my address. If you wish to come down to Kurland St. Mary to identify Flora Rosa’s body, please let me know. You will be more than welcome to stay at Kurland Hall.”

  “Thank you, Sir Robert.” Trevor managed to get ahead of Robert when he stopped to retrieve his hat and cane, and opened the front door. “Please forgive my father. He is not well.”

  “He—” Robert paused. There was no point in reviling the man to his own son. “It was good of him to see me when he was still abed.”

  “He was very worried when Neville became involved with Flora.”

  “Worried enough to ask her to be his mistress?”

  Trevor grimaced. “I know it does sound rather odd, but Neville could be . . . rather intense when he imagined he was in love. I suspect Father thought he would save Neville a lot of unnecessary grief.”

  “Are you suggesting that Flora might have been afraid of your brother and asked your father to help out by offering her his protection?”

  “Good Lord, no!” Trevor gaped at him. “I’d never even thought of that! I just mean that Neville tends to fall in love easily and can become rather obsessed, leading to . . . misunderstandings. My father might have believed it was his duty to step in and quash all his hopes. Neville was perfectly fine about it, by the way. He even thanked Father for stopping him from making a fool of himself.”

  “And instead allowed your father to be the fool?”

  “You don’t understand,” Trevor said earnestly. “Father showed Neville what Flora was really like—a woman who wanted as much money as she could accumulate before her looks and mediocre talent faded.”

  “And Neville appreciated that.”

  Trevor grinned. “It took a while, but, eventually, yes, he did.”

  Trevor followed Robert all the way to the stables, his expression anxious as he attempted to apologize yet again for his father and brother. Robert didn’t interrupt or offer his own opinion of the man. If Viscount Gravely truly were dying, his judgment would soon be in the hands of a far greater power than Robert’s.

  He finally managed to shake Trevor off as his horse was brought around. He thanked the groom and walked his own patient steed out of the stables and around the corner. As he walked back toward Portland Square, his hand tightly gripping the bridle, he wondered why Viscount Gravely had even bothered to find a mistress when he was so ill? Had he simply done it to spite his youngest son? Or had he tried to teach the lad a lesson, as Trevor thought? It seemed unlikely, but perhaps the viscount had no real relationship with either of his sons after having been abroad for most of their lives, and treated them accordingly.

  Had he feared that Flora would extort too much money out of the seemingly gullible Neville, and put a stop to it by offering her more immediate gains? A man knowing he was near death might make such a decision to safeguard his son’s inheritance, even if it made his son hate him. And if the viscount truly had nothing to fear except death, maybe he would have stooped low enough to order Flora’s demise.

  Robert firmly reeled in his imagination and reminded himself of Bert Speer’s guilt. When he returned to Kurland St. Mary and sent Bert off to trial at the assizes, the truth would surely emerge.

  He arrived back at Portland Square and went up the back stairs to his bedchamber to change into a less damp coat. There was no sign of Lucy, who had probably gone down to breakfast. He was eager to join her, his morning activities having made him hungrier than usual.

  He put on his second-best coat, made sure his boots were presentable, and went down again, this time using the main staircase.

  “Sir Robert?”

  He was hailed from the hall by Penelope Fletcher and walked over to speak to her. She looked as beautiful as ever and, from a cursory glance of her fashionable clothes, was the happy recipient of a lot of Lucy’s aunt’s castoffs.

  “Yes, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Have you decided when you intend to return to Kurland St. Mary?”

  “I intend to leave by the end of the week.”

  She frowned. “So quickly?”

  “I didn’t plan to stay this long, ma’am, but needs must.”

  “Is Lucy worn out with it all? She’s never been entirely comfortable with the position she now holds, has she?”

  “She seems in good spirits.” Robert paused. “Why? Do you think otherwise?”

  “Not at all, I was just wondering if that was the reason you wanted to leave so quickly.”

  “I am quite certain, if you wish to stay another week, ma’am, that the Harrington family would not object.”

  “Not me.” She made a face. “Patrick is enjoying himself so much that I hate to tear him away. I want to go home and see my son.”

  Aware that he might have grossly misjudged the depth of her maternal affection, Robert hastened to reassure her.

  “If your husband wishes to stay, I’m sure that it could be arranged.”

  She touched his sleeve. “If you could speak to the earl about the matter, I would greatly appreciate it. I do not think it is my place to do so.”

  “As soon as I have arranged my own travel plans, I will certainly ask the earl if Dr. Fletcher can continue to be his guest for a week.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled at Robert. “I am already looking forward to spending the jo
urney back to Kurland St. Mary in the company of you and Lucy.”

  Robert walked into the breakfast room. The thought of being cooped up in a carriage with Penelope for several hours a day without the buffer of her husband between them was not something he would ever wish for. His wife would not be very happy about it, either.

  “Ah! There you are, Robert.” Lucy looked over at him. She was alone in the vast room. “Have you eaten?”

  “Not yet.” He piled a plate high with victuals and came to sit beside her. Unlike many women she didn’t immediately pepper him with questions about where he had been and allowed him to eat his fill before he started talking. “I went to see Viscount Gravely.”

  She studied him for a moment before she poured him some coffee. “From the expression on your face, I assume it didn’t go well?”

  “He’s an awfully unpleasant man, Lucy.” Robert sawed through a piece of gammon. “I cannot understand for the life of me why Flora decided to take him up on his offer.”

  “Money?”

  “So everyone insists, but we both met Flora, and I don’t know about you, my dear, but she didn’t come across as the grasping sort to me.”

  “No, she didn’t,” Lucy said thoughtfully. “But one can’t forget that she was apparently a very good actress. Maybe she fooled us both.”

  Robert sighed and swallowed a mouthful of ham. “Mayhap she did. She does seem to have meant many different things to different people.”

  “None of which justifies her murder,” Lucy reminded him. “Do you still intend to visit the address Mr. Biggins gave you?”

  “Yes, indeed.” He ate an egg and another slice of gammon, and immediately started to feel better. “We can go as soon as you are ready.”

  Chapter 14

  The address took them out of the east side of London toward Bethnal Green, which was not an area Lucy was familiar with. Dr. Fletcher had offered to accompany them as he had been there earlier in the week visiting a friend who worked in one of the hospitals established in that region.

  “I’m not sure why Flora would have ended up here.” Robert frowned as he looked out of the window at the rows of small houses and increasingly narrow streets.

  “Perhaps her family came from here,” Dr. Fletcher suggested.

  “I don’t think she ever knew her family,” Robert said. “She grew up in an orphanage and was put into service when she reached the age of fourteen.”

  “There is a large orphanage right next to the hospital, and a workhouse,” Dr. Fletcher said. “I have visited them all and struggle to believe that any child emerged from that unhealthy environment alive.”

  “If she grew up here, perhaps she still has friends whom she trusts?” Lucy asked. “She told me that she came from a large family, but she told Mr. Frobisher something completely different. One has to wonder whether she picked up her skills with children helping to tend the smaller ones at the orphanage.”

  “That sounds logical.” Robert nodded. “I expect she was more likely to lie to you about this particular matter because she wanted to be seen as competent with children than she was to lie to Mr. Frobisher at the Prince of Wales.”

  Lucy peered out of the carriage window as the natural lighting gradually disappeared, displaced by tall rows of houses with slate roofs and large front windows. It was not a pleasant area or somewhere Lucy would ever like to live, and she pitied anyone who was forced to endure it.

  Dr. Fletcher noticed where she was looking.

  “The Huguenot refugees who built these houses were often weavers and lace makers who needed as much light as possible for their work—hence the large windows.”

  “Are there still many of these weavers around here?”

  “Not that many.” Dr. Fetcher grimaced. “The new factories arising in the north can produce a much higher volume of lace than any single person these days. Most of these houses have been divided into smaller living accommodations, with whole families squeezed into two rooms. It is not ideal.”

  Lucy could only nod in agreement.

  “Which street are we going to?” Dr. Fletcher asked.

  Robert consulted the piece of paper Mr. Biggins had given him. “Paradise Row. Do you know of it?”

  “Only for another reason.” Dr. Fletcher chuckled. “Mendoza lived there.”

  “Good Lord!” Robert stared at his friend. “Is this where he established his academy?”

  “Apparently so.”

  Lucy poked Robert in the side. “Who is Mendoza?”

  He looked down at her as if she were witless. “Daniel Mendoza, the boxer.”

  “I believe I have heard my father mention him,” Lucy said cautiously. “He wrote The Art of Boxing.”

  Both men were now staring at her approvingly. She allowed herself a small congratulatory smile.

  “My brother Anthony was always quoting the text.”

  “Well, it appears that Flora once lived on the same street as the great man himself,” Dr. Fletcher said. “Perhaps even in the same house.”

  “We shall see about that,” Robert muttered as the carriage finally came to a stop. “From the look of the place, one would need to be handy with one’s fists simply to survive.”

  “As long as we stay together and don’t show off any valuables, we should be fine,” Dr. Fletcher said encouragingly.

  “Unless you wish to stay in the carriage, my dear.” Robert turned to Lucy.

  She considered her choices. “I think I’d rather come with you than be left out here by myself.”

  “Then stay close behind me,” Robert advised. “We’ll let Dr. Fletcher bring up the rear.”

  Lucy allowed him to help her out of the carriage and stared up at the blackened stone façade of the small terraced cottage. It was at the end of the row, and a dark passageway to the left of the house presumably led to the rear. The street was choked with debris and filth. There was no garden or cast-iron fencing, and the front step touched the pavement.

  Lucy had a sense that she was being watched but was unable to work out from where, as it felt as if a hundred pairs of eyes were fixed on her. As they approached the front door, the curtains twitched. Robert knocked loudly, but there was no reply. Dr. Fletcher stepped back, his gaze fixed on the upstairs windows.

  “There is definitely someone up there,” Dr. Fletcher said. “Perhaps I should go around to the rear of the house while you stay here?”

  “I’ll go,” Robert said firmly. “If anything happens, make sure you get Lady Kurland to safety immediately.”

  “Robert—” Lucy reached out her hand, but it was too late. He was already moving away from her down the alley.

  * * *

  Robert opened the back gate of the small walled and cobbled yard, and went inside. The back door was ajar, and he went toward it, pausing to open it more widely, and then closed it behind him.

  Someone clattered down the stairs toward him. “Is that you, Marj? I’m almost ready to go.” There was a bumping sound of a case being dragged behind them. “There’s someone at the front door. I don’t like the look of this at all!”

  As the woman came into the kitchen, Robert opened his mouth to speak and was met with a screeching sound.

  “Bloody hell!”

  A second later, he was engulfed in a load of clothing that temporarily blinded him, and he staggered against the table. By the time he’d unraveled himself from the stockings and petticoats, he was alone, and the back door was wide open again.

  “Devil take it!” Robert growled as he stomped through to the front of the house to open the door.

  His wife and doctor stared at him apprehensively as he invited them inside the house.

  “What happened?” Lucy finally asked.

  “Someone threw their clothing at me and escaped out the back.”

  “So I can see.” Lucy stepped forward and removed a gauzy silk stocking that clung to his shoulder. Dr. Fletcher was openly chuckling now. “Did you see who it was?”

  “Only for a se
cond. It was a dark-haired woman. She barely entered the kitchen before she screamed and threw everything she was holding in my face.” Robert rubbed a hand over his jaw. “She thought I was someone called Marj. When she realized her mistake, she reacted accordingly.”

  “Marj?” Lucy asked. “I’ll wager that’s the parlor maid who used to work for Mrs. Pell. She knew Polly, and she was very fond of Flora.”

  “She said she was ready to go, and I believe she had her bonnet on, which is why I don’t have a particularly strong memory of her face.” Robert frowned. “One has to suspect that I finally got to meet Polly Carter, my dear. She certainly looks more like Agnes than Flora did.”

  “On the assumption that Polly won’t be coming back, shall we take the opportunity to look around the house?” Lucy asked. She pointed at the corner of the kitchen, where there was an open trunk. “I assume this was where the clothing thrown at you was supposed to go.”

  Lucy went over to examine the contents of the trunk. “There is no carrier address, which is a shame, because that might have helped us determine where Polly intended to fly away to next.” She looked up at Robert. “Why don’t you take Dr. Fletcher and search the rest of the house while I stay here in case Marjory does actually arrive?”

  “As you wish,” Robert said stiffly, aware that he still had his dignity after the mortification of being downed by an armful of clothes.

  * * *

  While Robert and Dr. Fletcher stomped off to deal with the rest of the house, Lucy took the opportunity to tidy the fallen clothes and place them in the trunk. Despite the seriousness of the occasion, the sight of her husband festooned in women’s stockings would stay with her for a long time. She fought a smile as she closed the lid of the trunk and looked around the small kitchen.

  The fire was out, and the whole place had a look of emptiness that didn’t surprise Lucy. Polly knew that she was being searched for and that eventually someone would end up at the house and had already made plans to move on. But why? Why was she so afraid to meet with them?

  “Afternoon, Polly! Sorry I’m a bit late, but—” Marjory came in through the back door and stopped with a gasp when she saw Lucy sitting at the table. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”