by Kruger, Mary
Henrietta Woodley stood in the middle of the room, head down, fingers knotting together. A most resourceful girl. Quentin had believed her when she said that her cousin had gone to Margate. More fool, he. What he had allowed himself to forget was that he was dealing with actors, low, cunning people who thought little of telling lies. He would not make that mistake again.
“You are quite good at your trade,” he began, pleasantly enough. Her head twitched, but otherwise she showed no response. “I believed you, you know. Come, no need to stand there like that. Sit down.” He took the chair, frowning a little when she continued to stand, very still, very quiet. The chair was old, unsteady, feeling as if it might give way under him at any moment, but still Quentin sat, one leg crossed comfortably over the other. Let her stand, then, like an abject penitent. It gave him a measure of power.
“You’re quite clever,” he went on, “telling me something I knew would be a lie, so I would think I’d forced the truth from you. I would have believed you, too, if”—he held up a finger—“there was the slightest sign of your cousin in Margate. But there wasn’t.” He let a moment pass in silence. “He was never there, was he?”
Henrietta raised her head at last, weary lines that were not an actor’s illusion underscoring her eyes. “No,” she admitted, pushing back her heavy hair. Not very remarkable hair, really, rather a pale brown and straight, and yet even in this dank gaol it shone. She wasn’t pretty; she was too tall, too sturdy, for that, but she was striking. Under other circumstances Quentin might have found her admirable.
“I thought not. Where is he?”
She pushed her hair back again. “I really don’t know,” she said, tiredly. “No, really, I don’t. I know where he said he was heading, but that was days ago.”
“And that was? Come, you’d best tell me,” he went on, as she hesitated. “I can make life quite uncomfortable for you. And your parents.”
Something sparked in her eyes, and then was gone. “He mentioned the Channel ports.” Her voice was low, defeated. “Dover, of course, but he thought he might go to Rye, or Deal, if he had to.”
“Ah.” Quentin sat back, arms crossed, regarding her with narrowed eyes. Her answer had the ring of truth, but he would not be so easily gulled this time. “Am I to believe you, just like that?”
She sighed. “I’ve no proof, of course, nothing written. Only my word.” Her mouth quirked. “And I know what you think of that.”
In spite of himself, Quentin bit back a smile. She was brave, he’d say that for her. “Not very highly, I will admit. Tell me. If I question your parents, will they say the same?”
“I doubt it.”
“Really.” He steepled his fingers. “Would that be because you’re all lying?”
Her eyes flashed. “They will lie to you, yes. They’ll do anything they can to protect him. Anything.” Her voice was bitter. “He’s the son they never had.”
Quentin’s interest rose, though he was careful to keep his face expressionless. “They’ll protect him, you mean.”
“Yes. No matter what it means to me.” All at once she sank onto the stool, shoulders slumped, lips set. “I’m not a boy, you see.”
“Ah.” And he was beginning to see. The united front the Woodleys presented had cracks in it, after all. “So you were named after your father,” he mused, “yet you’re not a son.”
“No. Not a son to carry on the grand Woodley theatrical tradition. Women might go on the stage, but heaven forfend they become managers.”
“I see.” He pursed his lips. “So ‘tis safe to say you dislike your cousin.”
“Oh, no.” She raised her head. “I like him well enough. I just wish...”
“What?” he prompted.
Her head was lowered. “It matters not.”
“But it does. Come, tell me.”
“Why?” She stared directly at him. “What can our family concerns have to do with you?”
“More than you might think.” For if he could widen the crack between her and her parents, he would have an advantage over them. “What is it you wish? That he be captured? That he be hanged, and—”
“No!” she burst out. “Not that. I just wish he’d go away and leave my parents to me!” Her hand flew to her mouth and she stared at him, eyes stark. “Oh, no.”
“I see,” he said again, and leaned back, vastly satisfied. “So you will tell me, then, where your cousin is.”
She stared at him a moment longer, and then looked away. “Will you let my parents go?”
“Mayhaps. Where is he?”
She sighed. “I told you. He made for Dover.” She pushed her hair back again. “There’s an inn there we’ve stayed, the George. I doubt he’d go there, yet he might.”
“Ah.” The truth, at last. “And the woman?”
“Miss Marden? She went with him, poor thing.”
He paused in the act of rising. “Why do you say that?”
“She’s quite besotted with my cousin, ‘tis plain to see. And ‘tis just as plain that he’s using her.” Her mouth twisted. “Do you know that he abducted her off a London street? That is what he is like. He will use anyone to his own ends.”
“Interesting. Of course, she didn’t have to stay with him.”
“She had no choice. He couldn’t let her go. Please, I’ve told you what I can. Please set my parents free.”
“How would he keep her with him?” he asked, ignoring her plea. “By force?”
“I—.” She stopped, eyes closed. “Maybe. Did he—”
“Did he what?” he asked, when she stopped.
“Did he kill that man?” she whispered.
“Miller?” In spite of himself, surprise crept into his voice. “Don’t you know?”
“Lord, help me.” She bit her lip. “No.”
“Ah.” Interesting, that, that Woodley’s own family apparently thought him guilty. It would make his eventual capture that much more plausible.
Quentin turned and strode toward the door. “Guard!” he called through the barred opening. “I wish to go now.”
“Am I free?” Henrietta asked behind him.
“Free?” He turned, lips twisted. “Of course not. Until I find Woodley, you’re too valuable to let go.”
“But I told you what you wanted to know!”
“If it proves to be true, perhaps you won’t be prosecuted for aiding a criminal.”
“But my parents—you said you’d let them go—”
Keys jingled in the door, which then swung open. “I’ve changed my mind. Adieu, Miss Woodley,” he said, and swept through the door.
And, left alone in the dark, drab room, Henrietta at last allowed herself to smile.
Blythe plunged through the doors into the great Cathedral of Christ, and found herself in the nave. It was swarming with people, most grouped across the nave, near the stairs, and it was hard to see any one person. But there was that peacock blue bonnet, its feather plume a jaunty signpost that was somehow more conspicuous than it had been in the street. Setting her lips, Blythe followed. She would find out what the widow Miller, now Mrs. Selley, was about, no matter what it took.
Past the screen, and into the choir. There were more people here, but the space was so huge the crowding was lessened. Blythe hastily stopped to admire a stained-glass window as the woman in the blue bonnet paused to speak to a man. It was a strange, and yet elegant place for an meeting. An assignation in a cathedral seemed blasphemous, and yet who in this crowd would note two people meeting as if by chance? And who would notice if Blythe moved close enough to overhear their conversation?
She had just taken a step forward when Mrs. Selley nodded at the man and then continued on her way. Blythe frowned; where was Mrs. Selley’s maid? And when had she misplaced her shawl? She had to step aside as the man walked toward the exit and past her. Not an assignation, then; it was too brief, and Mrs. Selley was continuing on deeper into the cathedral. What could she be doing?
Abruptly Mrs. Selley st
epped into a pew from the aisle, sat for a moment, and then knelt forward, hands clasped, head lowered. Blythe gazed at her in blank astonishment. The woman was praying. Not so very remarkable, considering that worshippers filled other pews, but of all possibilities Blythe hadn’t expected this. Baffled, she slipped into a seat a few rows back, and prepared herself to wait.
And wait, and wait. Whatever cause Mrs. Selley prayed for was evidently important. It was a good quarter hour before she rose. Blythe, her own knees cramped, stayed where she was; she would continue her pursuit once Mrs. Selley passed her. She was startled, then, when after hesitating a moment, the other woman walked purposely toward the altar. There was something different about her, Blythe thought, rising, but had little time to speculate. Somehow she had to meet the woman.
Her chance came sooner than she expected. To the side of the altar, Mrs. Selley paused briefly at the bottom of a short flight of wide, worn stone steps. There was a small knot of people here, looking at the effigy of a knight at the top of the stairs, or at something else that was beyond Blythe’s vision. Confident that Mrs. Selley would climb those stairs, Blythe walked forward, and thus was startled when the woman abruptly turned, nearly colliding with her. Blythe realized two things in that moment. She had been caught at her game; and the woman she followed was not Mrs. Selley, but a stranger.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, and stepped back. The woman caught her arm, and of a sudden Blythe recognized her. It was the maid who had earlier accompanied Mrs. Selley. “Excuse me,” she said, trying to pull away. “Do I know you?”
“That’s just what I was wondering.” The woman glowered at her. She was tall and big boned, dressed in a plain black gown, with the bright bonnet looking absurd on her. Not that Blythe would say so. The woman’s grip was hard, and her expression, fierce. “You were following us.”
Blythe’s surprise wasn’t completely feigned. “I beg your pardon?”
“I seen you, you know. Behind us, back on Guildhall Street.”
Blythe let out her breath. “I rather wondered it you had.”
“You admit it, then?”
“Being behind you? Certainly, but not following you—”
“Not me. My mistress. You thought I was her, didn’t you, because of the hat?” She grimaced. “‘Twas my idea to wear it. Silly thing, but it served its purpose. You even followed it to the shrine.”
Blythe craned her head to see past the woman, briefly diverted. “Is that the shrine?”
“Huh. As if you didn’t know. What I want to know is what you were following us for in the first place.”
Blythe thought quickly. No good denying it; the maid wouldn’t believe her. No good, either, trying to discover where Mrs. Selley had gone. And how was she ever to escape this woman, who continued to hold her arm in a death grip? “I fear your mistress is in danger,” she blurted out.
“Danger?” The maid’s eyes narrowed.
“No, ‘tis true. I fear—what is your name?”
“Nancy.”
“Nancy. I fear that there are those who would prove her responsible for her husband’s death. The late Mr. Miller, that is.”
“Huh. And who would think that?”
Who would? Blythe thought. “Lady Stanton,” she improvised wildly.
Nancy drew back, her teeth suddenly bared. “The viscountess! Yes, I’d believe it of her.”
“Yes, yes, I can see you’re acquainted with the lady,” Blythe babbled. The Viscountess Stanton? What had ever made her come up with that name? She’d never heard of the woman—ah. Wait. Hadn’t Mrs. West mentioned her? But why, why? “Proper upset she was, all the business she’d done with Mr. Miller, and she wants what’s coming to her.”
“What’s coming to her? Huh! She’s the one who owes the money.”
“‘Tis not what I’ve been told.”
“No? How do you know so much about this?” Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “And how do you know what Lady Stanton is doing?”
Blythe looked down at her hands. “Because she hired me to follow you.”
“You!” Nancy suddenly released her arm.
“Yes.” Blythe glanced about. “But this is not the place to discuss this. No telling who’s listening.”
Nancy eyed her for a moment, and then nodded. “True. That woman has spies everywhere.”
Did she, indeed? Intriguing. Who was the Viscountess Stanton? “Then let us go outside, and I shall explain.”
“You had better,” Nancy said, so grimly that Blythe’s heart clenched. Oh, yes, she had best invent some suitable tale for the nonsense she’d been spouting. Nancy, hulking large beside her, was not a woman to be trifled with. How had Blythe ever mistaken her for the dainty Mrs. Selley?
Sunlight hit Blythe full in the face as the two women left the cathedral, making her blink. “Along here,” Nancy said, pulling Blythe into the cathedral yard. “Not so many people. Now.” With a push from her meaty hand, she shoved Blythe down to sit on a bench. “Explain yourself.”
Blythe looked up at Nancy’s stern, uncompromising face, and then quickly away. Look meek, she told herself, folding her hands in her lap. “I am Lady Stanton’s companion,” she said, and the quaver in her voice was not feigned.
“Yes, so?”
“I must do what she bids, or I will be turned off.”
“Huh. I’d think that would be a relief.”
“Oh, no!” Blythe looked up, face earnest. “You see, we are distantly related. My mother was her father’s second cousin twice removed, a Remington, you know.”
“For all I care.”
“Yes, well, there weren’t so many of us, and now most are gone. Lady Stanton took me in as her companion.”
“Hard on you,” Nancy commented, sitting at last.
“More than you can guess.” Much more. “She was quite upset when Mr. Miller died, and more upset when the man who killed him escaped.” She dared a glance at Nancy. “Have you heard of that?”
“Who hasn’t? Go on. Though I’m not sure I believe any of this faradiddle.”
“Well, you see, she thought he’d come here.”
“Why?”
“Well, to...” Blythe looked away. “You know. To see Mrs. Selley.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because he and she were—well, you know.”
“No. Wait. Are you implying they were lovers?”
Blythe winced. “Yes. Something like that.”
“Missish little thing, aren’t you.” Nancy sounded amused. “Well, you’re out there. Mrs. Selley wouldn’t have nought to do with that Woodley fellow, him being an actor and all. Though I’ll allow as to how he’s good-looking enough.”
More than enough, Blythe thought. “Yes. Well. That is what Lady Stanton told me. But now I can go back and tell her she was wrong, and that Mrs. Selley didn’t conspire against her husband. She’ll likely turn me off,” she added, gloomily.
“Wait. What is that you said?” Nancy demanded.
“What? That I’ll be turned off?”
“Before that. Are you daring to suggest that Mrs. Selley had something to do with her husband’s death?”
Blythe shrugged. In for a penny, in for a pound. Nancy was likely to crush her with those huge hands, at any rate. “It was her knife that was used,” she said in a very small voice.
“Not because she was there, I can tell you that! No, she was in the country visiting family. I was with her. And a rude shock it was, to come home and find what we did.”
Blythe looked up. “You were with her?”
“Yes, didn’t I just say so?”
“Oh, dear.” Blythe sank her chin into her hands, not needing to pretend to be vexed. If Nancy were telling the truth, Mrs. Selley could not have killed her husband. “Lady Stanton will not be pleased.”
“That’s no never mind to me. Now, look.” Nancy rose, looming over Blythe. “Just you leave Mrs. Selley alone, do you hear? There’s been enough talk. Next you know, someone will say Mr. Selley had someth
ing to do with it. And, no, before you say a word”—Nancy glared at her—“he was in London at the time.”
“Oh.” Blythe sank her chin into her hands again, this time in genuine dejection. She had set out to learn what she could about Mrs. Selley, and so she had. Unfortunately the information was of no help to Simon. “I shall just have to tell Lady Stanton, then,” she said, sighing.
“You do that.” Nancy nodded once, emphatically. “Tell her as how Mrs. Selley is innocent. Poor thing, she’s the one who’s suffered most because of this. Her and that baby.”
Blythe looked up. “Does she have a child?”
“No, not her, poor thing.” Nancy’s face softened, looked almost sympathetic. “The little boy who now must live with the shame of what his father did.”
Blythe frowned. “I’d not heard of a child being involved.”
“No, ‘tis not commonly known. I know because of working in Mr. Miller’s house. ‘Tis why Woodley borrowed money, to support him.”
Blythe went very still. “To support—”
“People like that, what can you expect?” Nancy shrugged and turned. “Mind you leave Mrs. Selley in peace, now.”
“I—this child—who is his father?”
Nancy stared at her as if she were daft. “Weren’t you listening? ‘Tis Woodley, of course.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The sun was just sinking behind Canterbury’s West Gate when Simon returned to his lodging. It had been a long, fruitless trip, and yet he felt almost cheerful. Optimistic. As if he were coming home to joy and peace and acceptance, rather than having to face again the fact that the circumstances surrounding him were very dark, indeed.
His journey as a merchant traveling to London had turned into the chase of a very wild goose. It seemed at first as if he would never encounter the two men he sought, the Persians who had done business with Miller and might be connected with his death. But he had, at last at the Star Inn in Rochester, of all places. What he had never expected was that he might know the two men. What he had never really thought was that they might not be Persian at all, but rather actors he’d met in his early days in the theater.