by Joan Smith
The vision opened its mouth, and a beautiful, throaty voice issued forth. I had been expecting something like the raucous caw of a jackdaw.
“Miss Irving,” she said, billowing forth in full rig, accompanied by a strong aroma of violet scent. “I am Miss Whately, of 3A.” She drooped to the floor in a curtsy that would have pleased old Queen Charlotte, for it was a very model of antique grace. She rose and smiled. “I am ever so pleased to make your acquaintance. I am just a little late with my rent. So sorry, dearie, but you wasn’t here till yesterday. Better late than never, says I.”
So saying, she handed me over her rent. An assortment of paste stone rings decorated her shapely white fingers. I thanked her and reached for the receipt book. Miss Thackery stood staring as if she had never seen anything like Miss Whately, and I am sure she had not. She was a type never seen in Radstock or Bath, unless on the stage. Her lovely voice, her graceful movements, and her living so close to Drury Lane made me wonder if she was an actress.
“You won’t be closing up the house on us, will you Miss Irving?” was her first question.
I made the same reply I had made to the others.
“Lud, wouldn’t that be just my luck!” she exclaimed, throwing a hand to her brow in a gesture of high melodrama. “Me just around the corner from Drury Lane. I knew it was too good to last.”
Miss Thackery cleared her throat and said, “Are you an actress, Miss Whately?”
The question called forth another of the burlesque curtsies. Miss Thackery looked helplessly to me and returned a lesser curtsy. Miss Whately drew a chair forward and sat down, saying, “That I am, ma’am.”
I introduced Miss Thackery, and Miss Whately said, “Listen, ladies, if you’re planning to go to the theater, I can get you a deal on your tickets—same as I did for your aunt, Miss Irving. You’d ought to have seen The Provok’d Husband. I played Lady Wronghead. They wanted me to play Lady Wronghead’s daughter, because of my youth, you know, but it’s a minor role. I had some wonderful scenes with Count Basset. Dee Maitland played the count. He’s a wonderful actor.”
“Is it still playing?” I asked, with some interest.
“Lud no. That was last winter.”
“What part are you playing at the moment, Miss Whately?” Miss Thackery asked.
“I’m at liberty just now, resting up after a very busy season. Parts are harder to come by since they got the new manager over to Drury Lane—Mr. Baker. He’s got them all playing double roles for single pay! Tight as a fiddle string! Ask anyone. Baker wouldn’t give you a sneeze if he had the flu. He wants me for The Provok’d Wife—it’s like a companion piece to The Provok’d Husband. Vanbrugh is a wonderful dramatist.”
“I thought perhaps you were on your way to the theater,” Miss Thackery said, looking in confusion at the woman’s costume.
“What? This old thing?” Miss Whately asked, and laughed a beautiful silvery laugh. “Lud, Miss Thack’ry, I wouldn’t be caught dead on the stage in this old rag. No, Colonel Stone is taking me out to dinner tonight. He has been giving me a hurl in his carriage for a few weeks now. He’s an old scarecrow, but a lady has got to eat, hasn’t she? And there is no vice in him. He is well past it.”
I blinked in astonishment at this plain speaking. To cover the stretching silence I said, “Did you happen to see the notice on the bulletin board, Miss Whately?”
“Not an increase in our rents!” she exclaimed.
“No, it is about furniture for the flats.”
“Oh, lud, it’s about that chair, ain’t it? It was Sharkey who busted it, miss. If you’re taking to charging us for busted furnishings, it’s Sharkey you want to get after.”
Miss Thackery handed her a slip of paper. “This is the notice,” she said. She had apparently made a few efforts before being satisfied with her work and gave Miss Whately one of the rejects.
Miss Whately frowned at it for a moment. “Would you mind reading it for me, Miss Thack’ry. I’ve left my specs upstairs.”
The white of her cheeks surrounding the rouge spots disappeared. It had turned as pink as the rouge, and I was struck with the idea that she could not read. How on earth did she learn her lines?
“The announcement says that I wish to be rid of the excess furnishings and invites the tenants to help themselves,” I explained.
“I could use a decent dresser and an extra couple of chairs,” she said, frowning. “How much are you charging?”
‘There is no cost,” I said. “The furniture is not needed here. It is only on loan. I will expect it to be left behind when the tenants leave.”
“You mean it’s free?” she said, her eyes bulging in disbelief. She leapt from the chair and darted to the edge of the room. “What are these little white bits of paper?”
“Those are the pieces I wish to have removed.”
“I’ll take this one,” she said, snatching a little chest from the pile. “Just what I need to hold my dainties. And a dresser, as I said, and half a dozen chairs. Say, you wouldn’t have scrap of carpet, would you?”
I looked at the three under our feet. One was all the saloon required. “After the furnishings are removed, we shall see what we have here,” I told her.
“I’ll have Jack stay and give me a hand moving the stuff upstairs. That’s Colonel Stone. On t’other hand, I don’t want him to stick his fork in the wall before he buys me dinner. Can you just put my name on these pieces—and hold a slice of carpet for me, Miss Irving?”
“Yes, we can do that,” I agreed.
The front door opened, and a shuffling sounded in the hallway.
“That’ll be the colonel,” Miss Whately said. “Yoo-hoo, Jack. In here,” she called.
A doddering old relic of a gentleman shuffled in. He had snow white hair and a lined face. Miss Whately could have picked him up with one hand and lifted him over her head. I did not fear her virtue was in any danger from his advances.
He wore an evening suit of excellent cut. His accessories—gloves, watch chain, and a fine ruby in his cravat—suggested he was well to grass. He also behaved like a gentleman.
“Renie, my dear, charming as ever,” he said in a quavering voice.
“This here is Miss Irving and Miss Thack’ry,” Miss Whately said. The old colonel bowed punctiliously.
“Charmed, ladies. Well, my dear, I hope you are in good appetite. I have reserved us a private room at the Clarendon—and ordered plenty of oysters, just as you like.”
Miss Whately gave us a proud little look, as if to say, See how I have him trained? “Time for fork work,” she said. “You won’t forget about my furniture, Miss Irving? Just set it aside, or ask Sharkey to take it up for me. You have a key to my flat, of course.”
“No, actually ...”
“Scuddie has taken them, then. I would get hold of them if I was you, Miss Irving. If anyone is stupid enough to leave cash in his rooms, she’ll pocket it, sure as shooting. Lud, what we poor working girls have to put up with,” she said to her colonel, with a wild batting of her lashes.
“I wish you would let me take you away from all this, my little flower,” he quavered.
“Now, Jack, you know your wife would skin you alive.” She laughed merrily and took him out, bolstering him up on one side with her own strong body. “Ta ta, ladies. We must be stepping.”
Miss Thackery and I sat in stunned silence a moment. What would the stylish Clarendon Hotel make of that woman? “I shall get the keys from Mrs. Scudpole,” I said, and went after her.
She was in the kitchen, preparing dinner. She parted with the key ring reluctantly. I hoped I would not hear complaints from my tenants of cash or valuables missing from their rooms.
“I see Renie has found a new patron,” Mrs. Scudpole said sourly.
I ignored the word “patron,” although I feared it was accurate enough. “She is dining with Colonel Stone,” I said.
“Hmph. Dining, is it? How does she manage to pay her rent and deck herself out in silks and satins
? She has not had a role for five years.”
“You are mistaken. She played in a comedy last winter.”
“Aye, for an audience of one at a time. She has not acted on the stage since I have been here—and that was five years this month. There is another word for what she does. Trollop!’’
I took the keys and left. Miss Whately was the sort of tenant I had originally expected to be living in such a house as this, so I ought not to have been surprised. The relative gentility of the others had raised my expectations. At least she had paid her rent, and she was quiet. There remained only the elusive Sharkey to meet. Miss Whately’s tale of his chair breaking did not lead me to hope for much from him.
For the next hour, the front door was often slammed. Mrs. Clarke and Mr. Butler returned, not together, but within minutes of each other. She was still reading the bulletin board when he came in, and we overheard their excited exclamations about the “free” furniture. Professor Vivaldi came in more quietly. Mr. Alger, having gone to work so late, did not return before dinner. We changed for dinner, but took no great pains with our toilette as the evening might involve some physical labor in the disbursement of the furnishings.
Mrs. Scudpole had exerted herself to roast a stringy, dry chicken and boil potatoes and peas to a mush.
“I shall tackle a small roast myself tomorrow,” Miss Thackery said. “How on earth did she manage to ruin a fresh chicken? This tastes as if it has been in the oven a week.”
“The wings and legs are hard as rocks. The breast is edible. If we stay, we must hire someone who can cook. I am a little concerned about Mr. Sharkey, Miss Thackery. We have not seen a sign of him in over twenty-four hours. I mean to call on him after dinner. I hope nothing has happened to him.”
“With luck, he will have absconded—without paying his rent.”
“If so I shall try to get someone genteel to take his rooms. That will leave only Miss Whately to give the place a bad reputation.”
“Why, you sound as if you intend to stay, Cathy!” I did not deny it. I was beginning to take a proprietarial interest in my tenants, and in my horrid house. “I daresay we can thank Mr. Alger for this idea,” she suggested, with an arch look.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoffed, but I felt a blush warm my cheeks. I found, too, that I kept listening for the slamming of the front door, heralding his return. When dinner was over, he had still not come back, nor had Mr. Sharkey appeared. It was seven-thirty, and we went to the saloon to be ready to greet the tenants, come to claim the lumber.
Chapter Six
I should enjoy being a shopkeeper, to judge by that evening’s work. It was amusing with customers coming in, outlining their requirements, and making their selection. Everyone’s favorite tenant was Mrs. Clarke, and she was given precedence in selecting what she required for Jamie. Her wants were modest: a chest of drawers to hold the baby’s clothing and blankets. She had a good eye in her head, too. She chose a piece of a pretty shape, saying, “Would it be all right if I painted it, Miss Irving? Jamie’s coverlet is blue.”
Mr. Butler, who followed a step behind her like a lady’s footman, lent his support. “A lick of paint and it will be good as new. Miss Irving will not object to that.”
Miss Irving did not object, but in fact pointed out a matching set of hanging shelves that might likewise be given a lick of paint and provide a display shelf for Jamie’s toys.
Mr. Butler’s eyes were busy spying out other treats for his beloved. It did not take a mind reader to see he was mad for the girl.
“You could use another chair, Anne,” he said, examining the collection of chairs. “When Miss Lemon has tea with us, we have to bring the chair in from the bedroom.”
“By all means have a chair. Have two,” Miss Thackery said eagerly. Chairs were what we had most of.
With a little urging, Mrs. Clarke selected two chairs, and Mr. Butler took not less than three. I am sure I don’t know what he meant to do with so many of them. While I tended the widow, Professor Vivaldi roamed the room and selected a desk and chair for himself. Mrs. Scudpole was not to be left out of anything that was free and was snapping up odd tables and assorted bric-a-brac.
Mullard was on hand to help bring the extra furnishings from the cluttered bedroom and move various pieces about, so the tenants could get a look at what was under or behind them. We had the hallway quite full of lumber. Miss Lemon, afraid she was missing something, came downstairs carrying Jamie. She was a respectable, middle-aged woman who treated Mrs. Clarke with some strange mixture of a mother’s bossiness, a maid’s servility, and a friend’s genuine concern.
“Jamie woke up, Mrs. Clarke,” she said, “so I thought there was no harm in bringing him down. You know he likes a little romp before settling in for the night. You recall I wanted a bedside table and lamp, if there are any to spare.”
Mrs. Clarke took the child to allow her nurse (or whatever Miss Lemon was) to roam the shop unencumbered.
Jamie was all an officer’s son should be. His fat little face was topped by a fluff of dark curls. He had big blue eyes. Fresh from his nap, he was all smiles and gurgles. Miss Thackery and I admired him to his mama’s satisfaction. We agreed he had his mama’s eyes—and took her word for it that he had his papa’s hair and ears.
“This is his birthday,” Mrs. Clarke explained. “He is nine months old today. I made him this blue dress he is wearing.”
It seemed strange to speak of nine months as a birthday, but the child loomed so large in her life that I expect he had a dozen birthdays a year. The dress was very well sewn, with ducks embroidered in yellow around the neck.
While I was admiring the dress, Mr. Alger returned and entered with good grace into the furniture business. The crowd shifted, and Professor Vivaldi came forward to admire Jamie.
“Is my Hepplewhite desk still here?” Mr. Alger asked.
“Indeed it is. You are welcome to a chair to go with it. We have a special on chairs this evening. Mullard has counted up an even two dozen of them to be disposed of.”
“I shall strike a deal with you. Throw in a lamp, and I’ll take two chairs off your hands.”
“Clap hands on a bargain. Come into the hall. There is a matched set of walnut chairs there. Some of them even have four legs. They will set off the desk admirably, but I am not responsible if they fail to hold your weight.”
While we were examining the walnut chairs and testing them for sturdiness of legs, the front door opened, and a little gnome of a man with kinky brown hair popped in. He was shorter than average but not actually a dwarf. I judged him to be a couple of inches shorter than my own five feet and four inches. He had brown eyes set deep in a pale, pudgy face with a day’s growth of whiskers decorating it. His clothing was not only poorly cut but far from clean. His jacket had large brass buttons, padded shoulders, and a nipped waist that ill suited his build. His cravat had what looked suspiciously like drops of dried blood on it. But it was his frightened expression that lent him the air of a fugitive. He looked all around at the crowd, as if expecting someone to draw a pistol.
“Good God, who is that?” I exclaimed.
“You have not yet met Mr. Sharkey?” Mr. Alger said, smiling at my alarm. “Allow me to make you acquainted with your tenant.”
Mr. Sharkey worked his way toward us. “What the deuce is going on, Alger?” he demanded. “Are the bailiffs in the house?”
Mr. Alger introduced us and explained the situation.
“You mean we can take what we want for free?” he demanded, his face a perfect picture of greedy incredulity.
“I am allowing the tenants the use of the items with a white tag,” I said. He darted off to see what he could get.
“Don’t forget to dun him for his rent,” Mr. Alger reminded me, then he went to admire Jamie.
I went after Mr. Sharkey and found him in the saloon. He was not selecting furnishings, but stood at a little table of knickknacks that I wished to be rid of. The table held cheap, chipped statuet
tes, cracked ornamental bowls and vases, some imitation brass candlesticks, a mantle clock that had no hands, and such useless items.
“Can I have these?” he asked.
“Certainly, Mr. Sharkey, if you think you have room for them all. About your rent ...”
He grabbed my sleeve and pulled me to a darkish corner. “Just what I wanted to speak to you about, Miss Irving. I can give you half on account. Business is slow at the moment—I’m having trouble collecting from some of my customers. You’re a businesswoman yourself, and a very handsome one, if I may say so. You know how it is.” His lips opened in a scheming smile that reminded me of a crocodile.
“Yes, indeed,” I said, with a sagacious look.
“Heh-heh. I am good for the money. Ask anybody. I always pay Alger back.”
“What business are you in, Mr. Sharkey?”
“I’m a wholesale dealer in odd-lot goods.”
“Oh.” I blinked in confusion.
“Let me explain.” He seemed to find explaining easier with his short fingers clutching my sleeve. “I deal in bankrupt goods. Buy in job lots from stores that have gone bankrupt and sell to other stores. I deal in private residences as well—death sales mostly. A pity you hadn’t spoken to me before giving away this lot,” he said, waving a hand at the collected lumber. “I would have hauled it away for you. I have my own wagon. I could have gotten you a little something for it.”
I looked at the large brass buttons, glowing dully in the dim light, and knew where I had seen them before. “Was that your wagon in the alley by my house this morning?”
“I got back late last night. I pulled it in there. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I mind that your driver did not tell me the truth when I inquired. In future I would prefer that you park elsewhere. If I, or Mr. Alger, wanted to use the alley, it would be inconvenient for it to be blocked.”
“A good point. I’ll speak to my driver. Now about the rent. I can give you half now . . . and the other half before next week. A deal?” The grubby hand came out to snatch mine.