Silent in the Grave

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  I need not have worried on that score. Val did not return to Grey House until very late, but I had left the light in my room burning, a signal to him that I had not yet retired. He scratched at the door and I called to him softly to enter.

  He gave me a tired little grin. “Success.”

  I patted the edge of my bed and he sat next to me so that we could talk without disturbing anyone. The last thing I wanted was Morag bustling in, asking pointed questions.

  “You cannot imagine how simple it was,” he said, marveling. “I was about to knock at Miss Simms’ office, as I do every time, to let her know that I have arrived. Just as I raised my hand to knock, I heard her speaking sharply to one of the girls, warning her that a man had been about the place asking questions about Sir Edward Grey and that she was to tell nothing of what she knew.”

  “Brisbane,” I said excitedly.

  Val nodded. “Simms threatened her with a beating if she talked. The girl swore that she would never reveal anything, then Miss Simms dismissed her.”

  “But if she promised—” Val’s smile cut me off.

  “A promise to Miss Simms is a promise to the devil. All I had to do was offer the girl, Cass is her name, some coin. Although she hates Miss Simms enough that I think she might well have told me everything simply for spite.”

  “What did you discover?”

  “Not everything. She confirmed that she often saw Sir Edward and spoke to him. And when I explained to her that his widow had questions, she asked to speak with you directly.”

  I stared at him. “Surely you told her no.”

  “I did not,” he stated roundly. “You want answers and Cass is willing to give them to you.”

  “Val, I appreciate this Cassandra’s—”

  “Cassiopeia,” he put in.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Cassiopeia. All the girls are given a nom de guerre, for lack of a better phrase, from Greek mythology. To carry out the Pandora theme.”

  “Yes, well, that is commendably thorough. All the same, I do not think it at all suitable that I should meet this person.”

  But even as I said the words, I regretted them. Val risked his good name and his personal safety to give these squashed blossoms medical treatment. Aunt Hermia provided a refuge for those willing to give up the game and live a more conventional life. And Morag herself, well, it was best not to dwell on Morag. But I could not be happy instructing Val to do that which I could not. I had been attempting to prove myself a worthy partner in this investigation from the very beginning. It was time to show my mettle.

  “I am sorry. Of course I shall meet with her. Have you made the arrangements?”

  Val did not disappoint me. Knowing the impossibility of meeting either at my home or her place of business, Val had arranged a rendezvous in the Park for the next morning. He had provided Cass with enough money to procure herself a bit of incognita, and he had told her I would be thickly veiled and wearing black. He promised to escort me himself, in spite of Cass’ warning that she would speak only to me.

  “You have done rather well for your first foray into investigation,” I told him.

  He smiled wearily. “Is it? You have forgotten the Heath.”

  I felt myself flush, remembering the way that adventure had concluded. “You had best go to bed now,” I said in my best bossy-elder-sister voice. “We must be out early to catch our little bird in the Park.”

  He left me and I retired, but sleep came slowly. Val’s reminder of the adventure on the Heath had caused me to think of Brisbane. I wondered what he was about in Paris. I remembered his cool detachment, his thinly veiled anger the last time we met. I thought of Fleur, and her elegant, dazzling charms, how he confided in her so willingly and turned to her in times of trouble. And by the time I finally dropped off to sleep, I was fairly certain that he thought of me not at all.

  THE THIRTY-SIXTH CHAPTER

  When sorrows come, they come not single spies,

  But in battalions.

  —William Shakespeare

  Hamlet

  The next morning I would have just as soon stayed abed. A chill, nasty wind had blown up, with a dark canopy of grey cloud that threatened rain. If I had looked to the weather for a portent, I would have been highly disappointed. But Cass, the obliging young inmate of Pandora’s Box, proved more informative than I had dared to hope.

  She found me, almost as soon as I entered the Park, Val pacing discreetly behind me. She was dressed as a flower girl in a worn coat of threadbare green velvet and a straw hat wreathed in yellow blossoms. She approached me, calling her wares and offering me a fistful of lavender.

  “Good morning, your ladyship,” she said, smiling broadly. Her accent was the commonest sort of London speech, at times almost unintelligible. But her face was roundly attractive. She had a charming, winsome manner and a smile that seemed to illuminate her entire face. Her colour was high, and I wondered if she found the whole exercise to be some sort of grand enterprise.

  “Good morning,” I returned civilly. “Are you Cassiopeia?”

  She smiled, revealing rather good teeth. “That’s what they call me at the Box. My real name is Victoria, just like the queen. Vicky, they called me at home.”

  “What shall I call you?”

  “Oh, Lord, I don’t care, my lady. Whatever you likes.”

  “Very well, then, Victoria.”

  She snickered, not unkindly, and I realized that probably no one in her short, chaotic life had ever addressed her by her proper Christian name.

  “Victoria, my brother, Mr. March, tells me that you have some information for me.”

  She nodded, her expression dark. “I do. I’ve no call to keep my word to that Sally Simms. She’s kept back my wages twice this month for nothing. I do my job, my gentlemen are all quite happy.”

  “Hmm. Yes. Suppose we walk for a bit and I will ask you a few questions.”

  She nodded, moving down the path that I indicated. The Park was quiet. It was too early and too chill for most visitors, but I did not like being so near Rotten Row. The path wound us in the opposite direction, away from the faint noise of the streets and farther into the dark gloom of the sheltering plane trees.

  She shivered a little in her thin coat.

  “Are you warm enough, Victoria?”

  She nodded. “I don’t much like trees. I always fancy they look like giants, with great big arms waving about.”

  “I presume you are not country-bred then?”

  She puffed with pride. “I am a proper Cockney. Of course I don’t get home to my mam very much on account of Miss High-and-Mighty Simms working me all the time. I had to feed her a tale this morning about my mam being sick to get out of the Box. But she was good enough about it. Sent for a hackney to bring me. The driver seems a good sort. I’ll give him a copper and he will never tell he didn’t take me to mam’s.”

  I was shocked. I knew that the prostitutes lived in the brothel, but they could not be prisoners, could they?

  “Surely she does not hold you there against your will?”

  The girl laughed, a dry, grating sound so unlike Fleur’s gentle bells. “Bless you, no, my lady. It’s just that Simms makes us sign a little book telling where we’re going and when we’ll be back. She had a few girls disappear on her, pinched away to other houses, and she doesn’t mean to lose any others. And some girls will fix a plan to meet with one of the gentlemen outside the Box, to keep the money for themselves. But I’ve never thought that was worth my trouble.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Not at all. What’s a girl supposed to do if a gentleman won’t pay after he’s had his fun, or turns nasty-like, if there’s no Tommy about?” she asked reasonably. I nodded, remembering what Brisbane had told me about the men who committed cheerful violence to keep customers and prostitutes in line at the Box. Doubtless these were the Tommies.

  “Besides,” she went on blithely, “I like clean sheets for my business and a bit of a wash in
between. Some gentlemen are none too fresh, if you take my meaning.”

  “Oh, dear,” I murmured. In spite of my pretenses to independence and bold thinking, I was beginning to understand how very conventional I really was.

  “I suppose we had better come to business. My brother tells me that you knew my husband, Sir Edward Grey.”

  “Oh, yes, my lady. That is why I wanted to speak to you, personal-like. Some ladies get all in a twist when they find out their gentleman was a customer. I wanted you to know that Sir Edward, well, it was different with him. He paid me for talk and he talked about you quite a fair bit of the time.”

  I stopped and stared at her. We were of a height, Victoria and I, both of us fairly diminutive, but appearing taller. My carriage was nearly perfect thanks to Aunt Hermia’s rigorous schooling. I wondered where Victoria had learned hers.

  “Sir Edward paid you for conversation?”

  “Oh, yes. He had awful nice things to say about you, my lady, and I do say they were the truth. He was always talking about how nice you were, how ladylike. He did say he regretted marrying you something terrible, but that it was not your fault, you’d been a proper good wife.”

  “How flattering,” I said faintly.

  She nodded. “He said you were so pretty, he just liked to look at you, that he didn’t need to be a proper husband to you.”

  I said nothing to this, but Victoria did not require a reply. She went on, chattering as if she did not know each word was a lance to me.

  “He didn’t mind about the children, you know. He never blamed you for not having them. He blamed himself. Said if he had lived a better life, he could have made you a better husband and not taken such a risk with your health as he had his own. Of course, he always said—”

  I put a hand to her sleeve. “What? What risk to my health?”

  Her eyes widened. They were beginning to wrinkle at the corners. She could not have been more than twenty, and already the signs of her hard life were etched in her face.

  “The pox, my lady. He felt right terrible about it.”

  I moved away, groping for a bench. Val, sensing my distress, came closer, but I waved him back angrily. Victoria sat next to me. She did not ask my leave, but I did not care.

  “The pox. Edward had syphilis?”

  “Why, I thought you knew, my lady. The way he talked and all, he said that you couldn’t have children because of his syphilis. I thought he meant he gave it to you.”

  I shook my head. “No. He must have meant that he could not—”

  I could not bear to say the words.

  “Ah, you mean, he couldn’t go with you, because he was afraid of giving it to you when you’d not had it?” she finished for me.

  I nodded.

  “Well, that does make sense. He was always so cruel about himself, saying such terrible things. Called himself a ruination, and a devil. I used to feel sorry for him, with his pretty manners and nice clothes. He had such a nice way of speaking and all. Hard to credit he’d feel so low about himself.”

  I nodded again. My hands were shaking, so I clasped them firmly together, the glove leather creaking a little.

  “Did he say when, how he contracted the syphilis?”

  She tipped her head, thinking. “Before he married, I know that much. He said he hadn’t realized he had already got it when he married, but the doctor told him he would not have been contagious right then. He explained it once, but it was confusing. I think he said there was a first bit of it, when he was ill, but didn’t know what with. Then he felt better and married your ladyship and everything was all right. Then he got sick again and the doctor told him what he had and to stop laying with his lady, lest you get it as well.”

  “Christmas,” I said softly. “That would be when he moved into his own bedchamber.”

  “That’s right, he said that. He said he just couldn’t tell you. He thought you’d be so disappointed about the kiddies and all.”

  How perfectly sweet, I thought bitterly. Edward had not bothered to tell me about this vile disease, leaving me to wonder all these years at our barrenness, blaming myself. And all the while…

  I looked over at the girl and smiled weakly. “It must have shocked you to hear such things. It shocks me now.”

  She returned the smile and reached out, to my astonishment, patting my hand. “Not much shocks me, my lady. I’ve seen a hundred men or more with their trousers off.”

  I nodded and looked away. She had given me much to think of. I did not know if any of it was connected to Edward’s death, but I was glad to know it just the same.

  I squared my shoulders. “Thank you for your frankness. I hope that you will not suffer for it at the hands of Miss Simms.”

  “Oh, no. She warned me off talking about him, but she doesn’t really think I’d spill. She knows he hadn’t been to see me for nearly two years before he died. He had taken to going upstairs, to the attic, for his entertainments.”

  I smiled at her. The notion of Edward seeking his pleasures in a dusty lumber room amused me for some reason. “The attic? Whatever for?”

  “Why, yes, my lady. That’s where they keep the boys.”

  THE THIRTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER

  If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.

  —William Shakespeare

  Julius Caesar

  Edward went with boys?” To my ears, my voice sounded normal enough, casual, as though I were inquiring about the health of a mutual friend. But my thoughts…even now, I cannot quite describe the chill, the numbness. How could I not have known?

  She was nodding. “He did. Said he’d always liked them better. But he quite loved you, my lady,” she said hastily. I think she meant it kindly.

  “Was there a particular boy?”

  “No, my lady. He did not use them very often, you see. But Miss Simms was always glad to see him. Some gentlemen like a bit of the rough, but not Sir Edward. He always treated us kindly. Simms likes that—it doesn’t do to damage the merchandise, she always says. She gives all the regular gentlemen boxes, pretty porcelain things, for keeping sheaths in.” She threw a doubtful look at Val. “Mr. March does say that it keeps infection down, of the pox and other things. Some of the gentlemen complain, or just won’t wear them at all. Not Sir Edward. He were always most particular about wearing them. And Simms thanked him for that. Fastest way to drive off business, she says, is with pocky whores.”

  I was only half listening now. Brisbane had been correct about the box and its purpose. But even he had not guessed the awful reason behind it.

  “Thank you for your time, Victoria. I believe my brother gave you half of the fee yesterday. Here is the remainder.”

  I took a wad of notes from my reticule and thrust them at her. I had no idea how much I gave her. It must not have been less than the agreed amount, though, because after she counted it, she tucked it away in her bodice and flashed me a smile. She was missing a few teeth, but those she had kept looked strong and straight enough.

  “You are indeed a real proper lady. Thank you.”

  I removed something else from my reticule—a card.

  “Take this,” I said, holding it out to her. She took it and looked at it curiously, as though it meant nothing to her. I realized then that she likely could not read.

  “It is the address of a refuge. It is maintained by my aunt, Lady Hermia March. Should you decide to leave the Box, there would be a place for you there. They could teach you to read and write, and eventually secure you a position.”

  She laughed. “Doing what? Serving? Scrubbing floors and blacking grates? No, my lady, I think not. I am what I am. I’ll not change now.”

  She made to hand the card back, but I refused to take it.

  “You may have need of it yet. Keep it. You will always be welcome.”

  She shrugged and the card went the way of the money. But I thought it quite probable that the card would find its way into a dustbin before the day was through.

  I put out
my hand. “Thank you, Victoria.”

  She blinked, then dropped her hand into mine, shaking it slowly.

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  Then the training of her early years returned and she bobbed her head at me before moving back the way we had come. I watched her, for lack of anything better to do. She moved quickly, and as she reached the end of the path, a figure stepped out, a grizzled older man, dressed in an elegantly impoverished coachman’s cape. He doffed his hat to her and she gave him her basket and a smile. The hackney driver, no doubt. He walked with a hunched back and a twist-legged limp. Victoria was careful to match her pace with his, and he in turn guided her around a puddle, patting her arm solicitously. I was pleased that at least someone had a care for the poor creature. I doubted that she would come to Aunt Hermia’s refuge. And I doubted she would live out more than another half-dozen years. I heard my brother’s steps crunching softly on the graveled path as he came near.

  “Oh, Val, why did I ever marry?”

  “Because you loved him?” he hazarded as he sat next to me.

  “Did I? I can’t remember now.”

  He covered my hand with his own large, warm one. “Was it very terrible, what Cass told you?”

  “Yes, actually. It was. Did you know that Edward had syphilis?”

  His hand clenched mine and it was a long moment before he replied.

  “No. How did Cass—”

  “They made him wear condoms at the Box, to protect the prostitutes.”

  “Dear God,” he said softly, giving a sad, heavy sigh. “Miss Simms is quite protective of her staff. An outbreak of syphilis, a rumour of it, can be devastating to the kind of trade she plies. Clients expect that in a certain kind of brothel, but not in Mayfair.”

  “Did you know that that is why she gave Edward the box?”

  “No. Like Brisbane, I thought it a token of regard. I suppose that is why there were never children.”

  “Yes. Edward did not wish to infect me. Apparently his first attack was before we married. He did not realize then what it was. Afterward, when he learned of it, he quit my bed.”