He nodded warily. “What if I cannot remember me alphabet?”
“Don’t worry.” She laughed bitterly. “By the time I am released, you will remember it quite well.”
****
After facing the sullen, hostile silence of the inhabitants in the east end of London, Nathaniel galloped home, raging with frustration.
“Carter!” he called to his butler as he flung his cape and hat onto a chair. “Tell Michael to bring an old set of his clothes to my room. The older, the better. And saddle that damn nag the cook’s boy uses for errands.”
“You wish us to place your saddle on that boy’s animal?” Carter asked, his brows rising in disbelief.
“Not my saddle, you dunderhead, whatever worn out piece of leather the boy uses. And be quick about it!”
“Yes, sir,” Carter replied. He stared down his long nose at his employer with his eyelids half closed in disapproval.
Nathaniel ignored him and raced up the stairs two at a time.
Michael joined him a few minutes later with a ratty brown jacket, coarse breeches that once might have been dark green, and a dingy gray shirt. Whistling, he threw the garments on the bed and watched his employer strip off his natty fawn breeches and deep blue riding jacket.
“Going in for a bit o’sport, are ye?” Michael asked.
“No, I am not!” Nathaniel replied curtly.
“Your Grace, begging your pardon, but I could not help but notice you seem unlike yourself.”
Nathaniel snarled at him while buttoning the snug breeches. “Boots! I need the scruffiest pair you have.”
“Here,” Michael thrust a set of worn brown boots into Nathaniel’s hand. “Now, Your Grace, if you don’t mind, I believe I ought to ride along with you, seeing as how you intend to pass yourself off as a commoner.”
“Absolutely not!”
“As soon as you open your pie hole they will know you for what you are.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
Michael laughed. “You talk like a lord. You cannot help it, Your Grace. Let me help.”
“Bored, are you?” Nathaniel studied his servant’s grinning face. “All right, but I will not wait.” He grabbed up the jacket and shrugged into it, wincing at the sound of the back seam ripping to accommodate his shoulders.
The two men bounded down the stairs. Nathaniel was relieved to find two broken down old nags in front. No one would recognize him as a duke riding one of those animals. The horses’ sagging backs were covered with contraptions that had been worn out when the first Henry was King of England.
Perfect.
“Where are we off to, then, Your Grace?” Michael asked as they tried to get their horses to move down the street.
The horses resisted. Nathaniel’s tried to lie down in the gutter, but he managed to get her under control before she rolled over on him. They finally clopped forward at such a slow pace the beggars began jeering and shouting for them to move on before their mounts sprouted grass.
“Whitechapel and Bethnal Green for starters,” Nathaniel said, kicking his nag to canter briefly before she slowed again into a sort of lolling walk.
“Lor’, Your Grace, you don’t think she is there?”
Nathaniel shot him a quick glance. “Who?”
“Why, your lady, Your Grace,” Michael answered innocently. “Who else would we be looking for?”
“My uncle’s ward.” Nathaniel ground his teeth until his jaw muscles ached. “And if you want to continue as my groom, I suggest you remember it.”
“Is that not what I said, Your Grace? Your lady,” Michael replied before commencing to whistle a few bars of some bawdy tune, neatly cutting off Nathaniel’s reply.
*
Gaunt strode through the fashionable west end of London, stopping occasionally to converse with old acquaintances. In his experience, servants, shop keepers, laborers, and the indigent were much more reliable sources of information than the bon ton who lived in the fashionable homes lining the streets. It was also much less time-consuming to press a shilling into a grubby hand and simply listen as information poured forth, than to loll about an entryway awaiting an interview with the rich, and therefore busy, inhabitants.
As the kidnapped heiress had astutely guessed when she added the description of the scruffy, white three-legged dog, there were not very many animals matching the description, particularly not in combination with a red-haired giant. Mr. Archer, himself, had mentioned a dog that fit the description and although it seemed farfetched, Gaunt factored Archer’s information into his search.
Idle questioning gradually narrowed the chase down to a prosperous street, Park Lane, which overlooked the lush greensward of Hyde Park. Several shopkeepers agreed that a red-haired lad of outlandish proportions was seen in the neighborhood regularly and assumed to have employment in one of the stately homes. A few even ventured to offer a specific address, which confirmed what Archer had told him.
In late afternoon, Gaunt stopped to survey one of the smaller but still modish houses: one with which he was already familiar. He leaned against a hitching post, watching servants moving industriously through their chores until a young lass came to fill a bucket with water from the well. She could barely carry the container and the contents slopped over her grubby apron. Gaunt stepped up and gently took it from her.
“Here, let me carry this for you,” he offered.
She wiped her nose with her wrist. “Nay, sir, I ‘ave got it.” She tried to wrest it away from him, but he moved ahead of her toward the kitchen door.
“Nonsense. We are almost inside.”
“Well, thank you, then,” she replied glumly. As soon as they were inside, she grabbed it away from him, slopping water on the flagstone floor.
“There, Sally! Watch what you are about!” the cook called, pausing when she saw him. “Who are you?”
“Mr. Knighton Gaunt, Madam,” he replied, taking off his hat.
“What are you doing here?”
“Just offering a hand to Miss Sally.”
“Go on with you, Sally!” The cook pushed the girl onward to a basin full of dirty dishes. The girl poured the water into the sink and began scouring a brass pot with a fistful of sand while her pale gray eyes strayed back to Gaunt.
“Well, sir, and what do you want?” the cook reminded him of her previous unanswered question.
Gaunt grinned. “I have been looking at the houses hereabouts and find you often obtain the best information about them from the staff. Don’t you agree?”
The cook’s bloodshot hazel eyes took in his immaculate clothing. He lounged against the door frame, glad he had worn no ornamentation, just his black vest, jacket and trousers. They were well cut enough to pass muster, but not so rich as to cause concern. She grunted and waited for him to continue.
“Have you had any problems with rats, hereabouts?” Gaunt asked.
“No, sir, we have not!”
“Burglars? Unusual noises at night?”
“No! And what do you mean, burglars? If you are thinking you can get information from me to rob us, you are sadly mistaken and can just be off!”
“Certainly, not. I am simply trying to determine if this area is as safe and comfortable as it appears.” He studied the cook’s hostile face. “It is quiet at night, then?”
“Yes.”
The girl scrubbing the pots giggled. “Except for the spectre!”
“There ain’t no ghost, Sally, now button your pie hole and get back to work.”
“Ghosts?” Gaunt eyed the maid. “Surely there are not any spirits here?”
The scullery maid nodded vigorously, although she didn’t reply.
The cook eyed him. “You interested in ghosts, then?”
“Oh, yes. I have made something of a study of them. I am surprised to learn you have one here. Have you actually seen it?”
“That I ‘ave,” the cook replied with a certain air of self-importance. She picked up a pot of boiling water and rinsed an old whi
te china pot out before spooning in some once-used tea leaves. “You fancy a cuppa?”
“That would be a treat,” Gaunt agreed, moving toward the table set in the center of the flagstone floor.
“Sit down,” the cook ordered, pulling out cups, saucers and a plate containing a few Sally Lunn buns. “Help yourself.”
Gaunt took one and held out his cup while she poured. “I am afraid I did not catch your name?”
“Mrs. White,” she replied, taking a seat opposite him. Her chair creaked ominously under her weight, and she sat rigidly for a moment until the noises ceased. Then she sighed and relaxed, pouring a cup for herself. “And you, sir, so you are interested in them poor, incorporeal spirits are you?”
“Oh, yes. Very.”
“I ‘ave seen ‘em in many houses both in London and in Surrey where I grew up, why I could tell you stories as would make your hair go white….” she said before pausing to sip her tea and staring at the scones thoughtfully.
“Indeed, but I am most interested in recent stories. In fact, are there any ghosts in this house, for example?”
The cook nodded. “There is a story of a poor girl who fell in love with a suitor forbidden to her by her cruel parents. The lad came from a decent family, but ‘ad no title, you see, so he was not good enough for their little lambkins.”
He nodded. The story was as old as London itself. “What happened to them?”
“Oh, they locked the poor girl up in the attic where she stayed for weeks until one day her maid came with her tea and found the poor girl dead on the floor. Died of a broken heart, she did.”
“And she haunts the house? This house?”
“Yes, poor thing. You ‘ear her walking back-and-forth, back-and-forth, all night, waiting for her lover to rescue her.” The cook stared at Gaunt for a moment as if gauging his reaction. “And of course, the lad will never come for he ran off with another lady, as lads will do.”
“Have you heard her?”
The scullery maid giggled. “Deaf as a post.”
“I am not deaf! I ‘eard that did I not?” the cook said, half rising. Then she shook her head. “Not from my room, sir, I’m ‘appy to say. I ‘ave never ‘eard her.”
“I ‘ave,” the scullery said.
“You have?” Gaunt turned around in his chair, hooking his arm over the back. “When?”
“Why, I ‘eard her yesterday, or last evening.”
“You never ‘eard her!” the cook accused the girl. “Quit your lies and get back to work.”
“I am not lying,” the girl replied hotly.
“How could you ‘ear her? When did you ever go to the attic?”
“You don’t ‘ave to go to the attic, if you want to know. You remembers that Mrs. May asked me to carry some old bits of luggage up to the storage room on the fourth floor. Right near the attic door! Well, I never got a chance until late yesterday, after it was already getting dark. Right shivery it were, too, with shadows filling the spaces.” She stopped when the cook snorted. “It were shivery! And anyway, I piled the cases where she ordered, and that is when I ‘eard her—the specter. Walking to and fro up there, pacing in the darkness. I ran all the way back here, afeared for my very soul!”
“So you heard her just last night?” Gaunt asked. “In the attic?”
The scullery maid nodded before shooting a grin at the cook and turning back to her dishes.
“Saucy bit of baggage,” the cook mumbled, draining her cup.
Gaunt caught her eye. “Do you believe her?”
“Oh, yes. I ‘ave ‘eard the other girls—the upstairs maids—say the same.”
“Do you recall, off hand, where you first heard that interesting tale?”
“Why I am not sure…”
“Well, I ‘eard it from Miss Uppity, herself. Not that she ever deigns to speak to the likes of me,” the scullery grumbled.
“Rose?” The cook scratched her bulbous nose. “I cannot rightly say, but it might ‘ave been that Rose Woodley, the girl as is an upstairs maid.”
Gaunt found their information profoundly interesting. “I certainly thank you ladies for entertaining me so well. I cannot remember enjoying a cup of tea and a spectre story so much.”
“Are you leaving?” the cook asked, struggling to get to her feet. “I ‘ave many more stories of unquiet spirits if that is the sort of thing you fancy…”
“I m afraid I have stayed too long, as it is.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “You were so fascinating that I lost track of all time.”
The cook grinned. “Will you be staying nearby, Mr. Gaunt?”
“Yes.” He adjusted the hat on his head and nodded at the women. “This seems like an interesting neighborhood. I am sure we will meet again.” As he paused in the doorway, he casually asked one last question. “You ladies have not seen a white, three-legged dog and a red-haired giant, have you?”
The ladies laughed heartily. “Why, Mr. Gaunt, you must be meaning Red Smythe! He is a groom as lives over the stables here. Why he is almost as tall as you are, though he is as broad as a barn and has a face as would scare the fiercest pirate away on a dark night. And the master’s got a dog as fits that description to a letter. Why ever’d you ask?”
“Oh, I heard someone mention it, and I thought it might be the lad and the phantom dog belonging to the young lady of your tale.”
“Good Lord, no. Red Smythe ain’t no lady’s lover, and there is no spirit dog here.” The cook shook her head. “We ‘ave enough troubles with the living mongrels his lordship thrusts upon the household.”
“I see, well, thank you for the story. I bid you good day, ladies.”
“And good day to you, too, Mr. Gaunt,” the cook said, standing in the doorway and watching him leave.
The information he had collected was coming together beautifully. The previous day, he had questioned the stable lads at this particular house about the hoof knife used to dispose of Miss Moorland. Gaunt remembered that Mr. Smythe had been absent from the stables at that time, however, one of the lads had referred to Mr. Smyth as “Red.”
Interesting coincidences, and Gaunt did not believe in coincidences.
*
Nathaniel and Michael made their way slowly through Whitechapel. No one had seen or heard anything relevant about a lady kept under duress, and no one knew of a three-legged dog, although many helpful souls offered to lop the legs off various curs if so desired. There were plenty of red-haired men about, however, and several were quite tall. Unfortunately, no one could recall seeing a red-haired giant accompanied by a three-legged dog, per se.
Their luck wasn’t much better in Bethnal Green, although they did come upon a red-haired midget dragging along a black poodle missing its tail.
When the light started fading, they realized the necessity to return home and regroup. It was too easy to get lost in the warrens of sagging tenements. As the shadows lengthened, people grew much less interested in answering questions and a great deal more interested in what the two strangers had in their pockets. Nathaniel and Michael were gradually forced to wend their way wearily homeward, sporadically discussing various strategies to employ on their next attempt.
“I’ve got some favors owed,” Michael said. “I will just ask for them to be repaid by searching.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Nathaniel replied, distracted by his thoughts.
Where is Charlotte? Is she still safe? Frightened?
His hands clenched the leather reins. He couldn’t wait until the morrow to find her. They had to do something tonight.
“We will get something to eat and start again,” he said. “We must get a map and divide it up between you and the other men so you can cover more territory.” He remembered the hostility in Whitechapel. “And make sure the men are armed and go in pairs.”
Michael nodded, although Nathaniel wasn’t sure if it was agreement or just exhaustion. He felt bleary-eyed himself, and his clothes itched.
On their return, Nathan
iel questioned Carter but no one had come by with news. Thankfully, Mr. Clark of Bow Street had not returned, either. Nathaniel remained a free man, at least for the time being. Sooner or later, the fathers of the murdered girls would demand justice, and unless matters changed, he would be their natural target.
His neck and jaw ached from tension and frustration. He rubbed his nape, torn between searching for Charlotte and investigating the two deaths.
The dead couldn’t be injured any further by delay, he thought. Charlotte was more important.
When they reached his house, he dismounted, stiff and sore from the worn out saddle. He raced up the stairs and changed hurriedly. Collecting a map of London, he made his way to the dining room, hoping to plot a more effective strategy while he ate.
He drew up a list of servants between mouthfuls, barely aware of the food placed before him. On the map’s margin, he drew up a roster of paired men and began dividing up the east end into small, easily searched sections. He was almost done when Carter interrupted him.
“Visitors, Your Grace,” he said from the doorway, bowing.
Archer pushed his way past Carter without waiting. Dressed in his usual unrelieved black, Cheery Gaunt followed at a more sedate pace.
“Archer! Cheery!” Nathaniel leapt from his chair. “Have you found her?”
“Perhaps,” Cheery replied, eyeing the platters on the table.
“Where is she?” Nathaniel asked.
“I am not certain, but I have a theory.” Cheery replied. “Her note reminded me of someone—a pugilist I used to know. Perhaps you recall ‘The Red Death’?”
“Who the hell is ‘The Red Death’?”
Cheery and Archer chuckled. “A very bad prize fighter. Apparently, he gave retired when he found it more lucrative to work odd jobs with questionable legality. I believe he may be the red-haired man Miss Haywood mentioned.”
“And you know where he is?”
“Oh, yes,” Archer replied, cutting off Cheery. “Gaunt tracked him down.”
“Where? Where is she?”
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