Scandal Above Stairs

by Jennifer Ashley

  I heard Tess in the passage, speaking to Emma. Her voice was robust, her laughter lighthearted.

  Would she sound so cheerful if guilty? Or have looked so frightened this morning about the open door until I reassured her? I hoped Daniel’s idea was wrong, but I very much worried it was not.

  I hadn’t much liked my previous journey to the Metropolitan Police headquarters, but my curiosity rose as I finished a lemon tart and slid it into the oven. Who had killed the fellow in the pawnbrokers, and why? Had it anything to do with the antiquities’ thefts? Or had it been simply a falling-out among thieves? I made up my mind to go with Daniel—if I waited for him to return and tell me about it, I might wait a long time and only learn what he chose to impart.

  Tess came into the kitchen, half dancing, then stopped as she caught sight of me hanging up my apron and departing for the housekeeper’s parlor to fetch my hat and coat.

  “Take out the lemon tart in an hour’s time,” I said as she followed. “Do not let it burn. Then scrub the potatoes and put them in to parboil, about thirty minutes. When I come back, I’ll teach you how to make an iced custard from tea and cream. Quite delicious.”

  “From tea?” Tess looked dubious. “Where are you off to?”

  I shrugged on my coat and settled my hat. “Scotland Yard,” I said.

  Tess’s cheerfulness dropped away, and her fear returned. “About the back door?”

  “No, no. About the man who was killed at the pawnbrokers. Mr. McAdam wishes me to assess a suspect.”

  Tess relaxed, but she shivered, hugging her arms over her chest. “You watch yourself around criminals, Mrs. H. Dangerous lot. Me dad was one, God rest his rotten soul. Ye think there’s really a hell? ’Cause he’ll be in it.” The anger in her voice was fierce.

  “I believe God is more forgiving than people are,” I said. “Remember the prodigal son? That parable tells us God welcomes even the worst of sinners into the kingdom of heaven.”

  Tess stared at me in puzzlement as though she’d never heard the story. “So you think me dad’s up in heaven after all?” She gave another shiver. “Cor, then I don’t want to go.”

  I patted her arm as I moved past her out the door. “Nothing to worry about. Souls in heaven are a different thing from people on earth.”

  “If you say so.” Tess sounded doubtful. “Hope I never have to find out.”

  I left her, making my way down the passage to the kitchen and out through the scullery.

  Tess’s questions did raise a thought—if sinners went to heaven, then my husband would be there as well. As much as I’d comforted Tess by telling her we’d be different in heaven—apparently we’d all know how to fly and play the harp, for instance—I had no wish to encounter him again, in angelic form or otherwise. I couldn’t blame Tess her reluctance to go if people who’d caused her grief awaited her there.

  * * *

  * * *

  Daniel met me at the corner of South Audley Street and offered me his arm. We walked down this avenue as carriages and carts moved around us, past Grosvenor Chapel, where I’d spied him in the churchyard.

  “It was kind of the vicar to help you,” I said.

  Daniel glanced at the chapel. “He is an old friend.”

  “I ought not to be surprised, I suppose.”

  His laughter warmed me. “You have lived in London all your life, have you not? I’ll wager you know plenty of people. Cooks and housekeepers, fishmongers, stallholders, greengrocers, bakers, footmen, maids, butlers, majordomos—from Cheapside, Mayfair, and everywhere in between. I’ve lived in London as long. Stands to reason I have acquaintances everywhere.”

  “I suppose you have a point,” I said. “But I don’t know everyone from thieves to geniuses to chief inspectors to vicars.”

  “If you’re friends with me long enough you will.” Daniel pulled me a bit tighter against him, taking me out of the way of a wide landau, but he didn’t ease the pressure on my arm after the carriage passed.

  “Will you tell me more about your misspent youth?” I asked in a light voice.

  Daniel gave me a sideways glance. “It’s not a pretty story. I want you to like me, but I don’t think you’d like the boy I was.”

  Now I was more intrigued. “I imagine you meant well. You simply fell in with the wrong people.”

  “I did fall in with the wrong people, as a matter of fact,” Daniel said. “But the truth is, I was a horrible little mite, happy to help the villains who’d taken me in. My only defense is that I had no idea what a devil I was. I thought one of the villains was my father, you see.” He shrugged. “He might have been. I’m still not certain, but why else would he have been so solicitous of me? He fed and clothed me and made certain I did not end up being used for what young boys often are.”

  “Chimney sweeps?” Sweeps liked very thin and small lads who could climb up into chimneys and knock out hard-to-reach lumps. Dangerous and cruel, I always thought. I made sure to give the sweep boys who came to the house scones or buns, which I had them eat out of sight of their masters, who would most likely take any food away from them. I also tucked pennies into the lads’ pockets, whispering to them to keep them a secret.

  Daniel sent me a dark look. “I mean as paramours for disgusting men. Many of those gentlemen live around these parts.” He cast his gaze at the tall and elegant houses around us.

  I did not like to think of such things. “Not all of them,” I said quickly. “Not every person is evil, Daniel.”

  I found myself even tighter against his side in our next step. “Which is why I like you, Kat. You pull me back from despair.”

  This from a man who laughed more than any other I knew. “Well, I suppose you’d better cease disappearing then and come regular for my scones and tea.”

  His grin returned. “I will endeavor to do so, Mrs. Holloway.”

  We walked in silence the rest of the way to Curzon Street, where Daniel hailed a hansom. This took us through the lanes to Piccadilly and Haymarket, and past Trafalgar Square, where I’d stood debating yesterday, and to Whitehall.

  Daniel did not walk in through the front door of the imposing building at Great Scotland Yard. Of course he did not. He took me down a noisome passage to a narrow space and rapped three times on a battered door there. It was opened after about five minutes by a portly man in a sergeant’s uniform, who admitted us to a tiny hall with peeling paint.

  The stairs he led us up were confined into a smelly, dark stairwell, each step precipitous, and they had no handrail. I had no intention of putting my gloves on the dirty walls, so I went up slowly, holding my skirts from the dusty steps.

  Daniel, behind me, steadied me in places with his hand on my elbow. The sergeant we followed strode quickly, his size not hampering him. Three flights up, he opened a door on a landing.

  I stepped onto a floor that was a bit cleaner—at least someone swept here, even if the walls needed a scrubbing. But of course they were closing this building and moving, so I suppose they’d decided not to waste time and effort keeping things clean. Such is the logic of the male sex.

  Daniel kept his hand on my elbow as we followed the sergeant down the hall. There was no need for him to guide me anymore, but I found that I did not mind him so close as we traversed the echoing hall.

  The sergeant ushered us into a narrow anteroom at the end of the corridor. This had a door on its opposite side that opened as we entered, disgorging Chief Inspector Moss.

  I glimpsed another small room behind him that held only a table and chairs. A man so large he seemed barely contained by the chair he sat in had been wedged between the table and the wall. He had shackles around his wrists, which were chained to the table, the table’s edge pressing into his belly. He took up so much of the room that I pictured the wall behind him bursting with his weight, sending him down to the London street four stories below.


  The man looked up. I caught a flash of blue eyes so cold they chilled me; a pockmarked, hard face; and a shock of red hair. The man exuded menace, filling every particle of air with it. Even Mr. Varley hadn’t carried such a shroud of evil.

  Chief Inspector Moss closed the door in the next moment, but I did not relax. The man might be shackled, but he was large and strong. Who could stop him if he chose to break his chains and escape?

  The air of command I’d seen in Chief Inspector Moss was clear again as he faced me. His skin held London pallor, but its leathery look suggested it had once been heavily tanned, sometime before his hair and mustache had begun to go gray. He might have been a command sergeant major or perhaps an officer in a far-flung outpost of the Empire, one where unruly tribes objected to British rule. He had the bearing of one who’d seen brutal fighting—I doubted he’d spent his service behind a desk by day and at soirees with the regimental wives by night.

  Moss’s brows shot up when he saw me. “Why did you bring a lady here, McAdam? With him?” He gestured at the closed door.

  “She is astute and knows about people,” Daniel said before I could protest that I’d come here by my own choice. I had the inkling Chief Inspector Moss would wish me to be seen and not heard.

  “This one’s a true villain,” Moss went on in a warning tone. “If we have to let him go, keep her out of his way.”

  “If you have to let him go?” Daniel repeated in surprise. “I thought it was certain he’d done it.”

  Moss scowled. “There’s always uncertainty. Witnesses are never reliable. Mrs. Holloway, please, stand over here.”

  Chief Inspector Moss moved to a small panel set halfway up the wall. It opened to reveal a grill, beyond which was the room with the large man.

  The man looked up when he heard the little door creak. Though many bars crisscrossed the opening, I was aware of being pinned by the eyes I’d glimpsed before, ones that said he was a crocodile and I was a foolish goat who’d strayed into his path.

  “He can’t see you,” Daniel whispered into my ear. “The grill is too thick.”

  I was not reassured. The man stared right at me—or perhaps he could hear my frightened heartbeat.

  I took a fortifying breath and gave Daniel a nod. His returning nod told me he understood before he moved away and followed Chief Inspector Moss into the other room.

  They closed the door and I heard the turn of a key in the lock. This did not relieve me as much as it might, because if that man attacked, I wasn’t sure Daniel or the chief inspector could get the door open in time to save themselves. I could only hope the shackles were strong.

  Chief Inspector Moss sat down facing the villain. Daniel took a seat at the end of the table, well out of reach of the big man’s fists. I could see Daniel’s face, but only the back of Moss’s head.

  The villain sniffled and jerked his chin at Daniel. “Who’s ’e?”

  “Never you mind,” Moss said. “This here’s Simon Pilcher,” he said to Daniel. “Ever heard of him?”

  Daniel shook his head while Mr. Pilcher looked Daniel up and down. “Ain’t never ’eard of ’im either,” Pilcher said, his voice as large as his body.

  “You know why you’ve been arrested, don’t you?” Moss asked him.

  “Accused of killing a bloke.” Pilcher sniffled again, as though he were coming down with a cold. “I never.”

  “You can plead your case at the Old Bailey.” Moss’s voice was hard. “You’ve been in the dock before. The only reason you got off those times was because of luck and a good brief.”

  Pilcher shrugged. “’S’why I pay ’em.”

  So he was a criminal who could afford a barrister to stand up for him in court and plead his case. I did not like the sound of that. Such a man was likely in the employ of an even worse criminal who had plenty of money to keep his minions free of hanging or transportation.

  “You were seen entering and leaving the pawnbrokers, with the murdered man found only an hour later,” Moss said.

  Pilcher scowled at him. “I were in that pawnbrokers on legitimate business. Bloke were already brown bread.” Brown bread—dead.

  “Can you prove that?” Moss asked.

  “You know I can’t.” Pilcher’s irritation rose. “Or coppers wouldn’t have nabbed me and fit me up for it.” His large hands moved restlessly, the chains clinking.

  “What were you doing in the pawnbrokers?” Daniel asked quietly.

  Pilcher snapped his gaze to him. “Why should I tell you?”

  “You will if you want to keep your neck from the noose.” Daniel’s voice was smooth, no trace of South London in it.

  Pilcher blinked. I saw him make up his mind that Daniel, despite his working man’s clothes, might have come here to help him—perhaps he thought Daniel a solicitor. When Pilcher spoke again, his tone was calmer. “Paid to, weren’t I? Sent to fetch goods. I were going to buy them—nothing wrong about it.”

  Chief Inspector Moss huffed. “Where is the money you were given to buy these goods? Wasn’t in your pocket when you were searched.”

  “Me boss had it. I take the goods to ’im, ’e pays. Not frew me. ’E knows better than to give me a bag o’ cash.” Pilcher chuckled, genuinely pleased he was so untrustworthy.

  “Name your boss,” Daniel said. “We’ll ask him.”

  Pilcher let out another laugh. I did not like that he was so merry. “It’s Naismith. Julius M. Naismith.”

  The name meant nothing to me, but I saw Daniel go very, very still. Chief Inspector Moss began to speak, but he caught sight of Daniel’s expression and fell silent.

  As I watched, Daniel’s face went every bit as hard as Pilcher’s, and a coldness entered his eyes, one that could have filmed the walls with ice. I’d never seen in Daniel the rage I glimpsed in him now, one that boiled up from somewhere deep inside, where he kept it hidden from all the world, including me.

  I realized in that moment that the most dangerous person in the room was no longer the thuggish Mr. Pilcher, or the powerful Chief Inspector Moss, but Daniel McAdam.

  17

  “Where is he?” Daniel asked in a chilly voice.

  Pilcher stared at Daniel for a time and then swallowed. His answer, “I dunno, do I?” was strangely quiet.

  Chief Inspector Moss broke in. “If you don’t know where your boss is, how will he give you an alibi? Or a reference for your character?”

  Pilcher shrugged, having grown far less confident in the space of a few moments. “He mostly finds me.”

  “Well, he’d better find you quick, lad,” Moss said. “You’re for Newgate. If the trial is swift enough you might end up starting for a new life in Botany Bay before the next week is out, but only if the judge is lenient.”

  Pilcher had gone a sickly white. “Now hang on . . .”

  “You might be hanging on,” Moss said, liking his own joke, but Daniel held up a hand.

  “Let him speak.”

  Pilcher’s eyes flickered nervously to Daniel. “Mr. Naismith didn’t have nothing to do with no killings, I swear to ya. ’E sent me to buy old bits he wanted—legitimate like. ’E had an understanding with the pawnbroker. ’E sends me or someone to carry the fings back to ’im, and pays if ’e likes the gewgaws.”

  “What did he send you to fetch this time?” Daniel asked him.

  Pilcher shrugged. “Dunno what it was. I pick up packages and keep others from stealing ’em. I don’t look at what’s inside. Don’t care. I get paid, don’t matter what it is.”

  Chief Inspector Moss leaned forward. “Would it interest you to know we arrested that pawnbroker? He’s cooling his heels in a lockup for receiving stolen goods. He’ll be tried soon.”

  Pilcher shrugged again, trying to spread his arms, but was jerked back by the shackles. “Can’t help that, can I? I was told to pick up a package, so I toddled along to
pick it up. ’Cept, when I walk in, bloke is stone-cold dead on the floor.”

  “Did you know the bloke?” Daniel asked. “The dead man?”

  “Never seen ’im.” Pilcher balled his fists. “That’s God’s honest troof, guv. I didn’t know ’im, didn’t kill ’im. I turned around and walked out as fast as I could.”

  I believed him. Mr. Pilcher was quite frightened now, ready to loudly protest his innocence. Tess took the same tone whenever she was indignant about being wrongly accused.

  “So you were unlucky,” Moss said. “Is that what you are claiming?”

  “’S’right.”

  “We’ll let a judge and jury sort that out,” Chief Inspector Moss said, sounding satisfied. “Magistrate’s already bound you over for the trial, so don’t go ruining your chances by fighting your jailers. See you in the dock, old son.”

  “But I didn’t do nuffink!” Pilcher wailed.

  Moss rose and began to turn for the door, but Daniel’s quiet voice had him pausing.

  “Tell me where Naismith is,” Daniel said to Pilcher, “and you might save yourself.”

  “I’m telling ye, I don’t know!” Pilcher’s eyes were wide. “Wish I did. ’E’d have me out of ’ere and you lot thrashed.”

  Daniel looked up at Chief Inspector Moss, the iciness in his eyes unnerving. “Let him go. On the condition that he tells Naismith to talk to us. To me.”

  Moss was shaking his head before Daniel finished. “I need someone to answer for this murder. Pilcher is a killer—he’s done murders before but his brief got him off. He might have done this one; he might not. Whether he goes down for one he didn’t do is all the same to me.”

  Pilcher’s face was mottled red and white. “You can’t do that. You’re a copper.”

  “And you’re a killer,” Moss said. “I’m against those. And thieves that live the high life while their betters starve.”

  “Let him run back to his master,” Daniel argued. “You’ll catch him for something else sooner or later. As for this murder, I’ll poke around, see what I can find. Keep the local coppers off me, and I’ll turn up your murderer.”