Scandal Above Stairs

by Jennifer Ashley

  “Listen to ’im,” Pilcher said, gesturing to Daniel with a clank of shackles. “’E’s a bloke what knows what ’e’s talking about.”

  Moss smoothed his salt-and-pepper mustache. “Hmm. I’ll think about it. Thank you for your time, Mr. Pilcher.”

  “Bleedin’ ’ell.” Pilcher lowered his great head to his hands.

  Chief Inspector Moss opened the door and walked out, his step light. What he did not notice, and I did, was Daniel move to Pilcher, lower his head, and whisper into the big man’s ear. Pilcher jerked up, looking at Daniel in a sudden mixture of hope and dismay.

  Chief Inspector Moss saw nothing of this. He came to me and closed the grill in the wall, locking it, while he tamped down his impatience into something like deference. “I am sorry you had to hear that, Mrs. Holloway. I warned McAdam that he was filth.”

  I waited to speak until Daniel had left the room where Mr. Pilcher remained and closed and locked the door behind him.

  “I don’t believe Mr. Pilcher committed the murder,” I said. “He might have had something to do with the stolen goods you sent Mr. McAdam to intercept, but he did not kill the man in the pawnbrokers. I’m certain of it.”

  Chief Inspector Moss nodded without hesitation. “I have the feeling you’re right, ma’am. On the other hand, he’s a villain. If I let him go, he’ll only do more villainy.”

  “Have him followed,” Daniel said. His cold look had faded, but he spoke determinedly. “He’ll lead you to bigger fish.”

  Moss’s brows rose. “You think this Naismith has something to do with the thefts? That could be true—from what I hear, he would deal in such things.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Daniel said. “Naismith is an evil bastard. Use Pilcher to connect him with this murder—with anything—and you’ll have a collar that will put your name in the history books.”

  Chief Inspector Moss shook his head, somewhat reluctantly. “If it has nothing to do with this case . . . You’re being lent to me to find the stolen antiquities from the British Museum, not to chase every villain in London.”

  I broke in before Daniel could argue. “Put Detective Inspector McGregor to following Mr. Pilcher,” I said quickly.

  Moss turned to me, bewildered. “McGregor?”

  “Yes. He seems in need of something exciting to do. Have him chase Mr. Pilcher, and he can arrest this Mr. Naismith too if need be.”

  Both men were staring at me, Daniel in something like admiration, Moss as though I were a dog that had just spoken English. I shrugged and pretended I didn’t mind their scrutiny.

  My reasoning was sound, though. If Inspector McGregor were chasing villains like Pilcher and his minder—who sounded even more dangerous than Pilcher himself—then McGregor would not be hounding perfectly respectable cooks in their kitchens. What’s more, he’d leave Daniel alone.

  “Another thing I will think on,” Moss said. “Thank you for your time, McAdam.”

  He’d said the same thing to Pilcher. I didn’t much like that.

  “I’ll find out who did the man in the pawnbrokers,” Daniel said. “I promise you that. And keep trying to discover where the antiquities are disappearing to. I apologize for not being of much help thus far.”

  Moss straightened up, the demeanor of the commander returning. “Sometimes these things don’t bear fruit. I wish they did. Men like Pilcher make me ill. Do you know a chief inspector who retired a few years ago—Turland? Did his job better than anyone, was given a commendation by the chief super. Last time I saw him, he was living with his sister in a tiny house in the East End, existing on boiled beans and cabbage. All the while Naismith and his henchmen dine on roast beef and fine wine. I’d love to see every one of them hanged, but not before they give their ill-gotten profits to people like Turland.” The chief inspector ran out of breath and shook his head. “I am grateful for your help, McAdam, no matter what. Anything you turn up might be of use.” He glanced at me again, trying to decide why Daniel had thought I could assist him, and then the glance dismissed me. “I’ll have someone see you out.”

  “I know the way.” Daniel sent him his usual good-natured smile, though the smile did not reach his eyes. “Shall we, Mrs. H.? How about a nice spot of tea before we take you home?”

  * * *

  * * *

  I knew Daniel had no intention of doing anything so staid as to go out for tea. He took my elbow and guided me from the building, down the small passage, and back into the street.

  It was not far to the Strand. We walked past Charing Cross Station and to the corner where the pawnbrokers stood.

  The golden balls were no less tarnished, the windows no less grimy. Daniel produced a key from his pocket and opened the door. He ushered me inside then closed and locked the door, pulling the shades all the way down.

  Very little sunlight filtered into the gloomy place. Daniel moved behind the counter, opening the back room to look inside, I suppose to make certain no intruders lurked. He returned without a word, so I assumed all was well.

  He paused to light a kerosene lamp, which he set on the counter’s wide surface. The lamp burned steadily behind its glass chimney, throwing a yellow-white glow over the small room and its dusty wares.

  “I suppose we are here to discover who killed that poor man,” I said.

  Daniel came out from behind the counter. “Since he likely came here to kill me, I’m not sure I’d call him a ‘poor man.’ But yes, I want to know who struck him down. Not Pilcher—I agree with you about him. He’s not guilty of this crime.”

  “Who is Mr. Naismith?” I asked abruptly.

  The freezing anger had left Daniel’s eyes, but a flicker of it returned at my question. “A name you should forget.”

  “I’m not likely to, am I?” I asked in reasonable tones. “You grew furious when Mr. Pilcher mentioned him.” I gave him a small smile. “You ought to tell me, you know, to prevent me trying to find out on my own.”

  “Oh, Kat.” Daniel took my hands, closing his strong ones over mine. “I shouldn’t have brought you with me today. I was showing off. Clever Daniel will make a villain spill his secrets, while Mrs. Holloway observes. I had no idea he was keeping that one.”

  “Which you have yet to explain to me.”

  Daniel squeezed my hands, and for the first time, I felt a twinge of misgiving. I’d seen the power in the interrogation room shift from the murderer with reptilian eyes to the cold rage of Daniel. Mr. Pilcher, a very bad man indeed, had been afraid of him.

  I was in a shop where a murder had been committed with no one noticing, with none but Daniel knowing where I was. Daniel himself could have killed the thug—though I reasoned that if he had, he’d not have come here to try to find clues. On the other hand, he might have come to make certain he’d covered up his perfidy.

  I hoped I was being fanciful. Daniel had been plenty enraged and dangerous when he’d gone after the villains ready to kill the Queen, and on that occasion, he’d saved my life.

  Daniel closed his eyes. When he opened them again, I saw resignation and a quiet resolve.

  “Mr. Naismith might be the man who murdered the only father I ever knew,” he said softly. “In twenty years, I’ve never been able to pin him down to prove it.”

  In the silence, the lamp hissed, and a muffled shout sounded outside as a man passed close to the door. His voice was lost in the hoofbeats and rumble of vehicles without.

  “Twenty years ago, you must have been a child,” I said.

  “A lad of ten summers.” Daniel’s fingers firmed on mine. “Naismith’s gang raided the house where I lived and murdered all within, hiding their crime by setting the place on fire. I hid behind the wood box in the kitchen, and they didn’t see me. Either that or they didn’t think me worth bothering about. I tried to revive my father, to get him out of the house, but in the end, I had to flee for my life, barely escap
ing before the entire edifice fell in. I didn’t stop running for a long, long time.”

  Words rose in my throat and stopped there, forming a lump that halted my breath.

  I imagined Daniel as a youth, thin and small, cowering in the darkness behind the barrier of the woodpile, watching as everyone he knew was butchered. Having to make the decision to abandon them to the fire and save himself. Alone, running through the night and the brutal London streets, nowhere to go. He’d been ten years old, the same age as Grace.

  My eyes stung. Without speaking, I enfolded Daniel into my arms.

  He started, as though not expecting my sudden pity, then he sank down into me, resting his head on my shoulder. His warm hair brushed my cheek, and I felt his breath lift in his chest.

  We stood so for a few minutes, while uncaring traffic clattered by outside, and the gathering clouds let loose the first drops of rain on the city.

  Daniel slowly straightened, and even more slowly drew my arms from around him. He kissed my palms through my gloves in turn and then said nothing for a time, only pressed my hands, his eyes downcast.

  I understood now the terrible anger in Daniel when Pilcher had spoken the name. I’d been witnessing the despair of the boy, which had grown into the hardened resolve of the man.

  Eventually, Daniel said in a low voice, “If Pilcher works for Naismith, I’ll have him. Him and Naismith both.”

  “Are you certain Mr. Naismith was the one who ordered the raid on your father’s house?” I asked.

  Daniel shook his head. “No, because I was ten years old and terrified. But my father had been at odds with Naismith for a long time—a territory war. My dad was a villain, yes, but not a brute. He was cheery and even kind, even if he was a bloody thief. He ran most of South London—all the criminal families there answered to him. As I said, I don’t know whether I was his natural son, but he treated me as such. He called me his heir apparent, and he took care of me. All that was gone in the space of an hour.”

  The words were uninflected, but I could sense the grip Daniel was keeping on his emotions. I longed to hold and comfort him again, but I was not certain he’d welcome such a thing. “What did you do?” I asked. “When you were so young a lad—who helped you?”

  “No one, at first.” Daniel shrugged. “I learned to survive. My dad had taught me well, both to find what I needed to stay alive, and how to be genuinely grateful to those who were kind.”

  “You learned to turn people up sweet,” I said, understanding. “You became Daniel the charmer.”

  “If I had turned vicious, I would have died,” he said, the conviction of that in his eyes. “I’d have been arrested for some crime or other, hanged or sent to hard labor. I had to choose.”

  He’d chosen to learn everything he could, including how to beguile. Twenty years had made him very practiced at it.

  “Thank you for telling me,” I said quietly. “I will keep your confidence.”

  Daniel only looked at me. “You are an uncommon woman, Kat Holloway.”

  My face warmed. “So you have said. I suppose we ought to be looking for clues.”

  Daniel gave me a nod and at last released my hands. I saw him take a sharp breath as he turned away to lift the lamp from the counter to examine the floor where I presumed the corpse had lain.

  I moved aside, not wishing to step there, and gazed about the dross for sale in front of the counter.

  I wondered, as I scanned the tables, whether the man who’d taken Daniel in had been his true father. Daniel had some doubt, I could tell. Daniel might have been the child of a friend, or an orphan, or a foundling, or had been simply wandering the streets. The man might have decided Daniel was ripe to be made into an apprentice thief.

  The story explained how Daniel had learned to be so skilled at picking locks. If the man who’d raised him had been a thief, he’d have taught Daniel the art of lock picking, sneaking about, and keeping others from noticing him, things Daniel excelled at. His ability to groom horses, drive carts, do carpentry and plumbing, and coordinate packs of constables to save the monarch had come from his determination to survive.

  Then again, Daniel might truly have been the man’s son. Born out of wedlock, perhaps, as James had been. Daniel hadn’t known about James for a long while, and this man might not have realized he’d sired Daniel.

  “Was his name McAdam?” I asked as I browsed the wares. I lifted a particularly hideous little trinket box, the sort found on dressing tables. Cherubs, decently robed rather than naked, flitted about a garden with oversize roses, where several women with too-wide faces bared their teeth at one another over cups of tea. The box was edged round with curlicues of gold and silver gilt, glittering, useless, and awful.

  “No,” Daniel answered. “It was Carter. I took McAdam because I worried Naismith would come looking for anyone named Carter, to make certain he’d cleansed the lot of us.”

  Daniel had tried to join the police, he said, and they’d turned him away. Had he wanted to do so in order to hunt down this Naismith and arrest him?

  “There must be any number of people in London called Carter,” I remarked. I moved on from the box to a gilded picture frame containing a faded photo of a child with a toy horse. The gilt was flaking off, and the photo could barely be made out. “He could not go after them all.”

  “Perhaps, but I decided it was safer to be known as McAdam.”

  “So that is not your real name. What about Daniel?”

  He did not answer, and I turned to find Daniel leaning against the counter. “I’ve always been called Daniel. Any other name, I do not know.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said softly.

  “It happened a long time ago. My name is now Daniel McAdam. I made it so officially when I came of age.”

  “It fits you.” My heart beat in thick little pats. I’d only known him as Daniel McAdam, and now he was telling me even that was not true.

  “I’ve made it fit.” Daniel gave me a hint of a smile. “Well, I have found nothing here I did not expect to. The constables have been blundering about, likely trampling every boot print, every dropped handkerchief with the killer’s name on it . . . They decided Pilcher was the man, and that was that.”

  “I am convinced he did not do it.”

  “As am I.” Daniel gave one more glance about then blew out the lamp’s flame. “Shall we return to Mount Street? This afternoon has made me hungry, and I believe I was promised scones.”

  He had closed in on himself once more, sending his good-naturedness beaming out like the lamp spilling brightness beyond its chimney, while the core of it remained untouchable.

  Much of Daniel’s good nature was his true character, I was sure—he had a kindness in him that I’d not mistaken. However, I’d learned today some of what he hid deep inside himself, and both he and I knew I’d never forget it.

  * * *

  * * *

  When we reached Mount Street I went to the larder and retrieved scones I’d put back for Daniel. I wrapped his in a napkin and thrust it at him, shooing him out the back door.

  Daniel thanked me, flashed his smile over everyone in the kitchen, and left with a wave, whistling his way up the stairs.

  Tess shook her head as she watched him go. She’d flung herself at him when we’d come in, rhapsodizing about how glad she was to see him well. She’d hugged him hard then spun away, wiping her eyes. “Never know what he’s going to do, do ya?”

  No, I did not. I was both grateful Daniel had shared some of his story with me and troubled as well. Daniel’s pain was true, though he’d learned to mask it, and I wondered what his suffering as a child had done to him. I also wondered if the fact that he’d shared a deep secret with me would change our friendship. He might regret what he’d told me and be too uncomfortable to go back to the way things had been. That would be a pity.

  A great pity, somet
hing whispered inside me.

  I could not think of it now. I had to make tea, then supper. Tess had prepared for both meals quite well, showing once again how quick she was to learn—very bright, Daniel had recognized, and I agreed with him.

  Too bright, perhaps, to be a mere cook. But what choices would she have? A working-class young woman who’d already been arrested once in her life would not have many. She could only marry so high without ruining the man who chose her. Professions for women were very limited unless one was extremely wealthy or very eccentric—usually both.

  I would teach her what I could, I decided. And discover what she knew about the back door.

  I decided not to accuse her openly. If Tess were innocent, she’d take offense, and I truly did not want to hurt her. If she were guilty, she’d try to lie, and I did not want to watch her do that.

  “Do you have a beau, Tess?” I asked the question as casually as I could. “It is all right if you do—I am only curious.”

  “Me? Have a man? Lord, no.” Tess stared at me in amazement. “Men ain’t to be trusted, are they? All sweetness and light one minute; the next, you have a little one to raise, and they’ve disappeared into the blue. Seen it happen to too many of me pals to let it happen to me, Mrs. H., and that’s a fact.”

  18

  Tess finished with the adamancy of one who has found wisdom and pitied those who hadn’t.

  Her answer put paid to my theory that she’d robbed the larder for a lover. I’d seen Tess be adept with a lie, but when she had deep convictions, her words rang with truth.

  I also realized she had a more prudent head on her shoulders than I’d had at her age. I had not been nearly so cautious when a man had come around offering me sweetness and light.

  But then, if I’d been wise, I’d not have had Grace. I could not regret being mother to the most beautiful child in the world. Such are the complications of life—it is neither entirely one thing or the other.