by Brenda Hiatt
Now, if only the fellow would have leaned back in his chair and said, “Ah, yes, Miss So-and-so.” Jeremy would have had what he was after and he could have simply made up something appropriate to fill up the rest of the interview.
However, Mr. Fallesby merely nodded in acknowledgment and waited for Jeremy to go on. The old man was nobody’s fool.
“I have actually come today in an effort to do a service to you or perhaps I should say, to your firm, Mr. Fallesby. The young lady in question here is currently under investigation by our government—the Home Office has reason to believe that she is an impostor.”
It was not exactly true, but Jeremy settled back to see what effect this pronouncement would have on the solicitor.
The old man appeared to be genuinely surprised. “An impostor! Well, humph, harumph. Is that right? Don’t know about that,” he sputtered. “I found her convincing. I met her mother, you know. She looks remarkably like the woman, I have to say.” He rubbed his chin, regarding Jeremy thoughtfully. “And I thought she showed her mother’s pluck to march in here with no appointment and such an extraordinary story!”
Jeremy would have given almost anything to know that story, but he had to maintain the pretense that he already knew it all. He could guess now why the señora wore her mantilla everywhere, at all times. He waited, watching while Mr. Fallesby weighed this new “information.”
“If she’s not the real girl, she should be on the stage,” the lawyer continued. “Wasn’t her idea to come at all. Said her father’s bâtman put her up to it. She didn’t so much as blink when I told her she might need to return to give a deposition.”
He gave Jeremy a shrewd look. “She made no bones about the fact that she was after money. I suppose that is always what it’s about. But she seemed reluctant, and she was very hesitant to have me contact her relatives.”
The lawyer tented his fingers and gazed down at them thoughtfully. “Perhaps now you have given me the explanation for it! She was quite definite about contacting her cousin herself. Thank God I only gave her a small advance.”
Aha! So she did get money, thought Jeremy.
But Mr. Fallesby was not finished. “Now I suppose I must write to Lord Coudray right away and warn him, before this girl takes him in.”
Lord Coudray. Finally, a clue.
The solicitor looked up sharply at Jeremy. “She did know her father had been cut off by the family. And other things, too. You are certain about this?”
“No, sir. As I said, we only suspect this to be the case. The matter is under investigation.” Jeremy did not want to make matters any worse than need be. Suppose his lady proved quite innocent? Armed now with the name of her cousin he thought he could learn her identity quickly.
“Then what is it you think I should do?” Mr. Fallesby asked.
“You must do as you see fit,” Jeremy replied evenly. “When it came to our attention that she had been to see you, we thought it only fair that you be warned.” He stood up. There was no reason to prolong the interview, now that he had something to work with.
“Perhaps the earl is the best judge of whether the girl is an impostor or not,” the ancient fellow said softly, almost to himself. He stood up, too, to ring for a clerk to see Jeremy out. The last thing Jeremy heard him say was, “I must say it did seem rather remarkable that she could have survived.” The tone in his voice sounded almost wistful.
Quite unaware that she was a topic of discussion elsewhere in the city, Falcon sent for Triss and Maggie and gathered them into her sitting room in Charles Street.
“We are going to go out and try to find Corporal Pumphrey,” she announced.
Maggie and Triss exchanged a dubious look. “Are ye sure tis what’s best, child? Ye have been more than a little upset since ye found the first of the villains yesterday.”
“’Ow do ’ee expect to find the man, missy?
Falcon nodded. “I am not surprised that you have questions, but I have given this a good deal of thought. We will pay a visit to the almshouses where he is supposed to live, and see if we can gain any information. And we will visit St. Paul’s Cathedral, which is a wonder to be seen at any rate, I am told by Lord Danebridge. While we are there we will look around us and ask questions. We have more clues to find Pumphrey than we have for Ensign Sweeney. Perhaps Lord Danebridge will have some luck with that.”
She frowned, noting how Lord Danebridge kept creeping into her conversations lately. “On the way to Aldersgate, I wish to stop at a musical instrument makers in Cheapside that Mrs. Isham has recommended. I am going to have my mother’s harp repaired and restrung. I only wish we had the funds to have your boots made, Triss. But if we recover my trunk…”
She was determined to speak to Lord Danebridge today about posting a reward for her trunk. What was the point of having the money from Mr. Fallesby if she was too cautious to use it? If she could recover the trunk with at least something of value still in it, it might solve the whole problem. If not, she would find another way to get more. Perhaps the lawyer would advance her additional funds if she asked for them. Or perhaps she would advertise her services as a Spanish teacher, after all. Surely someone would hire her even without references. Maybe Lord Danebridge would provide her with a reference.
Falcon knew that she should actually be more wary than ever of her involvement with the baron, now that she understood he had no wife. She was still distrustful of his intentions, but the slight prospect that he might be interested in her for legitimate purposes seemed the height of all folly. She was no candidate to be anyone’s wife!
I should only need his help for a short while longer, she consoled herself. Just until I can find Sweeney and see this through.
She smiled at Triss and Maggie. “Everything is going to be all right, truly. Let us be on our way, and pray that it does not rain. I believe our stops are all in the same part of the city, but we may still need most of the day to accomplish this list!”
St. Paul’s at the top of Ludgate Hill dominated the section of London where it stood, its great dome visible from every direction. They had to pass it on the way to deliver the harp, and Falcon had to admit the cathedral was both handsome and impressive. She was glad now that Lord Danebridge had suggested she visit it if she went looking for Pumphrey. She would make certain she toured the inside when they returned to it. Unbelievably, she almost felt sorry that today the baron was not with her. He was undoubtedly a fount of information.
The harp was duly delivered to Rudkin and Bowles, purveyor of fine instruments, in a small warehouse in Cheapside that had splendid instruments in the showroom. Falcon was easily distracted by a dainty pianoforte whose satinwood veneer was inlaid with a delicate design of flowers. Mr. Rudkin waited on her personally, admiring her mother’s harp and exclaiming over its fine quality. He spoke of Spanish harps with enthusiasm, but Falcon assumed he did so primarily to flatter her and ensure himself of her patronage.
Back outside, Falcon directed the hackney driver to take them to the Aldersgate Almshouses. She was nonplussed when the man informed her that there was no such place.
Had Timmins lied? He had seemed to her too distraught to intentionally mislead her.
“All right, then, what is there near here that might be called such a thing in error? There must be some kind of almshouses in Aldersgate, are there not?”
The driver removed his hat to scratch his head. She hoped he did not have lice.
“There’s almshouses near the City Chapel. Mayhap that’s it. Or there’s the St. Giles Workhouse—that’s only a block away from the other.” He paused, looking at her skeptically. “You certain you wish to go there? Risky business—cost you extra.”
Falcon nodded. “We will try both places,” she said, her resolve unwavering.
The chapel almshouses were tiny, set in a dismal row in an alley beside the City Chapel itself. Falcon decided the safest place to inquire about the residents was inside the chapel, where she discovered no one who had heard of an e
x-soldier named Pumphrey. Dirty, ragged people in the street outside eyed her with suspicion and skulked in the shadows as she and Triss hurriedly returned to the waiting hackney. This was very clearly not a safe part of the city.
The carriage could not fit through the narrow alleys that laced through the intervening block to the workhouse, so they were forced to go around to reach Moor Street. The St. Giles Workhouse was disguised by small, shabby buildings that stood in front of it, but the main building itself was large, with a vast complex of small alleys and additional buildings connected to it at the sides and back. Falcon again instructed Maggie to wait in the carriage, while she and Triss went inside. She did not think thieves would dare attack a hackney waiting in front of the workhouse.
Corporal Pumphrey had indeed been a resident of the workhouse for a time, the records showed. “Says ’ere he was dismissed for drunkenness—that’s no surprise,” said the woman in the overseer’s office. “You ’ave to understand, we ’ave rules. They can’t stay if they can’t follow the rules.” She sounded almost apologetic.
“Have you any idea where he might be found?” Falcon asked.
“St. Paul’s,” the woman replied. “They go there to beg, to get drinking money. There’s three services a day at the cathedral, so there’s more people to take pity on them.”
In the dark hallway, Falcon caught a glimpse of women and young girls in drab gray dresses filing into one of the workhouse rooms. The place was undoubtedly depressing, but she noted that at least it seemed clean. No doubt the inmates scrub the floors, she thought. What a terrible way to have to live—without hope! But at least these people had some shelter, food and clothing. It sounded like Pumphrey had not even these.
“We must go to St. Paul’s,” she announced once she and Triss were settled in the hackney again.
She agreed to tour the inside of the church before they searched for Pumphrey. “Ye might be too upset to do it afterwards if ye find the man,” Maggie counseled, “and Lord Danebridge said ye must be sure to see it.”
As far as Falcon was concerned, Maggie ascribed far too much importance to what Lord Danebridge thought.
The cathedral was vast and beautiful inside, well designed by Wren to inspire. It took some time to view the monuments and tour the side chapels and climb the stairs to the Whispering Gallery. The contrast between the splendor of the Cathedral and the poverty of the workhouse was almost dizzying in such close proximity. Finally, Falcon drew the others outside.
“Let us walk about, and see if we come across anyone who might be Pumphrey.”
There were many people strolling the open pavements around the great cathedral, including some legitimate vendors and a number of beggars. Falcon bought an apple she did not especially want to eat and matches for which she had no need. But finally she saw a beggar in the rags of an old soldier’s uniform, and insisted on speaking to him.
“Do you know another fellow, like yourself, who often comes here? He served his country, too, as I can see that you did.”
At her reference to his uniform, the man stood up a little straighter. “Twelve years I put in,” he said with some pride, but then bitterness crept into his voice. “You can see where it’s got me.” He looked at her suspiciously then. “It might be I knows of another feller. What’s the gain fer me?”
Falcon sighed and fished two precious shillings from her reticule. She knew the man would likely spend it all on drink, but perhaps there would be enough to buy some food, too. It amazed her to see how his entire face brightened.
“I can show you him,” he whispered, as if imparting a great secret. Falcon took hold of Triss’s protective elbow and nodded, ready to follow. But they only went a little way around the building, to a sheltered angle of the protruding walls. There, curled up in sleep, was another ragged, unshaven man who reeked of gin—a crumpled caricature of the man she had known.
“Is his name Pumphrey?” Falcon asked, and received an affirmative answer.
She went to the sleeping figure and tried to rouse him, even calling him by name. But the drink-induced stupor was too strong, and he slept on, another sad, useless soul whose life had become punishment enough.
“Does he have any friends? Anyone who cares where he is?” she asked the other fellow.
He shrugged. “Who does?”
She thought she ought to simply walk away. Pumphrey was dying a slow, miserable death. Was that not justice? But she could not do it. She was learning that her compassion outweighed her hatred.
“I am going to have him taken to hospital,” she said. “I just wondered if there was anyone I ought to notify.”
Jeremy could not resist the impulse to stop by Mrs. Isham’s house in Charles Street after his interview with the solicitor. He had not abandoned all hope of taking the señora for a carriage drive in the park. As he stopped his curricle in front of the house, he noticed no one on watch. That was why, when he inquired for Doña Alomar de Montero, he was not surprised to learn that she had gone out.
“Out? Gone out? And here I thought I was calling at an indecently early hour—it is not yet even noon.” He winked at Mrs. Isham. “So, where has she gone?”
The landlady dutifully reported what she knew of her lodgers’ itinerary.
Jeremy sighed. He was better off if he did not pursue such ideas as carriage rides in the park with mysterious ladies from Spain. What he needed in his life was a nice, biddable, respectable young woman who loved children and would make a good mother for Tobey. Someone utterly dependable and stable, from an unexceptional background. No matter who his lady from Spain turned out to be, she would never fit that description.
He climbed back into his curricle and pointed his cattle back along Piccadilly, trying to focus his thoughts on Tobey. Soon, soon, I’ll be home. I am almost finished with this case, I am certain. He would try to write an encouraging letter to his son tonight.
In the meantime, he would head for the offices of his superiors, to make his report.
“Ah, Lieutenant-Major! Come in, sir, come in. Just the man I need to see. Was going to write you a note this afternoon, but here you are,” said the elderly gentleman to whom Jeremy made his reports. Even on such a dark day, his office was light, with large windows and white painted paneling. A series of portraits of the gentleman’s predecessors hung on the inside wall.
“Still working on that agent case that was assigned to you in Portsmouth, are you not?”
“Yes, sir. You know that I am.” Jeremy had worked for the man too many years to be taken in by his casual approach. His superior kept track of everything in surprising detail. “In fact, I stopped in to make a report. I’ve collected an assortment of information that I would like some help connecting. I think once we do that, we’ll have a clear picture of the lady, past and present.”
“And future? It seems to me that interests us the most. What have we got, then?”
Jeremy proceeded to tell him. He explained how the lady only practiced her Spanish act diligently in public and when engaged in her efforts to find the three mystery men, whom he named. He described how she seemed reluctant to let anyone see her, wearing her mantilla everywhere, and added that after talking with the solicitor, he did not know if she was hiding a resemblance to someone or the lack of one. Or, simply hiding her appearance altogether.
He mentioned the letters and named not only the señorita, but the other correspondents in addition to Sergeant Triss. One never knew which details might prove significant. Finally, he brought up the Forty-third Regiment, Astorga, and the Earl of Coudray, possibly the lady’s cousin. Or not.
When Jeremy was finished, his superior rose and held out his hand in dismissal. “All right. That’s quite a bit to go on. I’ll look into the records for you, and get back to you as soon as we learn something.”
Jeremy shook hands and left, hoping that he would hear very soon. In the meantime, he had his own leads to follow. He had men tracking down Sweeney and keeping track of the señora. His next stop wo
uld be his club. Someone there was bound to know about Lord Coudray and his family—maybe even the name of the lady from Spain. If nothing else, Jeremy was bound to find a few friends there who would sympathize with him that green-eyed women were nothing but trouble.
Chapter Eleven
The cost of putting Pumphrey into St. Bartholomew’s Hospital bit deeply into Falcon’s funds. As they had no letter of recommendation from a hospital governor, she was required to pay a deposit to have the man admitted, and she had to leave money to pay for new clothes, since Pumphrey’s ragged ones were to be burned. She spread shillings liberally all over the hospital ward, or so it felt by the time she had paid fees to the nurses, the steward, the woman who changed the bed linens and even more people she could hardly remember.
Nevertheless, she was still determined to put up a reward for the return of her trunk. To that end, she set off again for Lord Danebridge’s establishment in Fitzharding Street once she had returned from the afternoon’s expedition. Thank goodness she still had hackney fare. She did not care about the propriety of the visit—she had business with the man, and if any of his busybody neighbors formed opinions about it, they were welcome to them. She took Benita with her so Maggie could rest.
To Falcon’s surprise, the baron already had visitors awaiting him when she arrived at his residence.
“Lord Danebridge is not in,” the footman informed her at the door, but she noted that his attitude was a good deal more cordial than the first time she had called there.
“Might I wait?”
“His Lordship’s son and mother are already awaiting him in the front reception room. Do you care to join them?”
Falcon simply could not resist an offer like that. She smiled. “That would be utterly delightful. Thank you!”