by Annis Bell
“Him? Ha!” Pedley laughed drily. “He’d never have risked his neck in the jungle, the cowardly, scheming cur. No, he was an agent for the East India Company. He did business with the locals and sold what he got to the English. He made money at both ends and was not above letting a deal fall through at the last minute if he’d worked out a better one with someone else.”
“Why would a man like that return to London and take a job in a plant nursery?”
The veteran twisted his thin lips in a harsh grin. “The higher you fly, the farther you fall. I don’t know for sure what happened at the nursery. He apparently left India before the Sepoy Rebellion, and it was probably good that he did, or sooner or later he would have ended up feeding the crocodiles there. When I met him in Madras, his star was already fading, and I’d already lost my leg. He became acquainted with an English couple who wanted to go to Burma. The man, who’d also been a soldier, wanted to try his hand at collecting plants, and that was Korshaw’s introduction to orchids.”
Blount stepped outside, then quickly returned. “We’ve got company.”
“Who were the English couple? Do you remember their names? Did Korshaw go to Burma with them?” David asked rapidly.
“They were traveling by ship from Calcutta to Bassein. I remember that clearly enough, because I toyed with the idea myself, but my leg was giving me trouble. Hunting for orchids in Burma sounded like a lucrative business, although I didn’t see Korshaw as an adventurer. But he went ahead with it anyway . . .”
The sound of several voices came from the corridor, and Pedley said, “I’ll take a look in my papers at home. I’ve still got a letter from Korshaw that he sent from Burma. I know he wrote about the English couple in it.”
David gave him his card, and Pedley immediately stashed it in his jacket pocket. “So, that’s that,” Pedley said, louder. “Same place next week, gentlemen.”
“You don’t live here, do you?” David whispered.
“God forbid. Queen Street 21.”
The door flew open and Big John stalked in, followed by his doorman. “What’s goin’ on here? Have these gentlemen not paid what they owe?”
“On the contrary. They’re here for the first time, and I’m sure they will soon count among our regulars. Thank you, gents!” Pedley nodded, a signal for David and Blount to leave.
Close up, Big John’s muscle-packed shoulders were even more impressive. Likewise, the doorman was not someone David would pick a fight with. Only when they were back in the dark alley did David and Blount breathe more freely again.
“I don’t like that one bit, Captain. Not one bit!” Blount had his revolver drawn, his eyes scanning their surroundings.
The doorways and windows of the buildings were dark on all sides, and the gas lantern on the main street down the way was the only source of light. They listened to the murmurings of the city around them, a motley of human and animal sounds muffled by the mantle of night. A rat scuttled through the filth underfoot, and another crawled up the wall of a house. The men could see their breath in the cold air as clearly as the columns of smoke rising from the chimneys. Somewhere, a woman cried, and a child whimpered.
“We’ll look for a coach. I recall a stand two streets ahead,” said David as they continued toward the main street.
But this was not Grosvenor Square. It was St. Giles, a quarter of London forgotten by God. Anyone out after midnight did not hesitate long.
Both men heard the sounds at the same time. Without a word, they positioned themselves back to back and planted their feet. The noises might easily have been dismissed as the scrabbling of rats, but the closer they came, the more clearly they could be heard as shoes on cobblestones.
David held his knife in his left hand, his revolver in his right. “How many?”
“Three,” Blount whispered. “Two on my side, one coming your way . . .”
There was a dull scrape, and someone jumped onto a ledge above their heads, preparing to attack from above. With no time left to think, Blount fired his revolver at the first attacker. A second shot rang out, and a third. A hot pain jolted through David’s arm and knocked the revolver out of his hand. Gritting his teeth, David gripped his knife tighter and waited for the dark figure stealthily advancing on him. He was a soldier, experienced in open battle. He hated snipers and ambushes, and these fighters were accomplished in that kind of fighting. His attacker dodged back and forth without a word. A blade flashed, and David instinctively parried.
His wounded right arm slowed his reactions, and he felt blood trickling into his hand. Blount snarled, letting out a triumphant curse. David heard a choking groan but was struggling to defend himself from the agile, catlike motions of his own attacker; finally he managed a strike to the man’s gut and felt his blade sink deep into his enemy’s body. Teeth flashed and a hoarse voice uttered, “Urod!” before the men melted away into the darkness and the whole horrific episode was over.
David and Blount stood side by side, breathing heavily, listening for further sounds in the darkness, then finally propping their hands on their thighs, exhausted. “Damn it! Someone wanted to teach us a lesson, Captain.”
David nodded and groaned as he moved his arm.
“One of those mongrels shot you!” After collecting the weapons on the ground and pushing them into his belt, Blount urged David forward. “We have to get out of here. They might try again.”
The entire attack had lasted a matter of two or three minutes, and no faces had appeared at any of the windows around them. Even the gunshots had not lured the curious out of their houses. There was so much misery and crime in St. Giles that the inhabitants were busy simply trying to survive. Taking time to look after the lives of others was a luxury they did not have. All the same, David and Blount felt eyes on them as they walked to the main street, continuing along the road until they found a coach whose driver was prepared—for what he termed an exorbitant “night fee”—to drive them.
Sitting in the half-open hansom cab, Blount wanted to check David’s arm, but David demurred. “It will see me home.”
Blount persisted. “I could at least bandage it, Captain.” Still feeling blood flowing over his hand, David finally assented, pushing off his coat. A stab of pain made him draw a sharp breath.
With practiced movements, Blount cut open David’s shirt and bound the deep bullet wound with the remnants of the sleeve. David shivered. The frosty night air was draining the warmth from his body, already weakened by blood loss. “Thank you, Blount . . . they were Russians.”
“Yes, and I don’t even have to ask Levi for a translation.” “Urod” was a word they knew from the Crimean War that meant something like “bastard.”
“Do you suppose it was Big John? Bill?” David wrapped his coat around himself. The coach bumped loudly over the empty night streets, glittering in the lamplight.
“Because we were asking about Korshaw? Unlikely.”
The hansom cab went down the length of Oxford Street as far as Orchard Street, turning there and arriving at David’s house in Seymour Street minutes later. David climbed out with relief, letting Blount pay the driver, and was met at the door by an anxious-looking Levi.
“Oy, dear Lord, what’s happened to you? Should I call a doctor?”
“No, no. They do more damage than good. Blount will tell you what’s needed. Put some water on.” Going into the small living room, David let his coat fall to the floor and sank into an armchair.
It wasn’t long before Blount came in, followed by Levi and Ruth, the cook. Ruth carried a tray of clean towels, two knives, a pair of tweezers, needles and thread, and a whisky bottle. “I’ll fetch the water. It must be hot enough by now, sir.”
She looked sympathetically at David then hurried away. A shadow hovered about the doorway. The street urchin, Myron, had apparently followed Ruth from the kitchen, where he liked to curl up on the bench beside the stove to sleep.
When Blount spotted the young boy, he dragged him in by his ear. “Wh
at are you doing here, boy? Looking for something to pinch?”
“No, sir, no!” Myron cried. “I’d never do that. The captain rescued me and took me in. No one was ever so nice to me!”
“Leave him alone,” David growled between clenched teeth. Then he groaned, because even the slightest movement sent a shock of pain through his arm and shoulder.
“Laudanum, Captain?” Blount asked, rolling up his sleeves.
“No. I hate that stuff. Give me the whisky bottle; that will have to do.” David took several large swigs then leaned back in the armchair. “Get started. You know what to do.”
As expected, the bullet was still in the wound. David trusted Blount’s skills as a field surgeon, which he had proven more than once. When the bullet was out and the wound cleaned, Blount picked up the needle and thread.
“This is unavoidable, Captain. Laudanum after all?”
David swallowed more whisky and shook his head. “Come on, let’s get it over with.”
The cook stood on David’s other side, wiping his forehead with a damp cloth. Levi collected the bloody clothes and rags and laid out David’s dressing gown. David knew that he could count himself lucky to have servants who were not only obedient but also devoted to him, but he missed Jane. With the second stitch, David closed his eyes, gripped an arm of the chair, and swore to himself that he would be more careful in the future. How could he lecture Jane about her frivolous undertakings if he let himself fall into traps like that, like a beginner?
Abruptly, he opened his eyes, reaching again for the bottle. “That was a trap, Blount!”
His loyal companion tied off the threads and bandaged the wound. He examined his handiwork with satisfaction. “We should consult a doctor tomorrow about the possibility of gangrene, Captain. A trap? What do you mean?”
“Thank you for that.” David exhaled and allowed Levi to help him into his dressing gown. “Rooke sent us in there after getting a lead. What if that was exactly what they had been hoping for?”
“Who are ‘they’?” Blount washed his blood-smeared hands in a bowl then dried them.
“If only I knew, but I can’t think clearly anymore. Tomorrow, Blount. Let’s get to bed now.” Out in the hall, the clock struck four times.
“Good night, sir,” said Ruth. “We are very happy to have you back again. Can I make you a hot drink or bring you something to eat?”
But David only murmured good night as he trudged toward the stairs.
19.
Winton Park, Northumberland, December 1860
Jane was already dressed and adjusting the black veil on her hat when a bloodcurdling scream filled the house, making the fine hairs on her neck stand on end.
Hettie, also wearing black, had been brushing off Jane’s coat, but stopped abruptly when the scream rang out. “Good God, what was that?”
“Ally!” Her thoughts turning first to her friend, Jane ran out of the room, followed closely by Hettie. Out in the corridor, she saw Ally’s maid looking around in alarm, which unsettled Jane.
“What was that?” Nora asked.
Hettie now trotted after another maid who had just appeared at a room farther down the corridor. “Della! Wait!”
“I have to fetch the laundry, miss.” Della tried to go, but Hettie pulled her back.
“But what’s happened? Someone screamed.”
“Oh, the young master suddenly came down sick!” Della stared at the floor unhappily. “I wish I’d never come to this house.” She hurried away.
Approaching them, Jane overheard their exchange. She kept walking until she reached the family wing, within listening distance of the children’s room. Miss Molan’s sharp voice as well as the doctor’s voice filtered out from behind the door, and she heard Charlotte whimpering and sobbing miserably. The boy had seemed a picture of health when last Jane saw him. Had he had an accident?
When the door to the children’s room opened and Miss Molan stepped out, Jane went to her. “Can I help at all?”
The governess was pale and seemed shaken. “The poor boy, the poor boy,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.
“What’s going on?”
Miss Molan raised her head and looked at Jane with a mixture of horror and sympathy. “The mother . . . oh, who could . . .” The young woman suddenly clutched Jane by the arms, wide-eyed. “When a mother is capable of something like that, God help her child.”
“For heaven’s sake, speak! Tell me what’s happened!”
Miss Molan released her and wiped her eyes. “She tried to poison him. I’m not allowed to say that, but that’s what it was, my lady. His own mother, oh, that is a tragic turn. Oh no, oh no . . .” Covering her face with her hands, she rushed away.
Hettie, who was standing behind Jane, said softly, “Ma’am, I can’t believe that. Not Lady Charlotte. She loves her children!”
The door to Charlotte’s room opened, and Dr. Cribb stepped out. “Doctor, please, Miss Molan has just given us a terrible fright.”
The doctor cleared his throat. He seemed to be searching for the right words. “Lady Charlotte has suffered a nervous breakdown. I have sedated her with laudanum, but her son is of greater concern to me. He seems to have eaten or drunk something that has left him in a comatose state. It happens sometimes that children will chew on something and accidentally poison themselves, but it’s highly unusual, really. This is not the time of year for belladonna or goldenrod.”
“Cedric was poisoned? But he’s alive?” Jane asked anxiously.
The doctor nodded thoughtfully. “He is delicate, but he has a hardy constitution, like his father. I wish I knew what he ate, then I could prescribe an appropriate remedy. For now all we can do is wait and pray.” He gave Jane a sympathetic look. “Go to the young maid’s funeral, my lady. There’s nothing you can do here, but in church you can pray for Cedric.”
St. Michael and All Angels lay before them, enshrouded in frosty morning mist above the River Coquet. The river flowed languidly through fields, its surface frozen where its waters spread and grew shallow. The small church was an architectural novelty consisting of three structures, nestled together and ascending in size like stairs, a place of refuge and consolation that had grown over the centuries. The village itself had fewer than sixty inhabitants, including the elderly and the very young. In winter especially, life in those rugged hills took its toll on the people who lived there. No different here than in remote Cornwall, thought Jane. But were the cities any easier for the poor?
The congregation that had gathered for Rachel’s funeral was small, but at least Sir Frederick had provided for a decent burial. Jane was surprised to find that Rachel was to be buried in Allenton and not in Crookham.
“Look, ma’am, Zenada and Sally are up front,” said Hettie quietly as they passed through the lower nave of the church.
The simple coffin had been set in front of stairs leading up to a raised altar. A protestant minister was standing beside a pulpit, and he came to meet them when they entered.
“My lady, it is an honor to welcome you to our house of worship.” The minister was of average height, a stocky man with a friendly smile.
In a small village, new arrivals never went unnoticed, so it came as no surprise to Jane that he already knew who she was. What was disconcerting, however, was that no one else from Winton Park was in attendance. The thought had hardly occurred to her before the church door opened and O’Connor and Miss Molan entered. The gamekeeper and the governess, certainly an honor for a young maid.
After the service, members of the congregation each took a handful of earth and threw it onto the coffin in the open grave. It must have been a huge effort for the men to dig a hole like that in the frozen earth. Two young village lads stood off to one side, leaning on shovels, waiting to finish their sad work.
Alison had asked Jane to bring some flowers on her behalf, and Jane and Hettie each tossed two orchids onto the coffin. The cream-colored blooms drifted into the pit like giant snowflakes, landi
ng gently atop the wooden cover. Overhead, the sky had grown cloudy, and a chill wind blew through the cemetery. The bare branches of the surrounding trees creaked and sighed as if proclaiming their sorrow at the miseries of human life.
Wrapped in a black shawl, Zenada seemed aloof and almost stony in her grief. She was supported by her daughter, Sally, who called Jane over. “My mother would like to say something to you.”
The minister stood with O’Connor and Miss Molan a short distance away.
“My sincere sympathies, Mrs. Bertram, Sally.” Jane wanted to take the grieving mother’s hand, but when the woman made no sign of uncrossing her arms, she thought better of it.
“Have you been able to find out anything about my daughter’s death, my lady?” Zenada’s voice was a raw, dark whisper that mixed with the wind soughing through the old gravestones and Celtic crosses.
They were standing on historical ground. Romans had invaded these parts, subjugating the inhabitants, and Scots had fought here for their freedom. Today, a Roma woman was wondering why her daughter had met a violent death in the service of English nobility. And apart from me, thought Jane, no one seems to have any serious interest in finding that out.
“Not yet, but your daughter was an honorable young woman. I can assure you of that.” At the very least, Jane wanted to give Rachel’s mother that consolation.
“God preserve you, my lady.”
The proud woman and her daughter left the graveyard slowly, and the two young men with the shovels began to fill the grave. The minister said good-bye to Jane and Hettie at the gate, and Jane spotted O’Connor and Miss Molan speaking together, then Miss Molan walking alone toward the village.
“My lady.” O’Connor tapped his cap and stood in front of Jane with his hands in his pockets.
“Where is Miss Molan going? Shouldn’t we take her back to the house with us?”
“I’ve no idea, but I shall be driving her back later. She wants to meet somebody. Thank you for coming here, my lady.”
“I consider it my duty,” Jane replied. “Lady Charlotte would certainly have come, too, if she were well enough.”