“I’m sorry,” Bill said sheepishly. He shrugged his shirt on that lay in the corner of his tent, and pushed the crowbar into the flames. He would have to beat it back together again now. He had lost the same crowbar many times to the same thing over the years.
“Don’t be,” Dogman said. “I don’t think I’ve seen anything so unusual before.”
Bill could only stare at the hair-covered man, who shrugged his shoulders. But it was no time to waste. He had to capitalize on their sudden interest.
“Not even the Acrobat?” he said, nonchalantly picking up his hammer, and giving the crowbar a few experimental taps. He turned his back to the performers and pumped his bellows a few times as if not really interested in what they had to say.
“How did you know about the Acrobat?” Greta said in a small voice. “No one is meant to know about what he did.”
Bill was bewildered. “I thought acrobats swung around and did hand stands. I didn’t think it was a secret.”
Mary gave a snort and a small cry which sounded borderline hysterical. “It’s not what he did, it’s what he did.”
Bill still did not understand. It was obvious to his audience. A few of the performers drifted away, muttering. Dogman laid a hand on Mary’s shoulder. “It’s alright, Mary,” he said kindly. “You see Bill, that freak joined us. He gave us a sob story about how he had worked for a bad man, and he just needed a little time away, to hide from the bad man. He called himself just the Acrobat and we were fine with that.”
Bill nodded. Pedro had mixed up the facts to suit himself. The bad man that he had worked for, the Viper, was dead. The only bad man that he was hiding from now was Bill.
“Did the bad man find him?”
“Oh no. The bad man found us. Only this wasn’t the bad man the acrobat had been talking about. This bad man is the most feared man in travelling fairs and troupes. His name is Pablo Moreno.”
“Pablo Moreno?” Bill had to stop the rising excitement from filling his voice. He tapped at his crowbar some more as the ends of the metal started to glow hot.
Dogman nodded. “It turns out that Pablo Moreno is the acrobat’s father. They seemed quite pleased to see each other. They disappeared one evening with all of our takings for that month.”
“And not to forget Dana,” Mary mumbled.
“We don’t know that she went with them,” Dogman said reprovingly.
“She gave no sign of wanting to go.” Greta rubbed one of her legs. “She was very happy with us.”
“She didn’t really fit in.” Dogman shrugged. “She said she came from a place called Mexico… her eyes were a soft brown and her skin was the color of coffee. I think in reality her talent was that she was very beautiful. I don’t think that was really in keeping with our troupe.”
“No matter what you thought, Benjamin, she was still one of us and the public paid to see her. She was very popular.” Mary frowned. “At least with the young men.”
“That’s what I mean. That Acrobat took an unhealthy interest in her. I’m sure I saw him hanging round her tent before her act had finished. He was speaking to her in that language that she sometimes sang on stage in. Spanish I think it was. I never saw her again after that.”
“Where did Moreno’s troupe go after you crossed over with them?” Bill pulled a small hammer from his travelling tool chest and gave the glowing crowbar several small taps.
“We don’t know.” Mary raised her voice above the tapping of the hammer. “We didn’t want to know. Pablo Moreno is bad news. A month’s takings is a good sum, but we’ll survive. Going after Pablo Moreno is a death wish. He hurts people.”
The others nodded with Mary.
“There’s a story about a girl in one of the towns that his fair visited…” Dogman began.
Greta held up her hand. “It doesn’t bear repeating.” She looked Bill in the eye. “I have heard tell that Moreno takes a pitch in Cloth Fair late summer every year as part of the Bartholomew Fair.” Greta turned away from the heat of the forge. “It’s getting to that time now. We’re not far from London now. He must have been on his way there.”
“What does Moreno specialize in?”
“You’re asking an awful lot of questions about Pablo Moreno,” Dogman said suddenly.
Bill increased the rate of hitting the crowbar with his hammer. Dogman put his hand over his ears. After five minutes Bill stopped. “Just interest that’s all. I’ve never come across such an evil sounding man.” He’d come across many evil men alright, it was just they managed to hide their rotten core from plain sight. It was as if Pablo Moreno didn’t care who knew his business.
“Sometimes what you see is what you get and at other times you don’t. You can’t always judge people on outward appearance.” Mary pointed to her backwards knees. “People always think that I’m a pity figure with my unfortunate appearance. My husband doesn’t see that. We have a happy life together.”
Bill wiped his sweating forehead tiredly with a rag. He envied Mary’s patent happiness.
“Moreno’s Grand Travelling Museum specializes in anything and everything,” Dogman said suddenly. “You know, I heard tell they exhibited an elephant last year at the Bartholomew fair. It died on the way to London. Someone else was exhibiting an elephant too, but Moreno said that anyone could see a live elephant, but it was a once in a lifetime opportunity to see a dead one. Moreno made a mint of money. The public could queue up and prod it, see?”
Bill nodded. He understood the rationale. It was really rather clever. It showed that Pablo would try and make money out of anything.
“He won’t employ anyone apart from performers though. Them and his second in command, Jimmy Carandel, another nasty piece of work.”
“What kind of problems does Moreno cause when his Travelling Museum stops in one place?”
“Houses get broken into. Doesn’t matter whether they are big or small. The local magistrates interviewed Moreno several times but he just blamed it on the number of people that came to see his show from far and wide. Said that they were the ones committing the crime opportunistically.”
“I heard that some people were even murdered,” Greta said quietly.
“Thank God he’s gone,” Mary added soberly.
CHAPTER 15
The previous week’s revelations quite unsettled Victoria. As she lay in her bed enjoying the late morning sunshine and sipping a large cup of hot cocoa, she still couldn’t concentrate on what was upsetting her more—her husband’s past resurfacing, or the recent theme of companionship. First there was Eustacia and her surprising regret that she had never had a husband, and secondly Miss Fanthorpe and her vehement declaration that if it hadn’t been expected of her she wouldn’t trouble to marry. The only discernible difference between the two of them was that Eustacia was looking back on her life, and Miss Fanthorpe seemed to be firmly planted looking forward, her life barely lived yet.
Where did Victoria fit in? Older just than Miss Fanthorpe, yet already widowed with a marriage behind her that did not seem by all accounts to have been normal. Many years younger than Eustacia who had never married and yet yearned to have had the companionship of someone special.
Perhaps that was the solution? To have the companionship but not the marriage. Could she have been wrong to have preserved her high and mighty status all these years? Surely one of Colchester’s rules could help her. Victoria gave a hiccup.
Certainly not rule number nine—don’t allow anyone to get too close. How was she going to have a relationship with someone without allowing them to get close to her? But then if they did get close to her, close enough to throw her off balance, then they would find out about the darkness and that would be the end of that relationship.
It was all too difficult. The only way she could adhere to any of it was through Bill’s treatment, as nerve wracking and spine tingling as that was. And yet he showed no signs of understanding her, taking her apparently empty life at face value but throwing off all indications
that he wouldn’t mind a bit more than the occasional visit.
She sat up with a start, clutching at her cup of chocolate. That’s it. Of course! A plan that seemed to meet all of her criteria, a relationship without the feeling. Once she had visited Mr. Durnish and reported the results of their investigation to him she would call in on Freddie and demand to see Bill. She would put another proposition to him that he would not be able to refuse.
Finishing the last of her hot chocolate, Victoria pulled on the bell rope that hung down the side of the four poster bed. Chantelle appeared in the doorway bearing the day’s dress. She threw it over a Chinese screen that partitioned off one of the corners of the room, and stood waiting silently as Victoria pulled away her covers and jumped out of bed.
“Chantelle, I shall need one of the finest dresses in my wardrobe please.” Victoria said, examining the still sumptuous but demure day dress that Chantelle had selected. “The one with shells embroidered in real gold.”
“But Madame…”
“I need to make an impression today. I am going to visit Mr. Durnish and call his bluff—”
From the expression on Chantelle’s face, Victoria could discern that the maid did not understand the need for the finery.
“—and then I am going to call on Lord Lassiter.”
Chantelle’s eyebrows reappeared from above her hairline. “Oh.”
“What do you mean, oh?”
“My lady, he is so very handsome, I am not surprised that you wish to make an impression.” Chantelle clasped her hands to her bosom and mimed a swooning look.
Victoria frowned. Lord Lassiter must have charmed Chantelle more than she thought. “He obviously made quite an impression on you at Francesco’s.”
“Of course. You might think that Lord Lassiter was distracting me with his bon mots but it was obvious that Mr. Standish wished to disrobe you at the table and feast…”
Victoria covered her ears. “Enough, Chantelle!” Really. She wished she had not bounded out of bed that morning. Or that she had a French maid with such a Gallic attitude to base desires. Cautiously she glanced at Chantelle and removed her hands away from her head.
“I don’t know what Madame is so worried about,” Chantelle said plaintively, unhooking the unwanted day dress from the Chinese screen. “I see the same look in Carruthers’ eye whenever he’s off to see my sister Isabelle.”
“Carruthers is a fine upstanding man with good intentions.”
“Bah. Boring.”
“What?”
“Isabelle says she wishes he would get along with it. All zees notion of propriety is all very well for those people of your station, Madame, who wish to marry for appearance not love. Those who want a bit of fire and passion need to try before they buy n’est-ce pas?”
Victoria sucked in some air. Poor Carruthers. She rather wished she hadn’t heard Isabelle’s thoughts on the affair, having assumed that Carruthers would be able to woo Isabelle in the traditional way and she would obviously see his charms and accept his hand in marriage.
“Speaking of Carruthers, please could you bring in the dress with the shells and then send him up. I need to discuss some of today with him.”
“I’m not sure he needs to hear about your meeting with Mr. Standish,” Chantelle said cheekily, bustling to the door.
Victoria glared at the maid’s retreating back, and let out a laugh. It was true. She did discuss many things with Carruthers, but Mr. Standish was not going to be one of them. Especially not a detailed account of the treatment that she was receiving at his hands. She would file that under doctor patient confidentiality.
Carruthers was aghast at her plans. “But you can’t visit him. He doesn’t know you are involved in the investigation.” Carruthers paced up and down the carpet outside the Chinese screen as Chantelle helped Victoria into her dress.
“Oh don’t be silly, Carruthers. I’ve faced worse before.”
“Pardon me, my lady, but I don’t think you have.”
“What about the time when I shut down that meeting of the Heracles Club just by turning up unannounced?” Colchester hadn’t disclosed what the club was up to but he had seemed to think that it was something fishy.
Victoria could hear Carruthers had stopped pacing. His voice floated over the top of the screen. “Pardon me for saying but you were younger then and your husband had just died. You needed waking from your stupor. Doing things like that proved to you that you were alive.”
Victoria gasped as Chantelle pulled the hooks closed down the back of her dress. “Not so tight, Chantelle, I won’t be able to deal with Durnish if I can’t breathe.” She raised her voice slightly. “You seem to forget, Carruthers, that my husband is still dead and nothing has changed.”
“But, but…”
Victoria stood and glided out from behind the screen. “Lord Colchester died five years ago. In that time my financial, marital and social status have not changed. What have I that I will jeopardize in doing this?”
“But my lady, it is not a question of what you shall jeopardize, it is the damage to yourself I am worried about.” Carruthers shut his mouth with a snap. “I’m sorry. Forget I said that. I am your butler. I should support everything that you do.”
“I agree,” Chantelle said, emerging from the gloom of the corner with Victoria’s nightdress and hair brushes.
“There you are then,” Victoria said.
“No. I agree with Carruthers, we do not like to see you in harm’s way. Although we follow where you tread, it is better to lose a foot soldier than the queen.”
“You’ve been listening to Earl Harding again, haven’t you, Chantelle?” Victoria said accusingly. “Losing a foot soldier than the queen indeed. No one cares where I go or what I do.”
“Mr. Standish does.” Carruthers picked at his fingers and refused to meet her gaze.
“I beg your pardon?” Not Carruthers too.
“He recognized me when I left Francesco’s. Didn’t say a word about me being there. Told me I was a good man to look after you so well.”
“Oh.”
“And that if I ever needed a job as a butler then he had an immediate post available in Brambridge that had just become vacant.”
“Ah.” That didn’t sound very much like concern for Victoria as far as she could understand. That sounded like the classic flattery followed by favor maneuver. “Going back to Mr. Durnish. He is very much aware that I am part of the investigation. He gave me a wink as he walked out of the door.”
“He did what?” Carruthers gazed at her in horror. “Even more reason that you shouldn’t visit him.”
Victoria ignored Carruthers’ indignation. “Did you notice anything different about Mr. Durnish?”
“No, why?”
“He didn’t seem just that little bit too young to you?”
“He did seem a very youthful sixty something.”
“Hmm. Please ready my barouche. I wish to visit Mr. Durnish this morning at his new house.”
“My lady.” Despondently, Carruthers left the room. Chantelle re-entered and carefully looped Victoria’s hair onto her head, pinning the golden hanks into glorious swirls with brass pins. As her curls were squared away, Victoria could feel the persona of the haughty Lady Colchester fall back upon her shoulders. With the last long strand captured, she stood effortlessly and glided to the door, in complete contrast to the way in which she had bounded out of bed. As if she could mark the change, Chantelle held back and waited for her lady’s instructions.
“Chantelle, I will not be back until late this evening.” Seeing the small smirk that was about to reappear on Chantelle’s face, Victoria waved a finger. “Remember rule number eight.”
“I hate bloody rule number eight.” Chantelle flung her hands in the air. “Be patient. Poof, I detest all of the bloody rules.”
Laughing Victoria closed the door to the bedroom, the smile falling off her face as she regained the hall. Chantelle wasn’t the only one who hated the rules. Bu
t they worked. They kept Victoria’s life together.
The white barouche waited outside. Oswald, the coachman handed her in and set the horses off on a smart trot to Kensington. Mr. Durnish’s house was a newly built large affair in white stucco, with a flight of steps leading up to the front door. A butler with a large moustache opened the front door, and without blinking an eyelid, closed it again after Victoria had announced herself.
It was the first time as Lady Colchester that Victoria had been left to wait outside the front door, rather in the hall as was customary. She narrowed her eyes. Perhaps the man was a new acquisition. The owners of the pauper farms had described how Mr. Durnish was looking for many new staff.
However, the door opened quickly again, and the butler ushered her in to a small back room decorated entirely in brown. A small fireplace lay dormant, overflowing with grey coal soot and ashes. An oversize top hat lay on a low table, and a large rotund figure occupied a chair in the corner.
“Good morning, Lady Colchester, or should I say Victoria?”
“I beg your pardon? Lady Colchester is the correct form of address Mr.… err?”
“Mr. Durnish at your service, Victoria.” The rotund figure stood up from the shadows of the corner of the room and bent over her hand to kiss it. “As you will become aware, we have more than one reason to become familiar.”
Victoria settled her face into an expressionless glance, whilst fighting the disbelief within. The differences were subtle, but there all the same. This man had white hair, the same colored eyes, even the same clothes as the person who had appeared in Francesco’s. But in contrast, there were tiny wrinkles around the man’s eyes, and his eyeballs were slightly yellow with age. He was definitely not the same man.
“I regret to not being able to reciprocate the familiarity, Mr. Durnish.” Victoria pulled her hand back from the man’s tense grasp.
“Why else would you not have come to see me if you weren’t interested?” Mr. Durnish smiled knowingly. “I am glad you have come to see me, however. Reports of your beauty did not do you justice.” Mr. Durnish moved back to his chair and sat back down, grabbing a sparkling object from the table next to him.
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