In The House Of Secrets And Lies (Lady C. Investigates Book 3)

by Issy Brooke

  Why not, Cordelia thought. Is — was — he too strong, or was he your master, or was this as sordid as I suspect it might have been? But you would not call your master by his first name. So…

  The letter concluded with many entreaties for help and assured Neville of her undying love and devotion as a daughter.

  “May I keep this?” she asked Neville and he nodded.

  “My lady, what think you to this?”

  “I think it exceedingly strange,” she said, and tucked the letter into her tasselled green bag.

  ***

  At the railway station, they went their separate ways. Stanley and Geoffrey took the trunks and boxes to the goods van. Cordelia called Stanley back briefly before he headed to the second class coaches.

  “Will you buy me the latest London papers?” she asked, passing him some money. “Anything that mentions this politician, Louis Bonneville, or the murder.”

  He scampered off.

  Mrs Unsworth was clutching her own personal travelling bag, a large and sagging affair made of thick fabric with wooden handles. She hovered by Cordelia and Ruby until she, too, was sent to the second class carriages, Neville Fry trailing behind. Although third class carriages were now enclosed from the weather, she had decided to pay for her staff to travel with a little more comfort.

  Even so, Mrs Unsworth scowled at Ruby before lumbering away.

  “She does not take well to me being favoured so highly,” Ruby said as she followed Cordelia to their first class coach. “She thinks that she ranks above me.”

  “In some ways, she does. But I could hardly travel alone,” Cordelia said. They reached an open door and the guard helped them both into a small, boxy space. “I have read all manner of dreadful insults being perpetrated on women who are stuck, quite alone and helpless. As the train rushes on, through the horrible darkness of tunnels, all kinds of crimes can be committed.” She shuddered. “Keep your wits about you. Trust no one, watch everyone, and be ready to strike out at the first hint of trouble.”

  Ruby smiled. “I should think the other passengers have more to fear from us, in truth.”

  There was only one other in the coach, and they looked up in alarm as they could not help overhearing Ruby’s words. Cordelia and Ruby took two of the three seats along one wall, with their backs to the engine. The afore-mentioned other occupant, a man in the garb of a well-heeled and well-fed country landowner, tipped his hat and returned his attention to the small book in his hands.

  The other three seats were unoccupied and Cordelia stretched out her legs in an unwomanly way. The upholstery was thin and the horsehair fabric felt rough even through the thin cotton of her gloves, but at least there was padding on these seats.

  The rest of her staff would be on wooden benches.

  She unfolded the first newspaper with a snap as the guard slammed the door and trapped them within. There was no way, now, of communicating with any other carriage or compartment, and if one needed help, the only solution was to poke one’s head from the window and hope that the guard was looking forwards from his own window.

  “Now,” she said, half to Ruby and half to herself. “Let us discover what this Bonneville is about.”

  The train eased forward, jerked, stuttered, and began to pick up speed by slow and steady degrees. The whistle blew a few times. The sound always thrilled Cordelia. It spoke of modernity and glory and the potential to be somewhere else. And quickly, too.

  She had to hunt through long thin columns of advertisements until she alighted upon a story reporting the murder but it told her precious little beyond the fact that “the killer was already in custody after being apprehended at the scene” and “the well-known politician would be a sad loss to the House.”

  There was also an opinion piece from a minister of religion who used it as a jumping-off point for his advice about women covering their heads in church.

  She read the paper again, front to back, but there was nothing to tell her about Bonneville. At the next station, the landowner alighted, and she cursed her reticence; she could have, perhaps, pumped him for information.

  “These new police,” she mused as she folded the paper back up. “The darlings of the right honourable Sir Robert Peel himself. I do not think I have seen them. I was a girl in London, and it was many years ago.”

  Ruby made a disparaging sound. “The crushers,” she said. “I think they only want change for change’s sake but they are no better than the watch and the runners before them.”

  “Oh really? And is that your own studied and educated opinion, Ruby, or are you merely parroting to me something that you have heard others say?”

  “Well, my lady, it’s true that it’s only what I’ve heard.” Ruby had a mulish look on her pretty face. “But that is important, even so. To know what others think, that’s as useful as knowing the truth, to my mind.”

  “Hmm, I hate to admit you might have a point. So I shan’t. But thank you for your input,” Cordelia said. She looked down at the paper and knew that Ruby was pulling a triumphant face at her; she selectively ignored the insurrection. Let her win the little battles, she thought. I will always win the war. And she liked Ruby’s forthrightness.

  Her words were interesting. Yes, Cordelia thought. Knowing what others think is as useful as knowing the truth itself. What has more weight? Public opinion, of course, and facts be damned!

  Which boded ill for a poor girl arrested for murder.

  She straightened up, and said to Ruby, “We need to know some facts, however. We need to discover who the enemies of this Bonneville were. And we need to find out if this poor Florence was targeted deliberately and used for someone’s nefarious purpose, or whether she was meaningless, and simply in the way.”

  Ruby nodded. Both women fell into thought as the steam locomotive dragged them through the green fields and now into London itself.

  Outside, the air changed from clear to a faded, scruffy yellow, and the sky seemed to lower upon the black buildings and twisted narrow streets.

  “What a pit of filth,” Cordelia murmured.

  “You’re smiling again,” remarked Ruby.

  Chapter Four

  London! How it had changed since Cordelia’s girlhood. Twenty years ago, even ten years past, and it had been so very different. The railway had not come, then, and when she had been there, she had stuck to only frequenting a certain narrow and respectable area, and even then she had always been accompanied or chaperoned.

  When she had travelled from place to place in the great city, she had either been in a private carriage, or she had walked in the company of others. Walking was preferable in that it was quicker, but from the carriage she had had more leisure to look around. When on foot, one had to be careful of where one stepped — and that was one thing, at least, that had not changed. There were still horses everywhere.

  The locomotive drew into the station and great clouds of steam were pushed down from the high ceilings, swirling and eddying around. Cordelia and Ruby gathered their things together and in a few moments their door was swung open. A smartly dressed servant of the railways helped them down into a veritable maelstrom of noise and chaos.

  “Where are all these people going, in such a rush, with such determined urgency?” Cordelia said.

  “Like us, my lady, they are probably hungry and tired and simply want to be already arrived at their destination.”

  Cordelia was tall and she rose up onto the tips of her toes, hunting for Geoffrey, Stanley, Mrs Unsworth and Neville Fry. She was defeated by the sea of hats and pelisses and coats and cloaks. There was an abundance of colour, with the younger men favouring some positively alarming checked jackets, but the real peacocks were the older men who were clinging to the styles of the Regency and their youth. There was one gentleman who caught her eye and bowed low, and she laughed aloud at his red silk cravat, mustard yellow waistcoat, and bright blue coat.

  “This way, my lady; I see them. We must find a cab to take us to the lodgin
gs,” Ruby urged.

  Reality returned. Cordelia nodded. “We will perhaps need more than one carriage. These newer cabs are small, are they not? Let us go.”

  ***

  “I slept like a child!” Cordelia declared the next morning as she sat in a pleasant corner of a respectable and exclusive private dining room with smartly dressed waiting staff and a low buzz of educated conversation all around her. They were in an upstairs room close to Fleet Street.

  Opposite her sat her literary agent, Septimus Gibbs. This selective eating house was a favourite haunt of his. He smiled. “You asked for lodgings somewhere both quiet and central, did you not?”

  “You work miracles,” she said. “The rooms are very modern and comfortable. I am in your debt, as always. I am confused, though. I thought that the Inns of Chancery were ancient institutions.”

  “They are. But you are in Furnival’s Inn which was dissolved, oh I don’t know when. Thirty years ago, perhaps? They pulled it down and rebuilt those apartments and lodgings there, in that clean, neo-classical way. Now, let me tell you the other reason I thought the place might suit you.” Gibbs leaned forward. He was an angular man, but lean and ropey, like he was built from toughened oak and sinew. He was as white as snow, with dark eyes and very short grey hair which contrasted strangely with his still-black eyebrows. “Charles Dickens himself has lodged in those rooms, or some close to yours, I believe, at least in the same building.”

  “Goodness! I do hope his muse might rub off upon me.”

  “Ahh, my dearest friend, now we must talk about your column…”

  She waved a heavy silver fork at him. “Not while we are eating kedgeree, Septimus.”

  He sat back again and dabbed at his mouth. “As you wish.”

  “However,” she said, “You may tell me all that you know about this Louis Bonneville chap.”

  “Over kedgeree?”

  “Please do.”

  “Well, then.” And he began to explain that Bonneville was a politician of a rather reforming bent. He was part of the currently ruling Conservative Party, and a close supporter of the Prime Minister. Sir Robert Peel needed all the help he could get. The PM knew his tenure was coming to an end — it was his second time in the role, and he had been the incumbent for five years, this time around. Peel himself was a reformer and had been, according to Gibbs, stirring up much hatred on both sides of the House.

  “They wonder who hates him more: the Whigs in opposition, or his own side. He’s as likely to be stabbed in the back as by an opponent to his face,” Gibbs said, shaking his head sadly.

  “Oh. But you say that Bonneville was one of Peel’s supporters…?”

  “One of the few, yes, though it is said that Bonneville didn’t think that Peel is going far enough with his reforms.”

  “And who supports, or sides with, this Bonneville?”

  “I am not sure.” Gibbs looked up and waved to a waiter to remove their empty plates. “I follow politics only as far as I need to; it’s not the topic of polite conversation.”

  Cordelia reached across the table and patted his head. “But you make an exception for me.”

  “I make many exceptions for you, dear.”

  “Tell me about the murder. You must know more about that. It’s far more exciting than politics.”

  “Exciting?”

  “I am sorry,” she said, and felt chastened immediately. “I realise it’s hardly appropriate. But still. Humour my female weakness and lay out all the scandal for me.”

  Gibbs laughed. “You, female weakness? Well, well, you have changed since last I saw you. Ahh, the scandal is typically sordid. Are you sure?”

  “Speak!”

  “He was found dead in the arms of a prostitute in a cheap lodging house.”

  “Was she really a — girl of that nature, do you know?”

  “Who, or what, else would she be?”

  “Her father says she is not.”

  “Her father … Cordelia, what are you not telling me? I am buying you breakfast. Don’t reward me with duplicity.”

  “Septimus, of course I shan’t. But the girl who has been arrested is the daughter of my butler.”

  “Is it still Mr Fry?”

  “Indeed it is. And he is distraught.”

  “Goodness. I did not think the old goat to have been married. When did he … but then the age of the girl … I am confused.”

  “As well you might be.” She sketched out the unfortunate circumstances, and Gibbs smiled.

  “Well, well. And I would have placed bets that he was a confirmed bachelor.”

  “I suspect that his marriage was but a brief aberration.” As was mine, she thought. “And so you must see that I have a connection to this matter.”

  Gibbs’ smile faded. “You should be careful, Cordelia dear. Remember you are here in London on behalf of your column. There are some adjustments we need to make to your … ah, style, and subject matter … and it would not do for you to be running around after some murderess.”

  “She is not yet proven to be such!”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “And I shall be having a cloak made!”

  Gibbs blinked. “For…?”

  “Me, as more appropriate sleuthing garb.”

  “Oh dear.” Gibbs took her hands in his, and pressed firmly as he fixed her with his intense, dark stare. “I cannot tell you what to do, or what not to do. I have ever been a friend of your family, and I shall be for as long as I am on this earth. But do take care. This is London, and we have the new police now.”

  She gently withdrew her hands. “And that is why I am needed,” she said, and began to take her leave.

  ***

  When Cordelia got back to the lodgings, after a slow but uneventful ride in a slightly grubby hansom cab, she found Ruby quite alone in the comfortable sitting room with a stocking half-darned in her lap. She stood in a rush but Cordelia waved her back to her seat.

  “I would not want to interrupt such uncommon industriousness,” Cordelia said.

  Ruby scowled at the darning. “Interruption would be welcome, my lady.”

  “Where is everyone?”

  “Mr Fry has gone out on family business, but I know nothing more. He is too high to speak to the likes of me,” Ruby said.

  Cordelia stripped off her gloves and bonnet, and this time she allowed Ruby to jump up and begin to attend to her other outdoor garb.

  Ruby continued to speak as she took the gloves and examined them for dirt and fraying. “Stanley is gone to church, and on a weekday too! He said he had to find the nearest place of worship so that he might rest more easily. Geoffrey has, likewise, gone to his own place of worship.”

  “An inn or alehouse.”

  “Just so. And as for Mrs Unsworth, well, who knows? She carries secrets with her. I, for one, would say that if groceries go missing, don’t look to us. Look there.”

  “I am well aware that a certain amount of liberty is taken by all my staff,” Cordelia said, and she glared hard at Ruby. “And I know all about the perks that are taken, and the percentages added by favouring one tradesman over another. But the unspoken agreement is that no one should overstep the mark.”

  “I do not think she can see the mark.”

  “Have you evidence?”

  “None.”

  “Then speak no ill of her.”

  “But—”

  “Enough. Anyway, I had given her orders to collect examples of unusual London street food and I have no doubt she is abroad on that very mission.”

  “And what of me, my lady?” Ruby said as petulance crept into her voice. “I have been quite trapped here.”

  “It would not do for you to run around alone out there,” Cordelia said. “I think only of your safety.”

  “And you think that Stanley is more able to defend himself than I am?” Ruby sneered. “That lad would disarm an attacker by crumpling up and falling upon them.”

  Ruby had a point. The outspoken maid had s
hown herself more than capable of handling herself. Cordelia sighed. “We must be careful, Ruby. We are women alone in a great, dirty, hectic city.”

  “That’s a good thing,” Ruby said. “Now, tell me: what have you discovered about Bonneville?”

  Cordelia relayed what Gibbs had just told her.

  Chapter Five

  It was some time later.

  “These will surely kill you.” Mrs Unsworth folded her flabby arms and stared at the ceramic bowl on the table.

  Ruby had cleared a space around the bowl. Maid and mistress had been poring over newspapers in the sitting room, especially the Police Gazette, and making long lists of the friends and enemies of Bonneville, as far as they could determine from the strident editorials and vague allusions in the articles.

  Then Mrs Unsworth had returned from her mission, and let an iron pot drop heavily onto a side dresser in the kitchen. “Eels, my lady. Street food, for you, as requested,” she called through the door.

  “Bring them here!”

  And so Mrs Unsworth came through and deposited them on the table, stepped back, and made her solemn prediction. “You will be dead afore the morning,” she said. “My lady.”

  Ruby was inclined to agree with the cook. “My lady, this is what the labourers eat. Not even I would stoop to eels.”

  Cordelia lifted the lid and peered at the pale gelatinous mass. The liquid was thin, and lumps broke the surface, glistening. The aroma was predominantly of vinegar with an undercurrent of nutmeg.

  She held out her hand until Ruby pressed a spoon into it.

  “Oh,” said Cordelia after a moment’s chewing. “It’s not fishy at all. Are you sure you’ve bought eels, and not … something else?” Cat-meat was what people commonly expected to find in pies, it was said. “It’s not too bad, you know. It’s quite substantial. But the gravy is a poor thing. It seems to be simply flour and water, with spices.”

  Ruby peered more closely before straightening up and wrinkling her nose. “It’s definitely eel, my lady. Ugh. What next? Oysters?”

  “I suppose there is no chance of me gaining admittance to an oyster house,” Cordelia said wistfully.