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

by Issy Brooke

  “We got one of them, my lady.”

  “No, I suspect that this one was sent to watch me in case I found out anything interesting that Hugo Hawke would want to know,” she said. “Annoying but harmless, I think.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No,” she said. “Not entirely. Come, Geoffrey. Contain yourself for a short while. But I shall unleash you — and your skills — upon Mr Hugo Hawke as soon as I may. If it proves necessary,” she added. “I may prevail in my own way. Let us see.”

  Chapter Thirty

  At first, she felt as if she was, indeed, prevailing. Hugo let them both into his receiving room. He looked with distaste at Geoffrey, and the coachman stared him right back as if he were an equal. Cordelia flicked her fingers at Geoffrey and he sulkily went to stand by the door, like a footman awaiting orders. But he half-leaned, and made every effort to look as un-servant-like as possible.

  Hugo confessed immediately, and tried to make his actions sound perfectly natural. “Yes, my dear Cordelia, of course I was having you followed! It was simply to ensure that if, by some chance, you forgot to tell me something important, I would know it anyway. It was saving you trouble, you know. I was actually doing you a favour.”

  “By having me kidnapped in a cab and taken to the docks?”

  He laughed in a short, sharp way but it died when he saw that she was not joking. He looked from her to Geoffrey and back again, disbelief plain on his face. “What?” he said, his shock making him rude. “What do you mean by that? What has happened?”

  “What, exactly, were your orders to the boys following me?”

  “Boys, plural? There was only ever one. Will something-or-other. And all that I asked him to do was to follow you, and report back to me. Stupid clot. I should have followed you myself.” He frowned. “What kidnap? You must tell me, what happened?”

  “Goodness, Hugo, you almost sound concerned.”

  “I am, as it happens. You are the most infuriating woman and a double-crosser, too, but even so, credit me with a modicum of human sympathy. Although it is misplaced if I have any such feelings for you, of course.”

  But he did look concerned and it softened her. She said, “Well, in short, I was taken off in a cab by some hoodlum but I managed to escape. I have no idea by whom this was orchestrated, or what their ultimate purpose was. Also, my boy Stanley encountered an issue and was misdirected by persons unknown; that, however, might have been an innocent mistake.”

  Hugo went to a drinks cabinet. “Cordelia, I am sorry for it all. I hope you were not hurt. Would you care for something to sooth your nerves?”

  She remembered her indiscretions while inebriated. “No, thank you. So, you are quite sure that you have no knowledge whatsoever about this incident?”

  “None at all,” he said, pouring himself a small glass of whisky and adding a little water. “I hope you know that it would be quite beneath me. Tell me, who else have you annoyed lately, aside from me? Oh, and how did that little meeting with Socks go? I am still awaiting my thanks for arranging that, you know. I let you in today only because I was expecting plaudits not accusations.”

  She almost smiled at how quickly his words turned from sympathy to his habitual mocking of her. She almost felt a warmth of familiarity.

  “I have my suspicions of him, yet,” she said. “I need to discover exactly where he was on the night of the murder. As for anyone else, I do not think I have annoyed anyone.”

  “You are blushing, Cordelia.”

  “I am not,” she said furiously, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks.”

  “Go on. You have spoken with others.”

  “Many others. I was at a ball last night. Oh, well, if you must press me so: there was the delightful Lord Brookfield, who, alas, did not catch me at my best last night. However, I hardly think my distracted manner would have been enough for him to wish to kidnap me.”

  “Lord Brookfield? Ha, well, he and Socks are as thick as thieves, that pair, so if you suspect one you must suspect the other.”

  She froze. Neither man would admit to knowing the other in any great depth.

  Yet from the outside, other people had suggested they were friends.

  Hugo’s words simply confirmed that impression.

  “Both of them deny knowing the other,” she said quietly.

  “Well,” he said, almost jovially, “you cannot claim Lord Brookfield as a murderer. That would be the end of everything, you know.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  “And why can I not?” Cordelia demanded. “Listen. I am tired, I am slightly hungover, and I am frustrated by everyone’s lies. Your own, included!”

  Hugo pulled out a chair for her, but she remained standing. He shrugged and flung himself into a chair of his own, and thrust out his long legs before him, lying back, with the half-drunk glass of whisky dangling from one hand. “It’s simply the way of the world, Cordelia. You can go after Albert Socks because he’s nobody, really. But the Lord Brookfield? Well, you’ve met the man. He’s somebody. He’s untouchable. You might as well try to call out the Right Honourable Sir Robert Peel and have him brought up for treason or some such. You just can’t.”

  “But if he is guilty…”

  “That’s for the magistrates, though, is it not? And it hardly matters how decent and upstanding a new one might be.”

  She stopped, and stared at Hugo. “What did you say?”

  “I said, you cannot pin anything on Lord Brookfield.”

  “No, I mean about the magistrate. He’s new, is he?”

  “Yes, well, as it happens, there is a new one in my area. Although I suppose that where the crime was committed, the man won’t have any influence there anyway. I am finding that frustrating.”

  Cordelia was desperately trying to keep it all straight in her head. She remembered her talks with Ivy. “There are two magistrates in Holborn division,” she said, “and one is ill.”

  “My, you are well-informed,” he said.

  “So to which magistrate do you refer?”

  “Neither of them; forgive me, I was speaking of another matter entirely.”

  She watched his face carefully. He’d slipped up about something, she could see that. “You are referring to your own situation, are you not? And what is bad, for you, about a new and decent magistrate in your division? I am still unclear as to your situation.”

  “More whisky,” he said brusquely, and held out his glass.

  Geoffrey growled. But Cordelia held herself with dignity, took his glass, and went to pour him another. She did not hand it back. She held it, standing a few feet in front of him, and swirled the glowing golden liquid around. He watched it hungrily.

  “You’re waiting for me to tell you, aren’t you?” he said. “I should snatch that from your hands.”

  “But you won’t,” she said. “Now, speak, for I am tired of your games and I am very close to throwing this in your face — glass and all.”

  He lifted his lip in a snarl, but he remained seated and his body language was that of resignation and defeat. “I can see no reason to keep it secret,” he said, “although it paints me in a bad light, I am sure. However you probably expect that already.”

  “I am not your judge,” she reminded him.

  “But you will judge me, won’t you?” he said, bitterly. “I know how I seem to you, even now. Well, then. The previous magistrate in the division where I have my public house was a friend of mine. We had an understanding. He would allow me to install a publican of my choice, and he would issue the licence for the sale of alcohol.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you? I don’t think so. The old magistrate understood how business works. He knew that my public house offered certain entertainments to the working man, and that was accepted. But this new one, well, he’s not at all happy about how things ought to be run. He’s altogether too upright and moral about the whole thing. And you see, the police are so dashed corrupt that they can use this man’s blind righteo
usness. They are threatening me with exposure to him unless I pay them. I have tried to seek help at Bow Street because of their jurisdiction over the others, but I have got nowhere. I am the victim here, but no one seems to have any sympathy at all.”

  She rolled her eyes, and passed him his drink. “You are right,” she said. “I have no sympathy for you and your plight. I assume, therefore, you can’t simply go to the magistrate and tell him that the police are blackmailing you?”

  “Of course not! For then he would want to know why. Yes, he would have some of the policemen dismissed — why, dozens are being sacked on a weekly basis, anyway — but he would also close my public house. I cannot risk it.”

  It made his actions seem a little more understandable now. She still thought he was quite mad, but he was obviously at a loss for what to do. He was clutching at straws, and she was the straw. She felt a little sorry for him.

  “Perhaps I can talk to the magistrate, subtly…?”

  He laughed, and shook his head. “No. No, I shall do this in my own way. I need that magistrate out of office, somehow. Mostly, I need the police to be exposed, but with no links to my own work and practises. And I need more boxing to happen in my pub, so that I have more drinkers, and more betting. And hence, more money.”

  A plan was beginning to form in Cordelia’s mind. “Hugo, these boxers …”

  “What of them?”

  “They are rough, strong, violent men, I suppose.”

  “Of course. What are you planning?”

  She ignored his question and half-turned to address Geoffrey, who had been listening with an increasingly amused look on his grizzled face. “I shall need to speak to Florence Fry once more,” she said. “And also Ivy Delaney, of course. Come, Geoffrey. I need to get back to Furnival’s Inn, get changed, and begin my visits. I shall collect Ruby, also.”

  “I will accompany you, my lady,” he said, opening the door to let her out. “You may still be followed.”

  “Not by me or mine!” Hugo called after them, his voice seeming small and pathetic now.

  She did not even speak to say goodbye. She had had enough of his silly plots, and she had plotting of her own to do.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  “We need a proper carriage for the day, not a horrid little Hansom,” Cordelia said to Geoffrey.

  “At last,” he said. “I do agree. Although driving through these streets is a difficult task.”

  “Nevertheless,” she said, “I shall go back to Furnival’s Inn, and change, and get Ruby to accompany me while you see to it. We will then ride to Ivy Delaney’s house. Oh, I should send her a note to prepare her to come with us.”

  “You are kidnapping her, my lady?”

  “It is not to be joked about. Come! We have a very busy day ahead of us.”

  “Do we? Oh. Yes, of course, my lady.”

  She shot a sideways glance at him. Was he smiling? Certainly his stubble seemed to be twitching upwards.

  ***

  Ivy was ready for her. Cordelia had barely alighted from the hired carriage when she saw her friend was already leaving her house and coming down the steps onto the street.

  “I was watching for you from the drawing room!” she said. “Isn’t this most perfectly thrilling? Oh! And this is…?”

  Geoffrey was holding the door open to the carriage and Ivy was halfway in when she spotted Ruby.

  It wasn’t usual to introduce a servant to a lady of quality. Still, Cordelia adapted the usual rules of introduction. “Ruby, this is Mrs Ivy Delaney. Ivy, this is my maid and she can be trusted utterly.”

  “Can I?” Ruby said, cheekily.

  “In all matters except those of expected behaviour,” Cordelia muttered. “Do not push it. Move over, Ruby. I shall sit next to you, and Ivy can have the other seat to herself. Do you travel with your back to the horse, or facing, Ivy?”

  “It matters not to me.” Ivy slid onto the seat and gathered her skirts to herself, smoothing them down as the door was slammed. “So, Ruby, you are quite the confidante of our good lady, I understand.”

  Ivy was being so wonderfully attentive, just as if Ruby were another normal person of the same status, that Ruby actually blushed furiously and Cordelia laughed to see it. She deflected the unwanted attention from her suddenly-awkward maid, and turned Ivy to other conversation by asking her about the current debates regarding the slums and rookeries of London and how they ought to be improved. Ivy seized on the subject and it kept them quite occupied until they reached their destination.

  It took some time, but finally they were there.

  They were once more at Bow Street Police station house.

  ***

  “Mrs Delaney!” The constable in the lobby was shocked to see her, and his eyes widened as he took in her company — Cordelia, and her maid.

  “Ahh, Robert. And how is your wife since the birth of your … son, wasn’t it?”

  “She is doing tolerably well, now, madam, since your kind gifts.”

  “It was nothing, nothing. Tell her she must drink a pint of stout every morning for as long as she is nursing. It will do her the world of good. And let her stay off her feet if you can. Yes, you must take a turn about the house! I am sure you can handle a broom.”

  “Yes, madam. Of course, madam. Er, your husband…”

  “Oh, he is not here. I know that. He will be sitting in court, rattling through cases and thinking of his dinner. No, we are here to pop in on that poor girl in your cells, that sad Miss Fry. Lead on, Robert.”

  “But madam…”

  “Oh, yes, you cannot leave your post here. Quite right.” Ivy looked around. They were surrounded by many people, police and ordinary folk alike, and some were staring while others pretended that they were not. “You there, yes, you with the beard. You can stand here for a moment while we go down to the cells?” She didn’t even wait for an answer. The moment that the bearded policeman made one step towards them, she patted the one she’d called Robert on the arm. “Marvellous. Lead on, then. Come along, Cordelia, Ruby.”

  Cordelia resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at the policemen as they wafted past on their way to the cells.

  Her good humour was immediately repressed as they descended into the chilly gloom where the prisoners were engaged in what seemed to be continual noise and rioting. Florence was in her customary cell at the end, still alone, and she was looking very ill indeed.

  It didn’t take long for them to gain access to the cell. Ruby looked around in horror, but Cordelia’s attention was fixed on the pathetic figure before them. She had lost a great deal of weight, and her skin was grey and dry. She had acquired a cough, and Cordelia wanted to enfold her in her arms, and feed her soup.

  Florence, however, was spiky and aggressive. “Well, you’re doing a fine job of getting me out of here,” she said sarcastically, before Cordelia had even introduced Ivy.

  “This is the wife of the magistrate here,” she said. “Mrs Ivy Delaney.”

  Florence shrugged. “That ain’t nothing to me.” She briefly remembered her manners and bopped out a perfunctory curtsey. “It ain’t her man that I’ll be up before, is it? It will be some judge at the big place.”

  “No, that is true. Yet I am still hopeful that you shan’t be up before anyone.”

  “You have come here to take me home, then?”

  “Sadly, no, not yet. But I have some more questions that it is imperative that you answer with complete honesty.”

  “Go on, then.” Florence flung herself onto her low nest of bedding and blankets, and wrapped herself in her arms. “Ask away.”

  “You said that Albert Socks gave you the key to the room you used at Mrs Clancey’s. Is that correct?”

  “Yeah. I told you the truth then and I am telling you it now.”

  “Good. More importantly, Florence, where is that key now?”

  Florence picked at her flaking lips. “Well, the police have it. They took everything I owned to go over and read and look a
t. Not that I owned much, but there you are. They got it.”

  “I see. And what else might the police have which could incriminate you?”

  “You what?” Florence said, blinking up at them with dull eyes.

  “Did you have anything that showed you might be a murderer?” Cordelia said.

  “Oh, like, I had a box of knives or a bottle of poison just lying around?” She snorted. “No, course not. I had a few notes, some letters, between Louis and me. That’s all. And they just show my innocence. They just show how much we were in love.”

  Ruby sidled up to Cordelia and whispered, “Just what on earth did he see in her?”

  Cordelia elbowed her maid. They were not seeing Florence at her best, and the days — weeks, even — that she had been incarcerated here had not been kind. Who would still be bright, and lively, and free from bitterness? Cordelia knew that she would not be.

  “Florence, I now must ask you this. How did you and Louis Bonneville first meet one another?”

  Florence half-closed her eyes, and she smiled to herself as she began her recollection. “I was walking in Hyde Park,” she said. “I was with another girl from the household, and it was a Monday afternoon, and all of a sudden Mr Socks had come to me and told me to have the afternoon off.”

  “Time off?” Cordelia said in surprise. “Did he usually do that?”

  “Not often, no,” she replied. “He told me to go walking. He said there wasn’t enough colour in my cheeks. I said, where, and he suggested a park. So I went, and I took Clarissa along with me.”

  “And did Clarissa have permission to be out?”

  “I don’t know, nah, I don’t think so, but anyway she came. His staff were a bit lax. And as we walked, he … Louis! … came up to us and asked if one of us had dropped a glove. We hadn’t. But he kept on walking and talking with us, and that is how it started.”

  “He asked if you had dropped a glove? Were you not wearing any?”

  “We were. But that is what he said. ‘Miss Fry, have you lost this?’ I will remember it until I die.”