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

by Issy Brooke

  That brought Cordelia up short. “Florence! Is that exactly what he said?”

  “Yes, I told you, I ain’t a liar.”

  “How did he know your name?”

  Florence still had half-shut eyes. “I dunno, but it shows it was true love, don’t it?”

  “Absolutely not. It shows that it was a set-up, right from the start.”

  Florence’s eyes flew open. “But why?”

  “Why, indeed. I have no idea.”

  “No,” Florence said. “He had seen me, and he must have asked around, because it was love at first sight, and that is all.”

  “It cannot be.”

  “And why are you so dried up and alone that you think that no one else could ever feel love?” Florence spat out. Ruby took a step forward at this slight towards her mistress, but Cordelia pulled her back.

  “I understand that you feel quite lost and alone,” Cordelia said mildly, “and that will make you say things that you do not mean.”

  “I do mean it,” Florence said, but she looked away.

  Ivy Delaney had been watching and listening with interest. She said, “You know, this really does baffle me, and it has done right from the beginning. Who really wanted this Bonneville chap dead? That is the crux of it. I cannot see why this waif here would want to kill him. So who did?”

  Florence pulled at a hangnail on the side of her thumb and Cordelia was transfixed. Her own fingers twitched in painful sympathy. Florence picked at the loose skin, and said, muttering, “Well, it’s all of them, all of those dashed politicians, every one of them, sons of dogs that they are. Not one of them wanted change, did they? He were too different to them. He were too modern. They would all want him out of the way. They would all want him dead.”

  Cordelia’s mouth went dry.

  Something had slotted into place.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Gibbs had invited her to his own house, to attend a small, selective dinner party that evening. He had hired in enough staff to make it an occasion, and most of the food was brought in from a nearby eating house, although he had also employed a male cook to create some elaborate sugarwork on the premises — such things would not survive being carried through the streets, unlike a solid, well-made pie.

  It was a bohemian crowd, and Cordelia felt more at ease with the dozen or so people than she had in any other social gathering so far. She was able to relax, and no one challenged her about her now-defunct column, or widowed status, or unconventional lifestyle. Indeed, one of the first topics of conversation concerned the political writer Harriet Martineau. Gibbs revealed that he knew the unique woman and assured everyone she was now quite recovered from her long illness. “I had invited her this evening,” he said, “but she is embarking on a tour of Palestine and other places, and wrote me a sweet little note begging my forgiveness that she could not attend tonight.”

  There was a general murmur of disappointment, particularly from Cordelia, as Miss Martineau had long been a literary idol of hers; indeed, Miss Martineau made her living by her pen, and wrote in unconventional subjects.

  One man at the table, however, was less impressed than the others with Miss Martineau and her exploits. “She’s a Whig, and you know me, Septimus, I live and let live, but she cannot write independently about political matters if she cleaves to one side or another.”

  “What nonsense!” a slender, heavily wrinkled woman called out. “All the political writers come from one side of the House or another. I don’t believe any are truly impartial, and why should they be?”

  “How can they make a fair and accurate judgement of what they write?” the man shot back. “We are too ruled by passion these days.”

  “For it is passion that changes the world!”

  “Does the world need changing?” the man asked. He looked wealthy and well-fed. No, thought Cordelia. For you, the world is perfect.

  “Many on both sides think that the world must change,” Cordelia said, seizing her chance. “What about poor late Mr Bonneville? Who was he, really? He had passions, did he not?”

  The man snorted, but another man, the husband of the wrinkled woman, nodded. “He is a sad loss indeed. Now, there was a man with true passion, as you say. He was a man who insisted that the world must change. I met him a few times. You know, sometimes I wondered how far he would go, but there was no doubting his sincerity of belief.”

  “He was full of fire but very little sense,” his wife put in.

  “He was dangerous, then,” Cordelia suggested.

  “Oh yes,” the others agreed. “To both sides of the House,” the wrinkled woman’s husband said. “He was a thorn in Peel’s side. He urged him on, to do more, to repeal those Corn Laws and open up trade, thus destroying Britain’s security. Peel already inclines to such nonsense; he needs holding back, not encouraging. I am sure that he means well, but the end results will be disastrous.”

  “He was not fully of British stock, was he, that Bonneville?” another person said. “I never met him, but I did hear that one of his grandparents owned much land in the West Indies, and … well, let us suggest that his flashing dark eyes were not Celtic in origin.”

  “Though his sympathies lay with the Irish,” the wrinkled woman said. “Did he not support the Maynooth Grant, and we all know how that has ended…”

  “Exactly what I am implying. His, ah, uncertain heritage, led his sympathies to fall a little beyond what one would expect from a righteously-born Englishman, if you get my drift. And I certainly don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but I suspect they will have an easier time in Parliament now.”

  “No!” the loudest man barked. “Peel is done for, regardless. You mark my words. He’ll be gone by the end of this year.”

  “And who will be prime minister then?” Cordelia said. “Who is the favourite contender?”

  There was some speculation but no one could really say. It is all rumour and hearsay, she thought. But there were kernels of truth within it all.

  “There’s another man who intrigues me,” she said, “as it seems to me that political talk is acceptable here.”

  “Go on,” the loud man said. “Septimus does not mind, do you, old boy?”

  “As long as we remain civil and friendly.”

  “Brandy helps,” the man said.

  Cordelia smiled. “Well, I met this man, one Lord Brookfield. He’s a Tory too, is he not?”

  “Oh, yes, but he’s thoroughly establishment.”

  “Not a reformer at all? No revolutionary ferment within his breast?”

  “Only in the sense that a revolution — a complete revolution of a wheel — returns to one’s starting point.”

  She took that to mean that he wanted society to return to the “good old days” and that was exactly the impression she had had of him.

  “And there is another politician I have met,” she said, emboldened by the responses so far. “Does anyone know of a Mr Albert Socks?”

  Most people shook their heads. The wrinkled woman said, “Should we? Is he an up-and-coming young man?”

  Another man laughed. He was quite corpulent and had “potential gout sufferer” written all over his purple and red face. “Up-and-coming, old Socks? Been-and-gone, more like. He likes his games and his cards, but he thinks he is more than he actually is. We all thought he’d be someone, once, when he arrived on the scene and that Lord Brookfield took him under his wing, but he’s come to naught, alas, and they have fallen out.”

  “Oh no,” a woman said. “For I did hear that Socks and Lord Brookfield were seen together a few nights ago in Hyde Park, and goodness only knows what they did there, for is it not a place that—”

  “Hush, Gertrude! However liberal our dear host is, I am sure that none of us want to hear quite such scurrilous and unfounded gossip. You think you are still living in the court of the Prince Regent.”

  “They were fun times,” the woman said, but she subsided.

  “I asked the Lord Brookfield for recomm
endations while I stayed here in London,” Cordelia said. “You know, where to go and who to see. But he said he did not care for concerts or galleries. So where does he go? Soirees, parties and balls?”

  “He is a reluctant attender,” the woman told her.

  A man put in, “Well, he keeps himself to himself at his club most of the time.”

  “Which one?”

  “He’s a Tory; White’s, of course, on St James’s Street.”

  “And Socks?”

  “I doubt they’d admit that one, even if he asked! I suspect he frequents the usual common places.”

  “Again,” said Gibbs, “let us keep the talk as gentile as we might. Has anyone heard Mr Darwin lecture lately?”

  The talk turned to the daring topic of animals and their reproductive habits, shocking a whole new section of the gathering. Cordelia half-listened, but she was glad when the women could retire. After they re-joined the men, she thanked Septimus but made her excuses for an early night.

  He led her to his lobby while his staff brought her outdoor clothing, and another footman went to seek out Geoffrey and Stanley who were waiting in a nearby alehouse to chaperone her home. He pressed her hand briefly, and she remembered the heartfelt hug he’d given her before. It was not something he could repeat here, in view of his staff and his guests.

  “You were digging for information relevant to your investigation, weren’t you?” he said as he helped her into her cloak.

  “Of course I was.”

  “And you stayed sober, and were remarkably subtle. Well done.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I believe I am learning.”

  “You certainly are. Ahh, here are your men. They are like bodyguards.”

  She laughed, but had a feeling of unease. Septimus had no notion of the kidnapping attempt, and she had no intention of telling him. Even now, it seemed like a distant memory, because she had kept her mind busy with other things. No doubt it would return to her in her nightmares in the future, but for now, she had other things to do. She secured her bonnet and pulled on her gloves, and allowed herself to be ushered out into the night.

  “Are we still being watched?” she asked Geoffrey.

  The streets at night were his natural habitat. He moved in the shadows with the ease of a horse doing dressage. “It is impossible to say, my lady, until they make a move,” he said. “And when they do, have no fear. We shall handle them.”

  She glanced at Stanley, who was quivering slightly.

  “Let us hurry home,” she said.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Mrs Unsworth was in the kitchen when they arrived back at Furnival’s Inn. She was slumped in the easy chair, a bottle of gin clutched in her arms. Her eyes flickered as Cordelia entered.

  “Where’s Ruby?”

  “Preparing your bed, my lady,” Mrs Unsworth said in a slurred tone.

  Cordelia took the half-empty bottle from her arms. Mrs Unsworth clawed at it, but she could not focus with any accuracy. Cordelia placed the bottle on the table, and regarded her drunken cook.

  “You have become far worse since we got here. London is bad for you.”

  “You’d know all about that,” Mrs Unsworth said.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Cordelia replied.

  Geoffrey growled but Cordelia waved him down. “Leave it. She is too far out of her senses to know what she is saying. Ah! Ruby. Come, sit with me. You can all help me work out the next move we must make.”

  Cordelia pulled the wooden bench away from the table. Ruby looked towards Mrs Unsworth, staring hard at the cook who turned her head away. She was not going to give up her comfortable seat unless directly challenged, and Cordelia had other matters more pressing.

  Geoffrey went to a cupboard and helped himself to some bread, taking advantage of Mrs Unsworth’s state. He remained in the room, lingering by the warm range, opposite to where Mrs Unsworth sat.

  “Now, Ruby, I need to get into Albert Socks’ house.”

  “But why?”

  “I need to find evidence.”

  “What evidence? Pardon me, my lady, but if you blunder in there without knowing what you are looking for, everything might seem like a clue but you will miss the obvious things.”

  “I do know what I seek, as it happens,” Cordelia said smugly. “There were two keys to that room at Mrs Clancey’s. Florence had one, and now that is in the possession of the police. The other is with Albert Socks. So I need to procure that key and prove that it is the same as the one that the police have.” And also the same as all the others on that floor of the lodging house, she reminded herself. I hope that won’t be a problem in court.

  She knew that it could be.

  Ruby shook her head, laughing in disbelief. “Really? We are to go into his house and find a key? What, do we knock upon the door?”

  “Of course not, silly girl. You yourself told me that his staff are very lax. We will sneak in. I am sure that in the dead of night we might evade any notice, especially as Socks himself is unlikely to be home. I know, now, that he is often at low dives around the city.”

  There was a strange burbling from the chair by the range. Cordelia saw that Mrs Unsworth was actually laughing.

  “You? You two? You two seek to break into a man’s house, do you? Ha! Ha! That is hilarious. Who needs gin when I can listen to that!”

  “Mrs Unsworth, may I remind you to whom you are speaking,” Cordelia said in her most lofty Mistress Voice.

  The cook wiped the smile from her face but she appeared in no way contrite. She muttered, “No, you two? Ha. You need a professional for that sort of thing.”

  “And you’d know one?” Cordelia said.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “I am serious,” Cordelia insisted.

  The silence lengthened.

  Mrs Unsworth turned and stared at the range. She worked her lips and mouth, as if chewing her cheek on the inside.

  “Yeah, well, all right,” she said at last. “When I went to see my Jasper, I met all sorts. I took him food, you know. And money, though he seemed to be doing all right for himself, even though it is prison and all.”

  Ruby was staring at Mrs Unsworth, her eyes wide. Geoffrey pretended not to be listening but Cordelia knew that he was.

  “And did you meet anyone … professional?” Cordelia said in a light tone.

  “There were some as might be helpful in this case,” she said. “I suppose I might make some enquiries for you.”

  “Please,” Cordelia said. “I am not afraid to beg this of you. Any help you might give would be very, very welcome. I shall be in your debt.”

  Mrs Unsworth twisted into a nasty smile and looked Cordelia straight in the eye. She nodded towards the bottle of gin. “Aye,” she said, gruffly. “That you shall, right enough. That you shall.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  “This cloak is perfect!” Cordelia said as she wrapped herself in the dark woollen depths. “I told you I needed a proper sleuthing cloak.”

  “Very good, my lady,” Ruby said, shooting a look towards Stanley.

  Stanley, however, was in no mood for banter. He was hunched over, his face pale in the gloom of a dark back street near to Albert Socks’ house.

  Cordelia thought that she ought to have told him to stay at home but he seemed compelled to come with them. She noticed that he hovered near to Ruby, though whether it was for her protection or his own, she could not guess.

  Geoffrey clinked and clanked as he moved. She could only imagine what weapons he had ranked about his person, hidden in the depths of his layers. She herself had a fresh batch of black pepper tied up in a pudding cloth, as it was her new favourite means of defence after the successful defeat of the cab driver in the docks.

  There was one other in their little group.

  Mrs Unsworth had refused to come with them. She had sent, however, a man that she had been able to contact through various disreputable means, and he was standing before Cordelia now
, with a broad grin in his gap-toothed face.

  He was a few inches shorter than she was, and wiry with gangling arms like a monkey. He was called Dodson — that was all the name they’d been given and she didn’t like to ask for more — and he hadn’t stopped chortling with delight since she’d met him.

  He rubbed his hands together with the glee of a miser in a bank. “Now then, Mrs C,” he said, “or milady or whatever, this is my patch now, you see, and my world, so I do ask you all one thing. You must follow along with me and you must all do just what I say, and when I say it, and that way we might all stay safe. Do you agree?”

  “Of course, Dodson,” she said. She wasn’t going to argue about the conventions of address when she was about to ask him to break into someone else’s house for her.

  “Now then, my friends, this is the first thing: you cannot all come with me, for I won’t be having a herd of elephants following along behind and causing a ruckus. It shall be me and you alone, Mrs C.”

  “No,” said Ruby, and Geoffrey swore with much the same meaning.

  “That is how it is, I am afraid, my lovelies.” Dodson spread his hands wide, his fingers like dark spiders in the night. “You all have some important jobs to do, anyway. I shall place you all around the house, at points up and down the road. We know he has gone out, but we don’t know when he might return. At the first sign of him you must run and alert us. Throw dirt against the window.”

  “Which window?” Geoffrey said crossly, looking up at the four-storey building with its double frontage.

  Ruby sighed dramatically. “All of them along the first floor,” she said.

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Well, they are going to go to his study, don’t you think? If I were a man keeping a key it would be in my own study. The top floor is for the servants. The ground floor is for visitors. And the third floor will be bedrooms.”

  “You’re clever,” said Dodson. “You had better stay out here, with the best view up and down the main street. You, boy, before you wet yourself, off you go and stand at the far end of this street. You sir,” he said to Geoffrey, “I would recommend you go up the other end. It is more likely that he returns that way, from town. Do what you must to delay him, and this lively girl here will notice, and throw up the dirt to alert us. Is that most clear?”