by Janet Woods
A smile spread across his face. ‘I’ll accept both blame and responsibility in equal proportions, but we mustn’t forget your willing participation in the creation of this infant, especially when it makes for such pleasant reverie.’
‘I hope you have other things you can think about during the day.’
‘Yes . . . but they’re not half as pleasant.’
Colour touched Charlotte’s cheeks and she buried her face against his shoulder. She’d never expected to love a man so completely. ‘Stop teasing me, Seth Hardy.’
Marianne had told Adam that the funeral parlour had gone. However, death had not travelled far from the place, for the premises now sold the weapons that caused the final end product. Henry Palk and Son. Sporting guns. Duelling pistols. Sword sticks. Weapons of defence. Bars guarded the window and the glass panels in the door, which also had a stout metal lock to secure it. The shop front resembled a prison cell, but perhaps it was designed to deter aspiring robbers by showing them what to expect.
Henry Palk was in residence behind the counter, looking like a fixture. ‘I haven’t had a sale all week,’ he said gloomily, when Adam introduced himself and stated his business.
‘I wondered if there were any funerary records left behind.’
Henry looked doubtful, then he brightened. ‘As I recall there are some papers down in the cellar. I’ll get my son to take you down and you can have a look when he comes back. It’s a gloomy hole though and it smells a bit. Sometimes we store bits and pieces down there. Not that we keep much on the premises, and we always take the bolts home with us.’
He gazed doubtfully at Adam’s immaculate appearance. ‘It’s easy enough to go down but it’s as black as a coal bunker. A tall man like you will have to stay bent over lest you thump your head on the beam. Best you leave your hat and jacket up here with me so they’ll stay clean. At least your trousers are dark.’
‘That’s kind of you, Mr Palk.’
The door opened as he spoke and a man who appeared to be in his forties entered. He was of a short, stocky stature.
‘This is my son, Thomas Palk. Thomas, Mr Chapman is a detecting agent making enquiries about a deceased person. I said he could look through that old trunk in the cellar and go through the funeral parlour records. Take him down if you would.’
‘Right then, I’ll fetch a candle. Come through behind the counter, sir; the trapdoor is in the back room.’
‘They used to prepare the bodies for burial in that back room,’ Henry offered with a shudder.
Thomas rolled his eyes. ‘Someone has to do it, and at least it’s a profession where you don’t run out of clients. You can help me lift the trapdoor if you would, sir.’
Henry took Adam’s coat and hat from him. ‘Keep a look out for ghosts,’ he said, as Adam followed Thomas down.
Henry had been right. The cellar was small and low, and smelled of damp, mould and mice. It was also filled with cobwebs and scuttling creatures and Adam thought he might have welcomed a couple of ghosts to scare them off. He found a trunk full of yellowed papers that seemed to be in a state of decomposition, and which were filed in a manner that offended his tidy mind. He had to squat on his haunches to go through them.
Thomas said, ‘You won’t mind if I go back up again, will you, sir? I can’t abide the feeling of being closed in down here.’
By the time Adam was halfway through the papers his back ached from bending almost double and his hands were black with dirt. But he’d found what he was looking for, the record of the interment of Caroline Honeyman some eighteen years before.
Henry had some soap and water waiting for him. ‘Best you wash those hands before you touch anything.’ He gently brushed cobwebs, dust and a couple of spindly long-legged spiders from Adam’s trousers before handing him his coat. ‘I’m going over to the inn to take a bite of something to eat. They do a tasty steak and kidney pie there, if you happen to be hungry.’
‘Indeed, I am. I’d like to thank you for your trouble, so perhaps you’d be my guest.’
A smile spread across Henry’s face. ‘That’s right generous of you, Mr Chapman. I won’t say no to that.’
Henry had a small circle of friends he lunched with, businessmen like himself. Adam learned more at the inn where they took their repast. A couple of rounds of ale loosened their tongues.
‘Mr Chapman is making enquiries about Mrs Caroline Honeyman.’
‘She’s long dead.’
‘He knows that, don’t he?’
‘Then why is he making enquiries?’
Three pairs of eyes gazed at him.
‘I’m making them on behalf of the relatives. They’re interested in what happened to the infant.’
Henry said, ‘That will be Nicholas Thornton’s young woman, I reckon. She came in looking for information when she was little more than a girl. I didn’t let her down in the cellar though. It’s not a place for a young woman.’
Another of the young men grinned. ‘Now there’s a nesh piece for a man to have in his bed. No wonder Thornton the younger didn’t bother going back to sea.’
Laughter cackled. ‘An old codger like you wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like that.’
‘I remember her aunt, Constance Serafina Jarvis. She used to live over Dorchester way.’
Adam’s ears pricked up. Serafina again . . . the name Marianne had heard in the wind. Had it been a quirk of nature that had captured that name and placed it in Marianne’s head at that moment? Had it been more – a connection between the spirit and the living perhaps, or was it a straw in the wind? He’d solved cases on a slimmer premise.
He threw her name into the ring. ‘Constance Serafina, a pretty name. I can’t say I’ve heard her mentioned before.’
They hastened to enlighten him.
‘No wonder, since her name was the only pretty thing about her, as I recall. They reckon the family had gypsy blood in them from way back, and Serafina was the name of some gypsy queen who married outside the tribe way back.’
‘Constance was a spinster lady who had a fortune she’d inherited from an uncle. She left a small legacy to her Honeyman nieces, and the rest of it to the orphanage she started over Dorchester way. George Honeyman was furious. He’d run up a debt and was counting on it, you see.’
‘He got nothing, and serve him right,’ Henry said. ‘He was a bad bastard and a rotten drunk, handy with his fists.’
Adam allowed the conversation to run its course and hearing nothing more of use he took his leave and went over to the church. The burial register revealed nothing, and Caroline Honeyman’s memorial tablet told him nothing more than he already knew.
He stood, the afternoon sunshine warming his back, gazing at her grave. George was buried next to her, having claimed his wife in death. Instinct was telling Adam that the youngest Honeyman daughter was still alive, though the evidence he had was only of the slimmest kind.
‘Only you know whether my search will be fruitless, and you can’t tell me,’ he said to the slab.
He held his breath when a song thrush came down and perched on the tablet. It cocked its head to survey him with a beady eye.
‘I’ll believe it if you sing,’ he whispered.
The bird flew to the branch of the nearest tree, opened its throat and sang its exquisite song.
Adam smiled as the creature flew off. He wasn’t superstitious. He didn’t believe in signs . . . at least, not until now. He’d never wanted to before.
From necessity he packed a lot into his day. His next destination was the orphanage at Dorchester. It was still there, and functioning. He explained his quest to the matron in charge.
‘Constance Serafina Jarvis was before my time. But we do have records in the basement. I can’t allow you to take any away, of course.’
Hopefully, it was not as cramped and dirty as Henry Palk’s cellar had been.
They passed rooms full of neatly dressed girls who were busy at needlework or lessons. ‘We bring them up to be p
ractical as well as educated to a certain level, so they can be gainfully employed.’
The records were filed in batches of ten years. ‘Who are you looking for?’
‘Her surname would have been Honeyman and she would have been newly born.’ He told her the date. ‘She’d be eighteen now.’
The matron went through the files. ‘Only one child was brought in on that day, and she was five years old. She was accepted by one of the volunteers on duty. That’s not usual, but Miss Jarvis suddenly remembered some urgent business on that day, and apparently had to rush off.’ Matron handed him the file with a smile. ‘Here, it’s all on the file and if you want to take notes, you can. We rely heavily on women who volunteer their services. They don’t do any of the hard work, but they teach the children to sew or do beadwork, and read the bible. It makes them feel useful, especially if they haven’t got children of their own. Sometimes they’ll sponsor a child if they show promise.’
It was not what Adam wanted, but he read through it anyway. One of the names seemed familiar. He stored it in his memory until he got back to Poole, then asked Marianne. ‘Who is Miss Stanhope?’
Baby Alexander was walking from one piece of furniture to the other, well aware of the admiration of his mother, because he kept stopping to look at her and collect a smile of encouragement. Alex giggled when Marianne groaned and said, ‘There are two, Agnes and Lucy. They’re the most prolific gossips in town. Why do you ask?’
‘A Miss Stanhope was on duty at your aunt’s orphanage on the day your mother died. I thought I could stay another day if it didn’t put anyone out, and we could call on them.’
‘Lor, Adam, they keep their mouths as tight as oysters when they’re round me, in case I bite their tongues off. You’re certainly welcome to stay longer. I’m sure Erasmus is just as comfortable sleeping on his ship.’
Celia smiled from one to the other. ‘I met Miss Stanhope at the opening of the emporium. She invited me to visit them for afternoon tea. Marianne told her I was a detective.’
‘We’ll see how good a detective you are when you discover what you can about that day.’
Adam laughed when Celia’s smile faded and she asked, ‘How do I do that?’
‘Lead Miss Stanhope gently round to it and let her talk.’
‘But what do you want to know?’
‘I want to know if a newborn baby was taken into the orphanage that day. If so, try and get Miss Stanhope to expand on it with some details. Who took the baby there? What happened to the child?’
‘But you said you looked at the records and the baby wasn’t on them.’
‘Sometimes records are not what they seem. The question arises; under such circumstances would Constance Jarvis have put a relative’s child on record?’
The smile left Marianne’s face. Picking Alex up she hugged him tight. ‘If the baby went to the orphanage that means someone took her there.’
‘Yes, of course.’
When Alex began to protest at being restrained so tightly, she said, ‘Sorry, my darling lamb.’ Kissing the soft fold of his neck until he began to laugh, she placed him back on the floor. There, he began to thump her knee with his palm for her attention. Adam allowed Marianne to reach her own conclusion.
‘It must have been my father. He was the only one there, except for the midwife.’
‘Who is no longer alive.’
‘My God! He did give my baby sister away. How could he have carried out such an awful act?’
‘Marianne, my dear. I did warn you that opening this particular Pandora’s Box could prove to be painful to all concerned. I understand that your father thought that Erasmus had fathered the infant. Does that make the action more understandable?’
The generous curve of her mouth tightened a little. ‘I’m glad my father didn’t keep her, for he would have made her life miserable. But if he thought Erasmus Thornton was the father he should have handed the child over to them. Erasmus brought Nick up as if he was his own son. The baby could have lived in a decent home with Erasmus and Daisy. It’s not right that she was punished for something that wasn’t her fault. All this time Erasmus believed her to be dead.’
‘Perhaps she is dead, my dear.’
Clear blue eyes assessed him, and the assessment was followed by a grin. ‘Adam, your nose is twitching because you instinctively sense that she’s alive even while you question why you’re being irrational. You’re going to follow that instinct because you’ve discovered that you actually have one, and that alone intrigues you.’
Celia gave a small hum of laughter. ‘Well said, Marianne.’
Adam’s smile came in a slightly shamefaced manner. People didn’t usually see through him that easily. ‘Yes, I’m intrigued, and I want so much for her to be alive. But we must not lose sight of the fact that even if she survived her birth she may not have survived infancy or childhood.’
‘But you’ll look for her, regardless?’
He smiled. ‘I’ll do my best to find out what happened to her. Shall we give her a name?’
‘Serafina, after my aunt who ran the orphanage,’ Marianne instantly said, and Adam didn’t bother wondering why the name came as no surprise to him.
Five
Sara hummed as she went about her work. She’d been here for a month, and had never felt so happy. Her efforts had brought about change. The house shone, and everything proceeded as it should – except for the locked room of the late Mrs Leighton. To her way of thinking, even a shrine to the dead should be kept clean and tidy.
‘You take so much pride in this house that anyone would think you were the mistress,’ Maggie had said to her once, and indeed she sometimes did feel like it was hers. She’d love a home like this with a sweeping staircase, a library, and a garden that smelled of apples and roses, and her own staff of servants. She’d treat her servants better than she’d ever been treated herself – excluding Mr Leighton, of course – and they would respectfully call her ma’am.
Holding her apron up like a ballgown she tripped daintily down the stairs, the hand holding the duster polishing the banister rail at the same time, because she didn’t believe in taking a wasted journey, and it was a job she needn’t do next time.
Oscar had taken Mr Leighton into Taunton, where he had business to conduct. She’d discovered that he’d been a barrister before his accident.
‘Not that he ever needed to work, since he’d inherited handsomely, but some of his cases were for people who couldn’t afford to pay,’ Maggie told her knowledgeably one day. ‘Mr Leighton was always willing to help the underdog if he thought they deserved it. Not like his wife.’
‘What was Mrs Leighton like?’ she’d asked her.
Maggie went to the door and gazed out into the corridor before closing it and coming back. ‘Diana Milson was nothing fancy, but she was beautiful. Her parents had a small printing shop. Nothing would please her though, and she treated anyone she thought was under her like dirt. I don’t know what he saw in her, really I don’t. She had the looks, but she was too flighty for the likes of a nice gentleman like Mr Leighton if you ask me.’
‘Did he love her?’
‘He was besotted with her at first; he fell for her looks, I reckon. But she began to show her true nature after they’d been married a year or so. All he’d wanted was a quiet family life with a couple of children. Mrs Leighton wanted to entertain and be admired all the time. He wasn’t lively enough for her. She often invited her friends down. They drank too much, and they shot guns at everything that moved. The countryside bored her to tears, she told him when he complained about them. He put up with it, but they argued, and sometimes she’d storm off back to London without telling him. On the day she died—’
Giles had come in the back door then, and the conversation had stopped.
Sara gazed at the portrait of Mrs Leighton, at the blue twinkling eyes and the red gown. For the first time she noticed that the twist to Diana Leighton’s mouth had a hint of discontent to it.
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br /> ‘I’d be discontented if I was dead at that age,’ she whispered.
She did some piano practice while Mr Leighton was out, but she couldn’t get Diana Leighton out of her mind. Closing the piano, she fetched the room key from its hook and her feet carried her up the stairs to the room that his wife had used. She told herself that the door hinges needed oiling when it creaked.
The red gown had dark patches where the blood had dried, and it had faded into its folds. She opened the door to the dressing room where gowns were laid out on their trays. A rack held a row of dusty shoes. There were various accessories, reticules, scarves, hoops, stockings and petticoats. They smelled of stale perfume and perspiration – of dust and death. Pearls spilled out of a turquoise box on the dressing table. Several rings were scattered, a ruby pendant dangled from a mirror and a gold bangle set with diamonds circled a pair of cream silk gloves.
She picked a ring up and wiped the dust from the stone. Catching a beam of sunlight it sent an array of intense rainbow colours across the walls. She placed the ring back in exactly the same spot, marvelling that such a small clear stone could twinkle so fiercely in the sun.
‘You like everything to be neat and clean, so I suppose this room annoys you,’ Finch Leighton said from the doorway, and she jumped.
He was perceptive.
‘I’m sorry . . . I didn’t hear you arrive.’
‘You were playing the piano. What are you doing in here?’
Thank goodness he couldn’t see her guilty blush. ‘I was curious.’
He gave a faint smile. ‘I can understand that. When you stop being curious you can go back downstairs. Lock the door behind you; my late wife had a habit of leaving her jewellery everywhere.’
‘Would you like me to pick it up so you can put it in your safe?’
‘No, Sara. Just leave the room as it is, please.’
‘There are cobwebs in the corners and dust—’
‘I know exactly what’s in here, and where it is. Resist your need to scrub and polish this particular portion of my life. Some of us find comfort in the cobwebs and don’t need to be constantly dusted off. Can you do that, Sara?’ This time his voice was curt enough to cut her.