A Fatal Freedom

by Janet Laurence

  A passer-by looked interestedly at them. Millie paid no attention.

  ‘Oh, she was so clever, so meek and mild. And he was taken in all along the line.’

  ‘Taken in?’

  She looked up at him scornfully. ‘You don’t think that baby is his? Popped up from a butcher’s shambles have yer? And I thought you was an educated man. She needed respectability. Well, she wasn’t going to get it with her fancy man, was she?’

  ‘But Peters believed her?’

  ‘Handle ’em right and a clever woman can get any man to believe anything.’

  He had to admire her belief in her own cleverness.

  ‘All she had to do was wait and take her chance.’

  ‘Chance?’

  ‘That she could have it all. Could have her baby, could have respectability, and could have all his money. And she could have her fancy man as well.’

  ‘So you do think your mistress poisoned your master?’

  ‘Well, what do you think, mister investigator? Why do you think I gave that diary to the police? Why should she get away with such a dreadful act?’

  ‘You felt it was right to read her private diary?’

  There was the slightest flush on her cheeks but she didn’t say anything.

  Jackman reached into his pocket and brought out the pot he had found at the back of Peters’ desk. ‘Know anything about this?’

  ‘What is it?’

  He offered it to her.

  ‘Oh, that! It’s,’ she coloured a little. ‘It’s cream … for the face. He gave me one. Said it would make me look even more beautiful.’ For the first time her voice faltered and she blinked rapidly. ‘Said he’d come across it in his business and made me take it. All I’ve got left to remember him by … that and a little bracelet. Thought it was diamonds but the pawnshop said it was only paste, wouldn’t advance me more than a few shillings on it,’ she ended bitterly. ‘Men, you can’t trust them.’ She looked up at him through her lashes. ‘Don’t suppose you’ll be wanting to see me again, either.’

  Jackman smothered another tinge of guilt. ‘How did your master come across the face cream by way of his business? Thought that was arranging import and export.’ He remembered the busy office, the desk piled with bills of lading, the docks outside ringing to the coarse shouts of dockers and sailors.

  Millie looked sulky. She settled the set of her jacket a little more advantageously round her waist. ‘Don’t know nothing about that. You’d better ask Albert.’

  Albert, the mysterious valet.

  ‘Going to walk me back, are you?’ Once again Millie was in flirtatious mode.

  * * *

  Jackman escorted the maid back to the Peters household and found himself bowing over her hand in a continental manner to say goodbye, watching as she ran prettily up the front steps to ring the bell, tossing her head as Sarah opened the door. Just how much of what she had said could he rely upon?

  Jackman went back down to the basement entrance and asked Sam where he could find Albert.

  ‘At the master’s office more than like. Gets all the best jobs, he does.’

  Jackman was certain Mrs Trenchard would not weigh out for a hansom cab to take him there. Traffic was its usual tangle and omnibus travel would be slow; the day was fair and he decided to opt for Shankses’ pony. The walk through Holborn and Cheapside, and into the City brought back the days when he would patrol the streets as a humble bobby. Some fifteen years had passed since he’d become a detective but he reckoned that not much had changed. Checking who was amongst the crowds he had to negotiate, few matching his speed, was second nature to him and he reckoned he could identify a number of lowlife suspects without difficulty.

  Suspicious characters increased as he approached Wapping, funnels and masts marking the docks and his destination. Small groups of idle and resentful dockers who’d lost out on a day’s employment hung around, ready to cause trouble. Chinese faces became more and more prevalent, as did sailors with faces from around the world. Jackson had not been personally involved with patrolling the docks or the river but he was well aware of the opportunities for nefarious activities in the tangle of narrow streets, the network of gangs who controlled the illegal dealings that sidestepped officialdom, banned goods and import duties. Here sordid doss houses, brothels and opium dens created areas even the hardiest policeman hesitated to go.

  Jackman skirted a brawling group of carters, their drays causing gridlock as horses dropped dirt while waiting for drivers to sort out just which conveyance could successfully claim a right of way.

  A few moments later he arrived at the offices of Peters and Roberts, relieved that he had negotiated the various blocks of warehouses without hesitation. Here suited office administrators and uniformed officials bustled, carts rumbled over cobblestones, the odd carriage brought gentlefolk to claim passage or meet travellers. Here ships unloaded or took on freight, signed off sailors, found new crews, said goodbye or took on new passengers, and threw slops over the side. Gulls screeched overhead, swooping on any edible fragment. The docks had to be the noisiest of any part of London, and the busiest.

  As Jackman approached the offices, Albert emerged from the shabby building. A few words from the detective sufficed to remind the valet of Jackman’s investigation into Peters’ death. At first suspicious and monosyllabic, Albert reluctantly allowed himself to be taken off to one of the many public houses in the vicinity.

  Lunchtime being long past, the pub was half empty and Jackman had no trouble finding them a small table in a quiet corner.

  Once seated with a pint of ale in front of him, the valet gradually relaxed as Jackman filled in his background, adding a few choice reminiscences of his time as an East End copper, all the while unobtrusively studying the person sitting opposite.

  Albert was a small, neat man in a brown suit, the jacket worn over a bright yellow and caramel striped waistcoat. His features were as neat as his person: a narrow face with bright dark eyes, a pointed nose and chin, his skin badly pock-marked, thin lips revealing blackened teeth with several gaps. There was a stillness about him, a listening quality that to Jackman suggested someone who absorbed information and observations as efficiently as a sponge and forgot little.

  ‘Not keeping you, am I?’ Jackman asked. ‘Only by rights I ought to get round to asking you about life in the Peters household. Justify my fee, as you might say.’

  ‘You might, doubt I would,’ Albert said, moving restlessly on his pew. ‘You got what time it is? Only I got an appointment.’

  Jackman got out his timepiece, careful to shield it from the sight of the mean-looking fellows who were their fellow drinkers.

  ‘If you can supply the price of a cab back to town,’ said Albert, ‘I suppose I can spare fifteen minutes or so, specially if it means you can catch the bastard what poisoned Mr Peters.’ He finished his ale in a pointed manner and Jackman quickly supplied both of them with fresh pints.

  ‘First I ought to find out what your duties were. I’ve been told you were Mr Peters’ valet?’

  Albert shrugged. ‘The master doesn’t … didn’t set much store on how he was turned out. Main part of me job was running messages for him and making deliveries. Had me at it day in, day out, said he couldn’t manage without me,’ he added virtuously.

  ‘What sort of deliveries?’

  ‘Shipping schedules, papers, bits of official stuff. I never knows what it all is; just do what I’m told. Sometimes it’s orders, what’s arrived at the docks, if they isn’t too large and needed special, like.’

  ‘You mean imported goods?’

  Albert’s expression combined shiftiness with disquiet. ‘Look, it weren’t my business to know what was in the packages, I just collected and delivered. Anyway, you ain’t got the right to question me like this. It's not got anything to do with the master’s death.’

  ‘That’s for me to decide, not you. And I have every right to question all your dealings connected with Joshua Peters. For instance,
you say you’re a valet but it doesn’t seem like you acted as one for your master.’

  ‘Now, see here. Whatever I may have said about ’im not caring about ’is appearance, I knows just how to turn a fellow out right; how to tie a cravat, polish a boot or shoe, shave a neat chin, trim a beard.’

  Jackman smiled reassuringly at him. ‘So you would wake your master in the morning? Shave him and such like?’

  Albert pulled at one of his ears nervously, the first indication the detective had seen the valet might lose his control. ‘I didn’t call him, I had to wait for his bell. ’E had a habit of waking early and studying papers and things before rising. Didn’t want to be disturbed before he needed to dress and be shaved.’

  ‘And on the morning he was found dead, what happened?’

  The dark eyes were closed for a brief moment. ‘I was waiting for his bell.’ The narrow face looked pinched as though some strong emotion threatened to break out.

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Sorting the morning mail.’

  ‘Takes you long, that?’

  ‘A lot of business gets sent to the house.’ The explanation appeared to have a steadying effect. ‘If it’s not marked “personal” I opens all the letters and arranges them as the master likes … liked, in different piles.’

  ‘Sounds as though you were something of a secretary.’

  A crafty smile stretched the thin lips. ‘I’m a dab hand at reading and writing, me mother saw to that, she’d been a governess afore she, well, fell down on her luck, and Mr Peters liked the way I knows how to keep my mouth shut.’

  Jackman said nothing and after a moment Albert added, ‘Some of the stuff I do is confidential, like.’

  Confidential, eh?

  ‘Can you think of anyone who would want your master dead?’

  For a brief moment something flared in the dark eyes and Jackman felt a moment of hope. Then the valet studied the nails of his right hand, his expression impossible to read.

  ‘Dead?’ he said. ‘No, Mr Jackman, I can’t. Unless,’ he added with the air of a thought that had only just occurred. ‘Maybe Mrs Peters. They had a right old ding dong the afternoon before.’

  The detective tried to imagine the gentle and controlled Alice Peters having a ‘ding dong’ with her husband.

  ‘Did you tell the police that?’

  Albert appeared to think for a moment. ‘Only just remembered it. Wasn’t unusual for them to have a bit of a fight,’ he added hastily.

  ‘Is that so?’

  Albert nodded. ‘Hardly blissfully married they were.’

  Jackman drew out the pot of cream once again from his pocket and watched Albert’s face as he put it down on the table. ‘What can you tell me about this?’

  The valet grabbed it up, the first impulsive movement he’d made. ‘Hey, how’d’yer get hold of this?’

  Jackman firmly removed the jar from his grasp and returned it to his pocket. ‘Part of the “confidential stuff” is it?’

  The valet seemed to struggle for composure. ‘Just one of the last things the master asked me to do; makes me realise he’ll not be needing me to do anything more for him.’ He rose. ‘’Ave to be off now. Like I said, I’ve an appointment. What about that cab fare you promised?’

  Jackman handed over a generous sum and watched the valet slipping like an eel through a group of rowdy sailors.

  Appointment, eh? Something to do with the firm of Peters and Roberts, or something to do with Albert?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ursula was woken by rain beating on the window. She lay in bed and listened, wondering if there was an omnibus that could take her to Mayfair. It was to be her first morning working for Count Meyerhoff and Madame Rose and it would be unfortunate if she arrived with her skirts rain-darkened and shoes all wet; she had had no opportunity so far to acquire galoshes.

  Ursula had called at the beauty clinic the day after she had seen the count coming out of the public house in Shepherd’s Market. She’d felt nervous. Had he noticed her and Rachel passing out the women’s suffrage leaflets? She had a definite feeling he would not like to be associated with such behaviour. If she’d been recognised, there would surely be no discussion of her secretarial skills and she could say goodbye to another source of badly needed income.

  However, he had seemed pleased to see her and there was no mention of leaflet handing out. Instead, he’d told her she came highly recommended by Mrs Bruton and had taken her into an office-like back room dominated by a mahogany armoire more European in appearance than English.

  ‘This is where,’ he’d said, unlocking the doors, ‘we keep all our accounts.’ A torrent of papers fell to the floor.

  ‘Fraulein Ferguson,’ the count called sharply.

  There appeared instantly the white-uniformed girl who had greeted Ursula and Mrs Bruton on their initial visit, her expression anxious.

  ‘What does this mean?’ He pointed to the cascade.

  Miss Ferguson bent and tried to gather the papers. Her hands trembled and they fluttered and fell a second time.

  ‘Why, Fraulein? Why?’ A hand waved at loaded shelves that threatened to add to the chaos.

  ‘You told me to use this cupboard for bills and receipts, Count Meyerhoff.’

  ‘For organisation! This is a cabinet for orderly arrangement of accounts, not a place for, how would you call it, mayhem?’

  The girl managed to scoop up an armful and attempted to thrust them back on to a shelf.

  ‘No!’ The count took a deep breath and said more quietly, ‘You must see, Fraulein, that will not answer.’

  Ursula bent to help the girl who now seemed near to tears.

  ‘Fraulein Grandison, we talk before you assist, hein?’

  She stepped back.

  Miss Ferguson’s eyes looked wildly for somewhere safe to offload her slipping sheaf. Ursula itched to help.

  ‘Here, put them here.’ The count indicated a spindly-legged side table, then watched trembling hands release their burden on to the polished surface. Soon the floor was clear.

  ‘Danke shön, Fraulein. We do not need you further.’

  The count closed the door behind the girl, shrugged his shoulders and smiled apologetically at Ursula. ‘Fraulein Ferguson is laboratory assistant and receptionist, not secretary. You see how we need you, Fraulein Grandison?’

  Ursula struggled not to feel daunted by what the armoire had revealed. What were all those papers? From the little she could see, there seemed to be more than simple bills. Official-looking documents, bills of lading, complicated invoices.

  Tension was added to by an unfamiliar ringing. The count moved rapidly to the efficient-looking desk that stood opposite the armoire, picked up the earpiece of a telephone and barked a greeting. A subdued chirp answered him. He smiled broadly and waved Ursula out of the room.

  She went into the corridor. Miss Ferguson came out of a back room and headed towards the main reception area, her eyes red. ‘The man’s a monster,’ she hissed at Ursula.

  Ursula was already doubting Mrs Bruton’s oft repeated opinion that no man was more sympathetic or courteous than the handsome Count Meyerhoff. But he would not be the first difficult man she had managed to work alongside.

  The office door opened and the count beckoned her back in.

  ‘If this telephone should ring while you are here, please to answer, then fetch whoever is required. Or messages can be taken.’ He smiled, showing a great deal of white teeth. ‘I tell Madame Bruton she should install this instrument, it makes communication very easy.’

  Ursula nodded. ‘In New York it is used a great deal more than it seems to be in London.’

  ‘This will change and quite soon I think. Now, we talk about accounts, yes?’

  After half an hour or so, it had been agreed that she would come in two mornings a week to sort paperwork, send out bills to clients and receipts for payments made. She was also to begin the task of setting up a system for the Maison Rose accounts; Ursula
made a mental note to acquire a guide to double-entry book-keeping.

  ‘It is, of course, confidential work, Fraulein,’ had been the count’s last words to her before she left. ‘Madame Bruton has assured me of your discretion in such matters.’

  Listening to the rain as she lay in bed, Ursula shivered. Summer was definitely over. She wondered how quickly winter cold would arrive. It had been spring when she landed in England; she had not expected to stay beyond a few months, so had brought no warm clothes. At least working at Maison Rose might mean she could afford to buy a winter coat. Had she made a mistake in deciding to remain in England instead of returning to the States to rebuild her life there? There would not have been a job but at least she had friends, both in New York and San Francisco.

  London, though, had beckoned her. The chance to discover one of the world’s greatest cities was too seductive. She had never had difficulty making friends or finding employment, even if it was menial and badly paid. She hadn’t considered either friends or a job would elude her in London and lo and behold she had been fortunate enough to be taken on by Mrs Bruton, even if it was only for two and a half days a week. And now there was this other opportunity.

  Ursula had not, though, realised how difficult it would be to meet people. The other boarders at Mrs Maples’ seemed determined to keep conversation to banalities and generalities. Londoners were courteous but it seemed that if you had not been properly introduced, the possibility of a meaningful conversation, or even of passing a pleasant time of day, could not be contemplated. In America, apart from high society, people were much more open.

  For a little while there had been the pleasure of Alice Peters’ company and when the girl had returned to her husband, Ursula had missed her extremely. To think of her in prison was dreadful. There was the possibility, though, that Ursula’s acquaintance with Rachel Fentiman could blossom into friendship. She lacked her sister’s warmth and sympathetic manner but her lively mind and enterprise were refreshing.

  A knock at the bedroom door announced that Meg had arrived with Ursula’s morning cup of tea. Meg never had time for a proper chat but even a short conversation with her made Ursula feel better. After her morning at Maison Rose, she decided, she would treat herself to a visit to the Zoological Gardens at Regent’s Park, that is, if the rain had cleared. And on Saturday she would find her way to the Tower of London and immerse herself in its history. No, Ursula wasn’t going to give up on life in this capital city yet.