I stood uncertainly as the trees creaked overhead. I could chase through the small wood after the man I would swear was Daniel, or I could let him be. I wanted to put my hands on him to reassure myself that he was alive and well, but if that pathetic soul was not Daniel, I’d terrify him or possibly provoke him to violence.
If he was Daniel, then he’d dressed in rags and painted on the sores for a reason, though why he’d hide near a chapel in the heart of Mayfair I had no idea. But then Daniel had a purpose in everything he did, no matter what mad thing it might be.
I did not know how he’d disappeared so quickly but assumed he must still be nearby.
“I am quite angry with you,” I told the empty air. Then I strode back through the gate and along the passage to the street, scuttling into the chapel to take a breathless seat at the end of the last pew, just as the service began.
* * *
* * *
By the time I reached home, I’d convinced myself I’d been imagining things. I’d wanted to see Daniel alive and well, so I’d decided that the first man with eyes his color must be him. I’d probably frightened the wretch, and he’d run off to whatever hole he chose to hide himself in.
I would never know until Daniel turned up and explained all to me. Short of rushing about the Mayfair streets hoping to spy him, I could do nothing.
After luncheon, I sat in the housekeeper’s parlor, going over the accounts for the week and making lists of staples to stock in the pantry. I was running low on flour and sugar, and I needed to make certain Mr. Davis told Mr. Bywater to purchase more robust red wines for my sauces.
By rights this was the housekeeper’s job—to make certain the larder was stocked and the expenses of the kitchen were kept in order, and that the cook wasn’t being too lavish in her use of ingredients. Because we had no housekeeper, I had to do both.
The lady of the house decides on the menus, or at least she should, but I usually convinced my ladies within a few days of working for them to leave the menus to me. Mrs. Bywater had, with the exception of Mr. Bywater’s breakfast, and Lady Cynthia had told me to do what I liked.
As I tallied up numbers in my painstaking way, Tess opened the door without knocking. Her eyes were wide, dark in her pale face.
“The police have come for ya,” she announced.
For a moment, panic washed over me, as I remembered the horrible day I’d been led away to Newgate. I calmed that fear, telling myself this was a peaceful Sunday afternoon with no murders upstairs, and Lady Cynthia would hardly let a constable drag me out without ceremony.
As the first worry fell away, a second one rose. Police visited for other reasons—to announce the death of a loved one, for instance.
Grace. I was on my feet, spots dancing before my eyes.
I made myself speak in a level voice. “Do not be silly, Tess. Tell me who has come and what they want.”
“It’s that detective inspector. The one you and Mr. Thanos spoke to in the police station. He wants to talk to you.”
She must mean Inspector McGregor, the man with the blond mustache who’d started to question us before he was interrupted by his superior. A third fear nudged out the first two—had he found Daniel? Arrested him? Or had he come to shake information about Daniel from me?
“Where is he?” I asked. “Was he let in upstairs?” My question rang with doubt. Mr. Bywater believed policemen to be a lower form of life, and I had difficulty believing he’d admit the man in through the front door. I’d observed Mr. Bywater scolding a constable who lingered too long near the house, when the lad had only been walking his beat.
Tess shook her head. “He came to the back door. Said he didn’t want to bother the upstairs. He ain’t even dressed like a policeman. Wearing a gent’s suit, more like.”
I hesitated. The only reason Inspector McGregor had spoken somewhat civilly to me had been because I’d been with Mr. Thanos, who was a gentleman, in spite of his befuddled manner. How would he behave to me if he cornered me alone?
On the other hand, I was quite curious as to why he’d come. Perhaps he did have news about Daniel.
“Very well,” I said. “He may speak to me here in the housekeeper’s parlor. But I wish Lady Cynthia to attend, if she is at home. If she is not, this detective will have to fix a later appointment with me.”
Tess stared, certain I’d run mad. “He’ll arrest you if you don’t want to talk. Bang you up. You’ll have to piss in a common bucket in front of everyone—”
“Tess, what have I told you about language?” I frowned at her to hide my nervousness. “Now, inquire about Lady Cynthia—no, ask Sara or Mr. Davis to do it. You stay below stairs. I will let you know when you may send the detective in.”
Tess looked impressed at my courage, and she hurried away, calling for Mr. Davis.
I tried to return to the accounts, telling myself I might as well finish while I waited, but the numbers jumbled, my pen scratched, and a blot of ink marred the ledger’s page.
As I wiped it clean, Lady Cynthia came in, eyes alight. At least one person was excited about the visit of a policeman.
She wore a gown today—Mrs. Bywater insisted on it for Sunday meals—a very dark gray trimmed with black.
“Send him in, Tess,” Lady Cynthia called out and then turned to me. “What’s it all about, Mrs. Holloway?”
“I have no idea,” I answered, pretending composure. “We shall have to wait and see what he says.”
Cynthia remained standing as Detective Inspector McGregor entered the room. He strode in with arrogance, as though prepared to browbeat a young cook until she gave him all he wanted to know, but he pulled up short when he saw Lady Cynthia. He took her in, quickly assessing that she was a lady of the house and no servant.
I put McGregor in about his mid-thirties, old enough for experience, young enough for exuberant energy. I renewed my conviction that he was not married as I viewed his rumpled frock coat and noted a missing button on his waistcoat. No wife would let her husband be seen like that unless she severely disliked him and no longer had interest in how the world perceived him.
Inspector McGregor gave Cynthia a bow. “I beg your pardon, ma’am.” His hazel eyes flickered as he rearranged his thoughts. “I am afraid I must speak to your cook on an important matter.”
If he expected Lady Cynthia to leave me to it, or be shocked and grieved that a policeman had come to see one of her domestics, he did not know Lady Cynthia. She sat down on a chair in a swirl of skirts. “Speak away. What is this important matter?”
The inspector remained stiffly standing. “I’d hoped to do so in private.”
“Not a bit of it.” Cynthia waved to a chair. “Close the door and sit down, man. This is as private as you will find.”
McGregor shot her a look of dislike. I assumed he did not appreciate being ordered about by women.
However, he closed the door without argument and seated himself on a hard wooden chair, as Cynthia and I had taken the only comfortable ones in the room.
“I am Detective Inspector McGregor,” he began, speaking to Lady Cynthia. “Mrs. Holloway came to Scotland Yard yesterday to identify the body of a murdered man.”
“Yes, she told me,” Lady Cynthia said. “And she did not know who it was. I am aware of all this. What do you need to ask her?”
“I want to know who she came to the morgue to find. If the man she’s searching for isn’t the dead man, who is he?”
I did so hate when people spoke of me as though I weren’t in a room. It was something that happened frequently when one was in service, however.
“You put this question to me at the police headquarters,” I said. “I remember that your chief inspector—Moss is his name?—told you not to. At least, that is what I assume he said to you in the corridor. I could not hear the precise words.”
McGregor’s eyes went cold. H
e might be a handsome man, I thought, if he didn’t let his features become so pinched with anger. And if he shaved off his mustache and brushed his hair back from his forehead. Some men looked fine in whiskers, but McGregor’s weighed heavily on his face.
“That is why I am here,” McGregor snapped. “The chief inspector had no business interfering in the matter. This is my case.”
Before I could answer, Lady Cynthia broke in. “You mean you’re here without leave? To question Mrs. Holloway on your own? Isn’t that not done?”
McGregor leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, his eyes taking on a determined light. “Only a few years ago, my lady, a number of chief inspectors were tried and sentenced to hard labor for colluding with known criminals. Taking money to tell confidence tricksters when they’d be investigated, giving them time to get away, even steering customers to them. These were high-ranking officers of the Yard, men who’d given years of service, who ought to have been honorable and trusted. Instead, they were paid to look the other way while these criminals swindled people out of thousands and thousands of pounds.” He tapped his chest. “I do not intend to let that happen again.” His eyes glinted and his lips drew back in a snarl.
“What are you saying?” Lady Cynthia asked. “That this Chief Inspector Moss is corrupt? What has that to do with Mrs. Holloway?”
McGregor shook his head with impatience. “Not Chief Inspector Moss. That is, I don’t know. I don’t know what he’s up to.” He returned his hard gaze to me. “He told me outside the interview room that Mrs. Holloway was not to be questioned. He knew you by name, though I had never seen you before, never heard anything about you. I want to know why, and what you have to do with Chief Inspector Moss and the dead man in the pawnbrokers.” His words rang in the small room.
“I have nothing to do with Chief Inspector Moss,” I said. “I’d never met him before—never seen him until yesterday.”
McGregor’s hands balled as he leaned to me. “Then why the devil did he call you by name?”
“Please do not swear at her,” Lady Cynthia said coolly. “I am certain there is some reasonable explanation.”
There was. Daniel. I did not know what position Daniel held with the police, if he held any official position at all, but there was no dispute that he at least worked with them. I was certain now that Chief Inspector Moss had put him up to sitting in the pawnbrokers, and Daniel had probably told him about me. Why the chief inspector had come to my rescue at the police station I could only speculate—either he or Daniel had not wanted me to impart information to Inspector McGregor.
That left me now trying to decide what to tell McGregor. On the one hand, Daniel likely wanted me saying nothing about his mission. On the other, a zealous man like McGregor might poke and pry where he should not if I left him too curious and perhaps bring danger to Daniel.
I drew a breath. “I advise you to speak to your chief inspector, Detective. If you are adamant about keeping corruption out of the police, perhaps he can set your mind at rest.”
“Or appease me with what I want to hear,” McGregor growled. “You know something, Mrs. Holloway. As do you.” He turned a sharp look on Lady Cynthia. “Withholding knowledge of a criminal or criminal activity is a crime itself, your ladyship. I should not like to see a young woman such as yourself having to go before a magistrate. It would not be pleasant.”
“Sounds like it would be jolly amusing,” Lady Cynthia drawled. “Especially when I told the magistrate what rot this all is. Mrs. Holloway is a respectable woman who would never have dealings with criminals. You have my word on that. She’s worked for the best families in England and has no stain on her character. Suffice it to say that Mrs. Holloway was relieved she did not know the identity of the dead man and has no more to do with it.”
McGregor listened, scowling, not at all mollified. But he must have realized Lady Cynthia and I would tell him nothing more. Unless he arrested us and dragged us off with him, he was powerless here.
“I can assure you, Detective,” I said in a reasonable tone, “that my errand to the morgue had nothing to do with corrupting the police or committing criminal acts. I read of the death in the newspaper and worried that it might be a friend I’d seen in that pawnbrokers. That is all.”
Near enough to the truth without betraying Daniel. McGregor’s frown deepened. “The pawnbroker there is a known receiver. Is he your friend? Where is he now?”
“The man I sought is hardly a criminal,” I said coolly, but I could not stop my face growing warm. Daniel might be the best criminal of all, working with the police and having us all fooled. That did not seem quite right, but I did not know, and this unnerved me.
“You did not answer my question,” McGregor said sharply. “Where is this man?”
I spread my hands. “That I do not know.”
He must have read the truth in my eyes, because he looked disappointed.
“There, she’s told you,” Lady Cynthia said, getting to her feet. McGregor rose hastily, at least having enough manners not to remain seated while a lady stood. “Be off with you now. If you wish to speak to Mrs. Holloway further, I suggest you send a note and fix an appointment instead of barging in. Yes?”
McGregor gave her a stiff nod. His keen stare made me uneasy, but at the same time, I could not help feeling sorry for the man. I understood his worry that the corruption high up in Scotland Yard, which had been shouted from every newspaper three or so years ago, might happen again. Not long after this sensation, the Metropolitan Police had been reorganized, with a new division of detectives in plain clothes installed, of which McGregor must be a member.
I wondered whether Daniel was also a part of this Criminal Investigation Division, but if so, McGregor would know that, wouldn’t he? McGregor had no idea what was going on, however, and this frustrated him. I found I could sympathize with him in a small way.
I gave him a nod as I rose. “I promise that if I discover anything helpful, I will send word to you. I too have no wish to see the police compromised. Then where would we be?”
McGregor’s look could have cut glass. He let out a sound like a snarl then made a curt bow and left the room. I heard Mr. Davis in the passage—where he’d no doubt lingered to listen—tell McGregor he would show him the way out.
Cynthia turned to me, eyes alight. “Well, that was exciting. What is McAdam up to that the police don’t know about, eh?”
“I’m certain they do know,” I answered. “Or at least some of them might. Which is more than I do.” I sighed. “I thought I saw Daniel this morning skulking around the churchyard, but I cannot be certain.”
“Truly? Perhaps we should have another look for him, then.” Lady Cynthia headed for the door as though ready to charge around Mayfair on the moment.
“I must prepare the evening meal,” I said unhappily. “Mrs. Bywater has invited six guests, Mr. Davis told me.”
Cynthia grimaced. “Yes, Aunt Isobel and Uncle Neville are at it again. Bringing bachelors around to have a look at me. They plant these eligible gentlemen among their happily married friends and parade me before them like a prized dog. A hound getting on in years, so they need to snap her up quick.”
She flung herself into a chair, her energy sending it skittering a few inches backward. “Can’t you do something, Mrs. Holloway?” she pleaded. “I helped you with this officious policeman. I implore you to get me out of this supper with the not-so-Honorable Harcourt Plimpton and the horrible Ferdinand Marchand. Imagine having to write Mrs. Harcourt B. Plimpton on all your correspondence.”
“You do not have to accept their proposals,” I pointed out. “You have free will. This is not the England of the past—forced marriages are no longer legal.” I took in her unhappy face and relented. “Let me think on it.”
“Please think quickly,” Cynthia said as she sprang up again and strode for the door. “Davis!” she called as she moved down
the passage. “Have Sara bring me tea, and for God’s sake, put a dollop of brandy in it for me.”
I sighed and returned to the table. I had work to do, interruptions by policemen notwithstanding. I called out to a passing footman and told him to send Tess to me, while I opened the account books again, and took up my pen.
Tess looked perplexed when I gave her new instructions, but as I explained, her quick mind took it in, and she began to grin.
“Right you are, Mrs. H. I’m off.” She tore her apron from her and flung it down, its ties fluttering on the floor even as her footsteps faded.
I finished my menus, put the cookery books away, picked up Tess’s discarded apron, and went to the kitchen.
“Where did she run off to?” Davis asked with a frown as I hung up Tess’s apron. “She can’t work here if she dashes about as she pleases.”
“She’s conducting an errand for me, Mr. Davis,” I said. I moved to the kitchen table to tear up the lettuce Tess had competently washed. “I would not have sent her off were it not important.”
“Well, pardon me.” Davis put his hands on his hips a moment before reaching up and delicately straightening the hairpiece on the crown of his head. “I’m only looking out for you, Mrs. H.”
“Of course.” I sent him a forgiving look. “You will have to set one more place. There will be an additional guest.”
Mr. Davis stopped fiddling with his hair and gave me a surprised look. “I beg your pardon? I was not informed.”
“A last-minute addition,” I said. “A man called Mr. Thanos. A friend of Lady Cynthia’s. He might be a bit late. Do go up and add the place setting, or it might be awkward when he arrives.”
Davis stared at me another moment before he heaved a sigh that came from the bottom of his boots. “She should inform me,” he said, aggrieved. “Lady Cynthia is a dear young woman, but really she has no idea how to run a household.”
Scandal Above Stairs Page 10