Vice and Virtue

by Veronica Bennett

  She felt gingerly at the back of the top drawer, moving the paper, the stick of sealing wax and the quills out of the way. When she tried to do the same to the snuffbox, however, she found she could not. It was fixed, either to the bottom or the back of the drawer. Her body tensing, she tried to pull the entire drawer out of its casing. It would not move. She had heard of this: cleverly made hiding places in seemingly innocent pieces of furniture. Just as with the speckled bird and the white-coated stoat, someone was sure that what they had hidden could not be seen – unless a more determined predator than usual should be looking.

  Carefully, she pushed, pulled, and eventually twisted the small wooden box. It was not a box at all; it had never held snuff. It was actually a turning mechanism that opened the back of the drawer. She knelt down and felt with trembling fingers for a further mechanism – a lever, a key, something she was sure was there, which would lead the way to the locked upper compartment of the desk.

  Suddenly, she had it. She was not sure how, but her exploring hand had touched something that had operated some kind of spring. To Aurora’s utter surprise, the entire hinged front of the desk opened about an inch, remaining propped there, ready to be lowered from the outside. She inspected the keyhole. It was false, a mere ornament covering a smooth hole with no pin for the skeleton key to attach itself to. The upper part of the desk could only be unlocked by someone who knew how.

  This was Josiah Deede’s personal hiding place.

  She lowered the front of the cabinet. As expected, behind it she saw many compartments and small drawers. The compartments were all empty. Aurora opened each drawer. Empty too. But she was convinced that no one would go to this much trouble to conceal something unless there was something to conceal. She felt at the back of each drawer, prodding the corners, searching for another spring. And at last, on the fourth drawer she tried, she found it. The back of the drawer tipped forwards, and Aurora’s fingers closed around a folded piece of paper, apparently a letter, with a broken seal.

  How long had she been in the library? Celia must not come downstairs looking for her. Aurora thrust the letter as far down her bodice as her corset would allow, replaced the back of the drawer, shut the drawer, and pulled up the hinged front with its false keyhole. She had just done this – her hand was still on the top corner of the cabinet – when she heard the door open behind her.

  “Why, Aurora, what are you doing?” came Celia’s bewildered voice.

  Aurora turned. Joe had followed his sister into the room, and was flicking his eyes from Aurora, to the bookshelves, to the table, to the cabinet. He was not bewildered like Celia; he was suspicious. Aurora searched fruitlessly for an explanation of her position. Then, as smoothly as a prompt from the side of the stage, her mother’s voice floated into her head. “When all else fails, girls, swoon.”

  She let out a quiet shriek and fell to the floor. Luckily her hat came off, or she would have squashed it. For authenticity, she had to fall quite hard, and the stone floor of the library, uncarpeted where she stood, was not forgiving. Her hip bone would have a bruise tomorrow.

  She heard her name cried out in both a female and a male voice, and then Celia’s alone, very agitated, instructing her brother to carry Aurora to a chair. “Harrison!” she called down the passage to the kitchen. “Bring water! Miss Drayton is not well!”

  Aurora felt herself lifted and held against Joe Deede’s body. He set her down, and she heard the man-servant’s footsteps on the flagstones. Harrison must have given his mistress a glass of water, as a wetted handkerchief soon dabbed Aurora’s forehead and a feminine hand took hers.

  “How pale she looks!” observed Celia. “She must be worn out, poor thing. Watching her brother’s condition worsen day by day must be a terrible strain. And you know, Joe, they have no mother or father!”

  Joe did not reply. Aurora kept her eyes closed, trying not to think too hard about what his expression might be like and trying to fathom the situation in which she found herself.

  It was surely impossible that these two concerned young people had been privy to their father’s crime. It must be Josiah Deede – the intolerant convert, the disloyal friend and the possessor of a very sophisticated hiding place – who alone was guilty.

  The paper she had found must be of great importance to him. It was bound to reveal something. She would carry it back to Edward like a trophy. And perhaps, long before the allotted month had passed, she would be free.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, opening her eyes. She was sitting on a wooden chair, placed against the wall of the library. Joe sat next to her, close enough for her to feel his warmth and smell the familiar odour of wig hair.

  “You fainted,” said Celia, looking very relieved. “I wondered why you were leaning on the writing desk. You must have suddenly weakened, and were unable to support yourself. If only Joe had caught you before you fell!”

  “Such foolishness,” said Aurora. “I am so sorry.”

  “Not foolishness.” Joe took the glass of water from Celia and handed it to Aurora. “Fatigue. Here, sip this.”

  “And then you must come up and have some tea,” added Celia. “I hope you are not going to be ill, for we are going to Spring Gardens tomorrow.”

  “You are very kind.” Aurora sat up and looked around for her hat. “I shall be recovered in no time.”

  Celia handed her the hat. “Are you well enough to stand? Lean on Joe.”

  They made their way upstairs slowly, Aurora hanging on Joe’s arm. As he settled her in his father’s chair with her feet on the footstool, she saw on his face the kind of affectionate possessiveness she had last seen on Edward’s when he had kissed her at the wedding and Eleanora had started to cry. “Thank you, Joe,” she said.

  There was a timid knock, and Missy, the pretty, neatly clad housemaid, came in with a laden tea tray. She was followed by Harrison bearing a steaming kettle, which he placed on a trivet in the hearth. When the servants had quitted the room, Celia used a small key she wore on a chain about her waist to open the tea casket. Aurora watched, thinking of the pride of place her mother’s tea casket – a box inlaid with ivory – took in the parlour at home. Tea was too expensive to be left in the kitchen for servants to steal.

  Celia made the tea and gave the cups to Joe to distribute. He set Aurora’s at her elbow, where she watched its spiral of steam disperse in the sunny room for a few moments before she picked it up.

  “When I have drunk my tea I must go,” she told them decisively. “I do not think I can eat dinner. I had better rest at home.”

  “Then you must allow me to accompany you in the carriage as far as, say, Charing Cross,” said Joe. “You cannot walk all the way.”

  If her fainting fit were to seem genuine, there was no possibility of protest. “Very well, sir.”

  The three of them chatted idly while they finished their tea. Aurora could feel the edges of the folded paper inside her bodice, pressing into her flesh. This delay caused by the drinking of tea would at least be offset by a carriage ride for more than half the distance back to the lodging rooms. She had promised Edward she would be back as soon after dinner as she could. He would be surprised to see her returned so early. And hopefully, he would be pleased with her morning’s work.

  Harrison was told to order the carriage. Aurora collected her hat and kissed Celia, who grasped her hand. “What about your brother’s books?” she asked. “They must still be in the library. Joe, collect them on your way out.”

  “There is no need,” Aurora assured her. “I had not progressed very far in choosing books when I began to feel faint. I will select some on my next visit.”

  “But your next visit is tomorrow!” protested Celia. “We are going to Spring Gardens!”

  Aurora could see Celia was not to be denied. The girl was hoping, no doubt, for another communication from Edward Drayton. Turning to Joe, Aurora smiled encouragingly. “Your sister is so kind. Perhaps you might choose some books you think my brother would like, and
I can collect them tomorrow evening?”

  “It would be an honour,” said Joe.

  It was hot in the carriage, even with the windows down. Aurora fanned herself all the way to Charing Cross, trying to calm her agitation. The piece of paper must have slipped further down inside her dress. She could no longer feel it there, but could not check for it with Joe sitting only inches away from her. She prayed it had not fallen out.

  When the carriage stopped, Joe alighted and handed her out. Before he let go of her hand he raised it to his lips, bestowing a kiss upon her gloved fingers. “Until tomorrow.”

  “At seven o’clock.” Aurora smiled. “Goodbye, and thank you again.”

  He bowed, and climbed back into the carriage. “Fare thee well, Aurora.”

  She watched until the carriage was out of sight. Even though she was convinced it would not have mattered if Joe had seen where she went, she had assured Edward that she would be zealously careful, and she must keep that promise.

  Turning away from the road, she slipped into the shadow of the buildings and felt for the paper. It was still there. She wavered a moment, indecisive, wondering whether to withdraw it and read it. Then she sighed and set off once more for Samuel Marshall’s bookshop.

  The attic was deserted. Aurora stood at the open door with her hand on the latch, unable to contain her irritation.

  Edward had left no note on the table. She checked her own room. Nothing. She went to the top of the stairs and called. “Mary! Mary, do not pretend you cannot hear me!”

  After a few minutes Mary shuffled up the lower flight and waited, looking up sullenly.

  “Tell me, when did Mr Drayton go out?” asked Aurora.

  “Cannot say, ’m.”

  “Is Mr Marshall in?”

  “Yes, ’m.”

  “Thank you. That is all.”

  Aurora went back into her own room. The glass confirmed that she looked as anxious as she felt. The flesh of her face was as lifeless as clay. She pinched blood into her cheeks, but could do nothing to disguise the dullness of her eyes, nor the smudges beneath them. She pulled her hat brim forward and set off down the stairs.

  A light showed under Samuel Marshall’s door; he must have lately finished his dinner. Perhaps he had spoken to Edward earlier in the shop, and might know where he had gone. Aurora set an expression of polite enquiry on her face, and knocked.

  “Come in!”

  When she opened the door she was met by the sight of Mr Marshall – his round face bathed in delight, his gouty foot supported on a stool – sitting at a table weighted with books, ale tankards and the remains of a platter of bread and cheese. On the other side of the table, smiling sheepishly, sat Edward.

  “My dear Miss Drayton!” The landlord indicated with his walking stick a chair in the corner. “Draw up that chair and partake of some cheese, if you will. And there is some ale left in the pitcher.”

  There could not have been much. Mr Marshall, gout or no gout, was very intoxicated. Edward, who was less so, raised the pitcher. “Empty.”

  “Pray do not trouble yourself, sir,” said Aurora to Mr Marshall with a curtsey. “I have a private message for Mr Drayton that will not wait.”

  Mr Marshall raised his eyebrows at Edward. “A private message?” He looked back at Aurora. “I trust it is not bad news?”

  “It is of great import,” said Aurora.

  “Then I will come at once,” said Edward. He rose and picked up his hat. It was the green one. She looked at it, remembering how the sunlight from her mother’s drawing-room windows had fallen upon it.

  “I bid you good day, Edward,” said Samuel Marshall, nodding in the studied way of the inebriated. “You and your sister both.”

  “Good day, sir,” said Edward, “and many thanks for your hospitality.”

  “Come down after dinner whenever you like.”

  Edward bowed, and they left the room. “I was very happy in there,” he told Aurora. “What can be of such great import that you pluck me from such good company?”

  “I cannot tell you here, on the stairs. I have come straight from Mill Street.”

  Edward frowned. “Then they eat their fish very early.”

  “I did not stay for dinner.”

  “Why, then, you should have partaken of some cheese when Mr Marshall offered it!” he exclaimed. “There is no food up here. I have eaten it all.”

  “Edward!” Aurora dragged him into the attic room and shut the door. “I have brought something from Mill Street. I pray you, attend.”

  “Very well, I will attend. But may I make myself comfortable first?”

  He removed his coat and wig and put on his well-worn grey worsted house robe, that garment so despised by Joe Deede. He placed his sword, its belt and holder still attached, against the wall. The table was spread with the remains of their breakfast, which Mary had again neglected to clear. The window was too small to admit much sunlight, and the room was gloomy. Removing her hat and gloves, Aurora sat down on the edge of Edward’s bed. “Would you light a candle, please?” she asked. “I wish you to read something.”

  He took the tinderbox from the mantelpiece, lit a candle and placed it in the centre of the table. Then he sat down, sprawling in the chair with his elbow on the table. He had drunk enough wine for his eyes to have a wayward, abandoned look. “So, faithful accomplice, what is your report?” he asked.

  Aurora told him about the dummy keyhole, the snuffbox, the levers and mechanisms, the false drawer backs, the folded paper. He listened without interruption, not looking at her, but studying, as he often did, the candle flame. It was too far away to light much of his face, but Aurora watched his eyes become increasingly concerned as she talked.

  “Please, let me see the paper,” he demanded as soon as she ceased.

  She drew it from her bodice. He unfolded it, held it close to the candle and read it quickly. His expression remained passive, though tinged now with sorrow.

  “Is it a letter?” she asked.

  “It is.” He cast it upon the bed beside her. “Read it.”

  Aurora picked up the letter. It was dated the fifteenth of February, 1698, more than two years ago, and was addressed to Josiah Deede in a neat hand.

  Mill Street, Mayfair

  My honoured friend,

  I hope you will forgive this timely reminder of your promise. Our mutual friend will be at his post at seven o’clock this Friday evening, in the usual place. I have no doubt you will fulfil your obligation, but may I prevail upon you to make that obligation a little larger than last month? I find I am no longer able to keep the costs of this venture at the level they once were. Thirty-five shillings should be sufficient. I hope I shall not have to prevail upon you again for a further increase, though of course this cannot be guaranteed.

  If you wish a return upon your investment, as a businessman you will understand my request. I will endeavour as usual to obtain for you the very best return.

  I am, sir, indebted to you for your continued generosity,

  H. F.

  Aurora was so shocked that her breath disappeared. She felt as if an invisible hand with the strength of a giant had struck a blow to her chest. It was the letter of a blackmailer. A blackmailer who signed himself “H. F.”

  Her throat had dried. She swallowed, watching Edward. No indignation or anger had come into his eyes.

  “Edward, this letter is from your father,” she said, bewildered.

  “It is not.” His voice was full of contempt.

  “But the initials—”

  “It is a forgery.”

  Aurora looked again at the letter, and back at Edward. “You must face the truth,” she told him gently. “The evidence is here before your eyes.”

  “The truth? I will tell you the truth!” He leaned towards her, his expression alert, with no trace of intoxication. “Consider this,” he began in a low, patient voice: “My father was a healthy man of fifty-one when he died. That is to say, his organs were sound and he ha
d no fatal disease. Of course men may suffer diseases that do not kill yet inflict great discomfort upon their victim. Look at poor Samuel Marshall, almost crippled with gout.”

  Aurora did not understand. “But what has this to do with the letter?”

  “I beg you, forbear. My father suffered greatly from rheumatism. By the time I was fifteen, his hands were so gnarled and painful it had become impossible for him to write his own letters. At the palace he had an amanuensis to do it for him; at home he relied upon me. All he could do was scrawl his signature – the signature that appears on the altered will.”

  Aurora’s heart sank. “So you are saying that he could not have written this letter two years ago?”

  “Nor at any other time in the ten years before his death.”

  Resentment crept over her. She felt an irrational desire to stamp her foot. “Why should I believe you?” she demanded. “Short of exhuming your father’s body and showing me his skeleton, you have no proof!”

  “Then you must take my word as a man of honour,” he told her steadily.

  “And you must take my word that this letter is the key to your father’s death!” She picked up the letter and shook it. “The contents of this show that it was not the only blackmail letter Josiah Deede received. He must have paid a great deal of money to the sender, burning the letters, saving only this one against the day, perhaps, when he could bring his tormentor to justice.”

  Edward nodded in agreement. “That is plausible, certainly. But since the letter is forged, and my father was not his tormentor, who was?”

  Aurora thought for a moment, frowning. “Someone who knew something about Josiah Deede that he does not want made public,” she reasoned. “I wish we knew what it could be! But whoever the blackmailer was, they wanted Deede to believe his tormentor was Henry Francis.”

  Edward’s face was again sorrowful, again immovable. He did not speak.