It was dark; perhaps it had been a busy night at Mrs. Brereton’s, for usually one of the servants found time to come and light a lamp for her if she was out. The unaccustomed darkness gave Miss Tolerance enough of a qualm that she drew her sword again, just in case, and entered her cottage prepared to find an intruder. There was none. Feeling a trifle foolish, she stirred up the coals in the banked fire and lit a candle at the hearth. Within a few minutes she had made herself comfortable and snug: her boots off, her dressing gown on, her hair loosed and falling down her back, and a plate of bread and meat beside her. She sat with a child’s slate at her hand and a piece of chalk, making idle notes as she thought.
Who had sent her attackers? The first names which occurred to her, Sir Randal Pre and Mr. Horace Maugham, she dismissed almost at once. She suspected that Maugham, at least, would be kept mighty close to home by his wife for a time; his wife had brought her considerable fortune to the marriage, and the money had been tied up so efficiently that the improvident Mr. Maugham could not afford to anger his wife overmuch. Sir Randal might have the wherewithal Mr. Maugham lacked, but she did not imagine he would have stressed to his minions that she was not to be killed—quite the opposite, in fact. There were a few subjects of past queries who might have been pleased to hear of her death, but none of them could she imagine conniving at it.
She was left with an unsubstantiated, but powerful, suspicion that the attack had something to do with Lord Versellion’s fan.
When the matter was combined with the fact of Mrs. Smith’s death, Miss Tolerance could not help but believe that there was far more to the fan and its history than the Earl of Versellion was willing to admit. Perhaps more than he knew. And more hazard to herself, too.
Something else occurred to her, a very disturbing thought. It was commonly believed that she lived in Mrs. Brereton’s house; who would know that she did not, or that she usually did not go through the house in order to reach her own cottage? Who would know how to find the door in the ivied wall? Who would know she had gone abroad tonight?
Only some member of Mrs. Brereton’s household.
It was a cold notion to take to bed. Miss Tolerance wiped the slate clean, finished her tea, and, before falling into her bed, checked her pistols and put them on the table by her bed.
Six
When she came downstairs the next morning, Miss Tolerance found a small pile of the previous day’s correspondence which had been left upon her doorstep by one of Mrs. Brereton’s servants. She made a pot of tea, cut herself a piece of bread, and nibbled on the crust while she shuffled through the letters. London’s haze had lifted from the precincts of Mayfair, and the glittering light of morning was tinted spring-green by the trees that gathered closely around the cottage. The breeze combed through the ivy on the brick of Mrs. Brereton’s house across the garden with a pleasing low rustle. The scent of wood smoke and black tea filled the small sitting room of the cottage comfortably. In such delightful surroundings, it was hard for Miss Tolerance to give credit to her suspicions of the night before.
The men who had accosted her on the street were somehow attached to the matter of Lord Versellion’s fan—Miss Tolerance was inclined to trust her intuition upon this point. Her best defense was to conclude the investigation as soon as she might. The bells of All Souls tolled in the distance; Miss Tolerance realized with chagrin that it was Sunday, and to accomplish what she planned, she would miss services—not for the first time in the pursuit of a client’s goal. Next Sunday for my soul, she muttered, today for Greenwich, and the lady formerly known as Mrs. Cunning. Miss Tolerance was about to go across to the house to ask Cole to hire a hack for her, but a thought stopped her. If someone at Mrs. Brereton’s had given information about her movements to the men who had attacked her, then it was better that she keep her movements to herself. She would go directly to the stable herself to find the hack.
She would have enjoyed, on such a morning, time to linger over her breakfast. Instead, she went rapidly through her mail: a dunning note for her new boots; a bank draft from a client—Miss Tolerance pressed the paper to her lips in thanksgiving, as she had despaired of seeing a penny from that quarter; a note from a haberdasher advising her of the location of the striped silk she had sought out on her aunt’s behalf; and a note from the secretary to the Viscount Balobridge:
Lord Balobridge presents his compliments, and requests the honor of a meeting with Miss Tolerance, on a matter of potential benefit to both parties. If Miss Tolerance will name a place and time that is convenient to her, Lord Balobridge will be pleased to make himself available.
Discreet, yet intriguing. “How sudden is my popularity with the peerage,” she murmured. Miss Tolerance considered the note as she dressed. Balobridge, like Versellion, was rich, well known, and highly political, an elder in Tory politics, one of the Queen’s circle of advisors. If he had need of her services and she could assist him to his satisfaction, it was likely to be a very good thing for herself and her purse. But the timing of this summons was intriguing. Balobridge was one of Versellion’s political rivals, and the coming of this note, on the heels of the attack she had suffered the night before, made her wonder. What had she told her attackers? That she responded better to a civil invitation than to force? This—she looked again at the note lying on the table—this was a very civil invitation indeed.
She finished tying her neckcloth, drank the last of her tea, wrote out a reply to Balobridge, and let the ink dry while she pulled on her boots and coat. Then she sealed the note and tucked it into her pocket, banked the fire, and for the first time since she had taken up residence in Mrs. Brereton’s guest cottage, locked the door behind her as she left.
As she had decided, reluctantly, that she could not trust even her favorites among Mrs. Brereton’s servants, Miss Tolerance delivered her reply to Lord Balobridge’s house, pressing it into the hand of a footman who clearly did not often encounter females in masculine dress. Then she turned her hired mount toward the river, crossed at Tower Bridge, and proceeded to Greenwich, inquiring there for the inn called the Great Charlotte.
She found it at last, after some difficulty. Because the Royal Naval College was located there, Greenwich was acrawl with officers and sailors, most of whom could not be counted upon to give reliable directions, and a number of whom were piqued by Miss Tolerance’s appearance in breeches and riding boots and made every effort to follow along with her, plaguing her with noisy admiration. At last, however, she was directed to a street not far from the Royal Observatory, where she found the inn. Contrary to its name, the Great Charlotte was a small establishment, shabbily genteel in its trappings, and with no particular pretensions to affluence. Mrs. Cook’s name was immediately recognized by the maid who opened the door.
“I don’t know if she’s awake yet, sir—I mean …” The girl looked around her in confusion, and Miss Tolerance gathered that Fallen Women in the bloom of youth were not a daily occurrence here. I must be careful not to give Mrs. Cook’s past away, if she has succeeded in disguising it, Miss Tolerance thought.
“Do you mean that Mrs. Cook lives here?” she asked. She had imagined that the woman merely used the inn as a dropping-off place; it was unexpected luck to find her actually in residence.
The girl was nodding. “I could go up and see if she’s to home for you,” she offered. Her slight emphasis on the last word made it clear the girl considered that very unlikely. Miss Tolerance took her to be fifteen or sixteen years of age, and perhaps the daughter of the owner. Her accent was rather purer than might be expected of a tavern maid east of London, and her dress was made up modestly, nearly to her throat.
Miss Tolerance nodded and dropped a penny into the girl’s hand. “If you would tell her that I have been sent on a matter of business, and it may mean a sum of money for her?”
The girl’s eye brightened, and her caution was replaced with a cordiality which told Miss Tolerance a good deal about Mrs. Cook’s financial situation. “I’ll tell he
r this minute, si—ma’am. If you’d like to sit in the parlor?” The girl opened a door to a small chamber and waved Miss Tolerance in. A little time later she reappeared, smiling.
“Mrs. Cook’s compliments, and would you be able to come up to her rooms, ma’am?” She gestured toward the stairs. “She’s none so spry these days, and it’d be a kindness, like. Second floor, first on the left, if you don’t mind seeing yourself. I hear someone in the coffee room and—”
“I perfectly understand.” Miss Tolerance pressed another coin into her hand.
She climbed the two flights up and found the door without trouble. She knocked and was bade to enter by a pleasant, low voice.
Rooms was a charitable word for the chamber in which she found herself. In reality, Mrs. Cook’s suite was made up of one small room, with an even smaller alcove at the rear in which Miss Tolerance could see a clothespress and a small bed. The furniture crowded into the room; shabby, but the wood was polished and the whole rendered cozy with pillows and shawls probably made by the occupant herself.
“Please come in,” Mrs. Cook urged. “I am very sorry not to greet you by name, but Nancy forgot to tell it to me. She’s a good child, but forgetful.”
“The fault is mine, Mrs. Cook. I don’t believe I told the girl my name. I am Sarah Tolerance, at your service. It is very kind of you to see me all unknown.” Miss Tolerance stepped into the room, taking in the pleasant clutter of fabric and pattern books, with Mrs. Cook at its center. She was settled in a broad old armchair and surrounded by four embroidery frames, each with a piece of work in progress; she had another frame in her lap. The woman was enormously fat, with a heart-shaped, pretty face framed by a highly ruffled cap. Her hair, a soft, fading brown, curled in a fringe above her brow. Her dress was of a style and fabric that had been popular some years before, and she wore two shawls over her meaty shoulders. Her swollen feet had been squeezed into old leather slippers; as Miss Tolerance came closer, the older woman tucked them under the sofa as best she could, as if she were ashamed of their shabbiness. But her smile was charming, and from it and the low, sweet tones of her voice, Miss Tolerance thought she could understand the reasons for Mrs. Cunning’s early success.
“By your name and your dress, I take you for a member of”—Mrs. Cook paused delicately—“that interesting sisterhood to which I once belonged.”
“In a sense, ma’am. In fact, I am here on behalf of a gentleman who believes that you may be in possession of something he wishes to purchase.”
Mrs. Cook seemed genuinely surprised. She looked around the room as if to remind herself of its contents, then shook her head. “As you see, Miss Tolerance, I live quite inexpensively; money is always scarce. I cannot imagine what I could possess—”
“A keepsake,” Miss Tolerance interrupted. “A token given to you many years ago by a connection of yours; his son now wishes to regain it, as it has some familial value, and he is willing to pay handsomely for it.”
The older woman’s shoulders slumped slightly. “I do not think …” She paused as if the admission were painful to her. “I sold so much of what I was given when I was young, to buy the annuity that supports me now. My dear Miss Tolerance … if one who is considerably older may presume to offer you advice, do not squander your money, for when you are no longer young and handsome … this is a hard world, Miss Tolerance. It forces you to make choices you would not like to make, to make associations unpleasant to you, to do things—” She turned her face to the room’s single window and was silent for several moments.
At last Miss Tolerance put her hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “I thank you for your advice, Mrs. Cook. You need have no fear for me, however—”
Mrs. Cook turned back to her emphatically. “No, you must believe that even you may be overtaken by—”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” Miss Tolerance interrupted. “I have not made my situation clear. I am indeed—that is, while I lost my virtue some years ago, I did not adopt the profession from which you have retired.”
Mrs. Cook looked puzzled. “I do not understand. I thought you said the son of one of my lovers had sent you?”
“So he did, ma’am. But I am his agent, nothing more.”
“You are his agent but not his mistress?” Now the older woman seemed troubled, as if the fact that a woman might lose her reputation and yet maintain her autonomy confused her.
“May I sit down, ma’am?” Miss Tolerance asked. Mrs. Cook nodded and motioned to a chair. “I have fashioned an odd career for myself; I solve puzzles, unravel little mysteries, and find things out for the people who honor me with their patronage.”
Mrs. Cook drew back. “You are a spy? Has this thing you wish to purchase to do with the war with France?” Her eyes went round with shocked disapproval; her unlined, fleshy face quivered with outrage.
For the love of heaven, Miss Tolerance thought wearily. “I am no spy, ma‘am. Not in the way you mean. My patrons are most likely to be ladies who wish to find out if their husbands are spending their jointures on light-o’-loves, grandfathers who need to learn whether their dissolute grandsons are incorrigible wastrels or merely sowing wild oats, or men who need to learn if their stewards are cheating them.”
“Are you a lady thief-taker, then?” Mrs. Cook asked. She appeared determined to fit Miss Tolerance’s calling into a form recognizable to herself, even one outmoded by several decades. Miss Tolerance was hard put not to smile at the notion of a lady thief-taker, like something out of a broadside ballad.
“I don’t think of myself as a thief-taker, ma’am, although on occasion I have caught a thief when my client required it. I call myself an agent of inquiry. And sometimes I find things for persons who do not wish to be seen making inquiries themselves.”
“Then ’tis not political, what you do?” Mrs. Cook considered for a moment. Her posture had relaxed, but there was still a furrow between her brows. “I am sorry, Miss Tolerance. Living in a naval town, where everyone seems to be a sailor, or to have a brother or son who is a sailor, the war, and fear of spies, is perhaps more present with us than it is in London.”
In her turn, Miss Tolerance apologized. “I should perhaps have explained the capacity in which I am visiting more clearly, ma’am. Although you see it is not easily explained! But I promise you on my honor that the object I am seeking has no connection to the war.”
The older woman nodded. “I thank you for your assurance, Miss Tolerance. Now.” She looked around her as if hoping to find something she knew would not be there. “I regret I cannot offer you refreshment, my dear, but I am afraid … I keep no wine, you see, having too great a weakness for it myself. And I would ring for tea, but it is near the end of the quarter, and …”
She was so obviously eager to make amends for her suspicions with hospitality that Miss Tolerance’s heart went out to her.
“Mrs. Cook, if you will allow me to call the maid up and order refreshments—I assure you, the expense will be borne by my client, who can well afford to indulge two ladies in a light nuncheon.” She made sure to speak confidingly, as if buying cakes and tea were a slightly wicked dissipation. The gesture worked. The older woman sat back and smiled.
“If you will ring the bell for Nancy, then? It is there, by your hand. I do not move about as well as I was used to once. I am sadly dropsical, as you see.” She held out her pudgy, swollen fingers for her visitor’s inspection. Miss Tolerance rang the bell sharply, hoping that the girl in the coffee room would actually hear it. “Now, Miss Tolerance, perhaps you can tell me which of my former connections has sent you to me, and what he is seeking?”
“Yes, ma’am. May I first ascertain that in your youth your professional name was Deb Cunning?”
Mrs. Cook looked embarrassed, but nodded.
“Well, then. I have been sent by the Earl of Versellion, who hopes to regain a fan that his father gave to you some twenty years or so ago.”
“Oh, longer than that, my dear. It was …” Mrs. Cook�
�s expression became at once pleased and dreamy. “It was in ’85, for my twenty-first birthday. I had not thought of that fan in an age! Such a pretty thing, gold sticks and silk painted with an Italian landscape, cypress trees, you know, and a jewel set in each stick. It was the last thing he gave me, and I kept it—”
“You have it now?”
“Oh, mercy, I don’t know! I sold so much over the years. I cannot be sure if I sold the fan when I sold my rings and the other pretties. Ah, but here is Nancy.”
Indeed, the door had opened, and the girl whose acquaintance Miss Tolerance had made downstairs stood waiting.
“Nancy, we would like tea and currant cakes, if Mrs. Mardle has made any this morning? Thank you. And if you would ask Mr. Mardle for the box he keeps for me downstairs? Yes, dear, bring it along, if you please.”
When the girl had gone again, Mrs. Cook asked, as delicately as possible, what sort of remuneration Lord Versellion was offering for the fan, should she still have it. Miss Tolerance was torn between the impulse to promise the entire five hundred pounds she had been authorized to spend, and a more hardheaded sense that her patron would be appreciative if she was able to bring Mrs. Cook to settle for less.
“How much would you expect to receive for it?”
Mrs. Cook flushed. “I do not know its worth, really,” she said. “And were I not in such reduced circumstances, Miss Tolerance, I should happily return it to Versellion without requesting payment. As it is … do you think he might pay fifty pounds?”
If Mrs. Cook was serious, Miss Tolerance understood her aunt’s comments about the woman’s improvidence. Certainly she was no adventuress.
“I think Versellion can be brought to part with such a sum,” she agreed.
Point of Honour (Sarah Tolerance) Page 9