by Sandra Byrd
“You’re not the only one who watches out the window, miss,” she said, and then laughed. I laughed with her because I did not want to frighten her. I pulled Ruby close to me for just a moment, and as I did, I caught Mother Martha’s eye. She nodded slightly. She’d had the same idea I did.
“Regardless of what I do, I’d prefer you not keep his company. Not whilst in my employ. I am a woman grown. You are not.” She arced a little against that. “Mother Martha will accompany you where you may need to go. Truthfully, we will have very little time for social events while the Season is under way.”
Her smile dissolved.
I did not remove the posy from her, but I wanted to. The flowers suddenly seemed funereal.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A few days later I took the Metropolitan Railway as far as I could, and a bridge, then I walked the rest of the way to Sergeant Roberts’s house. The streets were rough and some parts of them were filthy. The fog was far denser near the river, and I could see no more than two feet in front of me as I walked. It cleared a bit as I walked further on; the thoroughfares were gritty here, and vagrants clotted up against the brick buildings like carbuncles on rough skin. I walked briskly and did not make eye contact. It was the middle of the day, and yet I was chilled.
Several times I thought I felt rather than saw someone behind me; I tingled with the unmistakable sensation one has when one is being watched. However, when I built up the courage to turn around and look, no one was behind me. Perhaps he had dropped a few feet behind, out of sight in the dreary iron-tinted fog. Perhaps I had imagined things; I felt that not only could I not trust those around me, I could now not even trust my own intuitions.
It was time to let things go, after this visit. I did not want to lose my mind or my life! Papa would have wanted neither, but I felt I owed it to him, and to Ruby and Charlotte, to try once more to see if I could sort out Papa’s death and somehow, some way, protect us all at the same time.
Papa had told me once that Roberts lived on Neptune Street—I’d remembered the odd name. I found the small terraced house at the far end of the circled court upon which several small houses stood. Passersby eyed me, clearly not one of their own, as I walked to the door and knocked. A face looked out from behind a small curtained window. A moment later, a woman opened the door.
“You must be Mrs. Roberts.” I extended my hand. “I am Miss Gillian Young, the daughter of Inspector Andrew Young, and I am hoping that your husband, Sergeant Roberts, might be home?”
“No, he’s not here, sorry,” she said, and was about to close the door in my face when I heard a man call out.
“Wait.”
A moment later, Sergeant Roberts appeared, wary, and dressed in street clothes. “Come in,” he said, and his wife, sullen, backed away.
I did not trust this man. I did not know whom to trust—doubts had even sprouted in the fertile faith I had in my dear parents.
“Miss Young?” He showed me to a small sofa, and I sat down.
“I’ve come to call, to ask . . . Well, you were looking for information which might clear my father. Notes which might tell of others involved in the crime, anything that might clear the criminals and bring protection to the rest of us. Have you located any such evidence?”
He shook his head. “I’ve tried mightily hard to find anything, something. I’ve looked at the division, I’ve looked at your house, as you know, though I suspect someone was there well before me.”
Alarm rose. “At my house?”
He nodded. “Perhaps during the funeral. I’ve heard rumors at the division. They might have missed something, though.”
They did, I thought. The cubbyhole Papa had so cleverly carved into the bed. And if they were rumors he’d heard at the division, that must mean it had been the police.
“Have you come across anything?” he pressed.
“I have nothing for you,” I answered. I must be cautious.
“Collingsworth is pressuring me. He knows your father took detailed notes and did not break that habit in twenty years of policing. I must give him something, and so I shall. I’ll write down notes indicating some of the officers who may have been involved, and a highborn name your father and I discussed, just to get him to leave me be. That should be enough.”
I looked at him wonderingly. “Will we all be safe then? If you tell him Papa and you discussed it, and this time you wrote it down? Because I am afraid that someone is not only following and threatening me, but the girls I care for.”
He nodded. “I hope and believe that if I give him something, and he believes that’s the whole of it, he will leave off unless further provoked—and you and me, we don’t do that. They won’t want to stir up a ruckus. As long as I stop asking questions, and you stop making enquiries . . .”
I blushed.
He nodded. “Yes, I’ve been warned. And in turn I warn you, Miss Young, out of respect for your late father. Do not ask questions on your own; it is not safe. I’ve heard you visited King Street.”
The policeman who had locked eyes with me? That had not been Roberts, of that I was certain. “Don’t trust anyone,” he said.
“Not even you, Sergeant Roberts?” I asked.
He stood then, and I thought he was going to show me to the door, but instead, he walked to his wife and she withdrew an envelope from her linen pocket, which was beautifully embroidered. She handed it to him.
“This is yours,” he said.
I took it in hand. “Where did you get it?”
He did not answer that directly, but instead said, “You will know to trust me, won’t you, when you see that I’ve seen this safely returned to you. Please let me, and me alone, know if you come upon anything informative.”
I walked to his door, tucking the letter deep in my own linen pocket, hidden beneath my skirts. “You could have delivered this letter the night you came to whisper at my door.”
He looked confused.
“A short while ago when you refused to come in but spoke with me through the door.”
He opened his own door. “You must leave. It is not good for you to remain here. That was not me who visited you,” he said. “Which is further reason for you to take heed of my warnings. Beware. And good day.”
A short distance from his house I was stopped by a police officer.
“Hullo, miss. If you’ll just wait a moment,” he said.
I kept walking. He followed me and grabbed my arm, jerking me to a stop. “I asked you to wait a minute,” he said.
“Who are you?” I demanded. I looked at his uniform and noted the absence of a division letter and personal warrant number, which would have identified him.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll just have a look through your handbag.”
“Certainly not! Do you have cause and permission for such a search?”
The officer took my handbag, and when I refused to let go pressed firmly on my fingers till they released their grip. “Indeed I do,” he said with a grin.
He riffled through the contents, seeing nothing but my personal items and some money, and handed it back to me. “That will be all,” he said. “Watch out for runaway carts and such on the way home.”
I whirled, and he challenged me with a look and tutting finger and went on his way.
Had he just admitted that the runaway cart that had killed Papa had not been an accident? He clearly knew who I was.
The letter remained safely under my dress. I was so glad that Mrs. Roberts had also kept the letter hidden in her dress where it could not be found by a search of their home, which had in turn prompted me, perhaps unconsciously, to keep it folded safely away in my own.
I would read it at home.
I walked across the bridge to the north side, and decided to walk home to clear my head some.
I pulled my shawl tightly around me. Melancholy dogged my every step. I passed some highborn gentlemen’s clubs and my stomach roiled. There they were, not a care in the world, laughing and filled wit
h pleasure because they felt their wealth and position protected them. Perhaps it did. They used others, like the young woman whose photo remained in my linen pocket, for what they would, and then those young women were “gone.” What kind of hearts, if any, were tucked under those fine waistcoats?
I walked farther, past the Theatrical Mission, and was struck anew at the hypocrisy—this time, my own.
I had not called on the Mission offering to help others, though it had ended that way. I’d called hoping to find someone, some young seamstresses, whom I could use to further my own goals, my sewing, so dear to me.
And whilst I was thinking of the highborn, why hadn’t Mamma said anything further about Winton Park? Or had she, to Papa, and he’d kept that to himself? It would be another secret in what was beginning to look like a line of them.
No. I did not believe it. I truly did not. Perhaps the letter would shed light on this. I clutched it, under my dress, and quickened my pace toward home.
• • •
I sat by lamplight and opened the letter. It had been dated the day before he’d died and seemed to be quickly scrawled. I had guessed, of course, that Roberts had taken this the night he’d searched my home. Or had he found it in the division files?
Dearest Gilly Girl,
His use of my nickname pricked my heart afresh.
In case something happens to me, which a policeman must always think upon, know that I loved you and your mother well.
Another scratching at my window. I had forgotten to close the curtains. I took a deep breath and made my way to the window, keeping my eyes to the side, focusing on the window frame and not the pane. I could not bring myself to look out; my heart trembled. And then I took courage. I yanked the curtains fully open. Sitting on the ledge was one of Ruby’s pigeons, staring at me.
I laughed. Little lovely thing.
I returned to the bed and kept reading.
You shall be well provided for; our homes will hold both memories and treasures for you and, of course, you have your skills as an excellent seamstress. I shall always remember you both as my little girl playing at dressing up, then a capable grown woman sewing beautiful costumes for others who played at dressing up, like your dear Mamma. Marry well, someone you trust and love without reserve, a man who can rescue you, my little ‘damsel in distress,’ should you need it. Fear not.
Yours always and ever,
Papa
A last note, to give me courage should I have to travel alone, which I now must. A love letter of sorts . . . to me, like he’d written to Mamma when they were to be parted. I lingered on his other words. How much he loved Mamma and me. I should marry someone I love and trust without reserve.
I would not be afraid.
I climbed under the coverlet and blew the lamp out, but kept the letter in my hand. I had nothing further to follow, at the moment, but I could not back off if further evidence appeared that might lead me to clear his name. I just could not. Papa had been the man I’d thought he was, and he’d admonished me, in his last days, to not be afraid.
I whispered words from Julius Caesar, one of Papa’s favorite plays, as Portia, a woman, was called forth to courage. “Think you I am no stronger than my sex, / Being so father’d . . .”
I would not be afraid. For him, and for me. No more playing at dressing up. I’d put on my armor instead.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Not long after, on the last day of May, I was tending the flower boxes outside my home, myself, when Francis—that is, Constable Collingsworth—strolled up.
“Constable Collingsworth! How delighted I am to see you.” I nestled the last pansy in the box. I loved spring, the season of new life. The little plants, small as they were, would soon blossom into a profusion of vibrant beauty. I pulled off my gardening gloves, confident and comfortable that Francis would not be put off by the sight of my working hands. “I’m delighted you’ve come to share this fine afternoon with me.”
He did not join in the merriment; his face remained gray and grim, very unlike his usual cheerful countenance. My merriment fell away.
“What is the matter?” I asked. He would not come calling unannounced and with such a dire look for no cause. I hoped he and his family were well.
“Can we go inside?” he asked.
I nodded, and we went to the parlor. I waved Louisa away. I did not care for tea, and Francis did not look as if he did, either.
“I’ll get straight to it.” He took my hand in his own. “I wanted you to hear it from me. Roberts is dead.”
My heart dropped. “Dead? Sergeant Roberts? How, and when?” I grew cold at the core. Did I want the honest answer, and truly, would I get the truth even if I did? I nearly said, But I just saw him! and stopped myself as he looked at me with sharp interest.
“He was knifed,” he replied. “Approaching vagrants can often mean dirty business. One turned on him and on some of the others who were with him.”
Knifed. Dead. I’d just seen him. Had I withheld evidence from him, things I’d come across in the cubbyhole, that might have saved him? I was pained at the thought.
“Were . . . Were there others killed?” I asked.
Francis shook his head. “No. Just Roberts, and perhaps some of the alley dwellers, too. I’m not sure, as that was not reported to me.”
“Who told you?” I asked.
“Father,” he said. “But everyone knows now. We all mourn when an officer is down. And as Father put me in charge of you, I thought you might like to know.”
“Because he was my father’s partner?”
Francis nodded. “Among other reasons.”
What other reasons? Did he know I’d visited Roberts? I did not want to tip my hand by asking, but I must be cautious. I remembered the officer who had searched me when I’d left the Robertses’ home. “Has this . . . Has Roberts’s death anything to do with my father’s death?”
He pursed his lips. “I don’t think so, but of course, we can’t ever be sure because we don’t know who the culprits were. By the time we arrived on the scene everyone else had fled.”
• • •
“Of course you must attend the funeral. It is the right thing to do.” Mrs. W joined us the next evening when we sewed by lamplight to have Lady Tolfee’s dresses ready in time. I had set aside the Cinderella gowns, for now, and focused on the ones for the Season, as it was immediately at hand.
“Yes, I think I must,” I said. “Out of respect for my father and Mrs. Roberts.” And, perhaps, I thought I might have a few questions that could be answered.
But was a funeral a place to ask questions? Even if posed they may never be answered.
“Yes, it’s the right thing to do,” she agreed. “I will write to them for you and say you’ll be there.” She turned back to her correspondence, continuing to speak as she did. “My sister’s husband is ill. When he dies, I shall visit her.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “To my regret, I did not even realize you had a sister.” Had she ever mentioned her? I had not thought she had any family at all, and that was why my mother had offered Mrs. W a permanent position so many years earlier—to save her, like I’d done for Mother Martha, from the workhouse. “You may feel free to leave sooner, if you like, to assist her at this difficult time.”
Mrs. W shook her head. “After he dies, yes. Thank you, dear, I should like to see her then. It has been quite a long time; she’s not been to London in a decade.”
I didn’t recall Mrs. W ever having visited her sister; long ago, perhaps. Like all girls, I hadn’t paid much attention to the adults around me.
• • •
The day before Sergeant Roberts’s funeral, I decided to have the girls join me at the dining table for the midday meal. Ruby had told me that neither of them had ever sat at a proper table, nor had been taught how to hold their cutlery, fold a napkin, or make pleasant conversation. It was something I could do for them as we looked toward their futures and bring a bit of brightness to a dark
week.
“Oh, miss,” Charlotte said as she approached the room. She curtseyed to me, which I found charming.
“Please, have a seat, Miss Ruby and Miss Charlotte.”
They giggled but did as I’d requested.
Louisa had set the table with our fine china, edged in blue. The drinking glasses were blue, too. My mother had loved blue tableware, though she’d told me her mother had wondered if it was a bit dramatic.
Like Mamma! I’d thought. Dramatically perfect. I thought upon what china and glassware I might like when I started a family of my own. My own tastes weren’t quite the same as Mamma’s. Perhaps I’d like cut glass, and maybe china edged in holly berries, simple, elegant lines. It would be a waste, though, to buy new when these served perfectly well. I knew what Mrs. W would say . . . I’d better not be wasteful.
“Miss Young?” Louisa’s voice interrupted me. The girls were looking at me wonderingly, too.
“I’m so sorry.” I sat down. “You may proceed.”
I’d requested a luncheon that was more elaborate than we normally would have eaten, just for the opportunity to use the utensils. I had admonished myself to only offer five tips for this meal, so as not to overwhelm them. After the Season, there would be time for more. But I knew it would build their confidence, and show them that they had a proper life to look toward.
Charlotte slurped her clear gravy soup in a noisy glug. Should I chide her? I did not, which Ruby took as approval, and slurped hers even more loudly, not willing to be outdone. “Perhaps a silent sipping, like so, is more appropriate.” I showed them how to hold the spoon, dip it forward into the soup so it would not dribble, and drink it quietly.
They each did so, and then made their way through a small meat course of roasted guinea fowl with Spanish rice, followed by an ice.
“Sweet ice!” Ruby said.
“Blackberry,” I affirmed.
After the meal, they came and dipped a curtsey, as though I were the Queen herself. I didn’t correct them, not then; I would later. I wanted to end on a sweet note in every way.