by Nicole Byrd
Gemma flushed just a little and seemed to concentrate on pouring out another cup of tea, which she handed to Clarissa.
“I can see why the matron may have stashed them in an out-of-the-way place,” Lady Gabriel explained, her gaze on the book in her hand. “During the time that the matron ran the foundling home, her business accounts were very muddled, but it is obvious that not only was she skimming money from the funds that were supposed to go to feed and clothe the children in her charge—”
Remembering the thin, rancid soup that had made up the foundling home’s primary meal of the day, Clarissa swallowed, trying not to recall the unpleasant taste.
Looking more serene, Gemma nodded. “I have no difficulty believing that!”
“In order to hide her stealing, I have found evidence in her accounts that she bought and resold food and other goods. This must mean that she had some criminal contacts, ones that perhaps could have reached as far as London. After all, the foundling home lies only a few miles outside the city.”
Clarissa gasped. “And if Mrs. Craigmore were connected to such criminals—”
“There could well have been other people who wished her ill—who knows what kind of falling-out they might have had among themselves—and such a lawbreaker would not hesitate to kill,” Lady Gabriel agreed.
Gemma glanced from one to the other. “Psyche, this is marvelous! Of course it would be more likely that some falling-out among a gang of thieves would be responsible for the woman’s death. But how do we prove it?”
“How do we find the connecting link?” Lady Gabriel agreed. “Yes, that is the question.”
Clarissa listened as they discussed the question, and she had a flash of memory. “There was a boy,” she said suddenly. “He used to come to the home, to the back door, just as darkness was falling, and collect large bundles. Once he dropped one and I saw flour spill out. . . .”
Setting her cup down so suddenly that the tea sloshed into the saucer, she realized that was the boy she had dreamed about! That was why he had popped up in her dream.
“Yes, yes, what else do you remember, Clarissa?” Gemma urged, her tone eager.
Clarissa bit her lip. “Oh, I can only vaguely recall his image. I saw him only in darkness, and he—he had lank dark hair that fell into his dirty face. He looked ill-fed, and as I recall he wasn’t dressed very well. Oh, bloody—I beg your pardon—but if I could just remember more!”
“More of the recollection may yet come back to you,” Lady Gabriel suggested. “Often, if you don’t strain your mind, the memory will surface of itself.”
Clarissa bit back more unladylike words and muttered a polite agreement.
“Perhaps if we went over the lists of goods together,” Gemma was telling her sister-in-law. “I studied these books when we were searching for a list of former inmates of the foundling home, but I paid little attention to the lists of household accounts, except to wonder that the matron paid such high prices for food that I do not remember ever seeing on the table. If she were reselling the goods, it all makes more sense.”
The other ladies agreed. Gemma summoned the footman, and Lady Gabriel gave him instructions. “Tell my butler to send over the books that are atop my husband’s desk in the study,” she said.
When the bundle of account books arrived, they all sat down and pored over the accounts. Lists of bread and flour and potatoes and beets . . . Clarissa sighed. It all seemed boring and futile. How was this going to bring them closer to the unknown person who had slain the late matron?
After a time her brother returned. He looked discouraged and weary, but he bowed to their visitor, then put a determined smile on his face when he saw Clarissa jump up as he entered the drawing room.
“Nothing yet,” he told them, coming across to give Clarissa a comforting pat on the shoulder.
Gemma rose and touched her husband’s hand while a loving look passed between them. They were both worried for her sake, Clarissa thought, trying to push back a tremor of fear.
Gemma explained to Matthew what they were doing, and again, they plunged into the books, turning the ink-stained pages until Gemma exclaimed. “Look, a name!”
“At last,” Lady Gabriel said. “Can you make it out? The woman’s handwriting is dreadful.”
“She obviously needed to practice her penmanship,” Miss Pomshack noted, her tone disapproving. “This is hardly a ladylike hand.”
Clarissa swallowed a nervous giggle; the list of ladylike virtues the late matron had not possessed would be a long one. They all stared at the page, and Clarissa, who had been pacing up and down, came to peer over Gemma’s shoulder.
“Is this a G or a B?” Matthew wondered aloud.
“I think it’s a G,” Gemma said. “Remember the list of girls we found when we were searching for your sister? This looks like the G in my name.”
“You’re right,” Matthew agreed. “G, then an R or a K—”
“Surely, R is more likely,” Lady Gabriel suggested.
“Very well, G-R-E—then what is this last letter?”
He bent even closer to the book. “Grey or Gren, I think. But there is no address.”
They turned the pages again, until Gemma exclaimed. “Oh, look, forty shillings, ten pence, and an initial: G. And this time a street, as well.”
Again they struggled to decipher the matron’s cramped writing, arguing over the twisted letters, then at last Gemma pronounced, “It has to be Wren Lane, Whitechapel.”
Matthew jumped to his feet. He looked relieved to have something to do. “I shall go to Whitechapel and find this street, and see if anyone knows of this man.”
“Can I come with you?” Clarissa asked. She felt as frustrated as her brother, and her heart sank when he shook his head.
“This part of London is no place for a lady, my dear.”
“But, Matthew—”
He shook his head, and Clarissa bit back further words of protest. Acting like a lady was all very well, but it was her neck that would be put into the noose if they did not find the real killer!
After Matthew departed, Lady Gabriel also made her farewells. “Lady Sealey has a salon this afternoon, which I had promised to attend. But if you need me, if I can do anything, send word and I will come at once.”
The three ladies ate a quiet luncheon, then when they returned to the drawing room, they were discussing a stroll in the park when another caller was announced.
To Clarissa’s secret pleasure, it was Lord Whitby.
He mounted the stairs quickly and after bowing to them all, went directly to the point.
“I have had a report from the runner who is collecting information for me.”
“Did you find any mention of Mrs. Craigmore?” Clarissa demanded.
He frowned. “Since we do not know what name she was using, it is hard to pinpoint the woman’s activities. All I have learned so far is that London holds a great many women of stout build and mature age who are engaged in pickpocketing, petty thievery, and other nefarious activities.”
He drew out several papers and unfolded them. The ladies peered at them as he held the lists out for them to see. Clarissa bit back a most unladylike oath. This was worse than the matron’s lists of foodstuffs. How could there be so many criminals afoot in the metropolis?
Gemma looked dismayed, as well. “There are so many; how will we ever find which one might have been the woman we knew as Mrs. Craigmore?”
“And this is only two districts; the runner is still collecting names.” Lord Whitby frowned. “Some of these women have been sent to gaol, but many are still on the streets, and we have only vague addresses, if that.”
“It seems hopeless,” Miss Pomshack declared.
Clarissa gritted her teeth. No, they could not give up!
Lord Whitby glanced at her as if he had read her thought. “We are only beginning,” he told them. “We will not be discouraged, not yet.”
“But there are so many—” Gemma repeated.
&nb
sp; “Perhaps—” Clarissa interrupted. “Perhaps we are starting at the wrong end.”
Nine
“Never underestimate the power of a curious woman.”
MARGERY, COUNTESS OF SEALY
They all stared at her
“What do you mean?” Lord Whitby asked, his dark brows drawing together.
“She was very well-dressed when she died—when I saw her on the street the last time,” Clarissa said, trying not to see the body in her mind but concentrating on her earlier memory. “A nice silk gown and an expensive shawl.”
Since her return to the ranks of the gentry, she had an even greater appreciation for such feminine finery, but her change in social status made her perhaps more aware of the cost of the new wardrobe that her brother and sister-in-law had pressed upon her.
“But why—” Gemma wrinkled her brow.
“I think I see what you mean,” Lord Whitby put in. “She was not dressed as we might expect of a pickpocket nor an ordinary snatch-and-run thief.”
“Where did she get the money for such a wardrobe?” Miss Pomshack, who no doubt had practiced her own thrifty habits, put in.
“And for what purpose?” Clarissa added. “What advantage would such a wardrobe gain her?”
“Oh, very good,” the earl said, his tone approving.
Clarissa tried not to blush under his glance. When he smiled at her in such a way, it was hard to remember, if she had even wanted to, how much she had disliked his seeming arrogance when they had first met.
“Perhaps she was running some kind of—what is it called?—some kind of flimflam,” Gemma suggested. “I mean, who would you be more apt to open your door to? A roughly dressed woman of the street or a middle-class matron dressed in respectable, and by no means cheap, apparel?”
Clarissa nodded. “When I was—” She faltered, then went on, trying to keep her voice steady. “When I was in service, I heard gossip of gangs that would send in one of their members on some excuse, like collecting for charity or asking for direction to a fictional relative’s house, to look over the household and see what valuables might be available to a thief. Then later the gang would break in during the night, quickly raid the silverware and other easily looted items while the household was still in confusion, and disappear again into the darkness.”
“And then sell the stolen goods,” Lord Whitby agreed. “But again, how do we find out just which gang the woman belonged to and where she had been operating?”
“Was there anything in her reticule?” Clarissa asked.
The earl frowned slightly. “According to the runner, no reticule was found with the body, just the shawl that was, ah, on her person.”
Wrapped around her neck, he meant, Clarissa shuddered, trying not to remember the swollen face. “When I saw her, she had a large reticule on her arm; it even seemed rather heavy. It bumped my arm as we struggled on the street.”
“Interesting,” he said. “The murderer might have taken it or, of course, any chance street thief who saw his chance at easy pickings.”
Gemma looked thoughtful. “I think we must search, as Clarissa says, from the other side. While your runner collects more information, we can also do some ferreting of our own.”
“How?” Clarissa demanded.
“I will come with you,” the earl said, almost at the same time.
Gemma smiled. “I fear you would be a little conspicuous, my lord. I was thinking of the countess of Sealey; she holds a weekly salon where a large group of ladies will be gathered this afternoon. If there is any gossip to be had of housebreakings in well-to-do neighborhoods, there is a good chance that I might hear of it there.”
Lord Whitby grimaced. “I see. Very well. I will work on the magistrate’s lists of known criminals and any crimes they are suspected of, and you will gather news of domestic thefts. Then we will see if any of the reports match, especially, as you say, in wealthier households.”
He took his leave of them, and if, when he bowed over Clarissa’s hand, his dark eyes seemed to hold a warmth when he looked at her, she tried not to read too much in to it. At any rate, she had little time to reflect. Gemma had at once called for the carriage. She and Clarissa went upstairs to change into afternoon dresses, then they donned their hats and gloves.
Matty helped adjust Clarissa’s bonnet, and Miss Pomshack wished them luck before retiring for her afternoon nap. Clarissa and her sister-in-law set out.
When they arrived at the handsome house and were shown up, Clarissa was pleased to see that today’s salon was well attended. Their hostess greeted them with a cordial smile. Gemma drew her aside to murmur in to her ear, and Lady Sealey nodded and flashed Clarissa a quick compassionate glance.
Clarissa drew a deep breath, telling herself that Gemma trusted this woman implicitly. Lady Sealey knew about the search for Gemma and Gabriel’s father. The countess would be as discreet with Clarissa’s secrets.
Lady Sealey’s elegant drawing room was a strange place to search out news of a gang of thieves, but Clarissa was sure that Gemma’s idea had merit. So, fueled by the awareness of the importance of their mission, Clarissa plunged, with much less trepidation than usual, into the small groups of women who laughed and chatted and sipped tea.
Across the room Lady Gabriel looked up and saw them. She left the group of friends with whom she had been conversing and came to speak to them. Gemma again exchanged a quiet few words to explain her idea. Lady Gabriel nodded, and they parted again.
At first Clarissa followed in Gemma’s wake as her sister-in-law stopped here and there to speak to acquaintances or to listen politely to conversations already going on. The well-dressed ladies around them discussed fashions and parties and Society tidbits, as well as politics and world events and art shows and plays. Lady Sealey’s friends were a cosmopolitan bunch. Gemma waited until an appropriate opening and then inserted, discreetly, some comment about a recent burglary in their neighborhood.
London being what it was, this was invariably met with another tale of more audacious break-ins “just down the street, and the whole family upstairs asleep, just fancy! And the servants dozing through it all while the thieves went straight to her mother’s best silver, and as for the plate on the sideboard—”
In this way, they collected stories of recent thefts. As Clarissa became more confident, she felt ready to drift away from Gemma and try the gambit on her own. These women, who had seemed so intimidating when she had entered the room, were not that hard to handle, she found. Surrounded by taller, stouter, older women, she was sometimes disregarded, but mostly it was by mischance, Clarissa thought, and she was able to try the opening several times, and again collect stories of recent thefts and house breakings.
When the guests began to take their leave, it did not take a significant glance from the countess for Gemma to motion to Clarissa to hang back. They, and Lady Gabriel, managed to be the last ladies remaining in the salon, and when they were alone with their hostess, Lady Sealey waved for them to sit down.
“Collins, pull the chairs up; my friends and I will have a little chat. And some fresh tea, please.”
When the elderly servant took his leave, the countess turned to Gemma. “Now, my dear, did you have any luck?”
“My head is overflowing with tales of lawlessness,” Gemma confessed. “I knew crime in London was a problem, but my goodness! Now the problem is to remember them all before I lose track of who told me what.”
“We must write it all down,” Lady Gabriel suggested sensibly. “Before we forget what we have learned.”
“Excellent notion,” Lady Sealey said. “There is pen and paper in my desk, Psyche, dear. Why don’t you fetch it?”
Lady Gabriel went across and opened the elegant French writing desk and brought back paper, an inkwell, and several quills. Gemma drew up a small table, and for a few moments, all three ladies, Clarissa included, scribbled rapidly.
When at last they paused—Gemma had collected the most names, it seemed—the serv
ant had returned with more tea. Clarissa blotted the ink on her sheet, then accepted a cup, as well as a small delicate cake since she had had little chance to partake of refreshments when she was scouting the salon’s ladies, and took a bite as she listened.
“I have half a dozen accounts of break-ins, and at least four of them seemed suspiciously well planned,” Gemma said.
“What do you mean?” Lady Sealey asked.
“That is, the thieves went straight to the most valuable and easily portable items, and they were out of the house before the servants or the master of the house could get downstairs to confront them. Sometimes it was done when the man was away and only women and children were at home. None of the four houses had a dog on the premise, and in at least one case, a maidservant was accused of providing information to the gang who broke in, and although she protested her innocence, was discharged.”
Pausing with the last of the cake halfway to her mouth, Clarissa wondered if she could find the poor girl and help her find a new post. Matthew might not wish any more servants, but she could ask their neighbors. She would check on the maid’s plight.
Lady Gabriel had heard of three more suspicious house breakings, and Clarissa had elicited news of two.
“Nicely done,” Lady Sealey told them. “You make clever sleuths, indeed!”
Gemma smiled. “If this is productive, we will accept your praise,” she said.
Clarissa sighed and reminded herself not to become excited too quickly. Still, this might bear fruit.
“Lord Whitby said he will come for dinner, and afterward, we can compare our information,” Gemma added.
“Really?” the countess answered. “I heard Lady Dobley mention that she was expecting him this evening. She will be disappointed if he breaks the engagement.” The older lady turned a thoughtful gaze upon Clarissa.
Clarissa tried not to blush. “He is—he is a very kind gentleman,” she said.