by S K Rizzolo
Damn, she thought as her throat tightened, but she had Elizabeth Minton’s attention now. “You must have loved and admired her greatly,” Penelope said, pressing her advantage. “May I offer you my sincere condolences?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Wolfe.” Miss Minton looked down on tightly clasped hands.
“I thought I could sit sometimes with your women. I do not know how you are fixed at present, but perhaps other duties impose upon your time and resources?”
Her gaze lifted. “As it happens, one of our most devoted and competent young women recently left us due to illness. Perhaps…”
At that moment the aged doorkeeper reappeared from next door. Several gray locks had escaped from her sparse bun to straggle about her face. Her eyes gleamed.
“What is it, Winnie?” asked Miss Minton.
“Here’s a queer start, mum,” the old woman said hoarsely. “Someone has been prowling in Miss Constance’s office. We got housebreakers!”
Penelope clutched at her reticule.
***
“I knew something wasn’t right soon as I saw her desk and the vase what’s smashed on the floor!” said Winnie.
Abandoning their sewing, the women had surged outside to investigate the commotion. Now with the old doorkeeper in the vanguard, they swept forward, Elizabeth Minton’s repeated pleas for calm falling on unreceptive ears. Penelope was borne along with them.
In the waiting area, the women clustered around Winnie to pepper her with a shrill volley of questions, but Miss Minton dispersed them firmly and sent a young, red-haired woman called Maggie off to fetch the curate. Then she drew Winnie into the office with Penelope trailing behind.
Winnie said, “Look how the window be open, Miss ’Lizabeth, and I always lock up tight night and morning.”
Penelope stared at the open French window. She was certain she had closed it as she fled. Perhaps the latch had not caught? No, she could distinctly recall hearing the click. And she assuredly had not broken the lovely Meissen vase that lay in shards on Constance Tyrone’s carpet.
“Calm yourself, Winnie,” said Miss Minton. “Sit down while I determine what has been taken.” She walked to a heavy armoire in the corner. Pulling the doors wide, she lifted out a silver candle snuffer and a carved wooden box, turning them over thoughtfully in her hands. Next she crossed to the mantel to finger the clock.
Winnie sat, fanning herself with a clutch of paper. “Why just look at that desk, mum, and Miss Constance always neat as ninepence, poor soul.”
The directress approached the desk, her expression grim as she checked each drawer in turn. “I straightened it myself this morning. I cannot understand this. Do you suppose one of the children crept in here to play?”
Winnie’s face crinkled. “Ain’t likely, mum.”
Miss Minton looked at Penelope. “I apologize for troubling you with our affairs, Mrs. Wolfe. Please do not feel you need remain.”
It was a dismissal. Penelope said quickly, “I hope you will consider my offer of assistance, ma’am? It was heartfelt, I assure you.”
Miss Minton nodded. “I will consider the matter. Perhaps you could sit with the women of an occasional afternoon.” Her smile was a little stiff, as if she found it difficult to unbend. She was not a woman easy to know, Penelope felt, though her friendship once won would be rewarding.
Remembering that damned tract in her reticule, Penelope felt her guilt grow, but if she admitted her transgression now she would lose all the ground she had gained. Inadvertently, she glanced over at the desk and had to swallow back her shock.
The bundle of pamphlets was gone. That could only mean that someone, perhaps Winnie, had moved it unless… Good Lord, she thought, what if there was a thief, and I interrupted him at his work? That would explain why Winnie found the window ajar and the vase broken. He would have had to hide somewhere.
Shivering, she glanced around. The shadows round the enormous armoire were deep. Could someone have crouched in that corner watching her then removed the political tracts upon her departure? And had he seen her take one of the pamphlets? This thought was particularly unnerving.
“What’s amiss?” Winnie had hauled herself out of the armchair and hobbled over.
Before Penelope could respond, the red-haired woman burst into the room followed by the curate. They were accompanied by a footman dressed in resplendent livery.
The woman’s words spilled out. “I went to fetch Curate, mum, but he was already halfway here.”
“I was bringing along Sir Giles’ footman, Miss Minton,” said Mr. Wood, “when Maggie told me of your trouble.”
“We got housebreakers!” said Winnie.
The curate’s shy countenance grew pink with amazement. “Indeed? How distressing for you. Have valuables gone missing?” He held out one hand to the directress as if to offer reassurance, but immediately withdrew it, blushing the more. “Shall I send to the authorities for you?”
“Nothing seems to be gone, sir, but perhaps we had best report the incident in any case.” She stooped to pick up the pieces of broken vase, then, rising, turned to the footman. “Oh, I beg your pardon. Has Sir Giles sent his carriage? As you can see, we’re at sixes and sevens here. Will you wait please?”
Obediently, the footman moved to stand near the door. After sending Winnie back to her post, Miss Minton drew Penelope aside.
“Mrs. Wolfe, if you truly wish to help, you may do me a kindness. I was to call upon the Tyrones this afternoon to return some of Constance’s personal belongings. Would you be so kind as to go in my stead? I would not entrust so delicate an errand to one of the women.” She hesitated. “To be truthful, you should be doing me a service, for I was dreading the prospect of an interview with Miss Tyrone’s family just now, and in any event I’m needed here if the authorities are to be summoned.”
“Yes, of course, Miss Minton,” Penelope agreed warmly. “I do think, however, that I should use my maiden name. I doubt the Tyrones would welcome a call from Jeremy Wolfe’s wife.”
She looked uncomfortable. “That is true, of course, yet it cannot be right to deceive them.”
“As it hardly seems likely I shall encounter the Tyrones again, I see no need to distress them to no purpose.”
“Then you must do as you think best,” she said. “The items are ready bundled in the outer room, and Maggie will go along to assist you.”
Anxious to get a closer look at the paper in her reticule, Penelope would rather have gone alone. The tract looked to be valuable if it could provide a clue as to who had broken in and why. It seemed, however, that she would have to wait. And if she did discover something, she would have to confess her own involvement in the incident, if not to Elizabeth Minton then to the officer from Bow Street. Penelope did not at all relish the prospect.
Chapter Seven
As the carriage threaded its way through traffic, Maggie was quiet, seeming content to examine the interior with its highly varnished panels, brass mountings, and mahogany shutters.
After a minute or two, Penelope extended her hand. “We were not properly introduced, I believe. Penelope Sandford Wolfe.”
Her open, freckled face broadening in a grin, Maggie shot forth her own hand. “Mrs. Margaret Foss. You can call me Maggie, as that’s all I ever answer to anyway.”
“How long have you been at the Society, Maggie?”
“Nigh on a year now. I started just after Jamie was born. He’s never known nothing else. I left him napping today, but he’ll be shouting for his supper if you know what I mean.” She grinned again, surveying her expanse of bosom complacently.
“Ah well,” she continued, “perhaps we’ll be back before matters get to that pass. Specially because Miss Elizabeth won’t understand, being without chick and all. You married, mum?”
Penelope looked away. “Yes, I am. But my husband is away at present.”
“That so? My Danny is wont to take himself off too, but he usually turns up, looking to line his pockets. I don’t min
d except that I find myself with another babe to feed nine months later. No matter, mum. Men is all the same.”
She gave an emphatic nod, which sent her rather flyaway red hair into further disarray and lowered her gaze in a parody of servitude. “Beg pardon, mum. I got no call to be speaking thus to a lady. It’s just that I get to talking, you know.”
Even when her tone was serious, Maggie had irrepressibly laughing eyes. Yet there was also a quick compassion underneath the laughter, for she had observed Penelope’s embarrassment and was ready to conduct the conversation single-handedly if necessary.
At the risk of opening the floodgates further, Penelope remarked, “You must have had many opportunities to converse with Miss Tyrone, Maggie. What was she like?”
She cocked her head, considering the question. “I’d say she had some strange notions, though I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead. She was smart, but not up to snuff in some ways. Too innocent like, expecting folks to share her manner of seeing. Miss Elizabeth was always trying to tell her.”
“What sort of notions?”
“Well, mum, she used to talk of her flowers as if they were living and breathing. It fussed her just as much to see something green dying for lack of care as to come across a child with naught in its belly. She used to say the world could be one big garden with plenty for all, but Miss Elizabeth is right. We is poor and will stay so.” She hugged her arms to her body.
“Surely…surely well-intentioned people can effect a change.”
Maggie gave her a pitying glance. “Yes, mum. You know, I’m sorry for Miss Elizabeth. She must feel right terrible ’bout that brangle she had with Miss Constance on the day she died.”
“They argued?”
“Lord yes. We all of us heard. Miss Elizabeth wanting to know where Miss Constance was going and Miss Constance a-telling her to mind her own affairs.”
“When exactly was this, Maggie?”
“After luncheon. Then Miss Constance took herself off, and we never saw her again. Maybe Miss Elizabeth had a notion what would happen.”
Thinking of Elizabeth Minton’s careworn face, Penelope nodded. “How awful for her. Did they often have differences?”
“Oh, they were both godly women, and they loved each other, no mistaking that. Most wise they agreed just fine, particularly when it come to not needing no man. You know, Miss Constance used to tell me I could manage on my own, and maybe she was right. Still, if nothing else a man keeps your feet warm of a cold night.”
Penelope smiled, repressing a qualm that this conversation smacked of impropriety. “From what I have heard, Maggie, Miss Tyrone was a woman of great presence. Did she have no suitors?”
“’Tweren’t for lack of trying on their part. I heard they buzzed round when she was younger, and even now she could cast her spell. Not knowing, you understand.” Stretching her legs, Maggie leaned back and affected a pensive air. “She was well blunted too. What man ever resisted the lure of gold?”
“Only a few perhaps,” said Penelope soberly. “You are most observant, Maggie.”
“Ah well. A woman can learn a good deal if she keeps her eyes open. You have to look at things square on, I always say. And help yourself to a little luck when you find it.”
They had pulled up in Great Queen Street, Westminster. The brick buildings on either side had a pleasing uniformity, an understated, graceful refinement that spoke of real wealth. Like some of the other dwellings, Sir Giles’ town house featured a lovely carved wooden canopy over the door.
When the coachman let down the steps, Penelope descended, followed by the footman and Maggie, who carried Constance Tyrone’s belongings. As befitted a house in mourning, the front curtains were closed, the door adorned with a black mourning wreath. In the marble-floored vestibule the butler took their cloaks while another servant appeared to assist the footman with bearing the bundles away. After she saw Maggie comfortably bestowed in a chair to await her, Penelope was conducted after Constance Tyrone’s possessions and so into the withdrawing room. It was appointed in the French style with white brocade and gilt furniture and an ornate looking glass over the mantel. The ambience was far too formal for Penelope’s taste, but elegant nevertheless.
The footman had apparently hastened to report the burglary of Constance’s office, for when Penelope was announced, Sir Giles and his elder son were both on their feet, their stance adversarial.
When she stated her errand, they greeted her politely enough and introduced themselves. Sir Giles asked her to be seated, sat down himself in one of the chairs, and instructed the footman to bring refreshments. After the briefest of niceties, Mr. Bertram Tyrone knelt down and began sifting through the stacked bundles on the floor.
“I am told these things were not in the office at the time of the disturbance.”
“Yes, sir, so I understand.”
“Thank God for that.” He held up a handsome volume bound in morocco leather. “Livy, you know. Quite valuable. But worth the more to me as once belonging to my sister.”
Sir Giles broke in. “Kind of you to have brought it, Miss Sandford. In our extremity, it is the smaller gestures which bring the most comfort.”
“I was happy to be of help, Sir Giles. Miss Minton would have come herself, but she was constrained to wait for the arrival of Bow Street.”
“Ha, Bow Street.” Bertram flashed a contemptuous glance at his father and jumped up. Crossing the room, he laid the book on an occasional table and paused for a moment as if to collect himself.
Penelope searched for words to break the taut silence. “I had not the honor of an acquaintance with Miss Tyrone, yet everything I have been told of her has evoked my profound admiration.” She found herself addressing Bertram’s back.
He swung around. “Oh, she was universally admired, but not always understood.” His father, sitting like a statue, did not look at him.
Penelope said, “Perhaps it is difficult for ordinary mortals to fathom those who are quite out of the common way.”
Sir Giles cleared his throat noisily, staring down at his gleaming shoes.
Bertram laughed, a bitter sound. “You’re right in that, ma’am. No one ever accused Constance of being a mere mortal.” He quickly added, “I do apologize, Miss Sandford. Family troubles are no excuse for ill manners. But, you see, as the days pass we are losing hope that the animal responsible for my sister’s death will ever be apprehended.” As if he couldn’t bear to be still, he strode back across the carpet and bent again to inspect Constance’s possessions. He pulled out a few more books, a clock, and several pairs of stylish, immaculate gloves, laying each item aside carefully.
“Surely the authorities will turn up something, sir. Has there been no progress?”
“Not to speak of, ma’am,” said Sir Giles. “And since they seek a desperate thief who would commit murder that he may leave no witness to his villainy, I do not believe the authorities will get on. ’Tis likely he has taken himself off by this time.”
“You presume the motive to be robbery?”
Sir Giles raised his brows. “Of course. Why else should the culprit have stolen her cross?”
The footman entered, carrying a large silver tray with tea service. Sir Giles nodded curtly. “Pour out, if you please. May I offer you some refreshment, Miss Sandford?” He frowned at his son. “Sit down and have some tea, Bertram.”
Their gazes locked. Bertram opened his mouth to speak, then changed his mind. Turning away, he sat on the sofa.
Sir Giles ignored him, saying to Penelope, “Let us speak of something more pleasant, ma’am. Are you connected to the Sandfords of Wiltshire, ma’am? A fine old family.”
“Only remotely, Sir Giles.”
They were her cousins, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. The family had disowned her father years ago after his marriage to Penelope’s mother, the Catholic daughter of a Sicilian bourgeois. And later when Eustace Sandford had become notorious for his political views, the Wiltshire branch had sent
him several vituperative letters.
The silence grew again as the footman passed around tea and a plate of cakes. Accepting a cup, Penelope said, “Your daughter’s work was most worthwhile, Sir Giles, for the plight of her protégées must touch the hardest heart. They so desire to better their lot.”
His lips tightened. “I am not convinced that the lot of the poor can be materially improved. They will only breed all the more and again outstrip their means of sustenance. Then too you will encourage them to fancy themselves misused when, as naturally and inevitably occurs in our system of free trade, conditions alter with the times. You have heard, ma’am, of the recent outrages in Nottingham, the riotous spirit, the smashing of valuable stocking frames? You see what can come of wrongheaded ‘philanthropy’.”
Bertram flushed a little. “Constance would applaud your sentiments, Miss Sandford. We are not unfeeling people, but her determination to right the wrongs of the world caused her at times to neglect nearer ties. I’ve often thought that my mother’s death when she was twelve played no small part in the formation of her character.”
Resolutely lowering her gaze lest she lose all sense of discretion, Penelope replied, “A tragedy of such magnitude overwhelms anyone. I myself lost my mother quite young.”
“Yes, it’s true. My sister may not have been so…consumed with her work had her early experience been otherwise. Constance never enjoyed the normal life for a woman of her station.”
“Normal life?”
Sir Giles spoke. “Pretty dresses, balls, routs, suitors, that sort of thing. All that a father could desire for his daughter.”
“Did she not have a Season, sir?”
He smiled without mirth. “Only because I insisted, ma’am, and she despised every instant. As far as Constance was concerned, it was all a colossal waste of time.”
“Certainly, Sir Giles, your daughter received great satisfaction from helping others. She accomplished—”
“Charity may be suitable in its place, but it seems lately there is always some canting methodist preaching at one. It wasn’t so in my day. And nothing is more fatal to the charms of an attractive young woman than to betray a priggish earnestness.” His eyes meeting hers significantly, Sir Giles smiled. “More tea, Miss Sandford?”