“Molly, who’s at the door?” The cook herself came up behind the girl and peered over her shoulder, wiping her hands on her apron.
“He says he can make repairs, or—or do anything we need,” the girl stammered.
“I wish he could,” the woman said grimly. “The master’s dead, and we’re all on end here. Even if I could think of anything needful, I don’t know as the housekeeper—or Mr. Jessup, the butler—could have it done. The master’s attorney makes all the decisions until…”
“Ah! Until your master’s will is proved, as I think they say, and his heir comes into the estate,” Alex suggested.
“You sound as if you know something of the law, young man.”
“I’ve turned my hand to a number of jobs. One of them was doing errands for an attorney. I can understand you wouldn’t want to spend any household money, but I’ll work for a meal. Chances are the executor—that’s a fine word, isn’t it?—won’t question the food you cook for the staff.”
“Molly, don’t stand there like a stock. Ask Mr. Jessup to come here. Maybe he knows something as needs doing.”
In the end, they put him to work doing a few trivial tasks, things the housekeeper and maid would have seen to, had the housekeeper not been laid down on her bed with a sick headache, and the upstairs maid already gone to another household.
“Her brother that’s a footman to a baron not liking her to stay in a house where there’s been—well! an unnatural death, as you might say—found her a place with one o’ the neighbors of the baron,” the kitchen maid explained, having been pressed into service to replace the upstairs maid.
Alex helped take the hangings down from the master’s bed and take up the mattress to air it.
“Which maybe ought to be got rid of, as poor Mr. Markham’s dying was messy,” Molly confided.
He had even polished the larger pieces of silver, under the butler’s supervision (the knives, forks, and spoons being small enough to be slipped into a pocket).
“Hardly need a wipe, do they, Mr. Jessup, as shiny as they are. Not that I’m complaining, mind.”
“I polish them regular. But I’m behind in my work this week, because of the inquest.” Jessup, thin and elderly, was the very pattern of a butler. He had served Markham for over twenty years. “I want all to be in good order for when the late master’s heir comes into the property.” Alex’s ears caught the slight emphasis on the word “when.”
By the time they’d finished and sat around the big kitchen table, he had been accepted. The servants, worried about the future and also about Mistress Jane, were ready for a sympathetic ear.
“I’d never have told about the lad saying the shrimps came from Mistress Jane if I’d known anyone might think she’d done away with the master.”
“It must be they don’t think it,” Jessup said, “or they’d have arrested her. I’ll be glad when it’s all settled, and she’s mistress here.”
“I hope she will live here, even though it would look odd for her to leave her family’s home. For I must say, I don’t think much of her pa and that stepmother of hers.” This was Mrs. Jennings, who had recovered from her headache in time to eat supper.
Markham’s valet volunteered, “I won’t ever believe a bad word of Mistress Jane. She asked me to remain—on pay, too!—while I look for another situation, saying she would want me to sort out Mr. Markham’s clothing, anything I didn’t care to take, so it might be given to the poor. As good and pleasant as she is, she deserves good fortune and a long life. To suspect her of harming her uncle, that’s plain wicked. And her family! They’re supposed to be well to do, but I never saw a young lady so badly turned out as her. It’s not lack of taste; it’s seldom a new gown, and nothing by any fashionable modiste.”
Molly, who had kept silent while her betters were speaking, said when a lapse occurred in the talk, “I wish I’d see that fellow that come with the shrimps again.”
“You think too much about young men, missy. Letting the greengrocer’s boy court you is one thing. We know who he is and what his prospects are. But someone that hasn’t a settled job is no use. I don’t mean you,” the cook, Mrs. Harrow, said to Alex. “If you could get steady work, as I’m sure you will, you’d be almost any girl’s favorite spark.”
“My pa often says I should apply myself to one line of work. But Molly, was he not from the neighborhood?”
“No, he must have come from the shop where Mistress Jane bought the potted shrimps. Wish I knew where she got them.”
“No, he didn’t,” the cook stated. “Don’t you recall he said he was just doing a favor for a friend? I could tell he wasn’t in regular employment. All those lads are impudent, but there was something about him that was different.”
“He was very well spoke and handsome, too.”
Apart from eating a plain but excellent meal, he had harvested a fine crop of information. Gentle questioning produced a description of the man: hair as light as tow or flax, very blue eyes with lines at their corners, and the tanned face that comes with working outdoors. From certain things Molly reported, Alex wondered if he might be a sailor. Tomorrow would be a good day to lounge around the docks.
****
Jane’s father had decided most of their engagements should be cancelled, and that Jane should certainly stay home, in mourning for Roger Markham. She suspected it actually had more to do with the family wishing to avoid the stares and whispers of those who might have heard of the testimony at the inquest.
“It’s fortunate the newspaper reported so little about it,” Stowe said. Jane, who had surreptitiously read the paragraph in the paper her father had brought home, thought it amazing. However, that and perhaps Sir Thomas’s visit, seemed to have soothed her father’s temper.
Her stepmother was clearly torn between the desire to avoid public humiliation and regret that she was missing the social life she loved. She sighed as she embroidered panels for a pair of pockets. Jane was mending, which would ordinarily have earned her a scolding from Elvira, who did not object to the activity but did disapprove of its being performed where a visitor might see her at so ungenteel a task. Perhaps with no visitors likely, it seemed unimportant, compared to the embarrassment of Uncle Markham’s death.
She refused to think about the murder or that someone had tried to incriminate her. She dismissed the cheering memory of Mr. Gordon as potentially damaging to her contentment. Was she contented? It would be best not to pay too much attention to that question, for her own peace of mind. If she were going to ponder discontent, the drawing room gave cause enough. If the upholstery had needed to be replaced, it would be easy to justify redecorating and changing the color of the walls. Unfortunately, Elvira had exercised rare sense at its last decoration and purchased extra fabric, enough to reupholster the chairs when they needed it, and the draperies were holding up well. If there were ever any spare money, Elvira would want to buy new furniture to replace the delicately pretty pieces in the Queen Anne style, which had been new when Papa and Mama married. Would new chairs with upholstery in some other color lighten the room? She feared not.
When Paul Pleasaunce was announced, Jane had the presence of mind to stuff her sewing into her work basket. Rupert, who had been lounging in a chair, lost in thought, straightened up and rose. Her stepmama automatically gave a twitch to her fichu and set aside her embroidery frame. Her father tossed the latest copy of The Gentleman’s Magazine onto the table and went forward to greet Pleasaunce.
Jane gave a quick glance around the drawing room, hoping that it had been adequately tidied today. The staff were unsettled by the recent events, and she had been less careful than usual about supervising their work. All seemed to be in order. She curtsied demurely.
“I have come to ask a favor of you,” Pleasaunce said, after the formalities. “My wife is desirous of visiting her aunt near Plymouth, and I am unable to accompany her. She is worried about the old lady’s health and, as she has some expectations from her, would not wish to
be backward in any attention. Charles will escort her and Claire goes too, but I hoped you would permit Rupert to accompany them. The young men can bear each other company.”
She expected Rupert’s face to show surprise and delight. What she saw was anxiety.
But her father raised no objection, and the worry faded from Rupert’s face when Stowe said, “I have no doubt my son will be delighted to go. At the moment, ours is not a cheerful household. It will also provide our young couple opportunities to spend time together.”
“Depend on it, Mistress Jane will soon be cleared of any suspicion. Some disgruntled servant was responsible and had a relative or friend deliver the crock of shrimp. Now, Mrs. Pleasaunce wishes to set out as soon as may be, the day after tomorrow if possible. If that is convenient for you,” Pleasaunce said to Rupert.
“I will be ready, sir. Thank you.”
Rupert must be more taken with Claire’s company than she had realized, to be so pleased to undertake a long journey in her company and Mrs. Pleasaunce’s, and to such an unentertaining destination. Or he might simply be glad to get away from the atmosphere of gloom and his friends’ comments.
****
A blond, tanned seaman with very blue eyes (“blue like my ring,” according to a Billingsgate tavern wench who served Alex, displaying a trumpery ring set with a glass “sapphire”) had been seen on the docks for a few days. Then he was gone, which was the way with sailors. No one Gordon spoke with knew what ship he belonged to. True, the Sea Mew had left port on the first outgoing tide after the potted shrimps were delivered to Markham’s kitchen, but the Pool of London was a busy place and the Sea Mew was not the only vessel to sail. Alex Gordon was ready to stake his soul the pleasant-spoken seaman was the friendly fellow who made the delivery and that he had sailed with the Sea Mew.
Yet while Markham’s suspicions about O’Brien’s activities might be damaging to the captain’s reputation, suspicion was not proof. Was it worthwhile to murder Markham for that? If it were, O’Brien must be leaving a trail of corpses wherever he went.
Why would he use one of his own sailors to silence Markham? It seemed foolhardy if he could hire some cutthroat. They were not in short supply in London if you knew where to look, as surely a smuggler would. Afterward, the hireling would disappear back into the alleys and warrens that were as alien to law-abiding Englishmen as Peking or Timbuktoo—and far more dangerous. Even if someone in the Watch knew the area, a catchpoll’s chances of finding the murderer were small, the chances of arresting him and getting out alive still less.
Gordon did not believe in coincidence, and he trusted devoutly in Occam’s Razor, ever since his tutor had explained it to him at the age of twelve. The simplest explanation that covers all the known facts is usually the correct one. O’Brien must have given the order to kill Markham.
A few lines in Markham’s letter now assumed a new significance:
“No doubt you recall that bad business thirty years ago with Captain O’Brien…We were both younger then, and perhaps more forgiving than we ought to have been…You know I was against my sister marrying into that family…I should have been sorry to see O’Brien executed, but I would be more sorry still to have my dear niece’s family involved with that man…”
Thirty years ago, Alex’s father had been courting his mother. The events of that year seemed as irrelevant as the doings of the ancient Greeks. In 1715, three years before his own birth, the Earl of Mar led a rebellion in Scotland, and Alex’s father married a Scottish lady. Now Scotland was again seething, with the Young Pretender landed and trying to raise a Highland army. Had O’Brien been active in the last rebellion? He must have been, to judge by that letter. Markham might have suspected the captain would support the Jacobite cause again, and also that Rupert Stowe might be involved as well.
With the Sea Mew gone, there was no more to be done with that end of the puzzle. The other end, however, bore further investigation.
He would have to scrape acquaintance with Rupert Stowe. It would be awkward to winkle out of the servants what clubs or places young Mr. Stowe might frequent, which meant he would have to approach Mistress Jane again. It would have been best to encounter her at some party or ball. Arranging to get a last-minute invitation would have posed no great difficulty. He was popular with hostesses, and even if he did not know the host or hostess, he had resources who would. But between Markham’s death and the suspicion thrown on Mistress Jane, the family might not be accepting invitations. He could not very well call upon her. In spite of the acquaintance he had claimed, her stepmother would never let her receive a man unchaperoned.
The next morning found him loitering on the route she was most likely to take if she needed to visit the shops for some household need. He hoped it would not be many days before she ventured out again, as the weather was setting in gray and rainy. He was a little uneasy about his inquiry into Markham’s matter. The official investigation centered on the Sea Mew and its captain, and he had no part in that. Besides, he was more concerned with why Mistress Jane’s name had been dragged into the affair. If you were delivering poisoned food, you could as easily—more easily!—say, “The gentleman didn’t give me ’is name, just said ’e was a friend o’ Mr. Markham’s and ’oped as ’e’d enjoy it.” If you were Captain O’Brien or his henchman, would you even know of Mistress Jane’s existence?
Chapter 6
It took two damp, dull days before he finally saw Jane Stowe trudging toward him. She looked dejected; her eyes were focused on the ground. She came abreast of him before she noticed him standing outside a baker’s shop on High Holborn—and then only because he murmured, “Mistress Jane?”
She gave a little jump before recognizing him.
“Oh! Mr. Gordon.” She swiftly gathered her wits, continuing, “I am glad to see you again because I wanted to thank you for what you said the last time we met. I would have been very frightened if you had not told me I was safe. Especially when I learned someone had used my name as the sender of the shrimps.”
He wanted to ask if that were the only reason she was glad to see him, but that would have been presumptuous, and anyway, they were the merest acquaintances. “It’s good you weren’t afraid. Er…do you always go shopping without a maid?” Idiot! She was sure to take that as a criticism, but he hadn’t meant it as such. He could think of nothing else to say.
“Yes, usually the maids are busy, and it’s not as if I were a young girl.”
“Too young to be unescorted, and so I will escort you.”
“The escort of a strange young man is ordinarily thought not to be a protection,” she remarked, smiling, and allowed him to take her arm and her basket.
“There’s no question in my mind one of Captain O’Brien’s men delivered the shrimps,” he began.
“I see.” Was her expression admiring?
“I have not yet found that your uncle pursued any inquiries on the docks about the Sea Mew, apart from asking his commercial friend about it. The latter is a wine merchant, has a good reputation, and says he did not mention the matter to anyone else. To his mind, there was no significance in the name of the ship or its captain.”
Jane nodded encouragingly.
“The question then is, how did O’Brien know that Mr. Markham was a threat to him? It’s unlikely they’d had any contact in decades, and…ah…” Gordon felt a sudden qualm as to whether he should say more.
“I am not given to idle gossip, sir. Whatever you tell me, I shall lock within my bosom.”
“Truly? May I watch?”
“Not literally, Mr. Gordon. It’s only a figure of speech.” She colored up prettily, but her eyes sparkled.
“That is too bad. Well, as I was going to say, the last time the captain and your uncle met, Mr. Markham and a, hmmm, friend of his did O’Brien a favor. Rather a big one. So it’s not likely he’s cherished a desire for revenge all this time. It seems to me whatever caused Captain O’Brien to poison your uncle must belong to the present, not the
past.”
“What was the favor?” she asked.
“As I am already divulging more than I should, I’ll tell you. Mr. Markham and his friend had enough proof to have had him executed at the time of the 1715 rebellion. They let him go.”
“I see. He must feel very badly then, if he did indeed kill Uncle Markham.”
“I suppose he must. Quite so. Which would mean whatever caused him to commit the murder was of the utmost importance.”
“How could your Captain O’Brien hear that my uncle knew his ship was in port?”
He grinned. “Which is the question I began with. It may not have been O’Brien who heard. It may have been an accomplice who then passed on the word—‘gave him the office’ is the criminals’ cant term—or who committed the crime himself, to guard his own neck. But we are still left with the question of how the murderer heard of it.”
“Oh,” Jane said slowly. “Could my uncle have spoken of it to anyone else—besides talking to his wine importer and writing to his friend?”
“I am told he would have been well aware of the delicacy of the matter and unlikely to speak of it. Did you mention it to anyone?”
“The only one I told was my brother, as I said at our first meeting. Perhaps he told someone else. As being a sort of jest, you know.”
“I remember. Your half brother, Rupert.”
“I have three half brothers. Rupert is the oldest, Matthew is at university, and Adam is still at Eton. Perhaps Rupert mentioned it to one of his friends or several of them. Young men get together and drink and…er…so on, and of course they talk. No doubt you know how it is.”
“Except for the ‘…er…so on,’ yes. You told no one else?”
“No.”
“If he mentioned it in passing to some associate of O’Brien’s, the associate must be someone in Rupert’s circle,” Alex said. “I would like to meet your brother and try to find out who he told.” But if it were only an acquaintance, how did Jane’s name come to be used? Do young men talk about their half sisters over a bottle of claret or brandy? Gordon thought not.
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