by L M Jackson
Mrs. Tanner, if inclined to express any opinion on the matter, fell silent – for the door behind Theobald Stamp opened, revealing John Ferntower.
‘Ah, here is the wretched villain! Smith!’ exclaimed Stamp cheerily.
‘For pity’s sake, sir, please,’ exclaimed Ferntower, ‘what is it? I thought you had left. I can hardly get started, if you insist upon an impromptu performance on my doorstep.’
‘You have a visitor, sir,’ replied Stamp, moving to one side.
John Ferntower peered along the landing.
‘Ah, Miss Richards. I was not expecting you this afternoon.’
‘My apologies,’ replied Sarah Tanner.
‘Well, I suppose you had best come in. Goodbye, Stamp; I’ll have the work for you tomorrow.’
‘Oh, I’m obliged, my dear sir,’ replied Mr. Stamp, calling out as John Ferntower shut the door behind his guest. ‘Miss Richards – delightful name – my offer remains open!’
John Ferntower’s rooms were little better than the hall in terms of decoration: the walls dingy, the paper the colour of tobacco; the curtains a grim, dark-glazed calico; a crack in the wood of the mantel-piece; and the grate below seemingly quite unfamiliar with black-leading. Admittedly, the room was not quite dirty, but neither was it quite clean. Sarah Tanner looked around, and noted the small mahogany corner-table where sheets of paper were piled high, beside a quart-pot, half empty, of beer or porter.
‘You did not tell me you had an occupation,’ she said, as John Ferntower offered her a seat.
‘Did I not? Did you imagine I lived solely off Bilcher’s good-will? Well, I was not aware you required such fulsome particulars, Miss Richards. I would not call it an occupation. I hardly think it does me great credit, but a man must eat.’
‘You might try law-writing. The stationers always need copyists. It would pay better.’
John Ferntower smiled. ‘No, I do not have the temperament. I am not quite so dry and dusty as that, not yet. I rather prefer the theatre. Mr. Stamp is free with tickets; it offers some small opportunity for recreation. But come, Miss Richards, I hardly imagine you came here to discuss my fascinating career. And I see you do not have your pistol.’
‘No. I came because I met your father, at the fancy-sale this afternoon, like you suggested.’
‘Really? Good Lord, I did not imagine you would do it. Does he send his regards?’
‘I did not give him the opportunity. Your friend Mr. Hawkes was there too, and your cousin, Miss Fulbrook, and her governess.’
‘Is Miss Fulbrook well?’
Sarah Tanner shrugged. ‘Well enough, I suppose. In any case, you were right about Cedric Hawkes.’
John Ferntower paused, visibly perplexed.
‘Indeed?’
‘You seem surprised.’
‘Well, I am surprised to hear you say it, if you have only seen him in decent society. He is the most convincing fraud I have ever met.’
‘Unfortunately, I have seen much more of him. His real name is Stephen Symes; he is the agent, the deputy, of a woman whose real name I do not even know, who likes to be called “Her Majesty”. She appeared at the sale, claiming to be his mother. They are both the worst pair of conniving villains you are ever likely to meet. I fear it is likely they murdered your aunt, and had my friend killed too.’
‘How on earth do you know all this?’
‘I used to work for them.’
John Ferntower’s world-weary demeanour slipped a little, as open astonishment fell across his face. It took him a moment to recover his faculties.
‘You are a queer creature indeed, Miss Richards. I was right about that.’
‘Never mind what I am. The question is whether you wish to see your cousin married to such a man.’
‘Of course not. But what on earth do you propose I can do about it? My father already believes me capable of every deception. Unless you have some proof …’
Sarah Tanner shook her head.
‘Then what do you suggest?’
‘Do you believe your cousin has any romantic attachment to Symes?’
‘I doubt it. It is most likely my father’s doing.’
‘Good. That is something. That was my impression at the sale. And what about you? You said there was once something between you.’
‘I do not know about that. I have fallen so far—’
‘Listen to me,’ insisted Sarah Tanner. ‘The marriage can be prevented, if you will only help me do it. If the girl cares for you, then it can be done.’
‘But why would you help me?’
‘Your cousin is worth ten thousand a year on her majority, is that so?’
‘Yes, but I can hardly promise you—’
‘I don’t want charity,’ Mr. Ferntower. ‘I want to see the look on their faces, when it slips through their fingers. That will do, I assure you. Now, I need you to write a little note.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The next day, Sarah Tanner’s carriage – the same carriage, rented from a job-master near Euston Square – pulled up outside the Finsbury Juvenile Schools. Not far distant from Clerkenwell Green, the Schools were housed in a small two-storey converted warehouse, formerly the business premises of one of the governors. Little concession had been made to the building’s change in circumstances: a winch and pulley still projected above the street, as if ready to pluck unwary unreformed juveniles from the road-side, and in large painted letters, indelibly inscribed upon the brick-work, the words ‘Wholesale: Tea, Coffee, Spices’ were plainly visible. Sarah Tanner noted that a rather handsome black landau was already parked outside.
Ralph Grundy climbed down from his seat, and opened the carriage door.
‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing, missus?’ he said in a low voice.
‘As long as you made the arrangement at the receiving-house.’
‘They’re expecting letters for the name of Richards.’
‘Good. Then we’re settled.’
Ralph Grundy reluctantly agreed. As he helped his employer to step down on to the pavement, the warehouse doors opened, and Mr. Michael Ferntower strode purposefully forward.
‘Ah, Mrs. Richards. I thought I heard a carriage. I trust you found the Schools with no difficulty.’
‘Yes, thank you, sir,’ said Mrs. Tanner. ‘It is very good of you to spare me your time.’
‘Please, come inside. I am sure you will be impressed.’
Sarah Tanner nodded and followed, walking underneath words recently etched into the stone lintel above the warehouse doors. Create in me a clean heart.
The interior of the warehouse had been long since stripped of its crates and boxes, weights and measures, although there was still a lingering aroma, a hint of mocha, that rather reminded Sarah Tanner of her own establishment on Leather Lane. In one corner, iron stairs led to the upper storey, whilst the ground floor was dominated by twin rows of plain wooden benches, made of the cheapest unvarnished deal. Scattered amongst the wooden forms were three large groups of children, none of them more than ten years of age, taking instruction from their school-masters. One group consisted of girls, the other two of boys. Few of those being taught could lay claim to a clean face or unmatted hair; and none possessed an article of clothing that was not either torn, mended, or patched. Moreover, from the smocks of the girls to the ill-fitting jackets and trousers of the little boys – mostly too small, occasionally too large – all the garments on display seemed to have acquired an indeterminate hue, the colour of London brick, which rather matched the dull complexion of their owners.
‘Poor little wretches, are they not, Mrs. Richards?’ said Mr. Ferntower.
‘They seem quite attentive, all the same,’ remarked Sarah Tanner.
‘The power of kindness and Christian love, Mrs. Richards. The first lessons here are in the Scriptures; duty to one’s neighbours and duty to God. Now, where is Mr. Bournelle? He is the principal master. He can tell you much more than I. Ah! I see him …’
Mrs. Tanner followed Mr. Ferntower to one side of the room, where a table lay prepared for the next class, stacked with Bibles. Beside it was the schoolmaster in question – a balding man in his mid-fifties, in a rather old-fashioned frock-coat and white cravat. He was engaged in animated conversation with Elizabeth Fulbrook and her governess. There was, however, another gentleman, who stood slightly apart from the group. Sarah Tanner had rather anticipated his presence, albeit not with any pleasure.
‘You recall Mr. Hawkes, Mrs. Richards?’ said Mr. Ferntower, nodding towards Stephen Symes. ‘He happened to call, and I suggested he come with us.’
‘Of course.’
Sarah Tanner smiled politely as introductions were effected. Avoiding Symes’s gaze, she addressed herself to Mr. Bournelle.
‘It was good of you to allow our visit at such short notice, sir.’
‘Not at all, ma’am,’ effused the teacher. ‘I welcome it. Indeed, Mr. Ferntower is one of our most distinguished governors. I was only telling Miss Fulbrook and Miss Payne here, how we are so grateful to her guardian.’
Mr. Ferntower nodded his head in discreet acknowledgement.
‘Tell me about the children, sir,’ said Sarah Tanner. ‘They are all quite young?’
‘Ah, only because the infant school is the day-time school, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Bournelle. ‘The older children require night-schooling; they “work” during the day, if that is the word for it.’
‘Street Arabs, for the most part,’ interjected Mr. Ferntower.
‘Quite,’ continued the school-master. ‘You will see them everywhere in our metropolis, ma’am, if you spend any time in London. A terrible indictment against a Christian country, but there you have it. Many of them beg; a few sell lucifers, or make some other excuse for importuning members of the public.’
‘In short, sir, you reclaim the wretched creatures from the gutter,’ added Stephen Symes. ‘It is so worth-while, Mrs. Richards, is it not?’
‘Absolutely,’ replied Sarah Tanner, as flatly as possible.
‘Yes, it is astonishing, Mr. Bournelle, what can be done with the proper instruction and guidance,’ continued Symes. ‘Although upon occasion I suppose you find one of your charges proves ungrateful?’
Mrs. Tanner watched Stephen Symes. The remark was directed at herself; she knew as much.
‘A very rare occurrence, my dear sir,’ protested Mr. Bournelle. ‘But even the most vicious and criminal may be redeemed by sound moral influence, in our experience.’
‘Oh, I imagine so,’ added Sarah Tanner, with a glance back at Symes. ‘In most cases. Tell me, do their parents pay for the privilege of attending?’
Mr. Bournelle smiled rather indulgently at his guest’s naïveté. ‘In half these cases, ma’am, you would be hard pressed to find one parent who would claim them as their own, let alone two; as for the remainder, even a penny a week would have a heavy burden. No, the Schools are quite gratuitous, solely for the benefit of the destitute poor; we rely entirely on our subscribers. Perhaps you might care to see upstairs? We are in the process of converting it into a night refuge.’
‘So the children do not sleep here?’
‘That is our intention, ma’am, when the work is done – for some thirty of them, at least. At the moment, we are obliged to return them to the streets. We have a training-ship for any of the boys who are inclined to the mercantile marine, but that is only the older ones. If you would care to come this way?’
‘Please, lead the way,’ replied Sarah Tanner.
The school-master bowed and directed his tour party towards the staircase.
‘Do watch your footing, Mrs. Richards,’ said Stephen Symes. ‘These iron steps can be treacherous.’
Mrs. Tanner smiled politely. ‘Thank you, sir. Please, don’t trouble yourself on my account.’
Sarah Tanner absent-mindedly inspected the wooden truckle-beds, under construction upon the second floor. Her thoughts were elsewhere. Meanwhile, Mr. Bournelle waxed lyrical.
‘Indeed, ma’am,’ continued Mr. Bournelle, ‘what was it Lord Ashley said? “We must seek to reclaim a wild and lawless race!” I often feel one’s work here is as much missionary as anything upon the dark continent itself.’
‘Quite. Do you have any difficulties with discipline?’
‘Ah, well,’ replied Mr. Bournelle, ‘I must confess, in the early days, in our old building upon Saffron Hill, there were insults and “larks” aplenty. We once had such a “row”, as they call it, that the gas-pipes were torn off the ceiling, and we had to call the police. But things are much improved; the poor understand they need the benefits of civilisation, and, dare I say it, the masters have a greater sympathy with their charges.’
‘How long have the Schools existed, sir?’ asked Elizabeth Fulbrook, meekly joining the conversation.
‘Some twenty years, Miss Fulbrook. I could not count the hundreds who have passed through our doors, and obtained a Christian independence in mind and spirit.’
‘Well, I am sure we have taken enough of your valuable time, my dear Mr. Bournelle,’ said Mrs. Tanner. ‘I am so grateful.’
‘You are most welcome, ma’am,’ insisted the schoolmaster. ‘Perhaps you might care to listen to a lesson in progress? I am sure none of the masters would object.’
Sarah Tanner agreed to the idea. But, as Mr. Bournelle gestured towards the stairs, she insisted he lead the way. At the bottom of the steps, moreover, as Mr. Bournelle politely extended his arm to aid her progress, she suddenly paused, and put her hand to her neck.
‘Oh dear!’ exclaimed Mrs. Tanner. ‘Such a nuisance!’
‘Ma’am?’ inquired Mr. Ferntower.
‘A little silver locket,’ she continued. ‘A tiny thing. The clasp is always slipping; I fear I may have lost it upstairs. Oh, Mr. Hawkes, I expect you have excellent eye-sight – could you possibly oblige me … ?’
Stephen Symes scowled, just long enough for Sarah Tanner to take some satisfaction in his discomfort.
‘Of course,’ he replied, after a slight pause, with perfect politeness.
‘We’ll both look, ma’am,’ added Mr. Ferntower. ‘Bournelle – do take the ladies to observe a class.’
Mr. Bournelle followed his instructions, as the two men climbed the staircase for a second time. Meanwhile Sarah Tanner soon found herself seated on one of the benches, beside a ragged group of girls, listening to the story of the Good Samaritan.
And it was there, just as Mr. Bournelle turned away – with Stephen Symes still occupied upstairs – that she expertly opened the small reticule that Elizabeth Fulbrook had brought with her, and surreptitiously added an additional item to its contents.
‘I regret there is no sign of the locket, ma’am,’ said Mr. Ferntower, as he returned to the ground floor.
‘No?’ replied Mrs. Tanner. ‘Oh dear! Well, perhaps I lost it before I arrived here; I can’t now recall whether I had it when I came in. How foolish of me! Never mind; it is really just a trinket. Mr. Ferntower, you have been so kind, but I have inconvenienced you long enough. I had best take my leave.’
‘Of course, ma’am. I trust you found the visit instructive?’
‘Most valuable, sir. I shall be in touch with Mr. Tebbins presently.’
‘Indeed? I am pleased to hear it. You must allow me to walk you to your carriage, ma’am.’
Sarah Tanner did not demur. In consequence, after making appropriate farewells, she found herself outside the Juvenile Schools, upon Mr. Ferntower’s arm. The announcement of an intention to subscribe money – or, at least, the hint she had offered – seemed to raise Michael Ferntower’s spirits, and, as her host ushered her to the coach, he adopted a rather confiding, slightly self-satisfied tone.
‘May I ask, ma’am,’ said Mr. Ferntower, ‘what you make of Miss Payne?’
Mrs. Tanner paused. In truth, she had given the governess little thought, since she had remained quite unobtrusive, offering no opinion or comment throughout the tour.
‘Miss
Payne, sir? Why, she seems very pleasant.’
‘Indeed, she is, ma’am. I am glad to hear you say it. Of course, I would not entrust my ward to a woman whose discretion and sound judgment I did not prize; a woman of good education and possessing the social graces.’
‘Quite,’ she replied, somewhat mystified.
‘Ah, well, here we are. You have my card, ma’am – if you should pass through Holloway on your journey, by all means pay us a call.’
Sarah Tanner expressed her thanks. Once settled in her carriage, as Ralph Grundy snapped the whip, she looked back at the Schools. The visitors stood at the door, bidding Mr. Bournelle goodbye. Stephen Symes was too preoccupied with attending to his fiancée to watch the carriage depart – for which she was grateful. But Michael Ferntower seemed to look neither at Mr. Bournelle, his ward or his departing guest. His gaze lingered upon the rather plain countenance of Miss Payne; it lingered rather too long, and Miss Payne looked demurely away.
Mr. Ferntower, Sarah Tanner realised, had made a confession of sorts, seeking the approval of a stranger for something he dared not admit. Mr. Ferntower was enamoured of his ward’s governess.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
That night, Sarah Tanner sat in front of the fireplace in her bedroom. There was no other illumination save the flickering light of the coals, and she sat close enough to the hearth for the fire to bring a red glow to her cheeks. For a moment, she was distracted by the noise of the street: the sound of a barrow being pushed over the uneven cobbles; then the distant shrill piping of a cornopean carried on the breeze, most likely accompanying a free-and-easy at the Bottle of Hay. But her attention soon returned to the bundle of letters which she held in her hands: the correspondence of Arthur DeSalle. Her fingers toyed with the string; she held them in one hand, as if ready to throw them into the fire; then her hand dropped back to her lap, as a knock at the door interrupted her reverie.
‘Missus?’