by L M Jackson
The young coster’s face lit up.
‘What was that in aid of?’ said Ralph Grundy, as his employer entered the shop, staring at the departing figure of Harry Drummond.
‘You won’t approve, Ralph,’ said Sarah Tanner. ‘I’ll tell you later.’
Ralph Grundy frowned, but tried another tack. ‘Did she write, then, Miss Fulbrook?’
‘After a fashion,’ she replied, as she reached into her pocket, and handed over Miss Payne’s note.
‘What next?’ said Ralph Grundy, having finished reading. ‘Are you going to write back, like she asks?’
‘No; we’ve done enough. We just wait.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
A second letter from Holloway came the following morning, written in a different hand.
Hillmarton Park, 15th April
My Dear Mrs. Richards,
I will be brief. I have turned this matter over in my mind a thousand times, and I am no nearer a course of action. I know Miss Payne has informed you of that much. I also have received a letter from a certain party – a gentleman with whom you are familiar – which has caused me great consternation. I fear I must speak with you again, at the earliest opportunity.
Forgive me, but I have therefore taken the liberty of making an arrangement whereby we might meet. Mr. Ferntower is holding a small dinner party tomorrow evening. We have just received apologies from one of our guests. I have told my guardian that I shall write to you, since you are still in town.
Will you come? Please send an answer. We dine at eight. If the evening affords no chance for private intercourse, then at least we may make some future engagement.
Yours sincerely,
Elizabeth Fulbrook
P.S. Mr. Hawkes has business in the country; you need have no fear on his account.
‘Seems to me like you’ve swung it, missus,’ said Ralph Grundy, reading the letter. ‘She ain’t marrying him.’
‘It sounds like Ferntower has done his part, at least,’ replied Sarah Tanner. ‘“Great consternation”!’
‘Either way, you don’t sound too happy about it,’ remarked the waiter.
‘Stephen Symes can be quite persuasive, when it suits him. Even if I stop the match now, nothing is certain. I think there is only one thing that will do it; and that is up to John Ferntower.’
‘What’s that, then?’
‘He not only needs to sweetheart her; he has to marry her.’
Ralph Grundy raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s a tall order, missus, from what you tells me.’
‘I think she may love him; he may even love her.’
‘Ah, well, there’s no accounting for what that does to a party,’ muttered Ralph, as if referring to some obscure ailment. ‘So you’ll be going back to Holloway – what, tonight is it?’
‘I had better.’
‘And you’ll need a driver.’
Sarah Tanner hesitated.
‘No,’ she said at last, ‘not this time. I’ll hire one, or take a cab. I need you here.’
‘Here? Hold up, missus – you ain’t let Her Ladyship go out—’
‘Oh, but I have to – Norah’s got tickets for the Adelphi. I think she’s developing a taste for the drama.’
Ralph Grundy was speechless.
‘You should watch that mouth, Ralph,’ said Mrs. Tanner, ‘you’ll catch flies.’
That evening, at about seven o’clock, the inhabitants of Leather Lane were treated to two unusual spectacles. The first was the appearance of a new hackney cab, a rather smart, well-equipped carriage, which negotiated the length of Liquorpond Street and parked in front of Sarah Tanner’s Dining and Coffee Rooms. It was not so much the carriage itself that was considered remarkable – although such vehicles were rare in the narrow lanes between Gray’s Inn and Saffron Hill – but the sudden departure of Sarah Tanner herself, for whom the cab seemed to have been ordered. Cloaked in her long shawl, she walked briskly from her shop and climbed inside, with barely a word to the driver.
The costers, in the process of closing their day’s business, only remarked that the cab was a fine rig, since, in the way of street-traders, they considered themselves connoisseurs of the horse-and-carriage, even if they themselves were restricted to practical experience of the donkey-and-barrow. The few costerwomen who saw the vehicle’s departure were more inclined to draw inferences as to Sarah Tanner’s destination, none of them overly complimentary to her character or morals.
In fact, the self-same gaggle of females might have speculated all night upon the hackney cab, were it not for a second prodigy that occurred a half-hour later: the appearance of Norah Smallwood dressed in silk (borrowed, in fact, from her employer), upon the arm of Harry Drummond (who wore a suit belonging to his father, normally reserved for the mourning of close relatives). The opinion of said females upon Norah Smallwood had hitherto been divided; some taking the view that the girl in question had treated Harry Drummond, in his own words, awful rotten, others, less charitably, that Harry Drummond probably deserved no better. But, upon seeing Norah Smallwood in a fashionable silk, no matter how unassuming the dress, the debate was settled; like her cousin, Norah Smallwood was no better than she ought to be, and that was plain fact.
Sarah Tanner, for her part, put all thoughts of her employee behind her, as her cab drove on, passed the Islington toll-gate and headed northwards. Instead she mused over Elizabeth Fulbrook’s letter and whether John Ferntower might be relied upon. And if she had any compunction that a marriage to John Ferntower might not be the best fate for the young heiress, she thought about the character of Stephen Symes, and resolved to put it firmly to one side.
‘Hillmarton Park, weren’t it?’ shouted the driver, as the cab began to slow.
‘Yes, thank you.’
It was a half-hour later after her departure from Leather Lane that Norah Smallwood looked around the small theatre. The unchecked admiration which Theobald Stamp held for Sarah Tanner had only run to seats in the front row of the gallery, but the performance had not yet begun and, from the gallery’s lofty heights, there was ample opportunity to observe the playhouse, and its audience. For the most part the crowds in the stalls were clerks and their women-folk. Illuminated by the flaring lights of the grand crystal gasolier above, a fixture that seemed far too large for public safety, Norah Smallwood could see that the men boasted modest silk hats, and the women, in many cases, wore smart fur-trimmed mantles, instead of mere shawls. The gallery crowd, though respectable enough to afford a shilling seat, were more working men, the better class of labourers and mechanics, distinguished not only by a cheaper cut of cloth, but by the privilege of the gallery – food and drink in abundance. Thus, to the right and left, the liberal consumption of smuggled bottled porter and steaming meat pies, and the crunch of dry biscuits.
‘This is prime, ain’t it?’ exclaimed Harry Drummond enthusiastically.
Norah agreed, looking wistfully at the stalls, and thinking how much nicer to be down there, with a man – a man like her Albert – not a mere boy.
Sarah Tanner rang the bell at 42, Hillmarton Park. Ushered inside by the same maid she had encountered on her previous visit, she followed the girl up the stairs to the drawing-room, as the rich odour of roasting pork wafted up from the kitchen below.
‘I expect Mr. Ferntower has an excellent cook,’ she said to the maid.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Yes, quite excellent, Mrs. Richards,’ added a third voice.
Sarah Tanner peered up the stairs. She recognised the voice immediately. It was Miss Payne, already descending the steps from the landing above.
‘I trust you are well, Mrs. Richards?’
‘Quite. Thank you, Miss Payne. Yourself?’
‘Indeed, ma’am, thank you.’
She looked carefully at the governess; there was something slightly anxious, almost urgent, in her manner of speech, not least the fact she had spoken so readily, without any prelude or introduction.
‘Although the arom
a from downstairs is a little over-powering, I fear,’ said Miss Payne. ‘I will go and ask Cook to make sure she airs the kitchen. She assures me she leaves the door open, but I rather wonder. In any case, I hope you enjoy your evening.’
Sarah Tanner nodded politely. Inwardly, however, she was puzzled as to the governess’s peculiar frankness about the workings of the household kitchen. There was a point to it; she was sure; she had said it quite deliberately.
‘Here we are, ma’am,’ said the maid, holding open the drawing-room door. Mrs. Tanner stepped inside. To her surprise, she found only Mr. Ferntower and his ward seemed to be present.
‘Ah, Mrs. Richards,’ said Mr. Ferntower, with his customary rather cool reserve. ‘How good to see you again. My ward assured me that you would still be in London, but I confess, I rather doubted her. Please, have a seat.’
‘Thank you, sir. It was good of you to invite me. Am I the first to arrive?’
‘The first and almost the last, ma’am. I’m afraid nearly all my friends and acquaintances seem to have been beset by ill health or misfortune. We are just waiting for one gentleman. It will just be the four of us; I told Elizabeth we should cancel the whole affair, but she insisted upon it.’
Elizabeth Fulbrook blushed, snatching a glance in Sarah Tanner’s direction. The sound of the door-bell could be heard in the hall.
‘Now,’ continued Mr. Ferntower, ‘that is the man, I’ll warrant. Forgive me, Mrs. Richards, I must just have a word in private – a business matter.’
Sarah Tanner smiled politely, denying the necessity of forgiveness. As soon as Mr. Ferntower quit the room, his ward turned to her guest, speaking quickly and nervously.
‘You do not know what you have done! I had thought my life comfortable and settled. I had thought I should marry a decent man.’
‘I am sorry for that. Would you prefer I had said nothing?’
‘No. I would not. But there are questions … we cannot talk now. We can retire together after dinner. Mr. Ferntower always shares his best cigars with his guests.’
‘Who is the gentleman he’s expecting?’
‘I do not know—’
Before Elizabeth Fulbrook could continue, there was the sound of footsteps upon the stairs, and Mr. Ferntower returned, in the company of a gentleman a few years his junior, dressed in tweed, with dark brown hair and neatly clipped whiskers.
‘Elizabeth, Mrs. Richards, may I introduce Mr. Murdoch.’
Sarah Tanner nodded. But there was something about the new arrival that struck her as peculiar. She had the same intuitive sense of confusion she had experienced when meeting Lydia Payne upon the stairs, even before the man uttered a word. His suit was not quite suitable for evening wear; his manner strangely self-contained.
‘Elizabeth,’ added Mr. Ferntower, ‘could you come here for a moment?’
To all appearances equally perplexed, Elizabeth Fulbrook complied, walking over to her guardian. The hairs upon the back of Sarah Tanner’s neck stood on end.
‘Now, ma’am,’ continued Mr. Ferntower, turning back to address his guest in a voice which suddenly turned rather grave, ‘perhaps you can explain your unaccountable interference in my affairs?’
‘Sir? Forgive me, I do not understand you.’
‘She’s convincing, sir, I’ll give you that,’ said Mr. Murdoch, addressing his host. ‘Sounds the part.’
‘Sir?’ said Elizabeth Fulbrook. ‘What is going on?’
‘Mr. Murdoch is from Scotland Yard, my dear. It appears Mrs. Richards here is some peculiar sort of imposter, though I cannot yet account for her actions.’
‘Scotland Yard?’ said Sarah Tanner, rising from her seat.
‘At your service, ma’am,’ replied the policeman, with a rather impish grin. ‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Now, I’m rather afraid I must place you under arrest.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
There was, Sarah Tanner realised, little doubt of Mr. Murdoch’s profession. He had the air of self-satisfied omniscience cultivated by the Detective Police; even the way he held himself, the angle of his head, seemed to express a degree of self-conceit.
‘This is quite ridiculous,’ protested Mrs. Tanner.
‘What is ridiculous, ma’am,’ said Mr. Ferntower, laying rather sarcastic stress on the last word, ‘is that you should attempt to impose upon a decent family in such a despicable manner.’
‘Sir?’ said Elizabeth Fulbrook. ‘Whatever is the matter?’
Sarah Tanner followed Elizabeth Fulbrook’s gaze. The girl was genuinely surprised by the policeman’s arrival, she was sure of that much.
‘Do you dare to deny that you have deceived us?’ continued Mr. Ferntower.
‘Why, in what way?’ asked Sarah Tanner, doing her level best to maintain an air of innocence. She wondered who had betrayed her. Was it Lydia Payne, not keeping her charge’s secret, surrendering to her conscience? Or was it Symes? In truth, she had not thought Stephen Symes would risk the police.
‘Allow me, sir,’ interjected the detective. ‘We need not prolong proceedings. The answer to your question, my dear, is that you have fraudulently represented yourself to come from a respectable background in the county of Hertfordshire; that you have forged documents to that effect; and, I firmly believe, that you do so with every intention to impose upon this young lady here present, no doubt with a mind to some form of pecuniary advancement. Now, I’m afraid I require your presence at the Islington station-house.’
‘Forged? That is utter nonsense,’ said Mrs. Tanner, quickly glancing round the room even as she spoke, looking for some means of escape; and finding none. ‘Mr. Arthur DeSalle is a relative—’
‘None of that gammon,’ replied the policeman, stepping forward. ‘Save that for the magistrate.’
‘I took the advice of a friend and wrote to Mr. DeSalle,’ added Mr. Ferntower. ‘It was good advice. He denied all knowledge of you. So, if you think you can still make a fool of us, ma’am, you are quite mistaken.’
Sarah Tanner stood silent for a moment; for the thought that Arthur DeSalle might take such a step quite shocked her. Was the ‘friend’ Symes?
‘Come along,’ said the policeman. ‘We’re done here.’
The sound of the policeman’s voice brought Mrs. Tanner to her senses. She performed a dispiriting mental calculation. There was nowhere to run; no weapon to hand. There was little that could be said.
‘Very well,’ she replied, letting the policeman guide her towards the door. ‘But I am sure we can resolve this misunderstanding.’
‘Gammon,’ said the policeman, bluntly. ‘I don’t have a taste for gammon, ma’am. Let’s keep things simple; you come with me, and no fuss, eh?’
‘But—’ protested Elizabeth Fulbrook.
‘Hush, my dear,’ said Mr. Ferntower. ‘Let the man go about his business.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ replied the policeman, with studied politeness. ‘And if you come to the police-court on Upper Street tomorrow first thing, we’ll see what the magistrate makes of the matter.’
Sarah Tanner listened to Mr. Ferntower and the detective make arrangements; but, as the detective began to lead her from the room, her mind was elsewhere. For the station-house led directly to the police-court; the police-court to gaol. If there was any hope, she had to escape; there was nothing to be gained by waiting. But where and how? Upon the stairs? At the door? In whatever carriage was waiting for her?
A rising sense of panic welled up deep within her stomach.
‘One moment, sir, I must tell you something,’ said Sarah Tanner, maintaining her haughtiest tone.
The detective sighed a self-consciously world-weary sigh, the reply of gammon already upon his lips. But he had no opportunity to express the sentiment. For, as she spoke, Mrs. Tanner twisted her body, swinging booted foot into the policeman’s shin. And as Mr. Murdoch yelped in pain – and it was a yelp, she noted with approval, one that rather undermined the detective’s air of self-confidence – she nimbl
y dodged his outstretched hands, grabbed her skirts, and ran towards the stairs.
It was, of course, quite hopeless. Although the evening dress she wore was not of the crinolined variety, she could not hope to out-run a man in it. At best, a few yards; at least, she reasoned, if she made it as far as the stairs, Murdoch might tumble down them; a small hope, but better that than nothing.
However, even as she ran, she became dimly awares of footsteps, and then confusion behind her; not merely the policeman’s pursuit. As she turned down the stairs, she saw the source of the chaos. For the detective, in his haste to pursue his quarry, had somehow collided with another party – Lydia Payne. As a result, the two lay entangled in a heap on the landing outside the drawing-room, the policeman trying desperately to free himself from the folds of the governess’s dress without any accidental impropriety.
Mrs. Tanner did not pause to appreciate her luck; she merely ran.
It was only as she reached the downstairs hall, her rapid footsteps echoing throughout the house, that she was struck by the incongruity of the governess suddenly appearing upon the landing. It was a peculiar coincidence, at least, that she should arrive at that precise moment, and interrupt the policeman’s pursuit.
Was it just pure luck? What was it Miss Payne had told her?
She leaves the kitchen-door open.
She hesitated; then, decisively, she ignored the front door, by which she had entered the house, and ran towards the back stairs, rushing down them as fast as her legs could carry her.
In truth, she still half expected to run into the arms of a waiting police constable. But the kitchen seemed quite unprepared for her arrival, containing only a kitchen-maid and cook, the former of whom screamed as Sarah Tanner barged past her, upsetting a row of plates and dishes laid out in preparation for the evening meal. Mrs. Tanner, meanwhile, ignoring the sound of breaking crockery, rushed through the kitchen-door, left ajar upon Lydia Payne’s instruction.