Murder in the East End

by Jennifer Ashley

  The lady studied me with openness, but in a far more courteous manner than the lorgnette woman. Another difference between this lovely lady and the others in the room was that she spoke directly to me and used my name.

  Mrs. Bywater seemed to think I’d had enough praise for one night. “Thank you, Mrs. Holloway,” she said in a tone that meant I was dismissed.

  I curtsied to the company, darted a last look at Cynthia’s friend, and walked sedately from the room. No scurrying back to my hole. I departed with my head high, dignity in place, accepting the praise for my hard work without false modesty.

  I could have wished for a coin or two, however. Compliments are all very well, but shillings and pence are far more welcome.

  * * *

  * * *

  Not until after midnight did I have the chance to hang up my apron, scrub my hands and face in the scullery sink, don coat and hat, and depart to meet Daniel.

  February rain poured outside, rendering the night cold and dank. I pulled on gloves and ducked my head against the spattering drops as I hurried into the street.

  Little traffic, foot or carriage, roamed on this wet night, the residents of Mount Street wisely remaining indoors. I too ought to have stayed at home to snatch a few hours of sleep, giving Daniel my apologies when I saw him again.

  It was a testimony to my curiosity and my fondness for Daniel that I scurried, head bowed, along South Audley Street toward Grosvenor Chapel. James had told me his father would await me there.

  I doubted James meant in the chapel itself, which was shut. I made my way along a passage that edged the graceful church and ended at a gate to a green.

  I hoped Daniel did not wish to have a conversation on the grass. It was dreadfully wet, and I felt a sneeze coming on.

  “Kat.”

  He was behind me. I swung around, dismayed by how lighthearted Daniel’s voice rendered me. I told myself this was because I had not seen him in many weeks, and I naturally was glad to see him.

  He stood in an open doorway, outlined by light, which proved the chapel was not shut entirely.

  “My dear Kat, come in out of the rain,” Daniel said, reaching for me. “Next time, tell James you wish me to the devil and stay home.”

  He caught my hand and pulled me into the lighted space, shutting the door behind us. I found myself in a small room lined with cupboards and robes on hooks—the sacristy, I believed it was called. The room had no stove, but the absence of chill wind and rain came as a relief.

  Daniel wore his working clothes—wool coat patched at the elbows, linen shirt, knee breeches shiny with wear, and heavy boots. He’d removed his cap, showing me that his dark brown hair had grown even longer during his absence.

  At least he was Daniel tonight, meaning I did not have to pretend I knew him as a City gent, or a pawnbroker’s assistant, or whoever else he’d decided to be. He disguised himself whenever he worked for the police, but I preferred him as the deliveryman I’d first met a few years ago, who’d heaved a heavy sack to the kitchen floor and given me a smile I never forgot.

  “Such language in a church,” I said, disengaging my hand. “I knew you’d not have asked for me if it hadn’t been frightfully important.”

  “True. I know you have little time to spare.” His crooked grin was as self-deprecating as ever.

  I shook rain from my skirts. “Well, you’d better tell me what you wish to say. I need to make an early start.”

  What I wished him to say was that he’d missed me. Perhaps he’d kiss me, and I’d go home warm.

  I was a bit disappointed, therefore, when Daniel said, “I need you to meet someone.”

  He crossed the room and opened the far door, sticking his head through and speaking words too quiet for me to discern.

  The door opened wider to admit a man I’d never seen before. He was as tall as Daniel and as bulky, but there the resemblance ended. Where Daniel’s face was hard and square, this man had narrow cheeks and regular features, so regular they made him quite handsome. His dark hair was neatly trimmed and slicked back from his face, and he had a beard, also neatly trimmed, short and brown.

  Instead of a workman’s clothes, he wore a dark suit with a dog collar—a white starched strip around his neck that proclaimed him one of the clergy.

  “Mrs. Holloway,” Daniel said, a coolness entering his tone, “may I present the Reverend Errol Fielding.” He paused. “My brother.”

  2

  I do not know which astonished me more—the fact that Daniel’s brother was a clergyman or that Daniel had a brother at all.

  Fielding, Daniel had said, not McAdam, though Daniel had once told me he’d invented his surname.

  Mr. Fielding removed his gloves and held out a hand to me. “I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. Holloway. Daniel has told me about you and your cleverness. Just the person, he said, to help me.”

  I clasped Mr. Fielding’s hand, and he shook mine firmly. He withdrew immediately, not holding on any longer than was appropriate.

  I turned to Daniel. “And you thought to consult me on a rainy night in the back of a chapel?”

  “My fault,” Mr. Fielding said quickly. “I thought you’d be more comfortable meeting two fellows in a church instead of a tavern.”

  The snug in a tavern would have been more amenable to me, though I admit having to make my way to one alone in the dark and rain might have deterred me. Daniel was acquainted with the vicar of Grosvenor Chapel, who’d given him a place to sleep on more than one occasion, though I saw no evidence of that vicar here tonight.

  Daniel let Mr. Fielding apologize without offering explanation or change of expression. This puzzled me, as Daniel usually had a glib word to soften any occasion. The tension with which he regarded his brother told me clearly that Daniel did not like him, or at least did not trust him.

  “Perhaps you would prefer to sit, Mrs. Holloway.” Mr. Fielding dragged a chair from the corner, a carved wooden one with upholstery on its seat and back. This was the vicar’s seat, hardly appropriate for a cook.

  “Thank you, but no need. Please, tell me the problem, and perhaps we can solve it and all take some rest this night.”

  Mr. Fielding gave me a look of surprised respect, and his manner softened. “I apologize for troubling you at all. I came to Daniel with this matter, because he is far and away the most capable man I know. He wished to ask you about it, and thought it would be easier if I explained it myself.”

  So far, there had been much apologizing and little explaining, but I did not admonish him. I opened my hands and waited for him to begin.

  “I have a parish in the East End,” Mr. Fielding said. “A small church called All Saints in Shadwell, among the most wretched of society. But as I came from a wretched place myself, I fit there.” He flashed me a smile that contained no hint of that dark past. “Daniel and I were raised together, and he tells me you know under what circumstances. We refer to each other as brother, but we were no such thing, though as close as. After the man we called our father died, I eked a living on the streets until I had the fortune to be taken in by a gentleman who’d lost his own son. He raised me and paid for me to be privately tutored, and then managed to get me into Balliol—Oxford—as a charity student, where I studied and took holy orders. Though my foster father is wellborn—the younger son of a marquess, in fact—I am not, and so I doubt I will rise higher than I have, but I will be forever grateful for him.”

  His speech sounded a bit rehearsed, but perhaps Mr. Fielding was trying to convince me he was respectable. The gentleman who’d taken him in must have been one of rare benevolence to give a boy off the streets an education at his own expense.

  “I find that I like being a shepherd—as it were,” Mr. Fielding went on. “Helping those who were like myself. Though I am no soft touch—I worked hard to relieve myself from poverty and to show my gratitude to my foster fa
ther, and I expect no less of my parishioners. One duty I have taken on, which I do without objection, is to serve on the board of governors of the Foundling Hospital in Brunswick Square.”

  I knew exactly the place to which Mr. Fielding referred, and a chill went through me.

  Years ago, when I’d realized I’d conceived, I’d made myself walk to the formidable gray building that was the Foundling Hospital. It stretched its arms around a vast courtyard, forbidding and confining at the same time. I’d hated the Hospital yet was drawn to it, my young heart terrified I’d have no choice but to leave my child there when I delivered her.

  I knew that within the Foundling Hospital’s walls, Grace would have been fed, clothed, and taught a trade, one that would keep her from the streets, disgrace, and an early death. But I’d likely never have seen her again. That was the price a woman paid for depositing her baby on their doorstep. She turned away and left the child, trusting others to do what they could for her.

  In the end, I was grateful to the gray brick building and its frowning windows, and the equally gray children I’d seen in the courtyard, dressed all alike, marching along under the guide of a matron or rector. It made me decide to work my fingers to the bone to raise my daughter myself, to never give her up, to hold her in my arms and keep her safe.

  No easy task, but I did not regret my choice. Grace, now age eleven, lived with my friends, kind people who forgave me my foolishness and looked after Grace with the wages I sent them.

  I did not trust myself to answer Mr. Fielding, so I nodded.

  “I was elected to the board a year ago, and it has been uneventful thus far,” Mr. Fielding said. “I don’t see the children much, but vote on budgets, look over accounts, advise on matters of spiritual education, that sort of thing.”

  He paused as though waiting for my acknowledgment, and I nodded again. I noticed that he, as had Cynthia’s friend earlier this evening, talked to me, not at me or around me. I also noticed Daniel’s cynical expression, as though he did not believe Mr. Fielding had any business advising on spiritual education.

  “Please continue,” I prompted when Mr. Fielding’s pause extended. “You said your year was uneventful. Has that changed?”

  “It has.” Mr. Fielding heaved a sigh. “As you might gather, Mrs. Holloway, when I was younger, I was a reprobate, and in many ways still am.” His blue eyes took on the twinkle I’d seen when he’d spoken of his past, but the twinkle swiftly died. “But this has distressed me.”

  “Tell her,” Daniel said, his voice hard. “No one is blaming you.”

  “That is true. There is nothing to blame me for.” Mr. Fielding gave me a troubled look. “A few children have gone missing from the Foundling Hospital.”

  My eyes widened in alarm. “Good heavens. Have you informed the police?”

  “Not exactly.” Mr. Fielding glanced about the small room, as though worried he’d be overheard. “When one of the nurses, a young woman called Nurse Betts, noticed them absent, she reported this to me, as a member of the board, and wanted to go to the police. But it would have to be done discreetly, I knew. The Hospital does not want to be known as a place that loses children. Funding would diminish, certainly. The Hospital was formed by a royal charter, and no one wants to risk that. I convinced Nurse Betts to leave the matter in my hands. I consulted with the director of the Hospital—Lord Russell Hirst—who is in charge of the day-to-day running of it, and another governor, an unctuous bishop called Exley. They forestalled me by telling me the children had been fostered, quietly, though no one has seen them since.”

  “But you do not believe they were,” I said, disquiet touching me. “Or you’d not have consulted Daniel. Why are you certain the children are missing?”

  “I was more concerned than panicked.” Mr. Fielding sounded apologetic. “But then Nurse Betts disappeared herself. That I did report, but the police are useless—they tried to tell me she might simply have gone off on her own. But it is too much of a coincidence for my taste.”

  “Why come to me?” I directed these words at Daniel, who’d rested a hip on the edge of a table and folded his arms, a most irreverent posture for a sacristy. “I do not like this tale and believe the police ought to search diligently for the nurse as well as the children, but what do you think I can do?”

  “Ask questions,” Daniel said readily. “You are good at making people answer them. Speak to the servants at the Hospital. They likely know much about the comings and goings there.”

  I threw him a look of exasperation. “I am flattered by your confidence, but I can hardly march into the kitchens of the Foundling Hospital and begin interviewing the cooks and maids. You’d find it a much easier task yourself, going to them in your delivery van. I have no doubt you could finagle your way into the firms who supply the Hospital.”

  Mr. Fielding flashed me a very un-clerical grin. “Daniel has ever been skilled at finagling.”

  Daniel pretended to ignore him. “I could and possibly will. But people open up to you, Kat. Besides, you have a foundling in your own kitchen, another reason I suggested that Errol speak to you.”

  “Do I?” I blinked. The kitchen staff had been there before I’d come, except Tess, and I knew she wasn’t a foundling. She’d been raised by parents, though not very good ones. I hadn’t asked any of the others about their origins, considering it none of my affair.

  “Elsie, your scullery maid. She told James,” Daniel said. “She was raised at this very Hospital. She can tell you who you can chat with, might even know the missing children and nurse in question.”

  I would certainly ask her, but I fixed both men with a steely gaze. “I have quite a lot to do, Daniel. I cannot simply leave the kitchen whenever I wish. Food does not cook itself.”

  I spoke with less conviction than my tone might convey. I did not like Mr. Fielding’s story, as Daniel knew I would not. If Mr. Fielding had been worried about someone fiddling the accounting, I’d have walked home and told them to leave me be, but missing children was a different matter entirely. I knew full well the horrors of London for a lad or lass on his or her own. Having to beg for coin or food would be the least terrible thing that could befall them.

  “I will consult with Elsie,” I said. “Day after tomorrow I take my day out, and I will see what I can do.”

  Daniel flashed me the smile that never failed to warm me. “Thank you, Kat.”

  Mr. Fielding noticed what passed between us with sudden interest. “Ever the charmer, is our Daniel. Do not believe anything he says, Mrs. Holloway. You can take my word as a vicar on that.”

  “You weren’t always a vicar,” Daniel said darkly.

  Mr. Fielding burst out laughing, an impudent sound that did not go with this solemn place. “That is true. Reprobate, as I said, but I am now respectable and reformed—mostly.” His merriment faded. “I truly am concerned, Mrs. Holloway. I’d rest easier knowing these children were well.”

  The look he gave me was sincere, a kindly one in a handsome face. He claimed Daniel was a charmer, but I saw that this man too could charm, laughing at himself while showing sincerity deep in his eyes.

  There was something else in those eyes as well, I’d seen when he’d spoken the name of the missing nurse. A worry that had changed into fear, one that had made him seek Daniel, a fellow survivor from his distant past. I very much wanted to know more about Nurse Betts and what she meant to Mr. Fielding.

  * * *

  * * *

  Daniel walked me home. I could have gone perfectly well by myself—after all, I’d arrived on my own—but he led me out into the rain, hand firm on my elbow.

  It was not far to Mount Street, but the wind had picked up, and the going became arduous. With some relief, I descended the stairs that led from the street to my kitchen, glad to be out of the wind, though the stairwell was quite dark. Very clean, however. Mrs. Redfern, our new housekeeper, was
diligent about sending a maid and a footman out to clear and scrub the steps.

  Daniel descended with me, but before I could open the back door, he pulled me to a halt. “I am glad to see you, Kat.”

  The warmth in his voice was agreeable, but the cold wind was foul, and I’d prefer to speak to him out of the weather.

  “Come in and have tea,” I said. “I still have a bit left from Mr. Li.” A Chinese man I’d done a kindness for had rewarded me with a gift of exquisite leaves directly from China.

  Daniel was already shaking his head. “Things to do, and I’m late.” He closed in on me under the stairs, which was also agreeable, though I realized he merely wished to not be overheard.

  “You are good to help, and I knew you would be,” he said in a low voice. “But have a care with my brother. He has taken a collar and proclaims himself a virtuous man, but his motives are not always clear.”

  “Yes, I gathered that.”

  “Did you? All I heard was his smooth tongue trying to convince you he’d reformed.”

  “My dear Daniel, my head is not easily turned by a handsome gentleman,” I said. “He tried too hard to be convincing.”

  Daniel relaxed. “I know you are no fool, but Errol can be beguiling.”

  “What intrigues me more is that you have said not one word about him. Nor made any mention you had a brother at all.”

  Daniel’s grin flashed. “Foster brother. There is a saying—Least said . . . soonest forgotten.”

  “It is Least said, soonest mended. You are evading the question.”

  “I am.” Daniel’s eyes glittered in the darkness. “I will tell you all about dear brother Errol another time, when we are warmer and cozier, and I am not in such a rush. For now—do not trust him. He has the voice of an angel, but Lucifer was once an angel, remember.”