Murder in the East End

by Jennifer Ashley

  The warning made me shiver—or perhaps it was the wind. “You sound dire.”

  “Errol was a bad ’un once, and I have no reason to suppose he’s changed.”

  I grew more curious. “How long since you’ve spoken to him?”

  Daniel rubbed his chin. “Ten years? Possibly. I’d hoped it would be longer, but today he too easily found me. Have a care of him, Kat.”

  He leaned closer and fulfilled my earlier wish by kissing me lightly on the lips. The merest brush, but a spark jumped inside me to ease the cold.

  Daniel drew a thick-gloved finger across my cheek. “Good night, Kat.” He paused, as though he’d turn and go, then he said, “I missed you.”

  I could have responded with something sentimental, such as, I missed you too. Please don’t stay away so long again.

  But sentimentality embarrassed me, and I said instead, “You missed my cooking, you mean. If you scrub yourself up, I might have a scrap to spare you when next you decide to darken my door.”

  Not rebuffed in the slightest, Daniel released me and laughed. “I missed you indeed. Good night, Kat.”

  He doffed his cap and dashed up the stairs with an energy unnatural for so late an hour. His laughter floated back to me, rich and deep, warming me in the damp darkness.

  I skimmed inside on light feet, through the silent scullery, pots gleaming from Elsie’s skill, to find Mrs. Redfern standing squarely in the middle of the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Holloway,” she greeted me.

  I stifled a yelp of surprise then slid out of my coat in pretended nonchalance. “Mrs. Redfern. Have you not gone to bed?”

  “I prefer to be the last to retire.”

  I heard the steel in her voice. Mrs. Redfern had been the housekeeper next door until that household had moved north to Liverpool. Mrs. Redfern, wishing to stay in London, had accepted a post in this house, as we’d had a vacancy.

  Mrs. Redfern was efficient, fair, and competent, but like me, she brooked no nonsense. I was used to coming and going somewhat as I pleased—Mr. Davis, while he was curious or disapproving of my unplanned outings, did nothing to stop me. Mrs. Redfern was a bit more exacting.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said, trying to sound contrite. “I did not realize you’d waited up for me.”

  “I only wished to bolt the door.” Mrs. Redfern moved past me into the scullery and did so, giving the scullery itself a quick glance before reemerging. “I have no intention of being a telltale, Mrs. Holloway, but I happened to notice you returning with Mr. McAdam.”

  My face warmed, and I busied myself hanging up my coat and dripping hat. “He was good enough to walk me home in the rain, yes.”

  “More than that, I think. Tess was gleeful you’d slipped out to meet him. She is romantic.” Mrs. Redfern’s tone indicated she would never be so. “Do have a care, Mrs. Holloway. Mr. McAdam is an unsavory sort, and Mr. Davis agrees. Consider that this man asked you to see him on such a night, so late. I speak only as one concerned.”

  I had considered it, and I’d rushed straight into the darkness to find him. Perhaps I was not so impervious to charming gentlemen as I’d claimed to Daniel.

  Mrs. Redfern seemed to be waiting for an explanation—or apology perhaps? “His son told me it was important,” I said. A truth.

  “And was it?”

  “I believed it so.” I had no intention of regaling her with the full tale.

  “I fear that you will come to grief over him,” Mrs. Redfern said, her sternness relenting a bit. “If it is ever hinted that you are less than respectable, Mrs. Holloway, you could lose your post, and what would become of you?”

  Her concern was real, and she was right. In spite of her rigid manner, I knew Mrs. Redfern spoke out of worry, not admonition. At least, not much admonition.

  “No harm done,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “I did go out to speak to Mr. McAdam, but as we were also conversing with a vicar, my virtue was in no danger.”

  “A vicar?” Mrs. Redfern looked alarmed, as though convinced I was about to elope with Daniel.

  “He is a . . . friend . . . of Mr. McAdam’s,” I said quickly. “Nothing untoward. The man is on the board of the Foundling Hospital, in fact. Good night, Mrs. Redfern.”

  She regarded me in grave suspicion but at last gave me a stiff nod. “Good night, Mrs. Holloway.”

  Mrs. Redfern remained in the middle of the kitchen as I departed for the long climb to my bedchamber. I heard her closing doors behind me, and it grew very dark as she put out the last of the lamps.

  * * *

  * * *

  I was weary in the morning, but arrived on time at my post to prepare breakfast. Tess, a surprisingly early riser today, had already begun the bread for the day and a pan of sausages and potatoes for the staff.

  Mrs. Redfern hurried through on her way to supervise the maids upstairs, the woman fresh and hearty, though she’d retired after I had. She barely glanced at me as she went about her duties, never saying a word about our encounter.

  “Morning, Mrs. H.”

  Lady Cynthia’s drawling voice preceded her into the kitchen. She took a seat at the table and reached for a carrot from the bunch Tess chopped. Tess gave her a grin, more comfortable now with Cynthia’s impromptu visits.

  Cynthia wore trousers, waistcoat, and frock coat, with a cravat loosely tied about her neck. She’d told me once that in dressing in men’s clothing, she merely emulated a famous lady novelist from France called George Sand, but as I’d never heard of the woman, the reference meant little to me. Lady Cynthia and I had become friends, growing ever closer—she had been of valuable assistance as I’d looked into problems in the past year, some of which had proved quite perilous.

  “Favor to ask,” Cynthia said after I returned her greeting. “My friend, Miss Townsend. You met her last night.”

  I recalled the beautiful young woman who had slipped in next to Cynthia and taken her arm. “The lady who praised my lobster rissoles?”

  Cynthia chuckled. “I thought you’d remember her liking your food. She’s the one who craves a boon. She’s an artist, and a dashed clever one. She wants to paint you, Mrs. H.”

  3

  Paint?” I ceased sorting the mushrooms I’d use in omelets for the upstairs and gazed at Cynthia in dismay. “Me? Are you certain?”

  “I am indeed. She wanted to meet you, which is why I persuaded Auntie to summon you above stairs last evening. I beg your pardon—I know you prefer to rusticate here, but I couldn’t traipse down with Miss Townsend in all our finery without some explanation to my aunt. Besides, I knew you were running about ragged. Didn’t wish to intrude.”

  I returned to the mushrooms. “You could have brought her down a quieter day. This morning, for instance.”

  Cynthia’s face crinkled in amusement. “I enjoy when you admonish me, Mrs. H. So polite you are, but you make your feelings known. I have my reasons. I wanted to show Auntie that Miss Townsend is a quiet-spoken, respectable young woman, never mind she’s an artist. I persuaded Auntie to let her come to the supper ball, and I turned myself out like a dressmaker’s doll so Auntie’s cronies wouldn’t be shocked by me.”

  “You looked beautiful,” I said in true admiration. “The gown suited you.”

  “Ha. Full of pins poking at me—dressmaker had to alter it at the last minute. But my sacrifice was worth it. Worked a dream. Auntie was charmed with Miss Townsend and happy to have her come and paint our servants.”

  I tossed a shriveled mushroom into my slop bowl and continued sorting the others, the woodsy smell comforting.

  “I return to my original question,” I said. “Why does Miss Townsend wish to paint me? And how exactly does she mean to?”

  Tess had been listening hard while her hands continued with the carrots. “Artists’ models are dreadful wicked women, ain’t they?” She sounded more ea
ger than appalled.

  “My, my, I’ve shocked you both,” Cynthia said cheerfully. “Miss Townsend is a lady through and through, I assure you, from a genteel and quiet family. More respectable than my scandalous family, believe me. She paints domestic scenes, in the style of painters like Berthe Morisot or Mary Cassatt.”

  She waited, but I could not claim to be any more familiar with these ladies than I was with the novelist George Sand. My knowledge of the art world was confined to what I read in the newspapers, or what Mr. Davis read out to me—most was criticism of paintings I doubted I’d have the opportunity to view.

  Tess allowed me to hide my ignorance by asking, “Who are they? Sound Frenchified to me.”

  “Miss Cassatt is an American,” Cynthia answered. “But yes, she moved to Paris and is Frenchified now, as you say. Miss Morisot—she is more properly Madame Manet, as she is married to the famous artist’s brother—is indeed French. Anyway, they paint ladies having tea, or mothers with their children, that sort of thing. Miss Townsend had the great fortune to study with Miss Morisot, for which she will be forever grateful. I’m not as clever about art as Bobby, but I think Miss Townsend is a dashing great painter. She is modest about it, but her daubs are beautiful.”

  “And now she wishes to paint a cook.” I finished with the mushrooms and began to separate herbs from their tangle, the pleasing scents of thyme, dill, and chervil replacing the fresh-turned earth scent of the mushrooms.

  “She plans a series of domestic scenes, which will include a cook and maids at work, that sort of thing,” Cynthia explained.

  I gave her a doubtful look. “I cannot imagine ladies and gentlemen in a rush to buy paintings filled with ordinary servants.”

  Cynthia shrugged. “Miss Townsend is less worried about selling the paintings than she is making a name for herself. Fame is her ambition, not fortune. Her family is appallingly wealthy, and they indulge her.”

  How splendid it must be to have a doting family and the money to do anything one pleases. “I don’t have much time, as you know. My day out, I am afraid, is already spoken for.”

  Cynthia understood why. Thursdays, my one full day off, were reserved entirely for my daughter.

  “That is no trouble, Mrs. H. Miss Townsend wants to come down to the kitchen, to sit and make sketches. She doesn’t expect you to pose or anything like that. You and Tess are to go about your business, she says, and she will be a mouse in the corner with a sketchbook.”

  I glanced at the nearest corner, which was filled with a coal bucket, shelves of crockery and copper kettles, brooms, and empty crates waiting to be returned to the market.

  “It will be cramped, hot, and dirty,” I warned. “A lady will never be comfortable here.”

  “Miss Townsend is quite sturdy. The stories she tells me of places she’s lived and things she’s done in pursuit of her art would make your skin prickle. It did mine.” Cynthia rubbed her arms as though feeling the prickle still. “If it is too much trouble for you, I’ll put her off.”

  Cynthia was a kindhearted young woman. Most ladies of the house would simply lead said artist downstairs and tell them to have at it, without bothering about inconvenience to the staff. Cynthia had paused to give consideration to us.

  Also, Cynthia and I had become close in the year that I’d worked in this house, far closer than her aunt was comfortable with. Cynthia thought nothing of coming downstairs to sit in the kitchen while I worked, talking of whatever was on her mind. I was also privy to her comings and goings that her aunt and uncle knew nothing of, and I often let her into the house through the scullery long after she was supposed to have been abed.

  “I admit curiosity,” I said. “I still cannot imagine any interest in pictures of a cook or a kitchen, but as long as she stays out of the way . . .”

  Cynthia leapt to her feet, all smiles. “You’re a brick, Mrs. H. She’ll be thrilled to bits. But quiet.” She raised her hands. “Very quiet and unobtrusive. Besides, having Miss Townsend here might distract Auntie from her zeal in trying to marry me off.”

  “Has she started again?” I asked companionably.

  Cynthia gave an inelegant snort. “She has never left off. The fits do ebb but never go away entirely. I sometimes think I should elope with a roué and stymie her efforts.” She sighed. “But then, I’d be shackled to a roué, which I can’t imagine would be an improvement on my lot now.”

  “A lady must choose her husband carefully,” I agreed.

  “I wish a lady didn’t have to bother with a husband at all. Miss Townsend is fiercely unmarried. Perhaps I will emulate her.”

  But Miss Townsend had money and a family who did not mind what she did. A very different situation from a penniless young woman whose parents and aunt found her an inconvenience.

  I could see that Cynthia understood this as well. She made a wry face, gave me a wave, and headed for the door. “Thanks for the trouble, Mrs. H. Tess.” She left the kitchen with her usual rapid stride, and disappeared toward the back stairs.

  “Fancy, I might be in a picture hanging high on someone’s wall.” Tess grinned, her knife flying over the carrots. “Won’t my friends laugh?”

  “Miss Townsend might decide not to use our faces at all,” I said. “Or we’ll be so small no one will recognize us.”

  Tess was not bothered. She continued with the carrots, humming a merry tune.

  I did hope Miss Townsend did not make us recognizable. I could not imagine the embarrassment of appearing in a painting, no matter how innocuous that painting might be. I preferred anonymity and moving through life in a calm and peaceful manner. Much more comfortable all around.

  * * *

  * * *

  Not until we’d caught up from the frenzy of breakfast and preparations for the midday meal did I have the chance to speak to Elsie. I moved to the scullery where Elsie clattered pans and dishes in her sink, singing with her usual off-key vigor.

  I waited until she spied me in the doorway, not wishing to speak abruptly and startle her into dropping plates. Elsie blinked at me, shook water off her hands, dried them on a towel, and turned to await my orders.

  “Mr. McAdam tells me you grew up in the Foundling Hospital,” I began, keeping my voice gentle but matter-of-fact.

  Elsie gazed at me without worry. “I did.” Her forehead creased. “Why’d ya ask?”

  I wasn’t certain how to broach the subject, not wanting to concern her until I knew whether there was something to be concerned about. “Last night I spoke to a vicar who is on the board of governors there.”

  Her eyes widened. “A vicar? Has something happened? Is Mabel sick?”

  “No, no,” I said quickly. “The vicar is a friend of Mr. McAdam’s.” I decided to keep the fact that Daniel and Mr. Fielding were foster brothers to myself. “He asked me to help him with a matter there, and Mr. McAdam indicated you came from the Hospital. He never mentioned anyone named Mabel.”

  “Oh.” Elsie relaxed. “That’s all right then. Mabel is a great friend of mine—she’s a bit younger than me, so she’s still taking lessons. I took care of her when she first came. The older girls are assigned younger ones to look after, ya see. I thought perhaps one day, she could be a maid here.”

  She gazed at me in hope, but I had to shake my head. “That is not for me to say, but I can put in a word for her if I think she will suit. Mrs. Bywater, as you know, is particular.”

  Elsie stopped herself from sharing a disgruntled look with me, but only just.

  “What sort of problem? If you don’t mind me asking, Mrs. H.”

  Elsie was young, perhaps seventeen at most, with a pointed face, straight brown hair she wore in a bun, and light brown eyes. She’d already been working here when I’d arrived at the house, but I did not know much about her life before this. She was a cheerful sort, if occasionally excitable, with a terrified scream that could cut wit
h knifelike force. Fortunately, she did not shriek often and spent most of her time humming or singing as she scrubbed.

  When Elsie didn’t work, she slept. Scullery maids were far down in the servant hierarchy, nearly at the bottom. In many houses she’d double as a kitchen maid, cook’s assistant, and even the bootboy. She did not have much time to herself.

  “I do not wish to upset you,” I said. “But a few children might have gone missing. Might,” I added emphatically. “They also might be just fine, but taken to another place. A nurse has gone too, perhaps with them.”

  Elsie watched me in trepidation. “What children?”

  Mr. Fielding had told me their names before I’d departed the sacristy for the rainy night. “Three—two boys and a girl. Sam Howes, Joshua Tarr, and Margaret Penny.”

  Elsie shook her head. “I don’t know them. Might have come after me. But maybe Mabel does. I could ask her.”

  “That would be kind.” I had no business demanding Elsie do things for me on her half day out, the only rest allotted her, but this problem bothered me. “I don’t want Mabel to get into any trouble, mind. Or you.”

  Elsie’s dimples returned. “Never. Who is the nurse what’s gone?”

  “Her name is Miss Nell Betts. So the parson told me.”

  Elsie’s faint smile vanished once again. “I do know her. She’s been at the Hospital awhile, though she’s youngish. Very kind too. I hope nothing is wrong.”

  “As do I. What do you know about the nurse? Is she likely to have up and gone without telling anyone?”

  “Don’t think so.” Elsie sent me a dubious look. “She’s sensible—them as is flighty never last long. Weren’t none of us scared of her. Most are fond of Nurse Betts.”

  “For that lady’s sake then, I will try to find her. Could be she had someone in her family to take care of and slipped off to do it.”

  More doubt. “She has a mum and dad, but never visits them much. They don’t get on. Mostly she stayed in on her days off and mended. Liked to sing while she did it.”