Murder in the East End

by Jennifer Ashley

  I took her hand, ashamed I’d been lying here feeling sorry for myself when she faced her aunt’s needling about her unwed state every day. “I agree a woman should not marry simply for the sake of marrying, but seek a man she esteems and respects,” I said, my voice a rasp. “But what will you do if you don’t marry? I ask of practicality, not despair. At one time, you were prepared to go live with Lady Roberta.”

  “Yes, but Bobby had assumed we’d become lovers. I had to disappoint her, poor gel.”

  Cynthia spoke lightly, but I remembered she’d been quite upset she’d had to hurt Bobby’s feelings, fearing she’d lose her closest friend.

  “She has become fond of another, you said.”

  “Indeed she has.” Cynthia’s grin flashed. “Miss Townsend.”

  “Ah.” Surprise flickered through my misery, but it explained things. No wonder Miss Townsend was serenely single, no worries about matrimony on her mind.

  “Terribly dark secret.” Cynthia lowered her voice to a whisper. “Her family mustn’t know, in case they cut off the funds. Bobby won’t mind if you know though.”

  “She knows my secret.” I was feeling a bit better as I lay here—perhaps what I’d needed was rest.

  “And respects you the more for it—she said so.” Cynthia waved her hand, the damp cloth scattering droplets on my coverlet. “I can’t run off with Bobby and interrupt her domestic bliss, but I wish I could go somewhere. Driving me mad, living in this house, dodging the gentlemen Auntie tosses at me. I’d sympathize with the poor chaps, but she has a talent for inviting the most insipid, empty-headed young fools imaginable. They’ve never read a book in their lives. If you mention Michelson’s thoughts on the speed of light, they think you’re talking about a racehorse.”

  I didn’t know who Michelson was nor much about the speed of light—indeed, I’d had no idea light had a speed—but again I heard the ring of Elgin Thanos in her words.

  “I want you to marry Mr. Thanos.” The words slipped out before I could stop them—I must have a fever coming on.

  Cynthia sprang up, but only to pace. “That’s rich, Mrs. H. He’s lovely, and a friend, but he’ll have no interest in taking a wife who likes to wear trousers. He needs a quiet, sweet young woman who will organize his notes, bring him tea, and make certain his boots match.” Her voice faltered, as though she pictured Mr. Thanos with such a young woman.

  “You rub along well,” I said with conviction. “He admires you so very much, and you admire him. All we must decide upon is how you will live.”

  Cynthia ceased pacing and gaped at me. “You are serious. If so, you’ve run mad. My family will never let me marry a penniless academic, one of Greek origin, I might add. I must marry a pale lordling with colorless hair, no chin, and a fortune, whose ancestors were here to greet old William when he decided to sail over from Normandy. Not a man whose grandfather had to flee Constantinople in the night.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We will manage it.”

  Cynthia’s cool hand landed on my forehead. “You are burning up. I knew it. What I wish is that I could live independently, never mind my family. I’d have a nice cottage where I could put my feet up or tramp about in boots and trousers, and you could come cook for me. With your daughter. Wouldn’t that be fine?”

  It would be. I closed my eyes, imagining it.

  I must have slipped into sleep, because the next thing I knew, Cynthia was touching a light kiss to my cheek. “You have a rest, Mrs. H. Tomorrow, we’ll think of something. And you will tell me everything you and Mr. McAdam have been getting up to. Elsie let slip you are looking into something at the Foundling Hospital. I won’t cease until you admit me to your adventures.”

  * * *

  * * *

  In the morning, my throat was tight, my head aching—the natural consequence of being out too long in the cold and rain—but the fever I’d experienced in bed the previous night had lessened. I only hoped I didn’t begin sniffling.

  I washed my face and hands and dressed in my work frock, going down to the kitchen. I did not know what to expect, but it was my duty to go, and so I went.

  This was Friday morning, and Tess was already working, her cheeks pink but her countenance dour. She had changed her day out to Saturdays earlier this winter—I suspect because Caleb, the constable of this street, had Saturday afternoons off. Therefore Tess was now hunkered over the table, though working without her usual cheer.

  Charlie shoveled coal into the stove, brushing his face with the back of his hand and leaving a black streak on it. Elsie, who had no dishes in her sink yet, peeled potatoes while Tess had bacon frying.

  Mrs. Redfern, who must have been waiting to see whether I’d come down, rustled in behind me, the keys that hung at her side softly clinking. “Lady Matthew Baird needs a cook, I’ve heard. She has a house in Brook Street, though she spends a good part of the summer in Lincolnshire. As her cook, you’d travel with her.”

  I could not take the post then, as I needed to stay in London all year. I’d put up with the heat and stink of the city to be a short omnibus ride from Grace.

  “Thank you,” I said. “That is kind of you.”

  “You’ll find a place, I have no doubt.” She tried to speak reassuringly, but she knew the difficulties I faced.

  Tess would not look at me. I had no wish to leave her behind to a new cook’s temper and Mrs. Bywater’s arbitrariness, but I would do her no favors if I allowed her to leave with me. I could not guarantee that a new mistress would hire a cook and her assistant both.

  As I began to don my apron, Mr. Davis appeared. “She says you’re not to cook today.” The disgust in his tone was deep.

  My hands froze in the act of tying the apron’s knot. “Pardon?”

  “She wants to see how Tess gets on. You are to spend the day putting together your things and searching for a new post.”

  “I see.”

  Mr. Davis’s cheekbones stained red. “She is a commoner, Mrs. Holloway. Doesn’t understand the least thing about running a large household. In Somerset, her servants are a cook who doubles as a charwoman and a person from the village who comes in twice a week to do the gardening.”

  His derision was acute. Mr. Davis did not believe a home could be run with less than a dozen servants, no matter how few people actually lived in it.

  “No doubt she finds it a savings, Mr. Davis.” I hung up my apron and fetched my coat and hat, still on their hooks from last night. The hat was dry now, but the straw was misshapen, its ribbon trim rain-blotched.

  Tess at last looked up. Her unhappiness tore at me. “Where are ya going?”

  “Out.” If Mrs. Bywater did not wish me to work, I could spend my time on the problem Daniel had handed me.

  “I will come back,” I added as Tess gazed at me in anguish. “I promise. I have errands to run.”

  Tess had tears in her eyes as she bent her head again, but she scowled at Elsie as though daring her to say a word. Elsie remained silent, too reticent to speak.

  I climbed the stairs to the street. The rain from the previous day had ceased, but a cold wind blew down the road, stirring last autumn’s dead leaves. I buttoned my coat to my chin and trudged around the corner and down South Audley Street on my way to the omnibus.

  “Mrs. Holloway!” Lady Cynthia’s voice sang out as I reached Curzon Street some minutes later.

  I halted and waited as Cynthia caught up to me at a run. She wore boots laced to her knees, which were encased by cuffs of knee breeches nearly hidden by her long coat. She’d dressed more mannishly than usual today, with a scarf wrapped around her throat and a tall hat pulled down over her scraped-back hair. If I had not known better, I would have thought a slim young gentleman chased me down.

  Cynthia carried a satchel in her fine-gloved hand. “Where are you off to, Mrs. H.?” Her breath fogged in the cold air.

 
; “The East End. To see a vicar.”

  “Capital. I’ll join you.”

  I was not certain the East End was the place for Lady Cynthia, no matter that she was dressed convincingly as a male. The toughs there would steal every bit of clothing from any well-clad person, regardless of their sex.

  “Where were you off to?” I asked, eying the satchel with suspicion.

  She swung that article. “Me? Running away from home.” Cynthia laughed cheerily. “Let’s fetch a hansom, shall we?”

  8

  There was absolutely no use dissuading Cynthia and sending her back home, and I did not try very hard. Truth to tell, I was grateful of the company today—I would discuss her rash decision later.

  “We are going to Shadwell,” I informed the cabbie Cynthia had hailed. “A church called All Saints.”

  The driver, bundled against the cold, never looked at us twice as we settled in. Cynthia did not speak to the driver at all, to my relief. She shoved the satchel, apparently heavy, under the seat, and sat back, arms folded.

  The hackney clopped away. Slowly. Traffic was heavy in Piccadilly, and it took a long time to move.

  “Have you ever been to the East End?” I asked Cynthia.

  “Of course. Bobby likes to slum. Poverty doesn’t shock and offend me, Mrs. H. Saddens me, rather. What a shame, that I’m expected to put on frocks that cost the earth while others can barely buy bread.”

  “Sad, yes, but also dangerous. We are not taking a holiday.”

  “Do give me some faith that I’m not a frivolous being. I will help you with whatever you are up to, and keep an eye out for new lodgings at the same time.”

  I did not answer. Cynthia, I’d come to know in the year I’d worked for her family, could be kindhearted and generous, often impulsively so, but not always wise. I agreed her situation was troubling, but a gently born young woman had a terrible time making her way in this world alone. She would need a safe place to stay, a friend to look after her.

  As we went, I told Cynthia in a low voice about Mr. Fielding and his worries about Nurse Betts and the children from the Foundling Hospital. I also related what Elsie had told me about the Hospital, my journey there, and what I’d discovered from Mrs. Compton, the cook. Cynthia listened, blue eyes filling with concern.

  The hansom traveled the length of Piccadilly, past Leicester Square and to Long Acre, then north to High Holborn and Cheapside, too near where my daughter resided. I gazed longingly at the turning to the Millburns’ home, wanting to run to her, but there would be too many questions, too many explanations. I did not want to worry Grace or the Millburns yet about my change in circumstance.

  The hansom moved with the many carriages, carts, and vans jammed in the City, all of us traveling under a thick pall of smoke. We passed the grand edifices that made up the financial world of London, through Cornhill and Leadenhall to Aldgate Street, and so to Whitechapel Road.

  The cabbie kept up a foul soliloquy the length of the journey about the many vehicles and their incompetent drivers, shouting his disapprobation and being shouted at in return. At one point our wheels locked with that of a wagon, our driver raising his whip in threat.

  The drover, a large man with giant hands, only said, “Steady on, mate,” and efficiently maneuvered his horse until the spokes slid from our hub, and the hansom jerked forward once more.

  Cynthia looked back around the canopy of the hansom and gave the drover a good-natured wave.

  “Whew,” she said under her breath. “We’ll hire a different man for the journey back.”

  At the corner of Whitechapel Road stood the church of St. Mary Matfelon, which had once been whitewashed, I’ve been told, which was why this entire area was known as Whitechapel. Scaffolding covered the building’s walls today, as it was being rebuilt after a fire. From there, the cabbie turned south into Shadwell, an area bustling with traffic and shops, warehouses and workhouses. The bulk of the London hospital and medical college weighted down the horizon. Young men dissected unfortunate beings there, learning from the dead how to stitch and dose the living.

  Mr. Fielding was vicar of the small church of All Saints on Christian Street, a fitting name for the road. I hadn’t been much to the East End and hadn’t seen this particular building before, but I liked it at once. It was elegant and devoid of the overly Gothic embellishments renovators seemed to have put on in the last few decades. The exterior was rather plain, with clear glass windows, reminding me of Grosvenor Chapel.

  Cynthia handed me down like a gallant swain and tossed the cabbie a coin. He snatched it out of the air and drove sullenly away without looking at us. I wager he’d never realized Lady Cynthia was female.

  I had no way of knowing whether Mr. Fielding was even about, and he wasn’t expecting me. Cynthia hoisted her satchel, and we went into the churchyard through a tall gate that squeaked.

  The iron fence encircled the church, shutting it firmly away from the street beyond it. Urchins in ill-made clothing played some game on the road that involved throwing small rocks, and they jeered at us through the bars. Cynthia glanced at them in curiosity, but I took no notice. If we paid them too much mind, they might start chucking the stones at us.

  A path led around the church to a small house I assumed was the vicarage. As it was a Friday, nearing noon by now, any vicar would be at home, consuming his lunch. A housekeeper with a round face and wisps of white hair across her chin began to tartly tell us just that—the vicar was at his meal and wouldn’t be disturbed.

  “If you’ve come about his charitable works, I’m afraid you’ll have to make an appointment or see him after evensong. He’s very busy, is our Mr. Fielding.” She said it fondly and proudly.

  “Please tell him Mrs. Holloway has come about the matter we spoke of on Tuesday last,” I said. “We will wait.”

  The woman did not look surprised that I spoke instead of the gentleman behind me. Church and charitable work was usually the purview of the ladies.

  Hurried footsteps sounded behind the housekeeper, and a moment later Mr. Fielding appeared behind her, beaming a smile at us. “Mrs. Holloway.” He greeted me as though he’d been looking forward to this meeting all week. “This is indeed a pleasant event.”

  Mr. Fielding held a napkin but was formally dressed in a suit with a black shirtfront and white collar. “Come in, come in. No matter, Mrs. Hodder. Mrs. Holloway is helping me on business of great importance. Lay a place for her and her friend, if you please.”

  “A cup of tea will do nicely,” I said quickly. “No need for more.”

  Vicars, especially those of an East End parish, were notoriously poor, their livings meager. I did not wish to eat food the housekeeper might be saving for her supper.

  “Just as you like.” Mr. Fielding ushered us into a dining room a few feet from the front door. It was a cozy space, barely accommodating a small dining table, a short sideboard, and a corner cupboard.

  Mrs. Hodder, with less stiffness, brought out two extra cups and saucers, set them on the table, and lifted a fat white teapot to pour a stream of very dark tea into the cups. She gave us curious glances, but left us to it when Mr. Fielding signaled her to go.

  I waited until I heard Mrs. Hodder’s footsteps recede from the closed door before I removed my hat and coat and sat down. The housekeeper had not offered to take our wraps, a hint that we should not stay long.

  “Who is your quiet friend?” Mr. Fielding asked me, resuming his seat and lifting his teacup. “May I make his acquaintance?”

  Cynthia, who’d taken the chair next to mine, swept off her hat and tossed it to a bench under the window. “Her acquaintance. Lady Cynthia Shires, at your service, sir.”

  Mr. Fielding’s hand jerked, tea spilling over his wrist. He hastily set down the cup, shaking out his fingers and snatching up his napkin.

  “Good Lord.” Mr. Fielding peered at Lady Cy
nthia in delight as he wiped off his hands. “Such an elegant young lady, but wearing the drab clothes we chaps are forced into day after day. What made you take it up?”

  “If you must ask, then you will never understand.” Cynthia gave him a weary look and sipped her tea.

  “Perhaps not. I am very curious—how do you keep from being arrested? But then, you said Lady Cynthia, which means an aristocratic connection. Is your father a duke, a marquess, or an earl?”

  I answered, somewhat sharply, “An earl. But we have come about urgent business, Mr. Fielding. I suggest you curb your questions for another time.”

  Mr. Fielding flicked his blue gaze to me. I saw a worry deep in his eyes, which flared and died in the space of an instant. Then his smile spread over his face.

  “You do right to admonish me, Mrs. Holloway. This is no time to be frivolous. You must have discovered something important to journey all the way to Shadwell, with only this lady as escort.”

  “I have.” I saw no reason not to dive straight into the matter. “Nurse Betts. You know her. Not only do you know her, but you have been seen several times with her. The cook at the Foundling Hospital believes you have become her beau.”

  Mr. Fielding’s smile died, as did anything good-humored on his face. “Yes, Daniel has already twitted me for this. My fault for believing I’d been discreet.”

  “It is true then? You are walking out with her?”

  Mr. Fielding sagged back into his chair. “Yes, I confess it. I am very fond of Nurse Betts.”

  And now she was missing. When Mr. Fielding looked at me again, I saw a man in misery.

  Cynthia pulled a flask from her pocket, reached across the table, and poured a dollop of pungent whisky into his tea. “Have a sip of that. Will pull you together.”

  Mr. Fielding hid his start and drank obediently, some color returning to his face.

  “Why did you not simply tell me at once?” I asked him as he recovered. “Or Daniel. If you are well acquainted with Nurse Betts, you might help suggesting places to search for her.”