Murder in the East End

by Jennifer Ashley

  Tess was sorting the herbs, delight on her face. “These are ever so nice.” She shook out tendrils of dill. “Will make the mushroom sauce so tasty.”

  “They will indeed,” I said. “Why don’t you work out how much is needed?”

  Tess gaped at me, as this was the first instance I’d implied she could come up with a recipe on her own. She closed her mouth then, resolution in her eyes, and began to assess the amount of mushrooms versus dill.

  Mr. Davis turned a page of the evening paper. Every night he read it through carefully before pressing it and taking it upstairs for the master when he came home.

  “Is this the wall that fell on you, Mrs. Holloway?” He rested both arms on the newspaper, white shirt protected by sleeve guards.

  I bent over his shoulder to see a large story spread across an entire page, complete with a sketch of the broken wall, dust, and unfortunate men staggering from the rubble. The picture contained a guard and wildly gesturing constables. Behind the wall was a hint of the buildings, labeled by the journalist as The Coldbath Fields House of Correction.

  “Says it was the work of Fenians,” Mr. Davis said, then began to read. “‘Our correspondent reports that two incendiary devices were placed, one on the north wall between prison grounds and the street, and one on the west side, in Phoenix Street. Nate O’Reilly, a Fenian leader, was spirited away in the confusion, which, the police believe, was the intent of the explosion.’”

  “Fenians?” I asked breathlessly.

  I recalled Daniel in the midst of the chaos—the cold-eyed man asking him a question, and Daniel reluctantly shaking his head.

  16

  I continued to read over Mr. Davis’s shoulder, but the story did not give much more information. The event was so recent I was certain the breathless journalist had scribbled what he could, the artist had dashed off a picture, and both had been shoved into the evening newspaper.

  No one had been killed by the blasts, I saw, but a score of men had been severely injured. Except for the man O’Reilly, no other prisoners had escaped.

  “Them Fenians are a world of trouble,” Tess said as she chopped dill. “Blowing things up, shooting at the queen, hurting anyone who happens to be in the way. To the devil with the lot of them, I say.”

  “I agree,” Mr. Davis said. “They want Ireland to be independent, and it makes ’em desperate. But there’s better ways to do it than chucking incendiaries at innocent people.”

  Mrs. Redfern, who’d paused to take in the tale, joined the debate about what best to do with the Fenians. The three of them came up with rather bloodthirsty solutions.

  I did not participate, the subject being rather close to me. During my first months at this house, a young Irishwoman had been killed, for which I still blamed myself. That incident had led to Daniel and I revealing a Fenian plot against the queen. Daniel had been in Ireland recently, and today, when the prison wall had been felled by the Fenians, he’d been very quick to the fray.

  What had Daniel to do with Fenians? I wondered, my heart speeding as I gathered ingredients for the evening meal. Or had he simply happened to be at Scotland Yard this afternoon, and joined the constables in their rush to the prison?

  He’d been sent to Scotland at one point, and also to Paris, where he’d worked with Miss Townsend. Daniel disappeared from London frequently, and I did not always know where he’d been sent. I reasoned that all these journeys did not necessarily have to do with unrest in Ireland.

  I had once believed Daniel worked for the Foreign Office because of his many journeys out of England, but he’d openly told me I was off the mark.

  Perhaps the police held him in a sort of reserve, I pondered, until they needed a man for very dangerous jobs, such as rounding up Fenians or bringing down thieves of stolen antiquities. That would explain why Daniel truly did work as a deliveryman, so he could earn a living while he waited for the police to need him again.

  “Mrs. H.!” Tess’s cry startled me out of my woolgathering.

  I prevented myself just in time from pouring a stream of oil into a bowl of sugar, and I quickly set down the carafe.

  “Maybe I should see to the dinner,” Tess said, taking on the gentle tone one uses for the infirm. “You’ve had a shock.”

  “I am perfectly fine.” I redirected the oil to dress the greens I’d torn up and added a splash of vinegar and salt. “You have already done much today.”

  Tess subsided, but she kept a sharp eye on me as we progressed to the white sauce for the cauliflower, and then the fish in clear butter.

  * * *

  * * *

  I did not expect Daniel would visit me that night, and he did not. I remained in the kitchen anyway, sipping tea and writing my notes until very late, until I had to give up and turn in.

  The next day was my day out, Thursday, but I needed to visit the market—as I hadn’t actually done so yesterday—and Tess and I departed for it very early. We stocked up on much produce, bringing home fish and greens I thought the freshest. After we returned, Lady Cynthia came down, accompanying Miss Townsend, who’d arrived once more to resume her drawing.

  Lady Cynthia, in a tailored man’s suit, plunked herself at the kitchen table, stealing a scrap of dough for the breakfast tarts I’d make with the decent apples I’d found on our shopping expedition.

  “Overslept myself,” Cynthia said. “Judith’s fault.” She jerked her head at Miss Townsend, who continued to serenely sketch.

  “Did she make ya sit up all night while she drew you?” Tess asked in interest.

  “Nothing so tame. She and Bobby invited me to a do in Bloomsbury. Freethinking men and women discussing topics of the day. At least, that’s what they told me. Turns out, the freethinking men and women had plenty of whisky, brandy, and wine. Ladies not confined to tea and ratafia.”

  “I never knew Cynthia was so fond of singing,” Miss Townsend said, her eyes on her sketchbook.

  “Cynthia never had so much to drink at one time in her life,” Cynthia said, stealing another scrap. “My head aches so. But it was a fine thing, to wash away the stench of visiting the ladies and gents we met at the Foundling Hospital. Thanos and I had tea with our pair yesterday.”

  “Ah,” I said. I’d wondered when they’d set up a meeting. “What is your report?”

  Only Tess and I and Miss Townsend were in the kitchen at the moment. Charlie was asleep in a corner in the servants’ hall; the maids and footmen upstairs were deep into their chores. Mrs. Redfern was upstairs as well, Mr. Davis in his pantry. Elsie splashed in the scullery, but I didn’t mind if she heard Lady Cynthia’s tale. She had an interest in this too.

  “Judith tells me that the Floreys, one of the couples, are quite fine people,” Cynthia began. “Just my luck she chooses the upstanding citizens. They apparently are anxious to have children, are getting nowhere, and have decided to adopt a few poor foundlings. They are filled with sympathy and goodness, says Judith.”

  “That was my impression,” Miss Townsend said without ceasing her work.

  “Thanos and I met with Mr. and Mrs. Woolner. Agnes and Nelson.” Cynthia took a quick sip of tea I’d put before her. “Unsavory people. Thanos has written to the director to keep them far from the Hospital and its children.”

  I halted in the act of peeling an apple. “Oh dear.”

  “Quite.” Another slurp of tea. “I scarce dare repeat what they said to us. I thought I was inured to vileness, as Bobby and I have slipped into clubs where gentlemen do not withhold their ideas about what women are good for, but I have corrected that misapprehension.”

  “Nutters, are they?” Tess asked. “You’d be amazed what gets shouted at me on the streets. From gentlemen what should be respectable, no less.”

  “Some gentlemen believe they only need behave well under certain conditions,” Miss Townsend said from her corner. “They show another face
when no ladies are present, or when not among gentlemen they need to impress with their uprightness.”

  Such as a vicar, I added silently. “Is Mr. Thanos very upset?” I asked. He was a gentleman in all senses of the word.

  “He is indeed. I believe he’s taken to his bed.” Cynthia’s face was wan. “Without repeating the entire sordidness of it, Mr. and Mrs. Woolner keep their married life lively by bringing in others to entertain them both. This may be another man or woman, or another couple—they openly hinted they’d like me and Mr. Thanos to join them. They also expressed interest in those much younger than themselves of either sex.” Her hand tightened on her teacup, and I understood her need to imbibe the night before. “They assured us they didn’t mean too young, but certainly not fully grown. And they assured us they paid the young people well.”

  “Which makes it acceptable, in their eyes,” Miss Townsend added tightly.

  I knew full well that girls of thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, and sadly even younger, lads too, plied such a trade on the streets and in bawdy houses. Some of the houses specialized in youngsters. Reformers and the law went through these houses from time to time and shut them down, but they sprang up again as soon as things quieted down. The practice, in all its guises, went on.

  I set down the knife I’d lifted, calmly, as though rage did not rush through me. “I believe I will set the police on them.” I knew exactly which policeman. Inspector McGregor had no interest in a person’s rank or social standing, only that they’d committed a crime.

  “I will join you,” Miss Townsend said. “If the police balk, I can speak to people who will hurry things along.”

  Her anger matched mine. Cynthia took another gulp of tea. “I will as well. But as much as we pried, neither Thanos nor I believe the Woolners took the children in question. They would have boasted of it, I think. Nor was there any hint in their home, where we met them, that the children had ever been there. They could have hidden the mites away, of course, or stashed them elsewhere, but we heard no sound, saw no evidence of it. Not that I wouldn’t mind the police going through their house and searching. But I also say this because they did not seem to think it would be easy to lure a child from the Foundling Hospital, and in fact, liked that the children were kept there. They enjoy going on a Sunday afternoon and looking at them all, in their drab clothing and strict rules of behavior. The discipline, it seems, excites them.” She shuddered.

  Tess sent her an incredulous look. “They have to be barmy. Should be locked up in Bedlam. Then ladies and gents can walk through and look at them.”

  Miss Townsend chuckled. “That would indeed be an ironic turn of events. Worry not, Cyn. Their house will be searched, and they’ll not touch a child, either from the Hospital or anywhere else.” She spoke with conviction.

  “Thank heaven for that,” Tess breathed. “It’s a crime that such dafties live soft, while honest folk grub for their pennies.”

  Cynthia nodded her agreement.

  I gazed speculatively at Miss Townsend. She’d returned to sketching, quite sanguine that she could stop the Woolners from their unsavory practices. Her family was wealthy and prominent, yes, but I wondered at her confidence in her own powers.

  “Please tell Mr. Thanos I am sorry he had to meet these people,” I said to Cynthia as I returned to the apples. “He has a sensitive nature. Also please accept my apologies that I asked you to speak to them.”

  Cynthia gave me a tremulous smile. “I notice you don’t include me with Mr. Thanos’s sensitivity. But no need to beg my pardon. I volunteered. I imagine that, to catch a criminal, one must encounter all sorts of unsavory people.”

  “Indeed,” I said. “I thank you for your help. You and Miss Townsend both.”

  Miss Townsend gave me a nod. Cynthia drained her tea. “We are backward, Mr. Thanos and me. He went home to put a cold compress on his head, and I went out and calmed my nerves with strong drink.”

  Tess laughed at that, but I did not respond. It did not matter, I believed, what each part of a couple did, only that they enjoyed their companionship and deeper feelings.

  The conversation had changed something in me, however. A new determination awoke to end this, find the children, and punish whoever had taken them within an inch of their lives. I was only a cook, but I would not stand by while people like the Woolners prowled among children. I would do whatever it took, or order men like Inspector McGregor to go out and stop them.

  Cynthia pushed out of her chair. “I’m off to see if Bobby is still alive after our libations last night. You all right here, Judith?”

  “I am. And Bobby is well, if a bit groggy and a slugabed.” Miss Townsend showed no embarrassment that she knew this. “She will likely welcome a visit about now. I will finish here and then speak to people about the Woolners.”

  “Right.” Cynthia stretched, her body lithe in the well-fitting clothes. “Tell Auntie I’ll be in for supper, Mrs. H.” She moved easily into the hall, as though her burden had lessened, and we heard her on the back stairs, her step light.

  Once the kitchen had quieted except for Tess’s humming and the sound of my paring knife, Miss Townsend closed her notebook.

  “Mrs. Holloway, may I speak to you?” She waited, leaving it entirely up to me.

  I dropped the last slice of my apple into a bowl, handed the paring knife to Tess, and led Miss Townsend out.

  We went to the housekeeper’s parlor, which was empty, as Mrs. Redfern was still upstairs. We’d be uninterrupted for a little while at least.

  It was nice to have the housekeeper’s parlor as a sanctuary again. My cookery books had been restored to the shelves, and the room’s air of welcome had returned.

  I indicated that Miss Townsend should take the softest chair, while I settled myself on a straight-backed one. She waited for me to sit, then started directly in.

  “Mrs. Holloway, I realize you are curious as to how I know Daniel McAdam. He could tell you nothing, but that is not his fault. I am now prepared to enlighten you.”

  17

  I did not want to seem too eager to hear all Miss Townsend had to say, but I imagine my quick intake of breath and twitch of hands betrayed me.

  “Mr. McAdam told me the secrets were not his,” I said. “I understand.” So my mouth spoke, but I burned with curiosity.

  “In Paris, two men were secretly and insidiously murdering any gentlemen who had knowledge of weaponry—that is to say, of armaments and of innovations in instruments of battle. Explosives and rifles, that sort of thing.”

  I nodded, though my understanding of armaments was limited. “Did you find these men?”

  “We did indeed. It was difficult, because no one knew exactly who they were, only that those researching and developing improvements to weapons were turning up dead. Obviously murdered—shot or stabbed to death. The killers turned out to be hirelings, who were very good at assassination. Once they were caught and turned over to the French police for trial, I was finished with the business, so I never learned which government they worked for, but it was one that did not want France to advance in terms of weaponry.”

  I shivered. “Were those killed men of science? Not in the military?”

  “You are correct. The gentlemen were involved in study and research, and that research was a deep, deep secret, which meant they were betrayed. Mr. McAdam was recruited to not only flush out the killers but to find the betrayer. I believe he did, in the end. The assassins never made it to the executioner’s block—they were found dead in their cells, possibly murdered, possibly slain by their own hands.”

  I shivered again, harder this time. “I am glad I don’t know much about that world.”

  “As am I.” Miss Townsend nodded, her look sincere. “McAdam was sworn to secrecy. I, as a woman, was not told the extent of the secrets.” Her eyes twinkled. “I was kept out of much, and so not obligated to sign papers vow
ing I’d keep my silence. I know little and can tell little.” She studied me. “I know that the machinations of the French government are not of much interest to you, Mrs. Holloway, but that Mr. McAdam is.”

  My face must have been a vivid shade of red. “Am I so foolish?”

  “Not at all.” Her smile deepened. “I know what strong feelings are—I am no stranger to them. McAdam and I posed as man and wife. We attended the best society events, where those with close ties to the government or vast wealth that funded the research went for entertainment. McAdam reasoned that the assassins learned their secrets from men who liked to boast in social gatherings about what they did, and he proved to be correct. The two assassins posed as wealthy men about town, not taken seriously by anyone, and were highly fashionable and entertaining. It became cachet to be friends with these two. And so they learned where the men of science lived and did their work, infiltrating through their front doors. But Mr. McAdam caught them.” She finished with quiet conviction.

  I glowed with pride in Daniel and his accomplishments, and at the same time, felt a bit left out. He’d done this far away, in danger when I hadn’t known, with this woman as his companion.

  I knew, in practical terms, that Miss Townsend was much taken with Bobby and had no feelings for Daniel, but emotions do not always follow logic.

  “Mr. McAdam and I stayed in the same hotel, but in separate rooms.” Miss Townsend seemed to realize I needed more information. “It is fashionable for a husband and wife to do so, and it suited our purpose. He even let others believe the romantic part of our marriage was over, and we remained married for the convenience of it while seeking pleasure elsewhere. This would explain any lack of passion between us. He is excellent at coming up with stories, is Mr. McAdam.”

  “He is indeed.” I had mixed feelings about that as well. “And did he?” The question came out faintly. “Seek pleasure elsewhere?”

  Miss Townsend’s brows went up. “Dear me, no. His claim made the assassins like him and relax with him, implying they were birds of a feather. But Mr. McAdam, I believe, had already met a woman he wished to be loyal to.”