Murder in the East End

by Jennifer Ashley

  I flinched at the vicious words, but I could not condemn him for them. Nurse Betts had not deserved to die, wretched and in pain. Likely the bullies had hurt many more besides her.

  “I told you we should go after Naismith,” Mr. Fielding went on. “That chap I told you about, his enemy, is willing. He very much wants you to join us.”

  “And then we’d be in thrall to a man as bad as Naismith or worse,” Daniel pointed out.

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  Daniel scowled at him. “This man wants me in his fold, does he? Have you asked yourself why?”

  “Because you’re in thick with the police,” Mr. Fielding answered easily. “Of course I deduced that.”

  “He’d pump me for knowledge I am reluctant to give,” Daniel said. “Then where would we be? Dead, probably.”

  Mr. Fielding shrugged, the movement too nonchalant. “You disappoint me, dear brother. But you are no doubt right.” He seemed to dismiss the matter, but I had the feeling Daniel and I hadn’t heard the last about this man who wanted to go after Mr. Naismith.

  Mr. Fielding became somber once more. “The hell of it is,” he said softly, “Nell was killed not because of the reprobate me, but because of the reformed me. She believed in me, the vicar who worried so much for the foundling children. If she’d known the rogue I truly was, she’d never have tried to find me to help her that day.” He rested his head on the back of the chair, gazing at the ceiling, hiding what was in his eyes.

  “You are better than you know,” I said gently. “If you’d truly been the rogue, she would have seen it. You are not as good at hiding it as you think. She knew, and saw the good man beneath.”

  Mr. Fielding snorted a laugh, lifting his head and wiping his cheeks with the heel of his hand. “Is she truly so naive?” he asked Daniel.

  “Mrs. Holloway is a wise woman,” Daniel said. He lifted a blanket and absently began to fold it.

  “And Daniel is a facetious man,” I countered. “You went to divinity studies to become a vicar,” I said to Mr. Fielding. “Learned scriptures. Some of that must have rubbed off on you—you cannot have been exposed to so much goodness without it seeping in.”

  Mr. Fielding continued to laugh quietly. “You do know that much of history is littered with blood-churning wars in the name of God, Christ, and good works?”

  “I do. But these are more civilized times.”

  “Ha. Read a newspaper more often, dear lady. You will learn much that is shocking.”

  “Be that as it may, I will continue with my assertion that you are a good man, and can bring forth that goodness when you wish. A shoot does not grow on rocky soil.”

  Mr. Fielding grinned at me, his good humor restored for now, which was what I had intended. “Don’t preach the parables to me, dear lady—I know them by heart.”

  “I am pleased to hear it, Mr. Fielding.”

  I reached into my coat pocket and withdrew the photograph Daniel had given me of Nurse Betts and the children in her charge. I held it out to Mr. Fielding. “You keep that. Something to remember her by.”

  Mr. Fielding went perfectly still as he took the photograph and gazed down at it. His hand shook once, and he swallowed.

  I left the room before he could say anything to me, and when I turned back, his attention was still on the picture. Daniel sat in silent compassion, and I left them alone.

  * * *

  * * *

  I went upstairs in Mr. Fielding’s house before we departed it, to visit the children. They seemed to be settling in, and the littlest girl, I saw with some relief, had lost her terrified blankness. The older two girls were looking after her.

  The three lasses shared a large bedroom, which they looked upon as a great luxury. The two youngest boys shared another room, and the oldest lad had his own, next to Mr. Fielding’s. He was an unhappy young man, snarling at me that this cozy arrangement would not last. Mr. Fielding had no money, the youth said, and Mr. Fielding’s parish would force him to throw them out.

  I had other ideas about that.

  I attempted to hug the youngest girl, but she went very stiff when I touched her, and I backed away. Perhaps she’d come to trust again, but I could not imagine it would be soon.

  Daniel and I took our leave as Mr. Fielding was explaining to the youngest lad why climbing the chimney was a bad idea, and Lewis drove us back toward the City.

  “I’m sorry for Mr. Fielding,” I said as we rode. “But I believed what I said, you know. That your brother has a good heart. Deep down.”

  “No, the good heart is yours.” Daniel took my hand, his fingers caressing through my gloves. “I’ve always known that.”

  While his words and his touch comforted me, I could not let that be the end of it. “He will come around. Perhaps caring for the children will be the making of him. He can repay what Mr. Carter did for you both.”

  “Possibly.” Daniel’s tone was cautious, and I had to concede he knew Mr. Fielding far better than I did.

  When we arrived at Cheapside, and I prepared to leap down and walk to the Millburns, Daniel asked Lewis to wait, and he accompanied me to the house.

  I had told my friend Joanna about Daniel, of course. She looked him over dubiously as he grinned at her, which I understood. Daniel was in his laborer’s clothes, and with his unruly hair and worn cap, he did not appear the heroic figure I’d made him out to be.

  Grace, however, was delighted to see him. “Good day, Mr. McAdam.” She shook his hand with pretty manners. “I am glad you’ve come to visit me.”

  “I’ve done one better,” Daniel said, giving Joanna his most charming smile. “I’m here to take you on a treat, you and your mum both. A visit to an artist, who has done a painting of your mother.”

  Joanna’s brow puckered. “Oh?”

  “I explained about that,” I said quickly. “Miss Townsend sketched me cooking. Nothing untoward. I am pleased to hear she has finished.”

  “Not quite finished,” Daniel said. “But the picture is complete enough that she wouldn’t mind you having a look. As I know you’re longing to.”

  I was. When Miss Townsend had announced she’d finished the painting, a great curiosity to see it had surged through me. But of course, the picture was in her private studio, and it would not be dignified or proper for me to beg to be admitted.

  Daniel must have arranged it. He always knew how to turn me up sweet.

  25

  Miss Townsend’s studio was in Mayfair, in a narrow house in Upper Brook Street, near Hyde Park. She’d hired the house and put her studio on the top floor, where the light was best.

  Lady Cynthia, Mr. Thanos, and Bobby were in the studio when we arrived. They greeted Grace with pleasure, as did Miss Townsend when she was introduced.

  Miss Townsend, who did not seem surprised I had a daughter—Bobby had likely told her—gave me a penetrating look, one filled with understanding.

  “This is where I’ve been rusticating,” Miss Townsend said, indicating the studio with a wave. “I apologize, Mrs. Holloway, for not sending word. I had no idea anyone would be so worried about me. I tend to forget the time when I’m hard at it.”

  “I’ll say,” Bobby growled.

  The rooms at the top of the house had been knocked together to form one great loft, six windows letting in light. It was a bit chilly, though a stove had been fitted to the chimney, trying its best to cut the cold.

  Miss Townsend had been working on several canvases. Three large ones dominated standing easels, and one painting, more complete than the others, leaned against the wall under the windows.

  “I’m not finished by a long way,” Miss Townsend said. “But I wanted your opinion. Have I got it right?”

  I stood back and gazed at the four paintings. She’d put the figures of a cook and her assistant in each, and tables, dishes, a
nd some of the food, but not the background.

  I’d worried about being recognized in a painting, but I needn’t have bothered. While the cook had my shape and my style of cook’s dress and apron, the face was a sort of blur with the merest line of jaw and nose. In one, the cook was looking down, her eyes not visible. A curl of dark hair laced from her cap to droop down her neck, exactly as mine did when I was hot and hurried.

  In spite of its odd nature, the painting amazed me. In simple lines, with nothing sharp, Miss Townsend had conveyed the portrait of a cook hard at work, capturing the movement. A cook was never still, always chopping, peeling, stirring, basting, and scurrying to and fro.

  In another painting, the cook was at the stove, her back to the room, and again, I could imagine her shaking the pan or flipping frying sausages. The assistant, having the slim figure of Tess, her unruly hair, and often askew cap, vigorously chopped a carrot.

  The food was more recognizable than the two people—with a glimpse of a scullery maid in the far room washing dishes. A bowl of cooked potatoes sprinkled with parsley gently steamed. Mushrooms, dark and fresh, overflowed a basket. Bright fruit lay both cut and uncut, and in another painting, the table held cakes and tarts, a loaf of sugar waiting to be pounded into usable chunks.

  I stared in awe, my hands coming together in delight, as Miss Townsend watched me carefully.

  Grace came to stand beside me. “Is that you, Mum?” she asked with childish frankness. “You’re all blurry.”

  Laughter around me loosened my tongue. “It is me,” I told her. “And yet, it’s every cook. And every cook’s assistant. They are beautiful.”

  Miss Townsend relaxed. “I’m pleased you approve.” Her words were light, but I heard gratification in them.

  “Will people truly buy these?” I asked.

  “Oh yes,” Cynthia assured me. “Judith sells all sorts of canvases. She has people lined up for her next ones.”

  “Good,” I said. “These should be seen.”

  “You are a lovely woman, Mrs. Holloway,” Miss Townsend said. “I will pour wine, and we will celebrate. Lemonade for your daughter.”

  She had servants downstairs apparently, though I’d seen not a sign of any—Miss Townsend had admitted us to the house herself. She summoned one, not by a bell but through a speaking tube, to my and Grace’s intense interest.

  An elderly butler, who pretended not to notice that a cook, her daughter, and a common deliveryman had come to visit his mistress, arrived with a tray of glasses and a bottle of wine, a carafe of lemonade for Grace. He served with an air of one who’d rather be elsewhere, but I imagined he was used to Miss Townsend and her eccentric guests.

  After the butler departed, Daniel told the company all that had transpired, and to lighten the mood, I related the tale of visiting Mr. Fielding and the children staying with him today. Much merriment was had at Mr. Fielding’s expense, the man now finding himself in the middle of a crèche.

  As our friends sipped wine—which was exceedingly good; I’d have to ask what it was for Mr. Davis’s benefit—I managed to step to a solitary corner with Miss Townsend.

  “I hope you will not take offense at my lack of delicacy,” I began, “but I was thinking through who I knew with wealth. And yours was the only name that leapt to mind.”

  Miss Townsend regarded me calmly, if a trifle coolly. “Oh?”

  “To be blunt, Mr. Fielding—while he might possibly have a fortune stashed away from ill-gotten gains—likely has very little. Not enough to keep six children of varying ages in his house, anyway. He has promised not to send them to a workhouse, but without a benefactor, they might have little choice in what happens to them.”

  Miss Townsend’s brows arched. “I see. And you wish me to be their benefactor?”

  “Not necessarily. But you move in prestigious circles, and I’ve seen that you can encourage people to do as you please. Do not protest—you enthralled Mrs. Bywater as easy as anything, and I know you’ve done the same to me. But these are unfortunate children, and I will put aside my pride and ask you to help.”

  Her coolness vanished. “Of course, Mrs. Holloway. Could you doubt that I would be happy to assist? The fact that you let me into your kitchen, your sanctum, and allowed me to sketch you in spite of the inconvenience of it, shows that you have a kindness in you. I will be their benefactor, have no fear. I won’t bother canvassing my friends and clients, who, I am afraid to say, can be a bit closefisted.”

  I held up my hands in protest. “Truly, I did not intend to have you do it single-handedly.”

  “Nonsense. I know how to set up a trust. Who knows, I may extend it to help still more unfortunate children. I have no intention of marrying and having children of my own, so why not help those who have nothing?”

  “You are very kind.”

  “No, I am conceited. But pleased to help for your sake. I have been watching you, Mrs. Holloway, and I know you have a goodness in you with extraordinary depth.”

  I had said much the same thing about Mr. Fielding. No wonder he’d brushed my observation aside. It was a bit embarrassing.

  * * *

  * * *

  Daniel saw me and Grace back to the coach, telling Lewis to return us to the Millburns. He would not accompany us, he said, explaining he had business to take care of, but promised he’d speak to me later.

  As he often said this upon departing from me, I did not hold myself tight in anticipation as to when the later would be. He might come tonight, or I might not see him for days.

  I enjoyed the ride to Cheapside with Grace, the two of us admiring houses and public gardens we passed, or counting church steeples. When we reached the Millburns’, I helped Joanna serve tea, and we had a fine time.

  I returned home, ready to work again, but looking forward to Monday afternoon.

  I described Miss Townsend’s pictures to Tess, in as much detail as I could. Miss Townsend had extended the invitation to Tess to visit her studio on her day out, and Tess expressed eagerness to see the paintings.

  “Funny she did them all fuzzy,” Tess said. “I didn’t necessarily want to show me face, but what if people think the paints ran in the rain?”

  “She works in the style of the French artists,” I said, suppressing my laughter. “Like Monsieur Renoir and Mary Cassatt, as Cynthia told us.”

  “Ah well,” Tess said. “They’re a funny lot, ain’t they, painters?”

  “I suppose,” I said. “So are cooks. Let us get on, shall we?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Daniel did come that night as I sat alone in the quiet darkness in the kitchen, a single candle on the table for company. Dying coals hissed in the stove, the occasional droplet of water thudded from the pump in the sink, and boards creaked as the house settled.

  The knock at the door roused me from my thoughts, and I hurried to open it to Daniel.

  “I made tea,” I said as he sat down, brushing water out of his hair. A fine rain had begun to fall. “The last of Mr. Li’s.”

  “You are good to share it with me, Kat.”

  “Of course. It is better with a friend.”

  I measured the tea into a pot and after it steeped, I poured out. We drank it without sugar or cream, the tea so smooth and fine it needed no embellishment. We sipped in contented silence for a moment, I thinking of Mr. Li and hoping he was well and happy in China with his family.

  “Ah, I almost forgot.” Daniel set down his empty cup. “I’ve brought you a token.”

  He reached into his pocket and withdrew an envelope, a plain one, with no writing on it. I eyed it in curiosity.

  “I know you are proud,” Daniel said, “and might throw it back in my face, but you helped me—and my brother, and many others—with your time you have so little of, and at your own expense. I came to you, and you did not turn me away.”

 
; “Why should I?” I asked. “Children in peril are nothing to walk away from.”

  Daniel placed the envelope in front of me. “Please keep this as a gesture of my appreciation.”

  Mystified, I lifted the envelope and peered inside. It held banknotes.

  “Daniel . . .”

  Daniel broke in quickly. “I pay Thanos for lending me his mathematical brain. I pay Lewis to drive me where I wish. I pay James to run hither and yon for me, and a few other scamps to keep an eye out when I need it. Why should I not give you your share?”

  I was not the mathematical genius Mr. Thanos was, but I could swiftly count money.

  “Daniel, there is ten quid here.” I took out the notes, large and ruffling. “I cannot accept so much. A few bob, possibly, but never this.”

  “You can, and I hope you will. You do much for everyone.” Daniel gave me his melting smile. “Put it aside for Grace and the tea shop you plan to open.”

  He knew exactly how to get around me, did this man. I slid the money into the envelope and laid it on the table. “It is far too extravagant. You do not have to pay me. I am not a shopkeeper.”

  Daniel sighed in resignation and reached for the envelope. “Ah, well. It was a faint hope.”

  I pressed my hand to it. “On the other hand, it is ten quid.”

  Daniel laughed and withdrew. I plucked up the envelope and closed it into my notebook.

  He was right, such funds would be handy for Grace. When I had my tea shop, I’d pay him back from the proceeds.

  “Now that we have settled that, I have a question.” I lifted the teapot, determined to savor every last drop. “When the explosion happened at Coldbath Fields, I saw you there.”

  Daniel held out his cup for more of the dark amber liquid. “I know you did. Wherever there is trouble . . .”

  “That man with you,” I said before he could make a joke of it. “Who was he? Is he who you work for?”