The Matchmaker's Lonely Heart

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  As her cab carried her through the streets and away from everything familiar, her eyes gradually widened in horrified fascination and then dismay. Buildings in the area were stacked high and close together, and most were in a state of disrepair. Children with ragged clothing and filthy faces hovered in doorways or trotted alongside rented hacks and carriages, begging for coin or offering to run errands. She saw a young woman in a thin housedress run barefoot into one of the decrepit buildings and dodge the large man in the doorway, his fist raised.

  “Whitechapel,” she murmured. She pulled her cloak tighter with fingers that were chilled, even in her gloves, as the cab turned a corner, swerving to avoid three children, a feral-looking dog, and a chicken.

  She’d heard stories, of course, and Charlotte had read every periodical or serial by Charles Dickens she could find and then told Amelie what she learned about life in the East End. To see it, to smell it, was entirely different. It was like a living, breathing entity that chewed its residents whole and spat them back out again.

  Rolling carts bore the sad remains of the season’s fruits and vegetables, and there was a long line of people waiting at both the bread vendor’s stall and the fisherman’s cart. The smell of refuse hung heavily in the air, and when the cab rocked to a stop, Amelie wondered if she would disgrace herself and embarrass the residents by gagging.

  She climbed carefully from the conveyance, stepping gingerly around a puddle of something that did not look like residual rain. She paid the driver and offered him twice as much to wait for her.

  She wasn’t sure what she hoped to accomplish by searching out Jacob Stern’s rooms. She had been largely teasing the night before about being deputized, but there was something about the act of piecing together bits of information to gain a full picture that fascinated her. She wanted to know exactly who had killed Mr. Stern, and why.

  She felt the same surge of anticipation at the thought of solving the mystery as she did when reading letters sent to the Marriage Gazette. She loved reading what the letter writers said, and did not say, and then finding possible matches that often resulted in a walk to the altar. Although solving murders and matchmaking ought to be as different as night and day, the thump of excitement in her heart was the same.

  She pondered over the conflict that had hung in the air the night before between the victim and Mr. Radcliffe, and she knew in the pit of her stomach that there was a correlation. Regrettably, she couldn’t simply approach Mr. Radcliffe and demand to know if he had plunged a knife into the Great Prospero.

  Three men stood in the doorway of a pub, looking as though they’d been there for hours. One elbowed the other two, and all three leered at her. She tried to ignore the ensuing comments that she wasn’t sure she understood, but surmised their meaning from the tone.

  A woman passed by and looked at her from hat to boot. “Ye lost, missy?” She kept walking without waiting for a response. Amelie couldn’t blame her—the woman probably had mouths to feed and work to attend to without being distracted by a young woman who was clearly out of her element. A tiny bit of help might be nice, however.

  A young boy approached her, wearing shoes that seemed too big for his feet, pants that were a shade too short, and a jacket that was so threadbare it was practically transparent. He shoved his hat back on his head and gave her a toothy grin. “For a coin, I’m happy t’help, milady. What’er ye lookin’ ta find?”

  She cleared her throat and smiled at the boy. He looked no more than six or seven, but looks were often deceiving. “What is your name, young sir?”

  “Sammy White. Ye won’ find a better guide roun’ here than Sammy. I can git whatever ye want. Fancy jewels, ribbons, even glubs.”

  “Glubs?” She blinked.

  “Glubs!” He pointed at her gloved hands.

  “Oh, oh yes! Yes, of course.” She paused, charmed despite herself. “Sammy, where you do acquire all of these items?”

  He grinned again, but shook a finger at her. “A gennleman don’ reveal his sources.”

  He was so little; for a moment her heart ached, a physical ache inside her chest. He looked like he could have walked straight from one of Mr. Dickens’s stories himself.

  She stepped closer and handed him a coin. “As it happens, today I am looking for information.”

  The coin disappeared into his pocket before she could even blink. “What kind?”

  “I have an address, right here.” She rummaged in her reticule and finally pulled out a piece of paper. She read the address to Sammy, and he pointed at the building just next to them.

  “Just as I said,” she heard the cab driver mutter.

  “Door number six, ye say?” Sammy moved to the building’s entrance and turned back, expectantly. “Come ’long, then.”

  Amelie hesitated, and then with as deep a breath as she could manage, followed the lad over the threshold. The hallway was narrow and dim, and sounds of crying children and arguing adults filled the air. The sense of despair hung heavy. They climbed a staircase and were nearly bowled over by children running down, and continued up to the next floor before stopping at a nondescript door labeled “6.”

  Amelie hesitated. Now that she was there, what was she planning to do, really?

  Sammy cleared his throat, and she looked down at him. “Thank you, Sir Samuel,” she said with a nod and reached into her reticule for another coin.

  He took it with a grin and touched the brim of his hat. She caught him as he turned to go.

  “Do you live in this building, Sammy?”

  “Nay, some nights I sleep at the workhouse, but I sneaks in and out so they don’ keep me there.”

  She swallowed. “And the other nights?”

  He lifted a thin shoulder. “’Ere and there.”

  She reached back into her reticule for one of her calling cards and handed it to him. “If you have need of anything—possible employment, even—please find me here, or send word.” It was an impulsive gesture, and she could only imagine what Mrs. Burnette would say if the little boy showed up at Hampton House. She wasn’t naive enough to believe he was as angelic as he appeared, but he was a child. The orphanage in Frockshire where her mother had volunteered years earlier when Amelie had been very young was clean and tidy and provided food and schooling for the children. It was a far cry from the squalor surrounding this little boy.

  He took the card with his grubby hands and scrunched up his nose as he studied it. “I can’t read these words,” he admitted.

  “This is my name—Miss Amelie Hampton,” she said, tracing her finger beneath the words. “And this is my address in Bloomsbury. I live at a place called Hampton House, which you’ll remember because it is the same as my name.” She smiled, and as he smiled back, she wondered if she was making a huge mistake. She’d just provided a probable thief who likely worked for an older probable thief with her name and address.

  “You keep this to yourself, yes?” she told him. “I should love to hear from you, but nobody else.”

  He nodded and tucked the card into the small front pocket at his hip. He looked around them as if seeing the hallway for the first time and shook his head. “Best not linger here, miss. ’Tisn’t safe for ladies and children. Some men, even.”

  “Do you worry for your own safety?”

  He puffed up his chest. “I run faster than any of ’em.”

  “See that you continue to do so. You are a smart boy, and I should hate to see you come to harm.” She extended her hand. He stared at it for a moment and then shuffled his feet.

  “Wouldn’t wanna soil yer glubs,” he mumbled.

  “Nonsense.” She reached down and took his thin hand. “Come now, give us a nice grip. My father always said one can tell a man’s integrity by the firmness of his handshake.”

  He nodded, and she wasn’t certain in the dim light, but she thought he may have blushed ben
eath the layers of dirt and grime. He put his fingers again to the brim of his large hat and turned and ran down the hall and out of sight.

  Amelie watched the empty space he left behind and knew there were dozens upon dozens of children just like him. She’d always known it academically, but seeing the conditions firsthand was overwhelming.

  She turned back to the battered door, hesitated, then raised her hand and knocked softly. It might be that Jacob Stern had relatives or flatmates who could tell her something about the man. Several moments passed, and she knocked again, this time more loudly.

  Nobody came to the door, and she sighed. She tried the door handle, not expecting it to open, but gasped lightly when it did. She looked around the hallway, which was still blissfully empty. Without giving herself time to consider her actions, she opened the door wider and peeked inside.

  The room was surprisingly tidy, with a bed that was made, a plush, upholstered chair in fairly decent repair, and a table and wash area adjacent to a cupboard and small stove. There were two envelopes on the ground just inside the door, and looking over her shoulder one more time, she stepped over them, into the room, and closed the door without latching it.

  There were few personal touches in the room. On the table was a small stack of papers, the top being a playbill from a performance that had run six weeks earlier on which was scrawled, “What a lovely evening with a true gentleman.” It was signed by Ethel Van Horne. Amelie smiled and touched the edge of it with her fingertip. The elderly ladies had truly taken the man under their combined wing.

  She walked slowly around the room, feeling melancholy that the man who had left this space a day ago would never return. A small travel trunk sat at the foot of the bed, but she couldn’t bring herself to open it. She’d intruded enough as it was. She would confess her deed to Detective Baker, but tell him that officers should quickly examine the room and the trunk’s contents before others in the area also realized the door was unlocked. She was surprised the detectives weren’t already there, but it was still early.

  She walked slowly back to the door, stooping to pick up the two letters on the floor, thinking she would place them on the table with the other papers. A return address caught her eye, and she paused.

  Reverend Flannery, Wickelston Boys’ Home.

  Boys’ home? She frowned. The Van Hornes had said Mr. Stern was from Wickelston, but what business did he have with a boys’ home? Had he lived there for a time?

  She heard a footfall in the hallway, the slightest of creaks just outside the door, and starting guiltily, she shoved the two pieces of mail inside her jacket and waistcoat. She was just turning to see who was there when a flash in her periphery warned her that someone had silently entered.

  A hand roughly clamped down on her shoulder, and a thumb shoved hard into her back, turning her away from him.

  She cried out in pain and tried to spin away, lifting up her arm as something came toward her. She felt a blinding pain in her arm and the side of her head. She didn’t see a face, only shadows.

  As she hit the floor, she grunted in pain and sucked in a deep breath, trying to blink through blurred vision. A huge shadow loomed over her, blocking the muted light from the curtained window. She felt the prick of the corner of one of the envelopes she’d tucked inside her waistcoat now against her neck; it must have shifted as she fell. The shadow moved closer, a hand reaching toward her. She protected her head as her vision began to fade.

  A cacophony of sensations struck at once—noise in the stairwell, shouting, a growl of frustration, movement, fading footsteps, the crash of glass, voices blending together, deep voices, a higher register, shadows . . .

  Then a hand against her face, her temple, a muttered curse, the pleasant scent of fresh laundry.

  And then, nothing.

  Police responded to an attack in Whitechapel upon a young woman of genteel breeding and manner. The perpetrator is an unknown assailant who fled the scene. Any witnesses to the event are encouraged to offer official statements at Division H.

  —The Daily Journal, afternoon edition

  Michael sat at Miss Hampton’s side in the hospital after the doctors had examined her, put her badly bruised arm in a splint, and cleaned up the blood from her head wound. She was still asleep, and he was beside himself, sick with worry. When he’d entered Jacob Stern’s rented rooms in Whitechapel and found Miss Hampton wounded and unconscious, his legs had nearly buckled beneath him.

  The night before, he and Winston had gone to Stern’s flat after leaving the Van Horne residence. There had been nothing of note except a few items of memorabilia from the Misses Van Horne and some playbills from Stern’s own performances. The bulk of Mr. Stern’s possessions had been located in the trunk at the foot of the bed, along with a few items of clothing and personal toiletries. Michael had collected those while on the scene. He’d intended to return in the morning to ask questions of the neighbors and locals familiar with the comings and goings of the area.

  He’d arrived with two constables, only to find a young boy screaming that a lady was hurt and directing a constable from Division H to the room. They’d followed quickly, and it hadn’t taken Michael long to realize the identity of the “hurt lady.” He’d fired off instructions for the constables to secure the scene and then question witnesses about the man who had reportedly escaped through the window. He’d later learned that the attacker had apparently landed on three men who had gathered to watch the activity unfolding, injuring one but breaking his own fall enough to escape.

  Michael had carried Miss Hampton down to the carriage, noting after the fact that she was either very light or he’d been so afraid for her life that he hadn’t noticed the burden. The ride out of the narrow streets seemed an eternity, and he’d begged her the whole way to awaken.

  Now he sat at her side in the hospital, having sent word to her aunt, and still waited for her to wake.

  He gathered her limp hand between his. He noted the ink stains on her fingers and smiled despite his worry and frustration. He had seen the parcel she’d left for him at the Yard, and her quick, thorough assessment and compilation of the information they’d learned the night before had been impressive. The photos were exceptional, and he was forced to admit that the three cousins possessed considerable talent.

  He’d handed the parcel over to Winston to study at greater length while he waited for Miss Amelie Hampton to open her pretty eyes. As soon as she did, he was going to deliver a blistering lecture on the folly of wandering the East End alone and the trouble she’d clearly become embroiled in by “deputizing” herself.

  Her long, chestnut-colored hair was free of pins and ribbons and curled on the pillow and down over her shoulder. Her lashes lay like fans against her wan cheeks, hiding the eyes that usually sparked with life and humor.

  He took the ends of a thick lock of hair between his fingers and rubbed it softly. “Miss Hampton,” he murmured, “you must awaken, because I am quite cross with you, and we have much to discuss.” He paused as a nurse approached.

  “Detective,” the nurse said, “Miss Sally Hampton has been located at her townhome and should arrive shortly. Would you like to send for Miss Amelie’s cousins?”

  “I’ll speak with the aunt first, and we’ll decide. Thank you.”

  He’d been the one to provide the hospital with information on Miss Hampton’s next of kin and what he knew of her personal life, which was precious little. “She enjoys reading novels, solving puzzles, and helping couples find true love” was hardly useful information. Equally useless was “She has a delightful smile, and while she often drives me mad, I find myself growing quite fond of her. I wanted very much last night to kiss her.” He’d not shared that last part, especially.

  “Your aunt is on her way,” he told Miss Hampton’s sleeping form, “and I suspect she will also be quite cross with you. You must awaken and face the consequences.”


  As if his words had been a spell, her chest lifted in a shallow breath, and a wince crossed her features. Her eyelids flickered, and she blinked against the light in the room.

  “Miss Hampton,” the nurse said and angled the lamp away from her eyes, “how are you feeling?”

  She licked her lips, and the nurse grasped a cup of tea from the bedside table. Helping Miss Hampton take a few careful sips, the nurse then settled her back against the pillows.

  Miss Hampton groaned and lifted a hand to her head. She moved her splinted arm and winced again. “What has happened?” she whispered. “Why am I . . .” She looked at Michael and recognition registered on her face. “Detective?”

  “I found you in Whitechapel, just after you’d been accosted. Do you remember anything?” He was so relieved to see her hazel eyes open, he quite forgot about the blistering lecture he had planned.

  “I do not remem—Oh. I remember parts of it. I was looking for clues.” She flushed and dropped her gaze. “I ought to have waited for you, or at least obtained permission. I hadn’t planned to enter the place, of course, but the door was unlocked and quite beckoned me in.”

  The nurse quietly left the room, and Michael leaned close and picked up her hand again. “I suspect you will be the death of me, one way or another. Miss Hampton, you do realize you’ve not actually been deputized?”

  She sighed and closed her eyes. “I was hoping to learn something that might indicate a tie to . . . to . . . a certain someone.” Perhaps she assumed the nurse was still within earshot. “It was truly my hope to find a flatmate or friend who could answer some questions.”

  He traced his fingertips softly across her knuckles. “I understand your hope of finding exonerating evidence for your . . . friend. You must realize now, however, the dangers associated—”

  “No,” she interrupted, “I find my motives are, that is . . . they are shifting.” She cleared her throat and winced again. “My head hurts abominably.”