A Murderous Malady

by Christine Trent

  Sidney’s outburst had the unexpected effect of calming Liz. Her eyes immediately cleared, and she reached out to take his arm. “Darling, I’m safe. I have Charles Henry and my father here to look after me when you aren’t here.”

  Her husband was not mollified. “I have no doubt they have your best interests in mind, but we still have yet another dead servant.”

  Charles Henry was moved from his stupor enough to bristle at Sidney’s comment, though he did not reply.

  The General attempted a rough consolation. “There, there, my dear,” he said, patting Liz clumsily on the shoulder. “It’s no great loss. You’ll find another maid.”

  For the first time, Liz gazed at her father with something other than admiration. “But I won’t find Nichols again, Papa. She was a good and faithful friend.”

  The General harrumphed and removed his hand from his daughter’s shoulder.

  I extricated myself from the family’s exchange and set up further interviews with the servants inside the house. None of them claimed to have seen anything unusual prior to Alice Nichols’s death. According to the housekeeper, the only strangers to the house had been deliverymen, one of whom had been sweet on Alice, but the maid was indifferent to him.

  I could have let my imagination run wild in thinking that, despite the housekeeper’s comments, Nichols had been involved with one of these deliverymen, but it made no sense whatsoever. She had had her sights set far higher, and furthermore, why would someone delivering wrapped packages of beef or butter desire to murder a maid? Or even think he could get away with it?

  I sighed, willing myself to go into the lion’s den with the General and finding him once again in Sidney’s study. He surprised me by being more subdued than I expected.

  “I assumed you’d be by to see me about the girl. Care for a glass of sherry?” Liz’s father walked to a credenza and held up a bottle for me to inspect.

  I shook my head. I wanted a clear head for this discussion. The General put the bottle down, then shook another decanter full of a cloudy, flaxen-colored liquid. He unstoppered that bottle and splashed a good measure of it into a glass. A light froth formed on the top of the drink. A strangely sharp and fruity aroma wafted over to me. It was mostly coconut, but there were nutty overtones, too.

  The General must have seen my look of curiosity, for he held up the glass and stated, “Feni. I have it imported from Goa, on the western coast of India. Would you like to try it?”

  I was far more emphatic in declining this time. I was becoming lightheaded just from the odor of it.

  The General saluted me with his glass and took a deep swallow. “Again you wish to accuse me of something, Miss Nightingale?”

  “I see I do not need to inquire as to whether you have lost your sense of contempt, sir.” Once more I regretted my unfortunate choice of heedless words.

  The General seemed to take no offense and instead took a smaller sip from his glass. As I took my own seat, he sat on the edge of the table still containing the battle map.

  I started without preamble. “Had you gotten to know Alice Nichols in your time here?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “She was Elizabeth’s maid. How well should I have known her?”

  A reply without an answer. Very well, then. I decided to be exceedingly direct. “Were you aware that she was in love with your son and had hoped to marry him until you pressured him into marrying Emily Currie?”

  The General took another deliberate swallow and put his glass down slowly, gazing at me steadily for several moments as he seemed to compose his thoughts. “Until yesterday, I had had no idea whatsoever.”

  “Yesterday? Did Charles Henry tell you about her?”

  “No, she came to me herself. Told me that she and my son were in love and a bunch of other claptrap.” He moved the glass in circles on the table so that the feni again formed a foamy upper layer.

  “You didn’t believe her.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Oh, I believed her. I just thought she was an idiot for telling me.”

  Quite frankly, so did I. “Why did she tell you?”

  “Why do you think? She and Charles Henry had renewed an old affair, but Charles Henry came to his senses and cut it off. Realizing she wasn’t going to have him, she decided that she would seek money as her consolation prize.” He finished off the glass and returned to the credenza to pour another measure.

  “Are you saying that Alice Nichols attempted to blackmail you?”

  He turned back to me with another foam-topped glass. “It was more like she was attempting to embarrass me. She wanted enough money to leave service permanently and set herself up as an actress in Covent Garden. What a perfectly preposterous notion. As if I would do such a thing.”

  I couldn’t help but agree with him. Even knowing the General as little as I did, I was fully aware of how stern and unyielding he was.

  “Why wouldn’t she blackmail Charles Henry directly? Why you?” I persisted in my line of questioning.

  “My son has no money of his own to control, nor does he have any influence with me. She understood that. At least, that’s what I assume.” The feni was creating an almost overpowering miasma in the room. I would soon have to take my leave.

  Perhaps that had been the General’s intent in opening the bottle.

  “I recall Nichols telling me that you had many visitors at all hours,” I said.

  “Of course I do,” the General said, agreeing without hesitation. “I have certain deliveries made privately so that Elizabeth isn’t aware of how many crates of cigars and spirits I am bringing into the house.”

  Another seeming dead end. I asked what I thought would be a final question. “Alice Nichols had the audacity to speak blackmail to you here, at Herbert House?”

  “No, the girl was at least clever enough to ask me to meet her elsewhere.”

  “And where was that?”

  For the first time in our conversation, the General betrayed a look of uneasiness. “The British Museum.”

  I tilted my head. “Why do you think she would wish to meet you there?”

  He shrugged but did not look me in the eye. “It’s a public place. You can find yourself a bench for a conversation that can be both private yet socially acceptable.”

  I didn’t make the obvious comment about the significance of the location. Did Nichols have a distorted sense of humor, or was it simply as the General had said—that the space was both public yet private?

  My skin prickled as I considered what might have happened. Had Charles Henry perhaps followed Nichols there and witnessed the conversation, thus causing him to act impulsively on his threat to silence her? Or had the General taken care of it on behalf of his son?

  With that, I decided to seek Charles Henry out. I hadn’t even been formally introduced to him yet.

  I found him in his room where I had previously witnessed him arguing with the now-dead Alice Nichols. His profile was toward me as he tossed folded papers into the crackling flames of the room’s fireplace.

  Supposing I knew exactly what he was doing, I stated without preamble, “Destroying Nichols’s love letters to you, sir?”

  Charles Henry started and looked over at me. He quickly regained his composure and replied coolly, “Miss Nightingale. My sister has spoken often of you over the years. I find it curious that my family seeks out your assistance for such serious matters.”

  Like father, like son.

  “You haven’t answered my question,” I said, determined not to be put off by him.

  “Answer a question for me first. Why would you accuse me of such a thing? Nichols was merely my sister’s maid. I am a married man.”

  I couldn’t very well confess that I had eavesdropped on his argument with Nichols, nor did I wish to betray her confidence.

  “I saw the expression on your face outside,” I said, glad that I had so quickly come up with something. “It was the countenance of a man in torment. It wasn’t difficult to conclude you might have had
tender feelings toward the woman.” I nodded at the stack of papers in his hand. “It is also not difficult to conclude that those are pieces of correspondence you are destroying, immediately following the discovery of Nichols’s body.”

  He laughed without mirth. “Very clever, Miss Nightingale. Please leave me out of your amateur theatrics.” Another letter landed in the flames and quickly curled up into a wisp.

  “Do you deny that you were involved with Nichols?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “You’ll forgive me if I refuse to be interrogated by a mere nurse, no matter what her friendship is with my sister. You may simply rest assured that I put an end to what never should have been.”

  With that, he turned his back to me and heaved the remainder of the papers into the fire in one toss. They landed in an intact pile, but I knew he would remain there while the flames consumed the pages and I would never know what they truly were.

  I also knew that my brief appearance was over, but as I turned to leave, I noticed that the street scene painting from Nichols’s room was propped up against one of his trunks, as if he planned to take it with him. Charles Henry was certainly working quickly to ensure that no trace of his involvement with her remained. Were these the actions of an innocent man?

  I left my encounter with Liz’s brother feeling very unsettled. Surely he was just a lover unable to publicly grieve his dead mistress and there was nothing more to it. I worked hard to convince myself of that, for I didn’t want to think that I was dealing with two potential murderers working against the Herbert household. Particularly if they were members of the Herbert family.

  Regardless, there was something very sinister occurring inside the Herbert household, and I was no longer sure what to do next. Perhaps I needed to resolve once and for all whether the dice were significant and, if so, to whom in the family they were linked. Other than that, I had nothing to go on.

  CHAPTER 20

  I was becoming so accustomed to visiting Soho that I now hardly noticed the sad ruin and desolation of the area. Or perhaps I was so determined in my mission that I paid little attention to my surroundings.

  I had Mary with me, and together we once again entered the Lion. It was much more crowded than we had witnessed before, and the air was heavy with laughter, smoke, and the sweet, tangy odor of ale. Men played cards and threw dice. They also shared clay pipes, cutting portions of tobacco from plugs and stuffing them into the bowls.

  I did not immediately see Mr. Davies, so we stayed huddled close to the front door so as not to draw undue attention to ourselves. Most of the patrons were intent on their own play and companionship and thankfully didn’t notice us.

  As we waited for Mr. Davies to make what we knew would be an eventual appearance, I broke enough out of my huddle with Mary to observe the table nearest us. Four men were tossing dice just like the ones Fenton had had in his pocket—six sided, with each side having either a crown, an anchor, a spade, a heart, a diamond, or a club on it. On the table was a rough wood board, and it, too, contained one each of these same symbols. One of the men would place a bet atop one of the symbols on the board, then roll the dice. His payout would depend upon how many of the three dice rolled matched the symbol upon which he had bet.

  It was simple enough for even a child to play, yet it provided fast-paced enjoyment for the men involved. Copper pennies were tossed onto the board to cover a particular symbol, followed by the clacking roll of the dice, and then the banker immediately distributed the proceeds.

  One particular player was receiving the most coins. In fact, he was winning so often that one of the other men eventually banged his fist on the table. “You cheat!” he bellowed, rising out of his chair.

  All camaraderie in the room stilled.

  Just as suddenly, the accused man yelled back, “Can’t take the poor luck, can you?”

  Mary clutched my arm as the disagreement escalated on both sides. The other men watched with interest, as if waiting to see whether blows would come.

  I could only imagine that they would be betting on that, too.

  “Miss Florence, we should leave. No good will come of this.” Mary tugged on my arm in urgent appeal, but I didn’t budge. We might have to step out of the way while these men conducted their pugilistic business, but I hadn’t come all the way down here not to obtain some answers.

  Fortunately, at that moment Oswyn Davies came stalking out of the brewery door. “What is this now?” he said sternly, approaching the two arguing men.

  Davies flicked an irritated glance in our direction but didn’t stop to address me.

  “Jemmy Hargraves, what trouble are you creating this time?” Davies demanded of the accused player.

  “Nothing! I just want to enjoy my ale and maybe win a little money.” The man was belligerent, probably half due to alcohol and half to embarrassment.

  Davies held out his good hand. “To me you will give them.”

  “What d’you mean?” the player asked. “I’m minding my own business.”

  Davies looked as though he were ready to ignite, but his tone was still even as he said, “In my palm.”

  The player grumbled but handed over his dice.

  Davies proceeded to roll them repeatedly on the table, scooping them up and tossing them down again. The room was now silent except for this clattering noise.

  After at least thirty rolls, during which even I could see that the dice were noticeably coming up anchors more often than not, Davies picked up each die and scrutinized it, rubbing his thumb over each flat surface.

  Finally, the brewery manager glared at the player. “Get out. Not be coming back, you will.”

  “Now, now,” the man protested. “I’m just having a bit of fun and—”

  “I run a respectable place. There will be no cheating dice used here,” Davies said, now towering over the man. He really could be quite terrifying when he put his mind to it.

  “Those aren’t my regular dice,” the man said, stalling his ejection from the Lion. “Those are my brother’s. He asked me to keep ’em safe for him. He had to ship out to Crimea, and he was going to carve up some others while aboard his transport ship, and—”

  “Enough of your lies!” Davies thundered.

  In a move that startled me—and everyone else in the room, based on the collective gasp—Davies reached over to the player and yanked him out of his chair by his collar.

  The man yelped at being mishandled. Realizing that Davies was about to toss the man outside, I quickly threaded my way to the bar to get out of the way. Mary was still clutching my arm and came right along with me.

  In a swift motion, Davies dragged the protesting man over to where we had just been standing. He kicked open the public house door and literally shoved the man outside. “Back to the earl’s household with you!”

  The man stumbled and fell to the ground, his limbs awkwardly splayed out.

  I returned my attention to the inside of the room, where the other men began arguing among themselves as to who else might also be carrying cheating dice.

  The din became loud enough that someone else came banging in through the brewery door—George Maddox.

  How he had improved in such a short time. The widower was now clean-shaven and neatly dressed. He still had the dark shadows of grief under his eyes, but his gaze was alert and concerned.

  Maddox joined Mr. Davies in ordering those present to settle down and go back to their glasses and games. Within a few minutes, all had settled down, and Davies signaled Maddox to join him as he walked to where Mary and I still patiently stood.

  Maddox’s grin upon seeing us was genuine and faded the shadows under his eyes just a little. “Miss Nightingale, Mrs. Clarke, have you come to bear witness to my new fortunes?”

  “This job seems to agree with you, sir, and I am glad for it,” I said, shaking his hand.

  “Indeed. I am quickly learning. You cannot imagine how many steps there are to making quality ales and how easily the flavors can be chang
ed. Mr. Davies is a patient teacher. I’ve offered to write a manual containing descriptions of each man’s job that can be used when new men are brought onto the line. How is Arthur? I have a day off next Thursday and would like to come by and take him to visit Bella’s grave.”

  I smiled. “Whenever you like, Mr. Maddox. I must warn you that he has made a friend in our boy servant, John Wesley, who is tutoring him in all means of flattery toward his elders.”

  Maddox laughed. “Then he will be much more successful in life than his father has been thus far. I look forward to seeing what the boy has learned.”

  “I presume you are not here to bring Maddox current on his son’s activities?” Davies inquired. “To his duties he needs to head back.”

  Berenice appeared from a doorway beyond the room’s large fireplace. “Mr. Davies, I’ve finished wiping down the windows in the—” She stopped when she saw Mary and me standing with Davies and Maddox. “Miss Nightingale! Have you come to see me?”

  “Berenice, you look well,” I replied, adroitly sidestepping her question. “How is your daughter?”

  The Lion’s new maid slipped a covert glance at Mr. Davies. “She’s a good girl, Miss Nightingale. She’s learning how ta clean proper.”

  Davies nodded. “She is.”

  “So you are happy with her,” I said to him.

  “Well.” Davies shifted uncomfortably. I could tell that he didn’t want to have to admit to too much. “I’ll say that taking your money I won’t be.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, sir.” I refrained from smiling at his obvious discomfiture. I was glad to have helped both Mr. Maddox and Berenice. At least two people in the area could be lifted out of their misery. And if the changes at Middlesex Hospital would result in more lives saved, I would be doubly happy.

  “Just wondering what you’d like me ta do next, sir,” Berenice said. “Perhaps flip mattresses in the sleeping quarters? Or if you need me ta do any shopping for you? I could also—”

  George Maddox stopped her. “Can you see to the floor in the cask storage room? We tapped one to sample and it cracked, creating a small flood in there. I’m afraid that’s a skill I haven’t quite mastered.”