by Amanda Quick
“Why didn’t you let her go then?” Calista asked. “Most employers would have done so. Generally speaking, governesses are not allowed to form romantic liaisons.”
“To be perfectly honest, I did not want to go through the process of hiring yet another governess.” Mrs. Abington sighed. “I’m afraid my children are rather high spirited. They have already gone through three governesses. In any event, I thought the liaison was over when she returned one afternoon quite depressed.”
“Do you know why she was in low spirits?” Calista asked.
“I assume the gentleman had ended the affair, of course. They always do, sooner or later. Men are happy enough to seduce a poor governess, but everyone knows such relationships always end badly.”
“How long after that was it before the tear-catcher arrived?” Trent asked.
“Less than a week,” Mrs. Abington said. “She was still moody and depressed, but she had not yet begun to lose her nerve. She was quite alarmed by the tear-catcher, however. It had her initials engraved on it, you see. That was the beginning of her decline.”
“Do you have any idea of the identity of the man she might have been meeting on her free afternoons and evenings?” Calista asked.
“No. I can only assume he was one of those men who take advantage of women who find themselves facing the world alone.” Mrs. Abington smiled at Trent. “Have I been of any help to you in your research, sir?”
“You have been invaluable, Mrs. Abington,” Trent said.
Mrs. Abington turned to Calista. “You’ll want to make a note of that, Miss Langtree. My full name is Beatrice Abington.”
“I will be certain to jot that down,” Calista said.
She was impressed when Trent managed to extricate both of them from the household before tea was served. She went briskly up the cab steps. Trent gave the address of the Grant Agency to the driver, climbed inside the carriage, and settled on the seat across from Calista.
“Sorry about the misunderstanding concerning your role in my life,” he said.
“Trust me when I tell you that I am quite content to play the part of your secretary. Mrs. Abington could have made another assumption about my position, one that would have been far less respectable.”
Trent appeared irritated by that observation but he made no comment. Instead he changed the subject.
“What was it about the name of the Grant Agency that startled you?” he asked.
“You noticed that, did you? I’m sure it’s nothing, really. Merely a coincidence.”
“What was it?”
“I have had two clients from the Grant Agency within the past year. I was able to introduce each of them to very suitable men. Both women are married now and living in the country. I don’t see how there can be any connection to this affair.”
“I’m not a fan of coincidences in my stories.”
29
THE SECRETARY USHERED them into the office of the agency’s proprietor.
“Mr. Hastings, the author, to see you, Mrs. Grant.” There was a distinct pause. “Oh, and his secretary, Miss Langley.”
Mrs. Grant ignored Calista. She glowed at Trent. “Please be seated, sir. I have read all of your novels. They are so exciting.” She waved a dismissing hand at the secretary. “Thank you, Miss Shipley. That will be all for now.”
“Yes, Mrs. Grant.”
Miss Shipley was in her early thirties but there was a rigid quality about her that put Calista in mind of a headmistress at a girls boarding school. At one time she had no doubt been attractive, even pretty, but life had crushed whatever happiness might have been allotted to her at the outset. Still, she made an attempt at fashion. A massive bun—no doubt a hairpiece—sat atop her head like a crown. It was anchored with a number of long, ornamental hairpins.
She gave Calista a disapproving look before moving out into the hall. In a few more years she will look like Grandmother, Calista thought.
The door closed firmly behind Miss Shipley.
Mrs. Grant was a few years older than her secretary but very different in appearance and temperament. She was comfortably plump and endowed with the sort of bubbling personality that can rarely be squelched for long.
She beamed at Trent. “Such a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hastings. I understand you wish to inquire about one of my governesses. How old are the children?”
Calista frowned. “The children?”
“The age matters, you see,” Mrs. Grant said briskly. “All of my governesses are extremely well qualified, but I have discovered that some are better when it comes to instructing very young children. Others excel at teaching older children.” She turned back to Trent. “What are the ages of your little ones, sir?”
“Actually,” Calista said, “we would like to interview Miss Elizabeth Dunsforth. A friend recommended her.”
“Miss Dunsforth?” Mrs. Grant was clearly bewildered. “I don’t understand.”
“Is she no longer associated with this agency?” Trent asked.
“It’s not that. Oh, dear, I see you aren’t aware of what happened to Miss Dunsforth.”
“No,” Calista said. She was vaguely aware that she had a death grip on her satchel. “What happened to her?”
“The poor woman had a complete nervous breakdown. It was a terrible thing to watch. She was convinced that a man was following her everywhere, watching her, entering her lodgings when she was not around. Sending her inappropriate gifts. It was all very sad. She was an excellent governess but in the end I no longer felt comfortable sending her out to interview with potential clients. I had to let her go. Sadly, she was dead within the week.”
“Murdered?” Trent asked calmly.
“What?” Mrs. Grant looked horrified at the notion. “Good heavens, no. I believe the funeral director mentioned an infection of the throat. I’m not aware of the precise circumstances of her death but I’m certain that if she had been murdered, there would have been a great sensation in the papers. You know how it is when a respectable young woman becomes the victim of a dreadful crime.”
“Yes, of course,” Calista said. “There is always a great deal of sordid speculation about her personal life in the press and the penny dreadfuls.”
“Indeed. I can assure you, Miss Dunsforth’s death was a quiet, altogether respectable affair. I attended the funeral. I felt it was the least I could do for her.”
“Were there many people at her funeral?” Trent asked.
“Sadly, no. Just me.” Mrs. Grant paused. “But she must have had at least one relative who cared about appearances.”
“Why do you say that?” Trent asked.
“Because the funeral director told me in confidence that the gentleman who brought in the body and paid for the funeral was a distant cousin. Although he was not present at the gravesite, I must say he sent her off in proper style. There was an expensive, very modern safety coffin, the sort that has a bell attached to a chain so that the deceased can ring for assistance from inside the casket—assuming she suddenly revived.”
“Expensive,” Calista said.
“Yes, indeed.” Mrs. Grant heaved a long sigh. “I must say, it’s been a difficult year for my business.”
“Why is that?” Calista asked.
Trent glanced at her, surprised by the question. But she was genuinely interested. Business was business, after all. She was always curious about other enterprises that were owned and operated by women. There was usually something to be learned.
“One always expects to lose a few governesses over time, of course,” Mrs. Grant said. “Sadly, the young, attractive ones all too often allow themselves to be seduced, if not by the master of the house or the eldest son, then by some callous gentleman who takes advantage of their naïveté.”
In other words, the women were raped and abandoned, Calista thought. Governesses occupied a very lonel
y position in a household. They did not mingle with the servants. At the same time, they were certainly not members of the family. The in-between status left them very vulnerable.
“What happens to them?” she asked.
Trent gave her a quick, subtle look of warning.
With an effort she managed to control her temper.
“I’m afraid those poor women usually land on the street,” Mrs. Grant said. “As I said, a certain degree of turnover is expected. But for the most part, my ladies are very healthy.”
“Healthy?” Calista asked, startled.
“I avoid hiring those who don’t appear to be robust. There’s no market, you see. Parents don’t want sickly governesses around their children.”
“I understand,” Calista said.
“But in the past year I’ve had two other governesses die on me—both apparently healthy young women.”
Calista could scarcely breathe now. “By any chance, did they suffer from bad nerves, too?”
Mrs. Grant frowned. “Now that you mention it, I remember that Miss Forsyth did seem rather anxious shortly before she died. Miss Townsend handed in her notice a few days prior to falling ill. Both appeared somewhat depressed. Why do you ask?”
“Research,” Trent said. “For my next book. The Affair of the Vanishing Governess.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Mrs. Grant nodded solemnly. “Let me see if my secretary remembers anything in particular about the other two governesses.”
She leaned back and pulled a cord that hung down the wall. Somewhere in the other room a bell rang.
The door opened. Miss Shipley loomed. “Yes, Mrs. Grant?”
“Regarding Miss Forsyth and Miss Townsend. Do you happen to remember if either of them suffered from weak nerves?”
“I have no idea, Mrs. Grant. But, then, it’s not the sort of thing one discusses with a secretary, is it?”
Not if one hopes to maintain one’s post, Calista thought. Elizabeth Dunsforth had made the mistake of letting her employer know about her growing anxiety and it had cost her the position in the Abington household.
“That will be all,” Mrs. Grant said. “Thank you.”
“Yes, Mrs. Grant.”
The door closed again.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hastings.” Mrs. Grant smiled her cheery smile. “I’m afraid I can’t be of assistance on that particular subject.”
“Do you happen to know the cause of death in the other two cases?” Trent asked.
“I believe they all suffered from an infection of the throat,” Mrs. Grant said. “There must be something going around.”
Calista could hardly breathe. “Did you attend the other two funerals?”
“Yes, I did.” Mrs. Grant sighed. “I felt it was the least I could do. They were all women who found themselves alone in the world. They had been excellent governesses. And so very young.”
“Did someone pay for the funerals of Miss Forsyth and Miss Townsend?” Trent asked.
Mrs. Grant brightened. “Yes, indeed, someone did take care of Miss Forsyth and Miss Townsend, and in a very respectable fashion, I might add. Although, if you ask me, it’s rather sad that family stepped forward at the end even though they never bothered to help any of those young women when they were alive. All three of them were quite desperate and alone when they applied for posts at my agency.”
“Were the funerals conducted by the same funeral director?” Calista asked.
Mrs. Grant reflected briefly and then shook her head. “No. Each one was handled by a different undertaker.”
“About the coffins,” Trent pressed. “Were they all expensive?”
“Oh, yes, and quite modern. They all had safety bells. Unfortunately, none of the three governesses ever rang her bell.”
30
THE DAY HAD turned mild so Trent suggested that they walk back to Cranleigh Square. It would have been a very pleasant stroll under other circumstances, Calista thought. But talk of murder had a way of ruining a very nice day.
“An infection of the throat.” Calista shivered in spite of the sun. “Elizabeth Dunsforth’s lover murdered her and likely two other Grant Agency governesses as well, and then he had the gall to buy them expensive coffins. He is like a beast of prey. He is literally hunting governesses. It is difficult to believe that there has been no sensation in the press.”
“He is now hunting you, as well.” Trent’s eyes were stone cold.
“So it seems.”
“You are not a governess,” Trent said.
She glanced at him. “What does that signify?”
“I don’t know. Simply another element in our story, one that does not quite fit as of yet. As for the lack of coverage in the press, that is easily explained. The killer probably paid the funeral directors to conceal the cause of death. It’s not an uncommon practice. Short of obtaining permission to dig up the bodies, it will be impossible to prove the women were murdered.”
She tightened her grip on her satchel. “Nestor Kettering is a madman. And to think he once asked me to marry him. We’ve got to stop him.”
“We need evidence—something, anything—that we can take to the police. Inspector Wynn is a good man. He will act if we can provide some proof that Kettering has employed a professional killer.”
“I keep thinking about what Mrs. Abington said concerning Elizabeth Dunsforth’s belief that some man was following her. The poor woman was not delusional. Someone was, indeed, watching her.”
“What I find interesting is Mrs. Abington’s suspicion that Elizabeth Dunsforth may have been involved in an illicit liaison shortly before she developed the case of shattered nerves.”
“It is a terrible game to Nestor, isn’t it? He seduces lonely, single women, and then he frightens them, and in the end he orders them murdered.”
“So it appears,” Trent said.
A young boy was playing with a kite in the park. His governess sat on a nearby bench, keeping an eye on the child as she perused a book. Calista watched the scrap of bright red paper float high above the trees. The child giggled. The governess looked up and laughed with him.
Calista wanted to warn the woman that she might be in danger but she knew that if she tried to speak of madmen and murder the governess would believe her to be crazed and quite possibly a danger to her young charge.
“What are you thinking?” Trent asked.
“About how oddly vulnerable governesses are. They are frequently alone with the children they are paid to teach and watch over. They are isolated from other adults. It would be so easy for a man to approach that young governess over there on the bench, for example.”
“Governesses hold a peculiar position in a household, neither upstairs nor downstairs. You are right. In many ways they are isolated and alone.”
“And no doubt lonely,” Calista said. “There must be something we can do.”
“Wynn cannot act yet but there are others with a deep knowledge of the criminal underworld,” Trent said. “One in particular might be persuaded to assist us.”
“Who?”
Trent’s mouth twitched slightly at the corner. “A criminal, of course. Who else? I told you that in the course of conducting research for my novels I have made some interesting acquaintances.”
“Eudora did mention that not all of your associates were the sort one could invite for tea.”
“I’m afraid Jonathan Pell falls into that category.”
She did not know whether to be intrigued or appalled. In the end she concluded that she was simply very curious.
“How many criminals do you number among your acquaintances?” she asked.
“Only a select few, I promise. As it happens, Pell would not care to be considered a common criminal. He is, in his own way, a high-ranking member of his particular social class.”
“Ah, he
is a crime lord.” This was becoming more interesting by the moment. “How in the world did you meet one?”
“Jonathan Pell is a fan of my novels.”
She smiled. “Of course. I would enjoy meeting Mr. Pell.”
“You, Miss Langley, will not go anywhere near Jonathan Pell.”
“But—”
“I will be seeking a favor from him. That means I must go into his world. It is not a world you can enter.”
“I would remind you that last night I was with you when we were very nearly murdered. I believe one could say I have more than a passing acquaintance with the criminal world.”
“The man who attacked us last night was most certainly a murderous villain, but as to the world he inhabits—that is still an open question.”
“How much more dangerous could Mr. Pell be?”
“It’s not the danger that concerns me. It’s what a visit to one of Pell’s establishments would do to your reputation. His business caters to men from all walks of life, including those who inhabit the so-called respectable world. Someone might recognize you or question your reasons for paying a visit to him. That would prove disastrous. Mr. Pell does not even allow his own wife and children to enter his establishments.”
“I see.” She considered that for a moment. “What sort of businesses does he operate?”
“Pell started out as an orphan on the streets. He rarely discusses that portion of his career. He now owns a number of music halls, taverns, and gambling hells.”
“I fear those are the sorts of establishments that Andrew has been frequenting of late.”
“You worry about your brother,” Trent said. “I worry about your reputation. I trust you will understand my concerns.”
She decided to let the argument rest. Trent was right. She was walking a fine line with her business as it was and now she was caught up in a potentially devastating murder scandal. She could not take the risk of entering the underworld lair of a crime lord. It probably did not speak well of her that she regretted not being allowed to do so. Grandmother would have been shocked.