A Useful Woman (16 page)

And if I am wrong in this, then may Heaven help us all.

The Bow Street Runner

The “Bow Street Runner,” as he was called, was a name of terror to the burglar and thief, and their red waistcoats were familiar everywhere.

—
Percy Hetherington Fitzgerald,
Chronicles of the Bow Street Police Office

In her own house, and especially in the winter, Rosalind cultivated the habit of rising early. Daylight was too precious to waste. This morning, she dressed in her oldest, plainest house dress and braided and pinned her hair tightly before she went down to a breakfast of Mrs. Kendrick's porridge, griddle cakes, and coffee. Once the meal was cleared away and the letters of the night before duly sealed and made ready to be posted, she and Mrs. Kendricks both donned their aprons and climbed to the attics. One by one, they hauled Rosalind's four great trunks down into the second bedroom, which had been converted to a workroom for Mrs. Kendricks.

These boxes held Rosalind's last legacy: her clothes.

This had become the most important ritual at the start of each season. Rosalind's small wardrobe of everyday wear was enough to allow her to look respectable on ordinary days. These
were the visiting clothes, the costumes that belonged to the lady she was supposed to be.

Rosalind and Mrs. Kendricks folded back the layers of tissue and one by one brought out the gowns, the walking dresses, the morning dresses, the riding habit. Gloves. Stockings. Shoes. Each had to be shaken and brushed and minutely examined. This year's pattern cards and ladies magazines had to be consulted to see how trim might be altered, or augmented with Rosalind's handmade lace or careful embroidery to bring each closer to the look of current fashion. Did the sleeves need to be shortened or extended? Could the gloves be cleaned and mended, or would money have to be found for a new pair? What about this fan? These ribbons? This bonnet? Would the cashmere shawl, and the lace wrap with the fringe, do for another season? Nothing more could be done for this dress, but it could be pulled apart. Some components could be used to update other costumes, and the rest sold to a secondhand clothes dealer.

Usually, several days were dedicated just to the chore of inspection and at least two weeks to that of repair. But with Rosalind's planned departure to Blanchard House, all that work had to be compressed into a mere sennight. The careful inventories in Mrs. Kendrick's book and in Rosalind's were consulted and updated. The fine work was listed for Rosalind to attend to, while the mending, and the buying and selling, were given over to Mrs. Kendricks. Some light repair of embroidery or ribbons could be done after they were installed at the Blanchards, but there must be enough ready for Rosalind to be entirely presentable from the first. Especially since the lady patronesses would be watching.

Last of all came the ball gowns. There were three: the rich burgundy and antique lace that had once belonged to Mother,
Charlotte's prized sky blue silk brocade with its daring décolletage and silver netting, and Rosalind's own, splendid with white silk, pearlescent beading, gold net, and creamy velvet ribbons.

Rosalind ran her hands down the tucked and pleated skirt. “Perhaps it is time to retire this one,” she murmured. “Surely I'm a little too long in the tooth for all this white.”

She waited for Mrs. Kendricks's stout refusal. It came every year.

Instead, the doorbell sounded. With a huff, Mrs. Kendricks descended the stairs, leaving Rosalind to stare at her white debut gown. She tried to make herself see the thing dispassionately, to picture where the silk, the beads, and all that shimmering netting might be best put to use.

She had not made a great deal of progress by the time Mrs. Kendricks returned.

“There's a . . . person asking to see you, miss. I told him you were not at home and he should leave a message, but he insisted he would wait.”

“What sort of person is he, Mrs. Kendricks?” Rosalind began frantically tallying her accounts. Was there one so delinquent that the creditor might be driven to demand immediate payment?

“It's a Mr. Harkness, miss. He says he's come from Bow Street.”

*   *   *

Rosalind had never personally encountered a Bow Street “runner.” They were creatures of the magazine serials and Sunday papers. In those breathless pages, “Robin Redbreasts” were depicted as either hard-eyed heroes of justice and public order,
or corrupt thief takers, ready to do the bidding of whoever held up the ready money to pay for their services.

The man by her parlor fireplace did not much resemble either extreme. He didn't even wear the red waistcoat that was the runner's uniform. He was, however, a neat man, built spare and clean of limb and probably only a few years older than Rosalind herself. His bronzed face had pleasant and regular features, but deep lines marked the corners of his mouth and eyes. It was a good face, she decided, and graced by a pair of blue eyes that were both sharp and energetic. His fair, curling hair had been tousled by the winter wind and several locks slanted across his broad forehead as he bowed.

He was also the man she had passed on the stairs at Almack's, the one who made her stop and turn.

“Miss Thorne?” he said and Rosalind dipped her chin in acknowledgment. “I am Adam Harkness, Principal Officer of the Bow Street Police Office. I hope you'll forgive me for intruding on your morning.”

From the way he spoke, it was plain that Mr. Harkness was a London man, and he'd had a decent education. His clothing was entirely that of a working man: dark trousers, dark coat and brown waistcoat with a single chain stretched across it, and a black cravat at his throat. His hands, though calloused, were well kept and his nails pared.

“You are not intruding, Mr. Harkness. Won't you please sit down?” Rosalind gestured toward the cane-bottomed chair and took her usual place beside the fire.

Mr. Harkness bowed again in thanks and took the seat she offered. “As I'm sure you'll have guessed, I'm here to speak with you about Mr. Jasper Aimesworth.”

“Yes. Mr. Willis said he intended to hire a runner.”

Mr. Harkness's smile tightened a bit at her use of the cant term. “You spoke with Mr. Willis about the matter?”

“I was delivering a letter to him and—”

“We passed on the stairs.”

“Yes.” She wondered if she should ring for Mrs. Kendricks to make coffee or tea, and then she scolded herself. She was only looking for distraction. “At that time, Mr. Willis mentioned he had contacted the Bow Street magistrates.”

Mr. Harkness appeared to consider this. “Was there a reason Mr. Willis would tell you that?”

“He hoped I could convince the lady patronesses that it was a beneficial move. Some fear that inquiry into the circumstances behind poor Mr. Aimesworth's death might endanger Almack's reputation for gentility and exclusivity.”

“What is your opinion?”

His question surprised her. “How could my opinion matter?”

“I believe you might have information I need. I'd like to know how you feel about providing it.”

Now it was Rosalind's turn to pause and consider this person in front of her, with his habit of lapsing into stillness and his sharp eyes. He was, she decided, not an entirely safe man, but he was certainly not a stupid or a venal one—not unless he was hiding that tendency, and hiding it well.

“I believe it is better that the truth be known,” she told him.

He nodded. “Very few ladies of your station would say as much.”

“Have you spoken with many ladies of my station on the subject of secrets? Wait. I suppose that you have.”

“An unfortunate necessity.”

“But that's not true,” Rosalind murmured.

Mr. Harkness drew back his chin. “I beg your pardon?” She'd surprised him, and she was a little startled to find that she
enjoyed doing so. Perhaps it was his casual reference to conversations with other ladies that did it. Rosalind found she did not care to be categorized with anyone he would so easily dismiss.

“Forgive me, Mr. Harkness. I did not mean to say that out loud.”

“But you did say it, Miss Thorne, and now I require an explanation.”

“Require?” She raised her eyebrows.

He smiled at her show of polite indignation. The expression lit his eyes, which were, Rosalind noted, a particularly stormy blue. “Request then.”

“Very well. I do not think you find it unfortunate. I think you rather enjoy it.”

Now a hint of mischief entered into that smile. “Talking with ladies?”

“Uncovering secrets.”

“What makes you think that? We've not been acquainted . . .” Mr. Harkness glanced at her clock. “For even ten minutes.”

Rosalind had had plenty of practice at providing meaningless answers for direct questions. It was, after all, one of the skills necessary to drawing room conversation. But she knew Harkness would recognize such diversion for what it was, and he would be disappointed.

“You carry an air about you, Mr. Harkness. Your manner is careful, but it is not that of a man who dislikes the position in which he finds himself.” She paused. “And I will thank you to refrain from applying the words ‘feminine intuition' to anything I have just said.”

“I would not. For you've an air about you, too, Miss Thorne, and it tells me you are one of life's observers.”

“Even though we've known each other for less than ten minutes?”

“Even though.” He bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Which makes anything you have to tell me all the more valuable.”

“I suspect I am being flattered.”

“It is possible.” Did he wink at her? Really, this was unacceptable. Mr. Harkness had a certain rough charm about him, and he clearly felt no hesitation about applying it. She, however, had no business taking notice of it, much less in permitting it to work upon her sensibilities. These were deeply serious matters. The course of lives, hers among them, would be affected by this conversation, and what followed.

But oh, what a relief it was to speak lightly after all the shocks and worries of these past days.

“What was it you were doing at Almack's on the unfortunate day?” he asked.

“I had arranged to collect my godmother, Lady Blanchard, after the patronesses' meeting, and she was late. I went inside to try to find her.”

“And you thought she might be in the ballroom?”

He asked the question mildly, but there was nothing mild about the way he watched her. A more fastidious woman would have found his look insolent. Rosalind, though, just found the contradiction between his casual tone and his searching eyes unexpectedly disconcerting.

She took refuge in self-deprecation. “I confess, Mr. Harkness, I was indulging the sin of curiosity. The ballroom door was open. I had not been inside . . . well, in a long while. I wanted to take a look.”

He smiled. It was a good smile, and it filled his lively eyes. “I'm sure I would have done the same, if I were there. That room is legendary. Did you see Mr. Aimesworth right away?”

She shook her head and described how she hadn't even
recognized the object as the remains of a man and that it was Mr. Whelks who had done so, and had run forward while she followed.

“This next question is very important, Miss Thorne.” Mr. Harkness leaned forward and pressed his palms together, pointing all his fingers directly at her to emphasize the point. “By the time I was let into the rooms, Mr. Aimesworth had been taken home to his family, and the place where he'd fallen had been thoroughly cleaned. But you saw the blood clearly?”

“Yes. It was . . .” Memory rose up, still far too clear, and she swallowed.

“You will not shock me, Miss Thorne.”

“Perhaps I will shock myself, Mr. Harkness. I'm gently bred, you know. It is hardly the expected thing for me to speak of . . . physical matters.”

“I understand,” he answered solemnly. “Would you like to take a moment and fetch some eau de cologne or smelling salts? That way if anyone asks, you can say you fainted and so on.”

Was he teasing her? She had not expected that at all. Despite this new surprise, or perhaps because of it, the tightness underneath her ribs eased. “How considerate you are, Mr. Harkness, but I believe we may carry on. Yes, I saw the blood clearly. It was a large pool, surrounding his head.”

“Nowhere else? Not on his face, or his chest, for example?”

“Not that I saw.”

Mr. Harkness pulled a small memorandum book out of his pocket and consulted something there. “Well. That is interesting.”

“May I ask why?”

He glanced up from his book. “You're certain you don't want those smelling salts?”

“I am quite able to hear whatever you have to say,” she answered, and she endeavored to mean it.

“I'll take you at your word. We have two possibilities for how Mr. Aimesworth died. The first is that he was in the musicians' gallery for some reason, and that he overbalanced and fell. That makes his death an accident.” He paused, judging her manner. Rosalind found herself unusually piqued.